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litfazJfotd'X'tiA vbcrn//ry .y^t/'^o. S.fflouie'i : 








HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

















THE COMPLETE 

DRAMATIC AND POETIC WORKS OF 

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 

EDITED 

FROM THE TEXT OF THE EARLY 
QUARTOS AND THE 
FIRST FOLIO 


WILLIAM ALLAN NEILSON 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
Cl )t Btoenstoc precis, £ambritJffe 



COPYRIGHT 1906 BY WILLIAM ALLAN NETLSON 


ALL RZGHTS RESERVED 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. . 

INTRODUCTORY MATERIAL FROM THE FIRST FOLIO EDITION OF 1623 . xxi 

COMEDIES 

Love’s Labour’s Lost. 1 

The Comedy of Errors. 31 

The Two Gentlemen of Verona.51 

A Midsummer-night’s Dream. 75 

The Merchant of Venice.97 

The Taming of the Shrew.124 

The Merry Wives of Windsor.152 

Much Ado about Nothing. 180 

As You Like It.207 

Twelfth Night, or What You Will.234 

Troilus and Crbssida.260 

All’s Well that Ends Well.296 

Measure for Measure.326 

Pericles, Prince of Tyre.355 

Cymbeline ..381 

The Winter’s Tale.419 

The Tempest.452 

HISTORIES 

King John. 478 

Richard the Second.506 

The First Part of Henry the Fourth.536 

The Second Part of Henry the Fourth.566 

Henry the Fifth.599 

The First Part of Henry the Sixth. 633 

The Second Part of Henry the Sixth.664 

The Third Part of Henry the Sixth.697 

Richard the Third.730 

Henry the Eighth.771 

TRAGEDIES 

Titus Andronicus .. 806 

Romeo and Juliet. 834 

Julius Caesar.867 


































viii 


CONTENTS 


Hamlet, Prince of Denmark . 
Othello, the Moor of Venice 
King Lear ...... 

Macbeth . 

Timon of Athens .... 
Antony and Cleopatra . 
CORIOLANUS. 

POEMS 

Venus and Adonis .... 
The Rape of Lucrece 

Sonnets . 

A Lover’s Complaint 
The Passionate Pilgrim 
Sonnets to Sundry Notes of Music 
The Phcenix and the Turtle 

TEXTUAL NOTES. 

GLOSSARY . 


894 

934 

970 



113C : 
1150 
1170 
1192 
1196 
1198 
1201 

1203 

1215 


The frontispiece is from the “ Droeshout original ” portrait of Shakespeare, which was pre- i 
sented to the Shakespeare Memorial Picture Gallery by Mrs. C. E. Flower. It is reproduced by 
permission of the Memorial Association. The autograph is taken from Shakespeare’s will. 




c 



















J 

7 ' 


EDITOR’S NOTE 


The text of the present volume is the result of an independent examination of the 
rly Quarto and the First Folio editions of Shakespeare’s works. The version used as 
oasis has been chosen after a separate investigation of the state of the case for each 
iv ; and the grounds for the choice have been indicated in the special introductions, 
the consideration of the emendations of previous editors, much use has been made of 
the collations in the monumental works of Messrs. Clark and Wright and of Dr. H. H. 
Furness, as well as of more recent editions of single plays and of the poems. The text 
will be found to be, in its adherence to the readings of the early editions, slightly more 
conservative than those in current use. This is especially the case in the matter of stage 
directions, entrances, exits, and the like ; in the treatment of which it has been rendered 
possible, for the first time in an edition for general reading, to make the important dis¬ 
tinction between directions that are contemporary and those that are due to modern 
editors. In cases where the directions are modern they are enclosed in [brackets] ; 
where they are substantially those of editions not later than 1623 they are unbracketed, 
or are set aside by a single bracket only, or, when occurring within a line, are enclosed in 
(parentheses). Further, in the dialogue itself, when the text of a play is based on, say, 
that of the First Folio, and passages absent from the Folio are supplied from a Quarto, 
such passages are also bracketed. This is intended to meet the objection justly made to 
most current texts that, in the case of such a play* as Hamlet , it is usually printed in a 
composite form, longer than it was in any of the versions in which it was played or 
published in Shakespeare’s own time, and containing, along with all additions, passages 
meant to be dropped when the others were added. 

The punctuation of the early editions is so hopelessly erratic as to be often useless for 
any but antiquarian purposes ; and the current punctuation is modified from the quite 
unauthoritative practice of the editors of the eighteenth century'. I have ventured to 
re-punctuate frankly throughout according to modern usage, gaining, it is hoped, a con¬ 
siderable advantage in clearness without any additional sacrifice of authority. The use 
of the apostrophe has raised some difficult and interesting points, the consideration of 
which has resulted in a decision of some importance in the matter of metre. In spite 
of the comparative carelessness of the printing of the First Folio, it has been found that 
there is clearly discernible a somewhat remarkable consistency in the insertion or omis¬ 
sion of the e of ed endings. To the practice of the early editions in this regard, therefore, 
the same respect has been shown as in the case of the text in general; i. e., the original 
has been departed from only when it seemed fair to believe that there was a mistake of 
the copyist or printer. The result is that the ed is printed, and was apparently sounded, 
much more frequently than we are accustomed to see and hear it. In many cases where 
no new syllable is added to the line, this preservation of the full ending points to a dif¬ 
ferent elision from that usually made, threatened, for example, instead of threaten'd. This 
often leads to a distinct gain in sonority, and sometimes to a marked change in rhythm. 
The practice of the early editions is exceptional in the case of monosyllables in red, being 
on the whole against the use of the apostrophe ; so in such cases I have preserved the e 



vi 


EDITOR’S NOTE 


even when not syllabic, representing, for example, the Folio dyde by died rather than by 
the somewhat misleading dVd. The method employed in modern editions in this whole 
matter neither preserves the clues afforded by the originals, nor clearly indicates the 
pronunciation intended by the editors. 

In order to make easy the use of the present volume in connection with such standard 
works of reference as Bartlett’s Concordance , the line-numbering of the Globe edition has 
been adhered to, with these differences, that the lines are numbered in fives instead of in 
tens, and the numbering is carried through the prose as well as the verse. 

The special introductions are intended to summarize the ascertained facts on such 
questions as date, authenticity, and sources ; and to indicate in connection with the last 
of these the main features of Shakespeare’s treatment of his material in each play. 

Scholarly opinion on the dates of the dramas has now reached such a degree of 
harmony as to suggest the arranging of the plays in chronological order, according to 
the approximate date of composition. The Folio division into Comedies, Histories, and 
Tragedies has, however, been preserved ; the chronological order being adopted in the 
case of the Comedies and Tragedies, while for obvious reasons the Histories have been 
retained in their historical sequence. 

The mass of detail to be dealt with in such an undertaking as the constituting of 
an independent text of Shakespeare is so great that many slips, inconsistencies, and 
faults of judgement are bound to have occurred. To any one who may draw my 
attention to these I shall be grateful. Meantime, I wish to express my warmest thanks 
for assistance and advice received from many friends, and more especially from my 
colleagues on the faculties of Harvard and Columbia Universities. 

W. A. N. 

New York, May 31, 1906. 


PREFATORY NOTE TO THE SECOND EDITION 

The most important change in the present edition is in the inclusion of the introductory 
matter — preface, dedication, commendatory verses, and the like — from the First Folio 
of 1623. The importance of these documents to the student of Shakespeare, both from 
their intrinsic interest and from their historical relation to the first collected edition of 
his works, is sufficient excuse for reproducing them here. The other changes consist of 
some dozen corrections of typographical and other mistakes, for drawing my attention to 
which I am indebted to my friends Professors Gummere, Wendell, Schelling, and Armes, 
Dr. H. M. Ayres, Mr. H. W. L. Dana, and Mr. H. B. Hinckley, and to members of the 
staff of the Riverside Press. Further suggestions towards the accuracy of the volume will 
be thankfully received. 

W. A. N. 

Cambridge, Mass., October 20,1908. 


PREFATORY NOTE TO THE THIRD EDITION 

In this third edition a number of further corrections have been made, mainly of details 
in the text. For bringing the necessity of these changes to my notice, I am under obliga¬ 
tion to Professors A. H. Thorndike of Columbia, O. F. Emerson of Western Reserve, 
and J. Q. Adams of Cornell, and to several of my students, especially Dr. R. G. Martin 
and Mr. F. C. Walker of Harvard. W. A. N. 

Cambridge, Mass., December 17, 1910. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


i 

The name of Shakespeare was of wide and frequent occurrence in the midlands of 
England in the sixteenth and preceding centuries; and this fact, along with the scarcity 
of exact documentary evidence, makes even the immediate ancestry of the dramatist a 
matter of less than absolute certainty. But it is much more than probable that he was 
the son of one John Shakespeare, a dealer in agricultural produce, who at the time of 
William’s birth was a person of increasing importance in the town of Stratford-on-Avon 
in Warwickshire. John Shakespeare’s wife was Mary Arden, the youngest daughter of 
Robert Arden, a substantial farmer and landowner of Wilmcote, near Stratford. Their 
first son and third child, William, was baptized on April 26, 1564, the exact date of his 
birth being unrecorded. The history of his childhood is purely a matter of inference. He 
would naturally enter, as Rowe says he did, the grammar school of his native town, since 
he was entitled to free education there; and from what is known of the usual curricula 
of such schools at that period it is to be supposed that his studies were chiefly in Latin 
grammar and literature. Four years after the poet’s birth, John Shakespeare had reached 
the most honorable municipal office, that of High Bailiff; but after"1572 there are 
signs that his fortunes had begun to decline. He absented himself from the meetings of 
the town council, and was deprived of office; and the nature of his financial transactions 
indicates that he was sinking deeply into debt. He may have withdrawn his son from 
school to aid him in business; for Aubrey, who died in 1697, says of the poet, “I have 
been told heretofore by some of the neighbours that when he was a boy he exercised his 
father’s trade,” which, according to this antiquary, was that of a butcher. Aubrey adds 
the two often-quoted statements: “ When he kill’d a calf, he would doe it in a high style 
and make a speech. There was at that time another butcher’s son in this towne, that was 
held not at all inferior to him for a naturall witt, his acquaintance, and coetanean, but 
dyed young.” 

The only additional information we have regarding Shakespeare’s early years in Strat¬ 
ford pertains to his marriage, which took place when he was in his nineteenth year. No 
record of the actual ceremony has been found, but the date is approximately fixed by a 
document in the registry of the diocese of Worcester, dated November 28,1582, in which 
two Stratford farmers gave bonds to free the bishop of responsibility in case of the sub¬ 
sequent discovery of any impediment rendering invalid the prospective marriage of 
William Shakespeare to Anne Hathaway. This Anne Hathaway is usually identified 
with Agnes, daughter of Richard Hathaway, a farmer of Shottery, in the parish of Strat¬ 
ford; and from the inscription on her tombstone it appears that she was eight years older 
than her husband. On May 26, 1583, the Stratford Registers record the baptism of 
“Susanna, daughter to William Shakspere;” and in February, 1584, the baptisms of 
“Hamnet and Judeth sonne and daughter to William Shakspere.” These few facts 
comprise all that is certainly known about Shakespeare’s life before his removal to 
London; but mention must be made of one famous tradition. It is thus recorded by Rowe 
in 1709: “ He had, by a misfortune common enough to young fellows, fallen into ill 


X 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


company; and amongst them, some that made a frequent practice of Deer-stealing 
engag’d him with them more than once in robbing a Park that belong’d to Sir Thomas 
Lucy of Cherlecot, near Stratford. For this he was prosecuted by that gentleman, as he 
thought, somewhat too severely; and in order to revenge that ill usage, he made a ballad 
upon him. And tho’ this, probably the first essay of his Poetry, be lost, yet it is said to 
have been so very bitter, that it redoubled the prosecution against him to that degree, 
that he was oblig’d to leave his business and family in Warwickshire, for some time, and 
shelter himself in London.” This exploit is recorded also by Archdeacon Davies of Saper- 
ton in Gloucestershire in the latter part of the seventeenth century; and corroboration of 
a different kind is found in the supposed allusion to Lucy and his coat of arms in the 
“ dozen white luces ” on Shallow’s “ old coat ” in The Merry Wives of Windsor, i. i. 1-23. 
The date of the poaching affair is unknown, but is generally conjectured to have been 
1585, and his departure is placed by many biographers in that year or the next. Belief 
in a germ of truth in the legend, however, does not carry with it the necessity of sup¬ 
posing that Shakespeare’s migration to London was due to Lucy’s persecution. Interest 
in the stage, with which he seems to have become connected soon after his arrival in the 
metropolis, may have begun before he left home. While he was still a small boy, the 
actors of the Queen’s Company and of the Earl of Worcester’s Company were officially 
received in Stratford by his father as High Bailiff; and four companies visited the town 
in 1587. Those who place his removal as late as 1587, do so chiefly in order to find in 
the visit of the theatrical companies in that year a possible motive and occasion for the 
change. 

The circumstances and occupation of Shakespeare on his first arrival in London are as 
uncertain as the date and cause of his leaving Stratford. Various late traditions unite 
in assigning to him some humble office in connection with the theatre, that of his hold¬ 
ing horses outside the door being first printed in 1753. It is known, however, that by 
1592 he had achieved considerable reputation as an actor and had begun to write. The 
company of which he was early a member, and to which he belonged during the greater 
part, if not the whole, of his career, was that known successively as the Earl of Leices¬ 
ter’s (-1588), Lord Strange’s (1588-92), Lord Derby’s (1592-94), the Lord Chamberlain’s 
(1594-July, 1596), Lord Hunsdoirs (July, 1596-March, 1597), the Lord Chamberlain’s 
(1597-1603), and finally, His Majesty’s (1603-). Of the two playhouses in London at 
the beginning of his career, The Theatre is the one in which his later associations make 
it probable that he first acted. Others in which this company performed were The Rose, 
Newington Butts, The Curtain, and, after 1599, The Globe. It is doubtful whether Shake¬ 
speare was often on the stage after his company began to occupy The Blackfriars about 
Christmas, 1609. To these must be added the scenes of the performances given in many 
provincial towns while the company was touring, from Dover to Bristol and from Rich¬ 
mond to Coventry. There is no satisfactory evidence that Shakespeare ever accompanied 
any of the English actors who performed in Scotland or on the Continent, or, indeed, that 
he was ever out of England at all. As to his skill as an actor, Chettle stated in 1592 that he 
was “exelent in the qualitie he professes,” and a later report, recorded by Aubrey, says 
that he acted “exceedingly well.” His name ranks high in the actors’ lists of his time; 
he played in Jonson’s Every Man in his Humour and Sejanus ; and tradition associates his 
name with the parts of the Ghost in Hamlet and of Adam in As You Like It, neither char¬ 
acter, it must be allowed, being one likely to be assigned to the leading performer. That 
he had thought deeply and wisely on the purpose and methods of theatrical art is proved 
by the speech of Hamlet to the players. 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


xi 


As early as 1592, Shakespeare’s success in theatrical matters was sufficiently marked 
to call forth an envious attack from Robert Greene, who died in September of that year. 
Addressing his fellow playwrights, Greene speaks of the actors as “ those puppits . . . 
that speake from our mouths; those anticks garnisht in our colours. Is it not strange that 
I, to whom they al have beene beholding, is it not like that you to whome they all have 
beene beholding, shall, were ye in that case that I am now, be both at once of them for¬ 
saken ? Yes, trust them not; for there is an upstart Crow, beautified with our feathers, 
that with his Tygers heart wrapt in a Players hide, supposes he is as well able to bumbast 
out a blanke verse as the best of you: and being an absolute Johannes Factotum, 
is in his owne conceit the only Shake-scene in a countrie. . . . Let those apes imitate 
your past excellence, and never more acquaint them with your admired inventions; . . . 
for it is pittie men of such rare wits should be subject to the pleasures of such rude 
groomes.” The words italicized are a parody on the line, “ O tiger’s heart wrapt in 
a woman’s hide ! ” which occurs in both The True Tragedie of Richard Duke of Yorke 
and 3 Henry VI, I. iv. 137; and the word-play in “ Shake-scene ” confirms the interpretation 
which finds in the passage a denunciation of Shakespeare for his work in revising plays 
such as Henry VI, of the earlier forms of which Greene and his friends had presumably been 
the authors. A Groats-worth of Wit bought with a Million of Repentance, in which the pas¬ 
sage occurs, was published after Greene’s death by Henry Chettle, who in December of 
the same year issued an apology in the prefatory address to his own Kind-Harts Dreame. 
‘‘I am as sory,” he says, and he is understood to be speaking of Shakespeare, “as if the 
originall fault had been my fault, because myselfe have seene his demeanor no lesse civill, 
than he exelent in the qualitie he professes; — besides, divers of worship have reported 
his uprightnes of dealing, which argues his honesty, and his facetious grace in writ- 
ting, that aprooves his art.” 

We thus find Shakespeare at the age of twenty-eight a person of some importance in 
theatrical circles, and recognized as a man to be Reckoned with both as actor and as writer. 
In the two following years his versatility showed itself still farther in the publication of 
the highly popular Venus and Adonis and Lucrece ; and the suggestion of good relations 
with men of rank contained in Chettle’s phrase, “divers of worship,” is made more defi¬ 
nite by the terms of the dedications of these poems to the Earl of Southampton. The 
history of his next few years is mainly contained in the list of the dramas he produced; 
but there are other evidences of steady progress in fortune and repute. Already in 
1594 he had been summoned to play before the Queen along with the most distinguished 
actors of the day; and from 1595 till long after his death, appeared a series of publica¬ 
tions, poems as well as plays, with which he had nothing to do, but to which unscrupulous 
publishers attached his name or initials, thus testifying to the market-value of his repu¬ 
tation. 

Meantime, in Stratford, his father’s affairs were going from bad to worse, until in 1596 
the stopping of all actions for debt suggests that the dramatist had returned and restored 
the family fortunes. In August of that year his only son Hamnet died. In that year, too, 
an attempt to increase the family prestige was made in the name of John Shakespeare, 
though probably on the initiative of the poet, by applying to the College of Heralds for 
the grant of a coat of arms. Two drafts of such a grant are extant dated 1596, assigning 
to John Shakespeare a shield described thus: “Gould on a bend sable a speare of the 
first, steeled, argent; and for his creast or cognizance a faulcon, his winges displayed 
argent, standing on a wrethe of his coullors, supporting a speare gould steeled as aforesaid, 
sett upon a healmett with mantelles and tasselles as hath been accustomed.” The grant 




Xll 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


does not seem to have been issued at this time; but three years later an application was 
made for an “ exemplification ” of the coat, the previous right to wear it being taken for 
granted. This application was successful, and the Shakespeares were henceforth regarded 
as entitled to the style of “gentlemen.” A more substantial evidence of the improved 
status of the family was afforded in 1597, when the dramatist bought and repaired New 
Place, then the largest house in Stratford. He did not, however, take up his permanent 
residence there till several years later. Various other legal and financial transactions 
indicate that he had come to be regarded as a man of substance; and his profession was 
sufficiently remunerative easily to account for this. It has been reckoned that his income 
as an actor must have averaged before the end of the century about £130 a year, and to 
this must be added about £20 annually from his plays. After The Globe was built in 1599 
he became a shareholder, and the profits from this source are likely to have more than 
doubled his income. Gifts from patrons were not uncommon, and there may be some 
ground for the tradition handed down by Rowe from D’Avenant, that Shakespeare re¬ 
ceived from Southampton the gift of £1000. Money is usually reckoned to have had at 
that period from five to eight times its present purchasing power; but the difficulty of 
determining this with certainty, and the fragmentary and inconclusive nature of the bases 
of our information as to the financial side of the Elizabethan theatre, make it necessary 
to receive with caution the results of the calculations that have been made of Shake¬ 
speare’s gains. There is no doubt, however, that he was an extremely successful man, 
that his affairs were conducted with much practical sense and shrewdness, and that he 
died rich. In his will he left £350 in money, with a considerable amount of real estate 
and other property. There is in his life, certainly, no evidence that he shared the alleged 
incapacity of men of imaginative genius for practical affairs. 

Along with this material prosperity, Shakespeare gained steadily in literary reputation. 
As early as 1598, Francis Meres, in his Palladis Tamia or Wit’s Treasury , wrote “ A 
Comparative Discourse of our English Poets with Greek, Latin, and Italian Poets; ” and 
here he awards the highest praise to Shakespeare as both poet and playwright. “ As the 
soule of Euphorbus was thought to live in Pythagoras , so the sweete wittie soule of Ovid 
lives in mellifluous and hony-tongued Shakespeare ; witnes his Venus and Adonis, his Lu- 
crece , his sugred Sonnets among his private friends, etc. As Plautus and Seneca are ac¬ 
counted the best for Comedy and Tragedy among the Latines, so Shakespeare among the 
English is the most excellent in both kinds for the stage; for Comedy, witnes his Gen¬ 
tlemen of Verona, his Errors, his Love Labors Lost, his Love Labours Wonne, his Midsum¬ 
mer Night Dreame, and his Merchant of Venice; for tragedy, his Richard the 2., Richard 
the 3., Henry the 4., King John, Titus Andronicus, and his Romeo and Juliet. 

“ As Epius Stolo said that the Muses would speake with Plautus tongue, if they would 
speak Latin, so I say that the Muses would speak with Shakespeares fine filed phrase, if 
they would speake English.” 

References by his literary contemporaries are fairly numerous, and are in general in 
this enthusiastic vein. Allusions to his personality reflect a kindly feeling in the speakers, 
and indicate a genial disposition in the poet, with a love of wit and good fellowship. 
Legendary gossip suggesting occasional extreme conviviality need not be taken too seri¬ 
ously, and probably implies nothing more than a fondness for making merry with his 
friends. 

The documentary records of the later years of Shakespeare’s life are concerned chiefly 
with law-suits and the investment of money. They are of interest chiefly as showing in 
Shakespeare some of his father’s tendency to litigiousness, and that carefulness of his pe- 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


xiii 


cuniary interests already referred to. His father died in 1601; his mother in 1608. He was 
not a shareholder in any of the London theatres at his death, and it is not known when he 
sold out; but it is conjectured that about 1611 he disposed of these interests and retired 
to Stratford to enjoy his means in leisure. On April 23, 1616, he died, and two days later 
was buried beneath the chancel of Stratford Church according to a right acquired as part- 
owner of the tithes. Within seven years of his death an elaborate monument to his mem¬ 
ory was placed in the wall of the church, and in it a portrait bust. But the so-called 
restoration of this piece of sculpture in the middle of the eighteenth century appears to 
have been in fact a substitution, so that the present effigy is of no value as a likeness. The 
extant pictures of its original state are sufficient to invalidate the restoration, hut do not 
themselves enable us to form a satisfactory picture of the man. The only well-authen¬ 
ticated portrait is the engraving by Martin Droeshout prefixed to the Folio editions of the 
plays, and this is far from lifelike. It is supposed that Droeshout worked from a painting, 
but there is yet no general agreement as to which, if any, of the existing claimants was 
his original. Two seem to have stronger support than the others, that sometimes known 
as the “ Flower Portrait,” now hanging in the Memorial Picture Gallery at Stratford; 
and the “ Ely Palace Portrait,” now in the possession of the Birthplace Trustees. The 
former of these is reproduced as the frontispiece to the present volume. Pretended por¬ 
traits have been fabricated without number, and even those to which no suspicion of 
fraud attaches, with the one exception of the Droeshout engraving, lack a sufficient 
pedigree. 

Of Shakespeare’s immediate family there survived him his wife, his two daughters, and 
one brother. Mrs. Shakespeare lived till August 6, 1623, dying three months before the 
publication of the great collected edition of her husband’s works known as the First 
Folio. The elder daughter, Susanna, married Dr. John Hall, and died in 1649, leaving one 
child, Elizabeth. This Elizabeth Hall, later Mrs. Thomas Nash, and still later Lady Bar¬ 
nard, died in 1670 without issue. The younger daughter, who married Thomas Quiney 
of Stratford, died in 1662, having outlived her three sons. Lady Barnard was thus the 
last surviving descendant of the poet. 


II 

The chronology of the works of Shakespeare is, except in the case of the two long poems 
and a few plays, the result of inferences of varying degrees of certitude. Four main divi¬ 
sions are generally recognized, and each of them has a fairly distinctive content. The 
first stretches from the undated beginnings of his work as a dramatist till about 1594, 
and it contains probably a greater variety of kinds of production than any other. It is no 
mere guesswork to call this a period of experiment. Besides the poems, we find in it repre¬ 
sentatives of all three kinds of drama then in vogue, Comedy, History, and Tragedy. 
In the last of these kinds he created no entirely original work, but in Titus Andronicus 
and the first draft of Romeo and Juliet he apparently made over plays which had already 
been performed. From whatever reason, he seems after these experiments to have laid 
aside Tragedy for a time, to take it up again after he had mastered the more technical 
elements of his art, and had a larger experience of life on which to draw. 

In History also he began with the revision of the work of others in the three parts of 
Henry VI; and when he constructed plays for himself he was clearly under the influence 
of Marlowe. In Richard III , conception of theme and manipulation of character are alike 
Marlowesque; and both in that play and in King John the echo of the “mighty line ” of 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


xvi 


From abroad there reached England at last the full impulse of the Renaissance. The 
more purely intellectual side of this movement had been delayed by the religious tur¬ 
moil; but now that this was for the time assuaged, the stimulus to intellectual curiosity 
and the desire for imaginative entertainment had full scope. Men and books represent¬ 
ing all the arts of the Continent poured into England, and hundreds of translations 
opened to those who could read no language but English the intellectual treasures of 
antiquity and of modern Italy, France, and Spain. A still less literate public were en¬ 
abled to share the narrative element in this stream by the presentation of stories on the 
stage; and the plays based on Plutarch’s Lives and French and Italian novelle represent 
respectively the classical and the contemporary elements in this contribution. 

The drama in England had always largely represented what would have been the com¬ 
mon reading matter of the people if the people had been able to read. Miracle plays, 
Moralities, and Interludes were each merely the translation into action and dialogue 
of the stories from Scripture and the Saints’ Lives, of the characteristic medieval mode of 
allegory, of the bourgeois humorous and satirical anecdote, which the illiterate populace 
could receive only by the ear. With the Revival of Learning came a vast expansion in 
the amount and variety of reading matter, especially on the side of secular literature 
and, more specifically, of the literature of entertainment; and in the reign of Elizabeth 
the drama showed a responsive development. In the work of Shakespeare’s immediate 
predecessors, Lyly, Marlowe, Peele, Greene, and Kyd, the three forms of Comedy, History, 
and Tragedy had, partly under the influence of foreign and classical models, taken fairly 
definite shape. But they were still primarily dramatic arrangements of narrative rather 
than drama ; and to Shakespeare was offered the opportunity, of which he availed himself 
magnificently yet gradually, of framing and applying the conception of pure drama as a 
distinct form of art. 

In considering his equipment for this momentous task two elements must be constantly 
kept in mind: that which he received as an actor and manager, and that which he had 
as a man well-read in the literature of his time. To the former must be credited a large 
part of his skill as a practical playwright, a factor that has not yet received its due in 
the interpretation of his dramas, but which accounts for this among other facts, that 
so large a number of his plays are still capable of effective presentation upon the modern 
stage. As a student of literature, Shakespeare’s range was large, but not extraordinary. 
Latin he had presumably learned at school, and with the works of some half-dozen Latin 
writers he had begun an acquaintance while a boy. But, in addition to the learned Jon- 
son’s ascription to him of “ small Latin and less Greek,” we have the evidence of the 
plays themselves that he used translations when he could get them. French he seems to 
have known fairly well; Italian he may have mastered to the extent of being able 
to extract the plot of a novel, but this is less certain. There is no evidence that he knew 
Spanish or Greek. The wide and detailed knowledge of history and fiction and of many 
arts and trades, the evidences of which lie open on every page, is no greater and no more 
accurate than would be expected of a mind of the quality of his, of an observation so 
keen, of sympathies so catholic and so intense. 

Of an importance only less than the intellectual temper of the time and the moment 
in the development of the drama was the state of the language and of versification. 
Along with the enthusiasm for the classics and the cultivation of pure Latinity which 
characterized the Renaissance there appeared a patriotic desire to refine and dignify the 
vernaculars of the various countries and, among them, of England. The pedantry of the 
group of men of letters known as the Areopagus, the Euphuism of Lyly, and the Area- 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


XVII 


dianism of Sidney were only exaggerated instances of the wide-spread interest in what 
could be done with the native speech; and, in spite of grotesque eccentricities, these 
fashions had served to expand the resources and supple the sinews of English. Traces of 
this interest in feats in the manipulation of words are apparent in Shakespeare in Love's 
Labour’s Lost and elsewhere; but the more important consideration is that when he came 
to write his plays he had at hand a linguistic medium whose capacities both in vocabulary 
and structure had not yet become hardened under the dogmatism of the schools, and 
whose plasticity proved of inestimable value when wielded by a master. A century 
earlier the language was too poor in resources for such supreme literary achievement; a 
century later, the settling down of convention had made such daring as Shakespeare 
showed in subduing it to his use all but impossible. Equal good fortune appears in 
the matter of prosody. Before Shakespeare began to write, drama in England had 
thrown off the shackles of stanza and rime which had hampered it for centuries, and 
had found in blank verse its appointed metre. With unerring instinct Shakespeare 
seized on this and played on it a variety of melodies such as had not hitherto been 
dreamed of. 

A complete enumeration of the favorable elements in the civilization of Elizabethan 
England is here impossible, but enough has probably been said to indicate the extraor¬ 
dinary nature of the opportunity. 


IV 

In attempting to see what are some of the more important qualities that made it 
possible for Shakespeare to rise to this opportunity, it will be well to note first some of 
the negative elements in the case. It was not for sheer invention that Shakespeare was 
unique or even preeminent in his profession. Every form of drama that he touched he 
carried to a lofty pitch of perfection, but none of them did he create. In two or three 
cases he seems to have constructed the plot of a play, but such plots are slight and not 
distinguished by any striking originality. Whenever possible, he borrowed his stories; 
and the transformation he worked on them is due to a kind of imagination quite other, 
if much rarer, than is implied in inventive contrivance. Further, in the mechanics of 
his plays, he repeated himself freely. When a device, a situation, a contrast of character, 
proved successful on the stage, he did not scruple to use it again and again, displaying 
in the variations he worked on it abundant cleverness, but at the same time a poverty, or, 
better, an economy, of invention, in striking contrast to his lavish prodigality in thought 
and imagery. 

The element in his plays which, one is apt to think, must have struck the more 
thoughtful among his contemporaries as giving them marked distinction among the works 
of his predecessors and rivals, is his creation of character. In range, in individuality, 
above all in the illusion of life, there had been nothing in dramatic literature compar¬ 
able to this endless procession of actual human beings. Here were no puppets labelled 
with a quality or a title, no mere walking gentlemen capable of being arranged in 
amusing situations. The persons of the Shakespearean drama, whenever drawn in detail 
and set in the foreground, are marked by idiosyncrasy that stops short of caricature, are 
humorous, pathetic, tender, cruel, profound, shallow, or any mixture of these, just as 
are the people one knows. In no respect does his genius more closely approach the 
supernatural than in this of the creation of men and women of a truly human complex¬ 
ity. Other qualities already referred to must also have appealed to the contemporary 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


audience: the brilliance of phrase and sparkle of repartee; the consummate mastery 
of verse — now sweet and lyrical, now throbbing with passion, now echoing the tread of 
armies, now heavy with thought; — the ingenuity of the stage-craft; the variety of scene 
and atmosphere. But to the modern student there are deeper things to be found, which 
may or may not have been evident to his contemporaries, of some of which the poet 
himself may not have been explicitly conscious. 

It has been frequently charged against Shakespeare that in contrast with poets like 
Dante and Goethe his work embodies no religion, no philosophy. Whatever of truth 
there may be in this, it is surely inaccurately phrased. Certain it is he was no fanatic, 
the propagandist of no sect; what philosophy he had is presented in no systematic 
scheme. If he had been or done these things, he could not have been the supreme 
dramatist. But the profoundest thought is not necessarily framed into a scheme; the 
most philosophical artist need not speak through allegory or abstractions. Philosophical 
ideas find abundant expression in both the dramas and the sonnets of Shakespeare; obiter 
dicta occur of immense suggestiveness and power; and it is hardly possible to read the 
plays as a whole without becoming conscious of a characteristic attitude toward human 
nature and the problems of human life. The expression of this attitude naturally varies 
with the period and the theme. In the Histories the dominant idea is that which one 
finds elsewhere in the early narratives of these sad stories of the death of kings. 
Among the strange paradoxes of the Middle Ages none is more remarkable than the 
persistence, among the Christian conceptions of the Catholic Church, of the pagan goddess 
of Fortune. So continually is she referred to as the determining force in the destinies 
of the great, so awed and reverential is the tone in which her caprices are alluded to, 
that one is forced to the conclusion that she was to the men of that age no mere figure 
of speech, but a deity who was always feared and often worshipped. The narratives on 
which Shakespeare based his Histories were pervaded by this conception, and it survives 
with impressive effect in the speeches of his characters. How far he personally shared 
it, it is hard to say; but he availed himself of it in a hundred instances of dramatic 
irony, and it underlies his melancholy insistence on the merely human limitations that 
assert themselves in the career of every king. With no lack of appreciation of the 
pomp of monarchy, he yet asserts in play after play that, whether coupled with the 
futile piety of Henry VI, the unscrupulous tenacity of Richard III, the policy of Henry 
IV, or the triumphant effectiveness of Henry V, 

’T is not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball, 

The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, 

The intertissued robe of gold and pearl, 

The farced title running ’fore the King, 

The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp 
That beats upon the high shore of this world, 

that can separate the king from the pathos of common humanity. 

In the Comedies there is no such unity of idea ; but generalized reflection is abundantly 
evident in the dwelling in successive plays on certain tendencies of human nature and their 
results in action and character; such tendencies as sentimentalism, cynicism, selfishness, 
and self-deception. The philosophical significance of these plays stops short, as a rule, 
of the fifth act. The marrying off, at the close, of all eligible youths and maidens is more 
a concession to the convention of the happy ending demanded by the particular type of 
drama than the logical outcome of the characters or their deeds. One is not convinced 
that Shakespeare believed that this was the way things happened in life ; but a comedy 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


xix 


must end so, and he provided accordingly a conventional denouement, too often showing 
traces of the perfunctoriness of his interest in such an artificial adjustment. 

Very different is his treatment of the conclusion of Tragedy. Here the crime or 
weakness which marks the tragic hero is shown bearing its inevitable fruit in suffering 
and disaster; and the great Tragedies form the crown of his achievement not only because 
they deal with the more serious problems of life, but because here are found all the 
elements of poetry, characterization, and construction, in each of which he had attained 
mastery in earlier plays, but which now are brought to their loftiest pitch and combined. 
Nowhere else are the two great dramatic elements of character and plot found in such 
perfect balance, in such complete interaction; nowhere else are they clothed in language 
so weighty with thought or so glorified by imagination. But it is in the determination of 
the catastrophes that the philosophical supremacy of the Tragedies most appears, as it is 
from these that critics who find evidence of pessimism in Shakespeare produce their proof. 
“ Here,” they say, pointing to the fifth act of King Lear , “ here, at least, Shakespeare 
loses faith; here good and bad go down together in indiscriminate disaster.” But so to 
observe is, surely, to lose sight of the most profound distinction running through these 
plays, the distinction between the spiritual and the physical. From Romeo and Juliet to 
Coriolanus it is clear that Shakespeare hands over to natural and social law the bodies 
and temporal fortunes of good and bad alike, and such law is permitted its unrelenting 
sway. But it is equally clear that he regards the spiritual life of his creations as by no 
means involved in this welter of suffering and death. Occasionally, as in Macbeth , the 
hero’s spiritual career runs at the end parallel to his worldly fortune; more often, as in 
Othello or Lear, the moment of physical disaster witnesses a moral purgation, a spiritual 
triumph; always it is possible to discern two lines of interest, two kinds of value, two 
clearly distinguished spheres of existence. 

For the lack of correspondence between these two lines of action, the absence in 
Tragedy of any control of worldly happiness in the interest of the good, he attempts no 
explanation. For he is not concerned to construct a philosophical system, to preach a 
gospel. Even the all-pervading distinction just set forth is not preached or argued. It 
is merely implied because no treatment of the greater issues of human life could be at 
once true and profound without this implication. Thus this limitation, as it has been 
regarded by those who would have the poet an explicit philosopher, is no limitation at 
all, but the mark of his allegiance to the true artistic ideal, the proof that he played 
his own game according to its own rules, and devoted himself with unparalleled disin¬ 
terestedness, unparalleled range and profundity of insight, to the picturing of things 
as they are. 


W. A. N. 



TO THE READER 


This Figure, that thou here seest pufcj 
It was for gentle Shakespeare cut; 
Wherein the Grauer had a strife 
with Nature, to out-doo the life : 

O, could he but haue drawne his wit 
As well in brasse, as he hath hit 
His face ; the Print would then surpasse 
All, that was euer writ in brasse. 
But, since he cannot, Reader, looke 
Not on his Picture, but his Booke. 


B. L 



Mr. WILLIAM 


SHAKESPEARES 

COMEDIES, 

HISTORIES, & 
TRAGEDIES. 

Published according to the True Originall Copies. 


[DROESHOUT ENGRAVING HERE.] 


L O N D O N 

Printed by Isaac laggard, and Ed. Blount. 1623. 


TO THE MOST NOBLE 

AND 

INCOMPARABLE PAIRE OF BRETHREN. 

WILLIAM 

Earle of Pembroke, &c. Lord Chamberlaine to the 
Kings most Excellent Maiesty . 

AND 

PHILIP 

Earle of Montgomery, &c. Gentleman of his Maiesties Bed-Chamber. 

Both Knights of the most Noble Order of the Garter, 
and our singular good Lords. 

Right Honourable, 

Whilst we studie to be thankful in our particular, for the many fauors we haue re- 
ceiued from your L. L. we are falne vpon the ill fortune, to mingle two the most diuerse 
things that can bee, feare, and rashnesse; rashnesse in the enterprize, and feare of the 
successe. For, when we valew the places your H. H. sustaine, we cannot but know their 
dignity greater, then to descend to the reading of these trifles: and, while we name them 
trifles, we haue depriu’d our selues of the defence of our Dedication. But since your 
L. L. haue beene pleas’d to thinke these trifles some-thing, heeretofore; and haue pro- 
sequuted both them, and their Authour liuing, with so much fauour: we hope, that (they 
out-liuing him, and he not hauing the fate, common with some, to be exequutor to his 
owne writings) you will vse the like indulgence toward them, you haue done vnto their 
parent. There is a great difference, whether any Booke choose his Patrones, or finde 
them: This hath done both. For, so much were your L L. likings of the seuerall parts, 
when they were acted, as before they were published, the Volume ask’d to be yours. 
We haue but collected them, and done an office to the dead, to procure his Orphanes, 
Guardians; without ambition either of selfe-profit, or fame: onely to keepe the memory 
of so worthy a Friend, & Fellow aliue, as was our Shakespeare, by humble offer of 
his playes, to your most noble patronage. Wherein, as we haue iustly obserued, no man 
to come neere your L. L. but with a kind of religious addresse; it hath bin the height 
of our care, who are the Presenters, to make the present worthy of your H. H. by the 
perfection. But, there we must also craue our abilities to be considerd, my Lords. We 
cannot go beyond our owne powers. Country hands reach foortli milke, creame, fruites, 
or what they haue: and many Nations (we haue heard) that had not gummes & in¬ 
cense, obtained their requests with a leauened Cake. It was no fault to approch their 
Gods, by what meanes they could: And the most, though meanest, of things are made 
more precious, when they are dedicated to Temples. In that name therefore, we most 
humbly consecrate to your H. H. these remaines of your seruant Shakespeare; that 
what delight is in them, may be euer your L. L. the reputation his, & the faults ours, if 
any be committed, by a payre so carefull to shew their gratitude both to the liuing, and 
the dead, as is 

Your Lordshippes most bounden, 
lOHN HEMINGE. 

Henry Condell. 


TO THE GREAT VARIETY OF READERS 


From the most able, to him that can but spell: There you are number’d. We had 
rather you were weighd. Especially, when the fate of all Bookes depends vpon your 
capacities: and not of your heads alone, but of your purses. Well ! it is now publique, 
& you wil stand for your priuiledges wee know: to read, and censure. Do so, but buy 
it first. That doth best commend a Booke, the Stationer saies. Then, how odde soeuer 
your braines be, or your wisedomes, make your licence the same, and spare not. Iudge 
your sixe-pen’orth, your shillings worth, your fiue shillings worth at a time, or higher, so 
you rise to the iust rates, and welcome. But, what euer you do, Buy. Censure will not 
driue a Trade, or make the Iacke go. And though you be a Magistrate of wit, and sit 
on the Stage at Black-Friers, or the Cock-pit , to arraigne Playes dailie, know, these 
Playes haue had their triall alreadie, and stood out all Appeales; and do now come forth 
quitted rather by a Decree of Court, then any purchas’d Letters of commendation. 

It had bene a thing, we confesse, worthie to haue bene wished, that the Author him- 
selfe had liu’d to haue set forth, and ouerseen his owne writings; But since it hath bin 
ordain’d otherwise, and he by death departed from that right, we pray you do not envie 
his Friends, the office of their care, and paine, to haue collected & publish’d them; and 
so to haue publish d them, as where (before) you were abus’d with diuerse stolne, and 
surreptitious copies, maimed, and deformed by the frauds and stealthes of iniurious im¬ 
postors, that expos’d them: euen those, are now offer’d to your view cur’d, and perfect of 
their limbes; and all the rest, absolute in their numbers, as he conceiued the. Who, as 
he was a happie imitator of Nature, was a most gentle expresser of it. His mind and 
hand went together: And what he thought, he vttered with that easinesse, that wee haue 
scarse receiued from him a blot in his papers. But it is not our prouince, who onely 
gather his works, and giue them you, to praise him. It is yours that reade him. And 
there we hope, to your diuers capacities, you will finde enough, both to draw, and hold 
you: for his wit can no more lie hid, then it could be lost. Reade him, therefore; and 
againe, and againe : And if then you doe not like him, surely you are in some manifest 
danger, not to vnderstand him. And so we leaue you to other of his Friends, whom if 
you need, can bee your guides: if you neede them not, you can leade your selues, and 
others. And such Readers we wish him. 

IOHN HEMINGE. 

Henrie Condell. 


TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOUED, 
THE AVTHOR 

MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE: 

AND 

what he hath left vs. 

To draw no enuy ( Shakespeare ) on thy name, 

Am I thus ample to thy Booke, and Fame: 

While I confesse thy writings to be such, 

As neither Man, nor Muse, can praise too much. 

’T is true, and all mens suffrage. But these wayes 
Were not the paths I meant vnto thy praise: 

For seeliest Ignorance on these may light, 

Which, when it sounds at best, but eccho’s right; 

Or blinde Affection, which doth ne’re aduance 
The truth, but gropes, and vrgeth all by chance; 

Or crafty Malice, might pretend this praise, 

And thinke to ruine, where it seem’d to raise. 

These are, as some infamous Baud, or Whore, 

Should praise a Matron. What could hurt her more ? 
But thou art proofe against them, and indeed 
Aboue th’ ill fortune of them, or the need. 

I, therefore will begin. Soule of the Age ! 

The applause ! delight! the wonder of our Stage ! 

My Shakespeare, rise; I will not lodge thee by 
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lye 
A little further, to make thee a roome: 

Thou art a Moniment, without a tom be, 

And art aliue still, while thy Booke doth liue, 

And we haue wits to read, and praise to giue. 

That I not mixe thee so, my braine excuses; 

I meane with great, but disproportion^! Muses 
For, if I thought my iudgement were of yeeres, 

I should commit thee surely with thy peeres, 

And tell, how farre thou didstst our Lily out-shine, 

Or sporting Kid, or Marlowes mighty line. 

And though thou hadst small Latine, and lesse Greeke 9 
From thence to honour thee, I would not seeke 
For names; but call forth thund’ring JEschilus, 
Euripides, and Sophocles to vs, 

Paccuuius, Accius, him of Cordoua dead, 

To life againe, to heare thy Buskin tread, 


And shake a Stage: Or, when thy Sockes were on, 

Leaue thee alone, for the comparison 
Of all, that insolent Greece , or haughtie Rome 
sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. 

Triumph, my Britaine, thou hast one to showe, 

To whom all Scenes of Europe homage owe. 

He was not of an age, but for all time ! 

And all the Muses still were in their prime, 

When like Apollo he came forth to warme 
Our eares, or like a Mercury to charme ! 

Nature her selfe was proud of his designes, 

And ioy’d to weare the dressing of his lines ! 

Which were so richly spun, and wouen so fit, 

As, since, she will vouchsafe no other Wit. 

The merry Greeke , tart Aristophanes , 

Neat Terence , witty Plautus , now not please; 

But antiquated, and deserted lye 

As they were not of Natures family. 

Yet must I not giue Nature all: Thy Art, 

My gentle Shakespeare , must enioy a part. 

For though the Poets matter, Nature be, 

His Art doth giue the fashion. And, that he, 

Who casts to write a liuing line, must sweat, 

(such as thine are) and strike the second heat 
Vpon the Muses anuile: turne the same, 

(And himselfe with it) that he thinkes to frame; 

Or for the lawrell, he may game a scorne, 

For a good Poet’s made, as well as borne. 

And such wert thou. Looke how the fathers face 
Liues in his issue, euen so, the race 
Of Shakespeares minde, and manners brightly shines 
In his well torned, and true-filed lines: 

In each of which, he seemes to shake a Lance, 

As brandish’t at the eyes of Ignorance. 

Sweet Swan of A uon ! what a sight it were 
To see thee in our waters yet appeare, 

And make those flights vpon the bankes of Thames , 

That so did take Eliza , and our lames ! 

But stay, I see thee in the Hemisphere 

Aduanc’d, and made a Constellation there ! 

Shine forth, thou Starre of Poets , and with rage, 

Or influence, chide, or cheere the drooping Stage; 
Which, since thy flight fro hence, hath mourn’d like night, 
And despaires day, but for thy Volumes light. 


Ben: Ionson. 


TO THE MEMORIE 
of the deceased Authour Maister 

W. SHAKESPEARE. 

Shakespeare, at length thy pious fellowes giue 

The world thy Workes: thy Workes, by which, out-liue 

Thy Tombe, thy name must: when that stone is rent, 

And Time dissolues thy Stratford Moniment, 

Here we aliue shall view thee still. This Booke, 

When Brasse and Marble fade, shall make thee lo»ke 
Fresh to all Ages: when Posteritie 
Shall loath what’s new, thinke all is prodegie 
That is not Shakespeares; eu’ry Line, each V^erse 
Here shall reuiue, redeeme thee from thy Herse. 

Nor Fire, nor cankring Age, as Naso said, 

Of his, thy wit-fraught Booke shall once inuade. 

Nor shall I e’re beleeue, or thinke thee dead 
(Though mist) vntill our bankrout Stage be sped 
(Jmpossible) with some new straine t’out-do 
Passions of luliet, and her Romeo ; 

Or till J heare a Scene more nobly take, 

Then when thy half-Sword parlying Romans spake. 

Till these, till any of thy Volumes jest 
Shall with more fire, more feeling be exprest, 

Be sure, our Shakespeare, thou canst neuer dye, 

But crown’d with Lawrell, liue eternally. 

L. DiggeSo 


To the memorie of M. W. Shakespeare. 

Wee wondred {Shakespeare') that thou went’st so soone 
From the Worlds-Stage, to the Graues-Tyring-roome. 
Wee thought thee dead, but this thy printed worth, 

Tels thy Spectators, that thou went’st but forth 
To enter with applause. An Actors Art, 

Can dye, and liue, to acte a second part. 

That’s but an Exit of Mortalitie; 

This, a Re-entrance to a Plaudite. 


I. M. 


VPON THE LINES AND LIFE OF THE FAMOUS 
Scenicke Poet, Master William Shakespeare. 

Those hands, which you so clapt, go now, and wring 
You Britaines braue; for done are Shakespeares dayes: 

His dayes are done, that made the dainty Playes, 

Which made the Globe of heau’n and earth to ring. 

Dry’de is that veine, dry’d is the Thespian Spring, 

Turn’d all to teares, and Phoebus clouds his rayes: 

That corp’s, that coffin now besticke those bayes, 

Which crown’d him Poet first, then Poets King. 

If Tragedies might any Prologue haue, 

All those he made, would scarse make one to this: 

Where Fame , now that he gone is to the graue 
(Deaths publique tyring-house) the Nuncius is. 

For though his line of life went soone about, 

The life yet of his lines shall neuer out. 


Hvgh Hollane 







LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


The problem of dating exactly Shakespeare’s earliest plays is beset with peculiar difficulties. 
During the first few years of his dramatic activity, he made experiments in all the three main 
divisions of the drama of his time, comedy, tragedy, and history ; and within these divisions his 
versatility showed itself still farther. Thus, in the field of comedy, he seems to have laid especial 
stress on diction in Love's Labour 's Lost , on character in The Two Gentlemen of Verona , on situation 
and plot in The Comedy of Errors. This variety of aim makes it hard to arrange these plays in 
order of production on mere internal evidence, as might have been possible had they been succes¬ 
sive attempts along precisely the same lines; and external evidence is very scanty and inconclu¬ 
sive. The order adopted here is as probable as any; but the three comedies placed first should 
be regarded as essentially contemporaneous. 

The first extant edition of Love's Labour 's Lost was published as a quarto in 1598. The title- 
page of this edition states that it is printed “ as it was presented before her Highness this last 
Christmas. Newly corrected and augmented by W. Shakespere.” If this volume was issued be¬ 
fore March 25, 1598 (O. S.), “ last Christmas ” would mean Christmas of 1598 ; if after March 25, 
it would mean Christmas of 1597- References to the play in Meres’s Palladis Tamia (1598), and 
in Tofte's Alba or Month's Mind of a Melancholy Lover (1598), do not help to determine this point. 
The indication of an earlier form of the play given in the words “ corrected and augmented ” is 
corroborated by certain peculiarities in the text. The speech of Biron in iv. iii. 289-365, and 
the conversation between him and Rosaline in v. ii. 827-832, 847-881, show undoubted traces of 
revision, the earlier form of some of the lines having been retained in the later text by the mis¬ 
take of the printer. We have no means of defining closely the augmentations, but from the dis¬ 
proportion in the length of the acts, and from the style of the speeches, it is fairly clear that they 
must have been chiefly in the fourth and fifth acts, and in the speeches of Biron and Rosaline. 
The date of this earlier version is to be conjectured from internal evidence only. The very great 
frequency of riming lines, the occurrence of speeches rimed alternately and in sonnet form, the 
slightness of the characterization, the obvious symmetry in the arrangement of the persons, the 
nature of the topical allusions, —all these, combined with the impression of immaturity produced 
by the play, have led to a fairly general agreement that it is one of Shakespeare’s first inde¬ 
pendent attempts, and is to be placed not later than 1591. 

The Quarto of 1598 is the direct source of the next printed text, that of the First Folio. This 
edition of the play, though somewhat more carefully printed than the Quarto, has no indepen¬ 
dent authority, and adds nothing save the last line and the division into acts. The present text 
is, accordingly, based on that of the Quarto. 

No source of the plot as a whole has yet been discovered, and it is quite possible that the story 
was invented by Shakespeare himself. Hints may have been derived from French history. 
Monstrelet relates that, in the first quarter of the fifteenth century, a king of Navarre renounced 
his claims to certain French lordships on condition of receiving the Duchy of Nemours and 200,000 
crowns. Again, in 1586, Catherine de’ Medici, accompanied by a bevy of ladies, visited the court 
of Henry of Navarre, and attempted to settle the disputes between that prince and her son, Henry 
III. The charms of the ladies in her retinue were expected to aid in the accomplishment of her 
diplomatic purposes. The names of Biron and Longaville are those of two well-known adherents 
of Henry of Navarre in the civil wars which were raging when the play was written; and the 
name of Dumain is an anglicized form of that of the Due de Mayenne who figured on the other 
side in the same conflict. Further, in 1582, a Russian ambassador arrived in England to arrange 
a treaty, and to take home with him a wife for the Czar from among the kinswomen of Eliza- 


2 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


beth. A lady was selected, and was presented to the ambassador in a pavilion in the gardens of 
York House with a ceremony which may have given a hint for the masque of the Muscovites in 
V. ii. 158 ff., especially as the episode was long remembered as a joke. 

In the characters of Armado and Holofernes traces have been found of the stock types of the 
braggart soldier and the pedant of Latin and Italian comedy. In the stage directions of the 
early copies, Armado is often called “ Braggart,” and Holofernes “ Pedant.” Some of the for¬ 
mer’s characteristics may have been suggested by an eccentric Italian who haunted the court of 
Elizabeth, and was known as the “ fantastical monarcho.” Boyet calls Armado “ a phantasime, 
a Monarcho” (iv. i. 101), and Holofernes refers to him as a “fanatical phantasime ” (v. i. 19). 
The name of Holofernes may be due to its occurrence in Kabelais as that of the tutor of Gara- 
gantua. The rustic pedant had been recently exploited by Sir Philip Sidney in the character of 
Rombus in The Lady of the May. The scraps of Latin put into the mouth of Holofernes and 
of Nathaniel are taken from sixteenth-century school-books, a fact which may partly account 
for the attempts to find in the Pedant a portrait of Shakespeare’s own schoolmaster. Endeavors 
to identify him with John Florio, and to point out in other characters in the play allusions to men 
concerned in current controversies, are not convincing. 

The main point of Love's Labour ’s Lost for Shakespeare’s contemporaries must have been in its 
pervading burlesque of current fads and affectations. The wit-combats of the lords and ladies, 
the affected diction of the sonneteering courtiers, the preposterous bombast of Armado, the 
latinized English and pedantic alliteration of Holofernes, and the quips of Moth, are all paro¬ 
dies of the absurdities into which the prevailing interest in linguistic feats had led almost all 
classes of Elizabethan society. Euphuism is to-day the most familiar of these fashions, but 
Euphuism itself, in the strict sense, is not specifically attacked. There are, however, other indi¬ 
cations of the influence of Lyly, at this date by far the greatest master of English comedy. The 
farcical scenes with Moth, Armado, and the clowns, the repartee between the ladies and the 
courtiers, the scene in which the lovers betray their broken vows, and the general method of 
representing courtly intercourse, are all foreshadowed in the work of Lyly. Nor need it be 
supposed that all the verbal affectation and quaintnesses in the play are due to a burlesque inten¬ 
tion. Shakespeare himself, as all his early work goes to show, was fascinated by the word-play 
in which his contemporaries indulged, and the eloquence of the finer speeches of Biron is prob¬ 
ably the outcome of a genuine delight in the discovery of his own power to manipulate words as 
skilfully as his fellows. 

The general drift of the play is evident alike in the plot and in the verbal parodies, namely, 
the exposure of the absurdity of departing from common sense, and the ability of Nature to 
assert herself to the discomfiture of those who foolishly attempt to organize society on artificial 
lines that run counter to the fundamental laws of our constitution. 

“ Biron,” or “ Berowne ” as it appears in the early copies, is accented on the second syllable, 
and rimes with “moon;” “Boyet” rimes with “ debt; ” “Moth” was pronounced “mote;” 
and “ Rosaline ” rimes with “ thine.” 



LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


[DRAMATIS 

Fbbdinand, king of Navarre. 

Bikon, 'i 

Longaville, [ lords attending on the King. 

Dumain, ) 

Boyet ) 

Mercade ) lor< * 8 attending on the Princess of France. 

Don Adriano db Armado, a fantastical Spaniard. 

Sir Nathaniel, a curate. 

Holofernes, a schoolmaster. 

Lords, Attei 


PERSONAE 

Dull, a constable. 

Costard, a clown. 

Moth, page to Armado. 

A Forester. 

The Princess of France. 

Rosaline, ) 

Marla, > ladies attending on the Princess. 
Katherine, ) 

Jaquenetta, a country wench, 
iants, etc. 


Scene : Navarre , the King's palace , and the country near if.] 


ACT I 

[Scene I. The king of Navarre's park.] 

Enter Ferdinand, king of Navarre , Biron, 
Longaville, and Dumain. 

King. Let fame, that all hunt after in their 
lives, 

Live regist’red upon our brazen tombs 
And then grace us in the disgrace of death ; 
When, spite of cormorant, devouring Time, 
The endeavour of this present breath may buy 6 
That honour which shall bate his scythe’s keen 
edge 

And make us heirs of all eternity. 

Therefore, brave conquerors, — for so you are, 
That war against your own affections 
And the huge army of the world’s desires, — 10 
Our late edict shall strongly stand in force. 
Navarre shall be the wonder of the world • 

Our court shall be a little Academe, 

Still and contemplative in living art. 

You three, Biron, Dumain, and Longaville, is 
Have sworn for three years’ term to live with me 
My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes 
That are recorded in this schedule here. 

Your oaths are pass’d ; and now subscribe your 
names, 

That his own hand may strike his honour down 
That violates the smallest branch herein. 21 
If you are arm’d to do as sworn to do, 

Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too. 
Long. I am resolv’d ; ’t is but a three years’ 
fast. t 24 

The mind shall banquet, though the body pine. 
Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits 
Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the 
wits. 

Dum. My loving lord, Dumain is mortified. 
The grosser manner of these world’s delights 
He throws upon the gross world’s baser slaves. 
To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die, si 
With all these living in philosophy. 


Bir. I can but say their protestation over. 

So much, dear liege, I have already sworn, 
That is, to live and study here three years, sc 
But there are other strict observances ; 

As, not to see a woman in that term, 

Which I hope well is not enrolled there. 

And one day in a week to touch no food, 

And but one meal on every day beside, 40 

The which I hope is not enrolled there ; 

And then, to sleep but three hours in the night, 
And not be seen to wink of all the day, — 
When I was wont to think no harm all night 
And make a dark night too of half the day, — 
Which I hope well is not enrolled there. « 
0, these are barren tasks, too hard to keep, 

Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep! 

King. Your oath is pass’d to pass away from 
these. 

Bir. Let me say no, my liege, an if you please. 
I only swore to study with your grace ei 

And stay here in your court for three years’ 
space. 

Long. You swore to that, Biron, and to the 
rest. 

Bir. By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in 
jest. 

What is the end of study ? Let me know. 55 
King. Why, that to know which else we 
should not know. 

Bir. Things hid and barr’d, you mean, from 
common sense ? 

King. Ay, that is study’s god-like recom- 
pence. 

Bir. Come on, then; I will swear to study 
so, 

To know the thing I am forbid to know ; eo 
As thus, —to study where I well may dine, 
When I to feast expressly am forbid; 

Or study where to meet some mistress fine, 
When mistresses from common sense are hid; 
Or, having sworn too hard a keeping oath, as 
Study to break it and not break my troth. 

If study’s gain be thus and this be so, 




4 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


i. L 


Study knows that which yet it doth not know. 
Swear me to this, and I will ne’er say no. 

King. These be the stops that hinder study 
quite, 7o 

And train our intellects to vain delight. 

Bir. Why, all delights are vain, but that 
most vain, 

Which, with pain purchas’d, doth inherit pain; 
As, painfully to pore upon a book 

To seek the light of truth; while truth the 
while 75 

Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look. 
Light seeking light doth light of light be- 
guile; 

So, ere you find where light in darkness lies, 
Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes. 
Study me how to please the eye indeed so 

By fixing it upon a fairer eye, 

Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed 
And give him light that it was blinded by. 
Study is like the heaven’s glorious sun 

That will not be deep-search’d with saucy 
looks. 85 

Small have continual plodders ever won, 

Save base authority from others’ books. 

These earthly godfathers of heaven’s lights, 
That give a name to every fixed star, 

Have no more profit of their shining nights so 
Than those that walk and wot not what they 
are. 

Too much to know is to know nought but 
fame; 

And every godfather can give a name. 

King. How well he’s read, to reason against 
reading! 

Bum. Proceeded well, to stop all good pro¬ 
ceeding ! . 95 

Long. He weeds the corn and still lets grow 
the weeding. 

Bir. The spring is near when green geese are 
a-breeding. 

Bum. How follows that ? 

Bir. Fit in his place and time. 

Bum. In reason nothing. 

Bir. Something then in rhyme. 

King. Biron is like an envious sneaping frost i«o 
That bites the first-born infants of the spring. 
Bir. Well, say I am ; why should proud sum¬ 
mer boast 

Before the birds have any cause to sing ? 
Why should I joy in any abortive birth ? 

At Christmas I no more desire a rose 105 

Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled shows ; 
But like of each thing that in season grows. 

So you (to study now it is too late,) 

Climb o’er the house to unlock the little 
gate. 

King. Well, sit you out. Go home, Biron, 
adieu. no 

Bir. No, my good lord, I have sworn to stay 
with you ; 

And though I have for barbarism spoke more 
Than for that angel, knowledge, you can 



And bide the penance of each three years’ 
day. ns 


Give me the paper; let me read the same ; 

And to the strictest decrees I ’ll write my name. 
King. How well this yielding rescues thee 
from shame! 

Bir. [Beads.] “ Item, That no woman shall 
come within a mile of my court ” — Hath 
this been proclaimed ? i*o 

Long. Four days ago. 

Bir. Let’s see the penalty. [Beads.] “ On 
pain of losing her tongue.” Who devis’d this 
penalty ? 125 

Long. Marry, that did I. 

Bir. Sweet lord, and why ? 

Long. To fright them hence with that dread 
penalty. 

[Bir.] A dangerous law against gentility! 
[Beads.] “ Item , If any man be seen to talk [iso 
with a woman within the term of three years, 
he shall endure such public shame as the rest of 
the court can possibly devise.” 

This article, my liege, yourself must break ; 

For well you know here comes in embassy is6 
The French king’s daughter with yourself to 
speak — 

A maid of grace and complete majesty — 
About surrender up of Aquitaine 

To her decrepit, sick, and*-bedrid father; 
Therefore this article is made in vain, 1*0 

Or vainly comes the admired princess hither. 
King. What say you, lords ? Why, this was 
quite forgot. 

Bir. So study evermore is overshot. 

While it doth study to have what it would, 

It doth forget to do the thing it should ; i« 
And when it hath the thing it hunteth most, 

’T is won as towns with fire, so won, so lost. 
King. We must of force dispense with this 
decree ; 

She must lie here on mere necessity. 

Bir. Necessity will make us all forsworn 160 
Three thousand times within this three years’ 
space ; 

For every man with his affects is born, 

Not by might mast’red, but by special grace. 
If I break faith, this word shall speak for me ; 
I am forsworn on “mere necessity.” 155 

So to the laws at large I write my name ; 

[iSu&scrt&es.] 

And he that breaks them in the least degree 
Stands in attainder of eternal shame. 

Suggestions are to other as to me ; 

But I believe, although I seem so loath, ieo 
I am the last that will last keep his oath. 

But is there no quick recreation granted ? 

King. Ay, that there is. Our court, you 
know, is haunted 
With a refined traveller of Spain ; 

A man in all the world’s new fashion planted, 
That hath a mint of phrases in his brain ; tee 
One who the music of his own vain tongue 
Doth ravish like enchanting harmony ; 

A man of complements, whom right and wrong 
Have chose as umpire of their mutiny. 170 
This child of fancy, that Armado hight, 

For interim to our studies shall relate, 

In high-born words, the worth of many a knight 
From tawny Spain, lost in the world’s debate. 





LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


S 


I. i. 


How you delight, my lords, I know not, I; 175 

But, I protest, I love to hear him lie, 

And I will use him for my minstrelsy. 

Bir. Armado is a most illustrious wight, 

A man of fire-new words, fashion’s own knight. 
Long. Costard the swain and he shall be our 
sport; iso 

And, so to study, three years is but short. 

Enter a Constable [Dull] with a letter , and Cos¬ 
tard. 

Dull. Which is the Duke’s own person ? 

Bir. This, fellow. What wouldst ? 

Dull. I myself reprehend his own person, for 
I am his grace’s tharborough ; but I would see 
his own person in flesh and blood. iss 

Bir. This is he. 

Dull. Signior Arme— Arme— commends 
you. There’s villany abroad. This letter will 

tell you more. too 

Cost. Sir, the contempts thereof are as touch¬ 
ing me. 

King. A letter from the magnificent Armado. 
Bir. How low soever the matter, I hope in 
God for high words. ios 

Long. A high hope for a low heaven. God 
grant us patience! 

Bir. To hear ? or forbear hearing ? 

Long. To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh mod¬ 
erately ; or to forbear both. 200 

Bir. W T ell, sir, be it as the style shall give 
us cause to climb in the merriness. 

Cost. The matter is to me, sir, as concerning 
Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken 
with the manner. 205 

Bir. In what manner ? 

Cost. In manner and form following, sir ; all 
those three: I was seen with her in the manor- 
house, sitting with her upon the form, and 
taken following her into the park ; which, put 
together, is in manner and form following. [210 
Now, sir, for the manner, —it is the manner of 
a man to speak to a woman; for the form, — 
in some form. 

Bir. For the following, sir? 

Cost. As it shall follow in my correction; 
and God defend the right! 215 

King. W T ill you hear this letter with attention ? 
Bir. As we would hear an oracle. 

Cost. Such is the simplicity of man to heark¬ 
en after the flesh. . 220 

King. [Reads.] “ Great deputy, the welkin’s 
vicegerent, and sole dominator of Navarre, 
my soul’s earth’s god, and body’s fostering 
patron.” 

Cost. Not a word of Costard yet. 

King. [Reads.] “So it is,”— > 225 

Cost. It may be so ; but if he say it is so, he 
is, in telling true, but so. 

King. Peace ! 

Cost. Be to me, and every man that dares not 

fight! 230 

King. No words ! 

Cost. Of other men’s secrets, I beseech you. 
King. [Reads.] “So it is, besieged with 
sable-coloured melancholy, I did commend the 
black oppressing humour to the most wholesome 


physic of thy health-giving air; and, as I am [23* 
a gentleman, betook myself to walk. The time 
when ? About the sixth hour; when beasts 
most graze, birds best peck, and men sit 
down to that nourishment which is called sup¬ 
per ; so much for the time when. Now for [240 
the ground which; which, I mean, I walk’d 
upon: it is ycleped thy park. Then for the 
place where ; where, I mean, I did encounter 
that obscene and most preposterous event, that 
draweth from my snow-white pen the ebon- [245 
coloured ink which here thou viewest, beholdest, 
surveyest, or seest; but to the place where : it 
standeth north-north-east and by east from the 
west corner of thy curious-knotted gardet. 
There did I see that low-spirited swain, [250 
that base minnow of thy mirth,” — 

Cost. Me ? 

King. [Reads.] “ That unlettered small¬ 
knowing soul,” — 

Cost. Me ? 2 M 

King. [Reads]. “ That shallow vassal,” — 
Cost. Still me ? 

King. [Rearfs.] “Which, as I remember, 
hight Costard,” — 

Cost. 0, me ! 200 

King. [Reads.] “ Sorted and consorted, con¬ 

trary to thy established proclaimed edict and 
continent canon, which with — O, with — but 
with this I passion to say wherewith,” — 

Cost. With a wench. 265 

King. [Reads.] “ With a child of our grand¬ 
mother Eve, a female ; or, for thy more sweet 
understanding, a woman. Him I, as my ever- 
esteemed duty pricks me on, have sent to thee, 
to receive the meed of punishment, by thy sweet 
Grace’s officer, Anthony Dull; a man of [270 
good repute, carriage, bearing, and estimation.” 

Dull. Me, an’t shall please you; I am An¬ 
thony Dull. 

King. [Reads.] “For Jaquenetta, — so is 
the weaker vessel called which I apprehend- [275 
ed with the aforesaid swain, — I keep her as 
a vessel of thy law’s fury ; and shall, at the 
least of thy sweet notice, bring her to trial. 
Thine, in all compliments of devoted and heart¬ 
burning heat of duty, 28 « 

Don Adriano de Armado.” 
Biron. This is not so well as I looked for, 
but the best that ever I heard. 

King. Ay, the best for the worst. But, sir¬ 
rah, what say you to this ? 

Cost. Sir, I confess the wench. . 286 

King. Did you hear the proclamation? 

Cost. I do confess much of the hearing it, but 
little of the marking of it. 

King. It was proclaimed a year’s imprison¬ 
ment, to be taken with a wench. 200 

Cost. I was taken with none, sir; I was taken 
with a damsel. 

King. Well, it was proclaimed damsel. 

Cost. This was no damsel neither, sir; she 
was a virgin. 295 

King. It is so varied too; for it was pro¬ 
claimed virgin. 

Cost. If it were, I deny her virginity ; I was 
taken with a maid. 





6 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


L IX 


King. This maid will not serve your turn, 
sir. 300 

Cost. This maid will serve my turn, sir. 
King. Sir, I will pronounce your sentence: 
you shall fast a week with bran and water. 

Cost. I had rather pray a month with mutton 
and porridge. sos 

King. And Don Armado shall be your keeper. 
My Lord Biron, see him deliver’d o’er ; 

And go we, lords, to put in practice that 

Which each to other hath so strongly sworn. 

[Exeunt King , Longaville, and Dumain.] 
Eir. I ’ll lay my head to any good man’s hat, 310 
These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn. 
Sirrah, come on. 

Cost. I suffer for the truth, sir ; for true it is, 
I was taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta 
is a true girl; and therefore welcome the sour 
cup of prosperity ! Affliction may one day [315 
smile again; and till then, sit thee down, sor¬ 
row I [Exeunt. 

[Scene II. The same.] 

Enter Armado and Moth, his page. 

Arm. Boy, what sign is it when a man of 
great spirit grows melancholy ? 

Moth. A great sign, sir, that he will look 
sad. 

Arm. Why, sadness is one and the self-same 
thing, dear imp. 5 

Moth. No, no ; 0 Lord, sir, no. 

Arm. How canst thou part sadness and mel¬ 
ancholy, my tender juvenal ? 

Moth. By a familiar demonstration of the 
working, my tough senior. 10 

Arm. Why tough senior ? Why tough senior ? 
Moth. Why tender juvenal ? Why tender 
juvenal ? 

Arm. I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a con¬ 
gruent epitheton appertaining to thy young 

days, which we may nominate tender. ie 

Moth. And I, tough senior, as an appertinent 
title to your old time, which we may name 
tough. 

Arm. Pretty and apt. 

Moth. How mean you, sir ? I pretty, and [20 
my saying apt ? or I apt, and my saying pretty ? 
Arm. Thou pretty, because little. 

Moth. Little pretty, because little. Where¬ 
fore apt ? 

Arm/ And therefore apt, because quick. 25 
Moth. Speak you this in my praise, master ? 
Arm. In thy condign praise. 

Moth. I will praise an eel with the same 
praise. 

Arm. What, that an eel is ingenious ? 

Moth. That an eel is quick. so 

Arm. I do say thou art quick in answers ; 
thou heatest my blood. 

Moth. I am answer’d, sir. 

Arm. I love not to be cross’d. 

Moth. [Aside.] He speaks the mere con¬ 
trary ; crosses love not him. 35 

Arm. I have promised to study three years 
with the Duke. 


Moth. You may do it in an hour, sir. 

Arm. Impossible. *0 

Moth. How many is one thrice told ? 

Arm. I am ill at reckoning; it fitteth the 
spirit of a tapster. 

Moth. You are a gentleman and a gamester, 
sir ? « 

Arm. I confess both ; they are both the var¬ 
nish of a complete man. 

Moth. Then, I am sure, you know how much 
the gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to. 

Arm. It doth amount to one more than two. eo 

Moth. Which the base vulgar do call three. 

Arm. True. 

Moth. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study ? 
Now here is three studied, ere ye ’ll thrice 
wink ; and how easy it is to put “ years ” to the 
word “ three,” and study three years in two [55 
words, the dancing horse will tell you. 

Arm. A most fine figure ! 

Moth. To prove you a cipher. 

Arm. I will hereupon confess I am in love : [00 
and as it is base for a soldier to love, so am 1 in 
love with a base wench. If drawing my sword 
against the humour of affection would deliver 
me from the reprobate thought of it, I would 
take Desire prisoner, and ransom him to any 
French courtier for a new-devis’d courtesy. I [oe 
think scorn to sigh ; methinks I should outswear 
Cupid. Comfort me, boy : what great men have 
been in love ? 

Moth. Hercules, master. 

Arm. Most sweet Hercules! More author¬ 
ity, dear boy, name more ; and, sweet my [to 
child, let them be men of good repute and car¬ 
riage. 

Moth. Samson, master. He was a man of good 
carriage, great carriage, for he carried the town 
gates on his back like a porter ; and he was [75 
in love. 

Arm. 0 well-knit Samson! strong-jointed 
Samson ! I do excel thee in my rapier as much 
as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in love 
too. Who was Samson’s love, my dear Moth ? [so 

Moth. A woman, master. 

Arm. Of what complexion ? 

Moth. Of all the four, or the three, or the two, 
or one of the four. 

Arm. Tell me precisely of what complexion, [as 

Moth. Of the sea-water green, sir. 

Arm. Is that one of the four complexions ? 

Moth. As I have read, sir ; and the best of 
them too. 

Arm. Green indeed is the colour of lovers ; [90 
but to have a love of that colour, methinks 
Samson had small reason for it. He surely af¬ 
fected her for her wit. 

Moth. It was so, sir; for she had a green w r it. 

Arm. My love is most immaculate white 
and red. 95 

Moth. Most maculate thoughts, master, are 
mask’d under such colours. 

Arm. Define, define, well-educated infant. 

Moth. My father’s wit and my mother’s [100 
tongue, assist me! 

Arm. Sweet invocation of a child; most 
pretty and pathetical 5 





LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


II. i. 


Moth. If she be made of white and red, 

Her faults will ne’er be known, iob 
F or blushing'cheeks by faults are bred 
And fears by pale white shown. 

Then if she fear, or be to blame, 

By this you shall not know. 

For still her cheeks possess the same no 
Which native she doth owe. 

A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason 
of white and red. 

Arm. Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King 
and the Beggar ? no 

Moth. The world was very guilty of such a 
ballad some three ages since, but I think now 
’t is not to be found ; or, if it were, it would 
neither serve for the writing nor the tune. 

Arm. I will have that subject newly writ 
o’er, that I may example my digression by [120 
some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love that 
country girl that I took in the park with the ra¬ 
tional hind Costard. She deserves well. 

Moth. [/Iside .] To be whipp’d ; and yet a [120 
better love than my master. 

Arm. Sing, boy; my spirit grows heavy in love. 

Moth. And that’s great marvel, loving a light 
wench. 

Arm. I say, sing. iso 

Moth. Forbear till this company be past. 

Enter Clown [Costard], Constable [Dull], 
and Wench [Jaquenetta], 

Dull. Sir, the Duke’s pleasure is, that you 
keep Costard safe ; and you must suffer him to 
take no delight nor no penance, but ’a must fast 
three days a week. For this damsel, I must [135 
keep her at the park ; she is allow’d for the day- 
woman. Fare you well. 

Arm. I do betray myself with blushing. 
Maid! 

Jaq. Man? 

Arm. I will visit thee at the lodge. 140 

Jaq. That’s hereby. 

Arm. I know where it is situate. 

Jaq. Lord, how wise you are ! 

Arm. I will tell thee wonders. 

Jaq. With that face ? 145 

Arm. I love thee. 

Jaq. So I heard you say. 

Arm. And so, farewell. 

Jaq. Fair weather after you ! 

[Dull.] Come, Jaquenetta, away ! iso 

[Exeunt [Dull and Jaquenetta]. 

Arm. Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences 
ere thou be pardoned. 

Cost. Well, sir, I hope when I do it I shall do 
it on a full stomach. 

Arm. Thou shalt be heavily punished. iss 

Cost. I am more bound to you than your fel¬ 
lows, for they are but lightly rewarded. 

Arm. Take away this villain ; shut him up. 

Moth. Come, you transgressing slave; away ! 

Cost. Let me not be pent up, sir ! I will 
fast, being loose. ieo 

Moth. No, sir; that were fast and loose. 
Thou shalt to prison. 

Cost. Well, if ever I do see the merry days of 
desolation that I have seen, some shall see. ies 


7 


Moth. What shall some see ? 

Cost. Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but what 
they look upon. It is hot for prisoners to be too 
silent in their words ; and therefore I will say 
nothing. I thank God I have as little patience as 
another man, and therefore I can be quiet, [m 
[Exeunt [Moth and Costard]. 

Arm. I do affect the very ground, which is 
base, where her shoe, which is baser, guided by 
her foot, which is basest, doth tread. I shall be 
forsworn, which is a great argument of false¬ 
hood, if I love. And how can that be true [ivr 
love which is falsely attempted ? Love is a fa¬ 
miliar ; Love is a devil; there is no evil angel 
but Love. Yet was Samson so tempted, and 
he had an excellent strength ; yet was Solomon 
so seduced, and he had a very good wit. [iso 
Cupid’s butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules’ 
club ; and therefore too much odds for a Span¬ 
iard’s rapier. The first and second cause will 
not serve my turn; the passado he respects not, 
the duello he regards not: his disgrace is to [185 
be called boy ; but his glory is to subdue men. 
Adieu, valour ! rust, rapier ! be still, drum ! for 
your manager is in love ; yea, he loveth. Assist 
me, some extemporal god of rhyme, for I am 
sure I shall turn sonnet. Devise, wit! write, [i»< 
pen ! for I am for whole volumes in folio. [Exit. 

ACT II 

[Scene I. The same.] 

Enter the Princess of France, with three at¬ 
tending Ladies, and three Lords. 

Boyet. Nov/, madam, summon up your dear¬ 
est spirits; 

Consider who the King your father sends, 

To whom he sends, and what’s his embassy: 
Yourself, held precious in the world’s esteem, 
To parley with the sole inheritor e 

Of all perfections that a man may owe, 
Matchless Navarre ; the plea of no less weight 
Than Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen. 

Be now as prodigal of all dear grace 
As Nature was in making graces dear, 10 

When she did starve the general world beside 
And prodigally gave them all to you. 

Prin. Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, thougli 
but mean, 

Needs not the painted flourish of your praise. 
Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye, is 
Not utt’red by base sale of chapmen’s tongues. 

I am less proud to hear you tell my worth 
Than you much willing to be counted wise 
In spending your wit in the praise of mine. 

But now to task the tasker : good Boyet, 2c 
You are not ignorant, all-telling fame 
Doth noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow, 
Till painful study shall outwear three years, 

No woman may approach his silent court; 
Therefore to’s seemeth it a needful course, 26 
Before we enter his forbidden gates, 

To know his pleasure ; and in that behalf, 

Bold of your worthiness, we single you 
As our best-moving fair solicitor. 

Tell him, the daughter of the King of France, so 





8 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


ii. i. 


On serious business craving - quick dispatch, 
Importunes personal conference with his Grace. 
Haste, signify so much ; while we attend, 

Like humble-visag’d suitors, his high will. 
Boyet. Proud of employment, willingly I go. 

[Exit. 35 

Prin. All pride is willing pride, and yours is 
so. 

Who are the votaries, my loving lords, 

That are vow-fellows with this virtuous Duke ? 
[ 1 .] Lord. [Lord] Longaville is one. 

Prin. Know you the man ? 

[Mar.] I know him, madam ; at a marriage- 
feast, « 

Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir 
Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized 
In Normandy, saw I this Longaville. 

A man of sovereign parts he is esteem’d, 

Well fitted in arts, glorious in arms ; 45 

Nothing becomes him ill that he would well. 
The only soil of his fair virtue’s gloss, 

If virtue’s gloss will stain with any soil, 

Is a sharp wit match’d with too blunt a will; 
Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still 
wills 60 

It should none spare that come within his power. 
Prin. Some merry mocking lord, belike ; is ’t 
so ? 

[Mar.] They say so most that most his hu¬ 
mours know. 

Prin. Such short-liv’d wits do wither as they 
grow. 

Who are the rest ? 55 

[Kath.] The young Dumain, a well-accom- 
plish’d youth, 

Of all that virtue love for virtue loved ; 

Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill; 
For he hath wit to make an ill shape good, 

And shape to win grace though he had no wit. 
I saw him at the Duke Alengon’s once ; 61 

And much too little of that good I saw 
Is my report to his great worthiness. 

[Ros.] Another of these students at that time 
Was there with him, if I have heard a truth, os 
Biron they call him ; but a merrier man, 
Within the limit of becoming mirth, 

I never spent an hour’s talk withal. 

His eye begets occasion for his wit, 

For every object that the one doth catch 70 
The other turns to a mirth-moving jest, 

Which his fair tongue, conceit’s expositor, 
Delivers in such apt and gracious words 
That aged ears play truant at his tales, 

And younger hearings are quite ravished ; 75 

So sweet and voluble is his discourse. 

Prin. God bless my ladies ! Are they all in 
love, 

That every one her own hath garnished 
With such bedecking ornaments of praise ? 

[1.] Lord. Here comes Boyet. 

Re-enter Boyet. 

Prin. Now, what admittance, lord ? 

Boyet. Navarre had notice of your fair ap¬ 
proach ; si 

And he and his competitors in oath 
Were all address’d to meet you, gentle lady, 


Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt: 
He rather means to lodge you in the field, as 
Like one that comes here to besiege his court, 
Than seek a dispensation for his oath, 

To let you enter his unpeopled house. 

Enter King, Longaville, Dumain, Biron 
[and Attendants]. 

Here comes Navarre. [The ladies mash.] 

King. Fair Princess, welcome to the court of 
Navarre. 90 

Prin. “Fair” I give you back again ; and 
“welcome” I have not yet. The roof of this 
court is too high to be yours, and welcome to 
the wide fields too base to be mine. 

King. You shall be welcome, madam, to my 
court. 95 

Prin. I will be welcome, then. Conduct me 
thither. 

King. Hear me, dear lady; I have sworn an 
oath. 

Prin. Our Lady help my lord ! He ’ll be for¬ 
sworn. 

King. Not for the world, fair madam, by my 
will. 

Prin. Why, will shall break it; will, and 
nothing else. 100 

King. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is. 
Prin. Were my lord so, his ignorance were 
wise, 

Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance. 
I hear your grace hath sworn out house-keep- 
ing. 

’T is deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord, 105 
And sin to break it. 

But pardon me, I am too sudden-bold; 

To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me. 

Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming, 
And suddenly resolve me in my suit. no 

[Hands a paper.] 

King. Madam, I will, if suddenly I may. 
Prin. You will the sooner, that I were away; 
For you ’ll prove perjur’d if you make me stay. 
Bir. Did not I dance with you in Brabant 

once ? 

Kath. Did not I dance with you in Brabant 
once ? 116 

Bir. I know you did. 

Kath. How needless was it then to ask the 
question! 

Bir. You must not be so quick. 

Kath. ’Tis long of you that spur me with 
such questions. 

Bir. Your wit’s too hot, it speeds too fast, 
’t will tire. 129 

Kath. Not till it leave the rider in the mire. 
Bir. What time o’ day ? 

Kath. The hour that fools should ask. 

Bir. Now fair befall your mask! 

Kath. Fair fall the face it covers ! 126 

Bir. And send you many lovers ! 

Kath. Amen, so you be none. 

Bir. Nay, then will I be gone. 

King. Madam, your father here doth inti« 
mate 

The payment of a hundred thousand crowns ; 
Being but the one half of an entire sum w* 





LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


9 


II. i. 


Disbursed by my father in his wars. 

But say that he or we, as neither have, 
Receiv’d that sum, yet there remains unpaid 
A hundred thousand more; in surety of the 
which i 36 

One part of Aquitaine is bound to us, 

Although not valued to the money’s worth. 

If then the King your father will restore 
But that one half which is unsatisfied, 

We will give up our right in Aquitaine, wo 
And hold fair friendship with his majesty. 

But that, it seems, he little purposeth. 

For here he doth demand to have repaid 
A hundred thousand crowns ; and not demands, 
On payment of a hundred thousand crowns, ws 
To have his title live in Aquitaine ; 

Which we mueh rather had depart withal 
And have the money by our father lent 
Than Aquitaine, so gelded as it is. 

Dear Princess, were not his request so far ico 
From reason’s yielding, your fair self should 
make 

A yielding ’gainst some reason in my breast 
And £o well satisfi’d to France again. 

Prin. You do the King my father too much 
wrong, 

And wrong the reputation of your name, 155 
In so unseeming to confess receipt 
Of that which hath so faithfully been paid. 

King. I do protest I never heard of it; 

And, if you prove it, I ’ll repay it back 
Or yield up Aquitaine. 

Prin. We arrest your word. 

Boyet, you can produce acquittances iei 

For such a sum from special officers 
Of Charles his father. 

King. Satisfy me so. 

Boyet. So please your grace, the packet is not 
come 

Where that and other specialties are bound. 105 
To-morrow you shall have a sight of them. 

King. It shall suffice me ; at which interview 
All liberal reason I will yield unto. 

Meantime receive such welcome at my hand 
As honour without breach of honour may ito 
M ake tender of to thy true worthiness. 

You may not come, fair Princess, in my gates; 
But here without you shall be so receiv’d 
As you shall deem yourself lodg’d in my heart, 
Though so deni’d fair harbour in my house, its 
Y our own good thoughts excuse me, and fare¬ 
well. 

To-morrow shall we visit you again. 

Prin. Sweet health and fair desires consort 
your Grace ! 

King. Thy own wish wish I thee in every 
place! [Exit. 

Bir. Lady, I will commend you to mine own 
heart. _ 

Ros. Pray you, do my commendations; I 
would be glad to see it. 

Bir. I would you heard it groan. 

Ros. Is the fool sick ? 

Bir. Sick at the heart. 185 

Ros. Alack, let it blood. 

Bir. Would that do it good? 

Ros. My physic says “ ay.” 


Bir. Will you prick’t with your eye ? 

Ros. No point, with my knife. is* 

Bir. Now, God save thy life ! 

Ros. And yours from long living 1 
Bir. I cannot stay thanksgiving. [Exit. 

Dum. Sir, I pray you, a word. What lady is 
that same ? 

Boyet. The heir of Alengon, [Katherine] her 
name. 195 

Dum. A gallant lady. Monsieur, fare you 

well. [Exit.] 

Long. I beseech you a word. What is she in 
the white ? 

Boyet. A woman sometimes, an you saw her 
in the light. 

Long. Perchance light in the light. I desire 
her name. 

Boyet. She hath but one for herself; to de¬ 
sire that were a shame. 200 

Long. Pray you, sir, whose daughter? 

Boyet. Her mother’s, I have heard. 

Long. God’s blessing on your beard ! 

Boyet. Good sir, be not offended. 

She is an heir of Falconbridge. 205 

Long. Nay, my choler is ended. 

She is a most sweet lady. 

Boyet. Not unlike, sir ; that may be. 

[Exit Long. 

Re-enter Biron. 

Bir. What’s her name in the cap ? 

Boyet. [Rosaline,] by good hap. 21* 

Bir. Is she wedded or no ? 

Boyet. To her will, sir, or so. 

Bir. You are welcome, sir ; adieu. 

Boyet. Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to 
you. [Exit Biron. 

Mar. That last is Biron, the merry mad-cap 
lord. 216 

Not a word with him but a jest. 

Boyet. And every jest but a word. 

Prin. It was well done of you to take him at 
his word. 

Boyet. I was as willing to grapple as he was 
to board. 

Kath. Two hot sheeps, marry. 

Boyet. And wherefore not ships ? 

No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your 
lips. 220 

Kath. You sheep, and I pasture: shall that 
finish the jest ? 

Boyet. So you grant pasture for me. 

[Offering to kiss her.] 
Kath. Not so, gentle beast. 

My lips are no common, though several they be. 
Boyet. Belonging to whom ? 

Kath. To my fortunes and me. 

Prin. Good wits will be jangling ; but, gen¬ 
tles, agree. 225 

This civil war of wits were much better used 
On Navarre and his book-men ; for here ’t is 
abused. 

Boyet. If my observation, which very seldom 
lies, 

By the heart’s still rhetoric disclosed with 
eyes, 

Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected. **• 




IO 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


hi. L 


Prin. With what ? 

Boyet. With that which we lovers entitle 
affected. 

Prin. Your reason ? 

Boyet. Why, all his behaviours did make their 
retire 

To the court of his eye, peeping thorough de¬ 
sire ; 235 

His heart, like an agate, with your print im¬ 
pressed, 

Proud with his form, in his eye pride expressed ; 
His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see, 
Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be ; 
All senses to that sense did make their repair, 240 
To feel only looking on fairest of fair ; 
Methouglit all his senses were lock’d in his eye, 
As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy, 
Who, tendering their own worth from where 
they were glass’d, 244 

Did point you to buy them, along as you pass’d ; 
His face’s own margenfc did quote such amazes 
That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes. 
I ’ll give you Aquitaine and all that is his, 

An you give him for my sake but one loving 
kiss. 

Prin. Come to our pavilion. Boyet is dis¬ 
pos’d. 250 

Boyet. But to speak that in words which his 
eye hath disclos’d. 

I only have made a mouth of his eye, 

By adding a tongue which I know will not lie. 
Bos. Thou art an old love-monger and speak- 
est skilfully. 

Mar. He is Cupid’s grandfather, and learns 
news of him. 255 

Bath. Then was Venus like her mother, for 
her father is but grim. 

Boyet. Do you hear, my mad wenches ? 

Bos. No. 

Boyet. What then, do you see? 

Mar. Ay, our way to be gone. 

Boyet. You are too hard for me. 

[Exeunt omnes. 

ACT III 

[Scene I. The same.] 

Enter Braggart [Armado] and his Boy [Moth]. 
Song. 

Arm. Warble, child ; make passionate my 
sense of hearing. 

Moth. Concolinel. 

Arm. Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years, 
take this key, give enlargement to the swain, 
bring him festinately hither. I must employ [5 
him in a letter to my love. 

Moth. Master, will you win your love with a 
French brawl ? 

Arm. How meanest thou ? Brawling in 
French ? 10 

Moth. No, my complete master; but to jig 
off a tune at the tongue’s end, canary to it with 
your feet, humour it with turning up your eye¬ 
lids, sigh a note and sing a note, sometime 
through the throat, as if you swallowed love 
with singing love, sometime through the [is 


nose, as if you snuff’d up love by smelling love ; 
with your hat penthouse-like o’er the shop of 
your eyes ; with your arms crossed on your thin- 
belly doublet like a rabbit on a spit; or your 
hands in your pocket like a man after the [20 
old painting ; and keep not too long in one tune, 
but a snip and away. These are complements, 
these are humours ; these betray nice wenches, 
that would be betrayed without these; and 
make them men of note — do you note ? — [25 
men that most are affected to these. 

Arm. How hast thou purchased this experi¬ 
ence ? 

Moth. By my penny of observation. 

Arm. But O, but O, — 

Moth. “ The hobby-horse is forgot.” 30 

Arm. Callest thou my love “ hobby-horse ” ? 
Moth. No, master ; the hobby-horse is but a 
colt, and your love perhaps a hackney. But 
have you forgot your love ? 

Arm. Almost I had. 35 

Moth. Negligent student! learn her by heart. 
Arm. By heart and in heart, boy. 

Moth. And out of heart, master; all those 
three I will prove. 

Arm. What wilt thou prove ? 40 

Moth. A man, if I live ; and this, by, in, and 
without, upon the instant. By heart you love 
her, because your heart cannot come by her ; in 
heart you love her, because your heart is in love 
with her; and out of heart you love her, being 
out of heart that you cannot enjoy her. 45 

Arm. I am all these three. 

Moth. And three times as much more, and yet 
nothing at all. 

Arm. Fetch hither the swain; he must 
carry me a letter. 60 

Moth. A message well sympathized ; a horse 
to be ambassador for an ass. 

Arm. Ha, ha! what sayest thou ? 

Moth. Marry, sir, you must send the ass 
upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited. [55 
But I go. 

Arm. The way is but short; away ! 

Moth. As swift as lead, sir. 

Arm. The meaning, pretty ingenious? 

Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow ? 60 

Moth. Minime , honest master; or rather, 
master, no. 

Arm. I say lead is slow. 

Moth. You are too swift, sir, to say so. 

Is that lead slow which is fir’d from a gun ? 

Arm. Sweet smoke of rhetoric ! 

He reputes me a cannon ; and the bullet, that’s 
he; os 

I shoot thee at the swain. 

Moth. Thump then and I flee. [Exit.] 

Arm. A most acute juvenal; voluble and free 
of grace! 

By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy 
face. 

Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place. 
My herald is return’d. 7 « 

Be-enter Page [Moth] with Clown [Costard]. 

Moth. A wonder, master ! Here’s a costard 
broken in a shin. 





III. i. 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


ii 


Arm. Some enigma, some riddle ; come, thy 
1 ’envoy; begin. 

Cost. No egma, no riddle, no l’envoy; no 
salve in the mail, sir. 0 , sir, plalitain, a plain 
plaintain! No l’envoy, no l’envoy ; no salve, 
sir, but a plantain ! 75 

Arm. By virtue, thou enforcest laughter; 
thy silly thought my spleen ; the heaving of my 
lungs provokes me to ridiculous smiling. 0 , 
pardon me, my stars! Doth the inconsiderate 
take salve for l’envoy, and the word l’envoy for 
a salve ? so 

Moth. Do the wise think them other ? Is not 
l’envoy a salve ? 

Arm. No, page ; it is an epilogue or discourse, 
to make plain 

Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been 
sain. 

I will example it : 

The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, 
Were still at odds, being but three, so 
There’s the moral. Now the l’envoy. 

Moth. I will add the l’envoy. Say the moral 
again. 

Arm. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, 00 
Were still at odds, being but three. 
Moth. Until the goose came out of door, 

And stay’d the odds by adding four. 
Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow 
with my l’envoy. bb 

The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, 
Were still at odds, being but three. 
Arm. Until the goose came out of door, 
Staying the odds by adding four. 

Moth. A good l’envoy, ending in the 
goose; would you desire more ? 100 

Cost. The boy hath sold him a bargain, a 
goose, that’s flat. 

Sir, your pennyworth is good, an your goose be 
fat. 

To sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and 
loose. 

Let me see; a fat l’envoy ; ay, that’s a fat 
goose. 105 

Arm. Come hither, come hither. How did 
this argument begin ? 

Moth. By saying that a costard was broken 
in a shin. 

Then call’d you for the l’envoy. 

Cost. True, and I for a plantain ; thus came 
your argument in ; 

Then the boy’s fat l’envoy, the goose that you 
bought; 110 

And he ended the market. 

Arm. But tell me, how was there a costard 
broken in a shin ? 

Moth. I will tell you sensibly. 

Cost. Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth. I 
will speak that l’envoy : 1,5 

I, Costard, ruuning out, that was safely 
within, 

Fell over the threshold, and broke my 
shin. 

Arm. We will talk no more of this matter. 
Cost. Till there be more matter in the shin. 
Arm. Sirrah Costard, I will enfranchise 
thee. 121 


Cost. 0 , marry me to one Frances ! I smell 
some l’envoy, some goose, in this. 

Arm. By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee 
at liberty, enfreedoming thy person. Thou 
wert immured, restrained, captivated, [125 
bound. 

Cost. True, true; and now you will be m$ 
purgation and let me loose. 

Arm. I give thee thy liberty, set thee from 
durance; and, in lieu thereof, impose on 
thee nothing but this: bear this significant [130 
^giving a letter ] to the country maid Jaquenetta. 
There is remuneration ; for the best ward of 
mine honour is rewarding my dependents. 
Moth, follow. [Exit.'] 

Moth. Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, 
adieu. [Exit, iss 

Cost. My sweet ounce of man’s flesh! my 
incony Jew 7 ! 

Now will I look to his remuneration. Remu¬ 
neration ! O, that’s the Latin word for three 
farthings: three farthings — remuneration. — 
“What’s the price of this inkle?” — “One 
penny.” — “ No, I ’ll give you a remunera- [140 
tion : ” why, it carries it. Remuneration * 
why, it is a fairer name than French crown. 1 
will never buy and sell out of this word. 

Enter Biron. 

Bir. 0 , my good knave Costard! exceed¬ 
ingly well met. _ 145 

Cost. Pray you, sir, how much carnation rib¬ 
bon may a man buy for a remuneration ? 

Bir. What is a remuneration ? 

Cost. Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing. 149 
Bir. Why, then, three-farthing worth of silk. 
Cost. I thank your worship ; God be wi’ you ! 
Bir. Stay, slave ; I must employ thee. 

As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave, 
Do one thing for me that I shall entreat. 

Cost. When would you have it done, sir ? ibs 
Bir. This afternoon. 

Cost. Well, I will do it, sir ; fare you well. 
Bir. Thou knowest not what it is. 

Cost. I shall know, s,ir, when I have done it. 
Bir. Why, villain, thou must know first. 100 
Cost. I will come to your worship to-morrow 
morning. 

Bir. It must be done this afternoon. Hark, 
slave, it is but this : 

The Princess comes to hunt here in the park, ibs 
A nd in her train there is a gentle lady. 

When tongues speak sweetly, then they name 
her name, 

And Rosaline they call her. Ask for her, 

And to her white hand see thou do commend 
This seal’d-up counsel. There’s thy guerdon ; 
go. 170 

Cost. Gardon, O sweet gardon! better than 
remuneration, a ’leven-pence farthing better; 
most sweet gardon ! I will do it, sir, in print. 
Gardon ! Remuneration ! [Exit 

B ir. And I. forsooth, in love! I, that have [174 
been love’s whip ; 

A very beadle to a humorous sigh ; 

A critic, nay, a night-watch constable; 

A domineering pedant o’er the boy, 




12 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


iv. I 


Than whom no mortal so magnificent! iso 

This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward hoy; 
This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid ; 
Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms, 

The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, 
Liege of all loiterers and malcontents, iss 

Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces, 

Sole imperator and great general 
Of trotting ’paritors ; — 0 my little heart! — 
And I to be a corporal of his field, 

And wear his colours like a tumbler’s hoop ! 190 
What! I love ! I sue ! I seek a wife ! 

A woman, that is like a German clock, 

Still a-rapairing, ever out of frame, 

And never going aright, being a watch, 

But being watch’d that it may still go right! 195 
Nay, to be perjur’d, which is worst of all; 

And, among three, to love the worst of all, 

A whitely wanton with a velvet brow, 

With two pitch-balls stuck in her face for eyes ; 
Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed 
Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard. 
And I to sigh for her ! to watch for her ! 202 

To pray for her ! Go to ; it is a plague 
That Cupid will impose for my neglect 
Of his almighty dreadful little might. 205 

Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, groan: 
Some men must love my lady, and some Joan. 

[Exit.] 

ACT IV 

[Scene I. The same.] 

Enter the Princess, a Forester, her Ladies, 
and her Lords. 

Prin. Was that the King, that spurr’d his 
horse so hard 

Against the steep uprising of the hill ? 

For. I know not, but I think it was not he. 
Prin. Whoe’er ’a was, ’a show’d a mount¬ 
ing mind. 

Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch ; s 
On Saturday we will return to France. 

Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush 
That we must stand and play the murderer in ? 
For. Hereby, upon the edge of yonder cop¬ 
pice ; 

A stand where you may make the fairest shoot. 10 
Prin. I thank my beauty, I am fair that 
shoot, 

And thereupon thou speak’st the fairest shoot. 
For. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so. 
Prin. What, what? First praise me, and 
again say no ? 

0 short-liv’d pride! Not fair? Alack for 
woe! 15 

For. Yes, madam, fair. 

Prin. Nay, never paint me now ; 

Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. 
Here, good my glass, take this for telling true. 

[Gives money.] 

Fair payment for foul words is more than due. 
For. Nothing but fair is that which you in¬ 
herit. 20 

Prin. See, see, my beauty will be sav’d by 
merit! 


0 heresy in fair, fit for these days ! 

A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair 
praise. 

But come, the bow ; now mercy goes to kill, 
And shooting well is then accounted ill. 25 

Thus will I save my credit in the shoot: 

Not wounding, pity would not let me do’t; 

If wounding, then it was to show my skill, 

That more for praise than purpose meant to 
kill. 

And, out of question, so it is sometimes, 3* 
Glory grows guilty of detested crimes, 

When, for fame’s sake, for praise, an outward 
part, 

We bend to that the working of the heart; 

As I for praise alone now seek to spill 

The poor deer’s blood, that my heart means no 

ill. < 36 

Boyet. Do not curst wives hold that self-sov¬ 
ereignty 

Only for praise’ sake, when they strive to be 
Lords o’er their lords ? 

Prin. Only for praise; and praise we may 
afford 

To any lady that subdues a lord. 40 

Enter Clown [Costard]. 

Boyet. Here comes a member of the com¬ 
monwealth. 

Cost. God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which 
is the head lady ? 

Prin. Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the 
rest that have no heads. 46 

Cost. Which is the greatest lady, the highest ? 

Prin. The thickest and the tallest. 

Cost. The thickest and the tallest! It is so ; 
truth is true. 

An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my 
wit, 

One o’ these maids’ girdles for your waist 
should be fit. so 

Are not you the chief woman ? You are the 
thickest here. 

Prin. What’s your will, sir? what’s your 
will ? 

Cost. I have a letter from Monsieur Biron to 
one Lady Rosaline. 

Prin. 0 , thy letter, thy letter! He’s a 
good friend of mine. 

Stand aside good bearer. Boyet, you can 
carve; 55 

Break up this capon. 

Boyet. _ I am bound to serve. 

This letter is mistook ; it importeth none here. 
It is writ to Jaquenetta. 

Prin. We will read it, I swear. 

Break the neck of the wax, and every one give 
ear. 

Boyet. [Reads.] “ By heaven, that thou art 
fair, is most infallible ; true, that thou art [00 
beauteous; truth itself, that thou art lovely. 
More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, 
truer than truth itself, have commiseration on 
thy heroical vassal! The magnanimous and 
most illustrate king Cophetua set eye upon [65 
the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelo- 
phon; and he it was that might rightly say, 






TV. i. 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


13 


Veni, vidi , vici ; which to annothanize in the vul¬ 
gar, — O base and obscure vulgar ! — videlicet, 
He came, saw, and overcame : he came, one ; [to 
saw, two; overcame, three. Who came? The 
king. Why did he come ? To see. Why did 
he see ? To overcome. To whom came he ? 
To the beggar. What saw he ? The beggar. 
Who overcame he ? The beggar. The conclu¬ 
sion is victory ; on whose side? The king’s, [to 
T he captive is enriched ; on whose side ? The 
beggar’s. The catastrophe is a nuptial; on 
whose side ? The king’s ; no, on both in one, or 
one in both. I am the king, for so stands the 
comparison ; thou the beggar, for so wit- [so 
nesseth thy lowliness. Shall I command thy 
love ? I may. Shall I enforce thy love ? I 
could. Shall I entreat thy love ? I will. 
What shalt thou exchange for rags ? robes ; for 
tittles? titles; for thyself? me. Thus, expect¬ 
ing thy reply, I profane my lips on thy [ss 
foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart 
on thy every part. Thine, in the dearest design 
of industry, 

Don Adriano de Armado.” 
Thus dost thou hear the Nemeanlion roar 00 
’Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his 
prey. 

Submissive fall his princely feet before, 

And he from forage will incline to play. 

But if thou strive, poor soul, what art thou 
then ? 

Food for his rage, repasture for his den. 05 
Prin. What plume of feathers is he that in¬ 
dited this letter ? 

What vane ? What weathercock ? Did you ever 
hear better ? 

Boyet. I am much deceived but I remember 
the style. 

Prin. Else your memory is bad, going o’er it 
erewhile. 

Boyet. This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps 
here in court; 100 

A phantasime, aMonarcho, and one that makes 



Prin. Thou fellow, a word. 

Who gave thee this letter ? 

Cost. I told you ; my lord. 

Prin. To whom shouldst thou give it ? 

Cost. From my lord to my lady. 

Prin. From which lord to which lady ? 105 

Cost. From my lord Biron, a good master of 
mine, 

To a lady of France that he call’d Rosaline. 

Prin. Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, 
lords, away. 

[To Ros.] Here, sweet, put up this; ’twill be 
thine another day. 

[Exeunt [Princess and train]. 

Boyet. Who is the shooter ? Who is the 
shooter ? 

Bos. Shall I teach you to know ? no 

Boyet. Ay, my continent of beauty. 

Bos. Why, she that bears the bow. 

Finely put off ! 

Boyet. My lady goes to kill horns ; but, if 
thou marry, 


Hang me by the neck, if horns that year mis¬ 
carry. 

Finely put on ! us 

Bos. Well, then, I am the shooter. 

Boyet. And who is your deer ? 

Bos. If we choose by the horns, yourself; 
come not near. 

Finely put on, indeed ! 

Mar. You still wrangle witli her, Boyet, and 
she strikes at the brow. 

Boyet. But she herself is hit lower. Have I 
hit her now ? 12# 

Bos. Shall I come upon thee with an old 
saying, that was a man when King Pepin of 
France was a little boy, as touching the hit 
it? 

Boyet. So I may answer thee with one as old, 
that was a woman when Queen Guinever of [125 
Britain was a little wench, as touching the 
hit it. 

Bos. Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it, 

Thou canst not hit it, my good man. 

[Exit [Ros.]' 

Boyet. An I cannot, cannot, cannot, 

An I cannot, another can. i 3 « 

Cost. By iuy troth, most pleasant. How both 
did fit it I 

Mar. A mark marvellous well shot, for they 
both did hit it. 

Boyet. A mark ! 0 , mark but that mark! 
A mark, says my lady ! 

Let the mark have a prick in’t, to mete at, if 
it may be. 

Mar. Wide o’ the bow hand ! I’ faith, your 
hand is out. us 

Cost. Indeed, ’a must shoot nearer, or he ’ll 
ne’er hit the clout. 

Boyet. An if my hand be out, then belike 
your hand is in. 

Cost. Then will she get the upshoot by cleav¬ 
ing the pin. 

Mar. Come, come, you talk greasily ; your 
lips grow foul. 

Cost. She’s too hard for you at pricks, sir; 
challenge her to bowl. uo 

Boyet. I fear too much rubbing. Good night, 
my good owl. 

[Exeunt Boyet and Maria.] 

Cost. By my soul, a swain! a most simple 
clown ! 

Lord, Lord, how the ladies and I have put him 
down ! 

0 ’ my troth, most sweet jests ! most incony 
vulgar wit! 

When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, 
as it were, so fit. _ 145 

Armado o’ the one side, — O, a most dainty 
man ! 

To see him walk before a lady and to bear her 
fan! 

To see him kiss his hand ! and how most sweetly 
’a will swear! 

And his page o’ t’ other side, that handful of 
wit! 

Ah, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit! un 
Sola, sola! 

[Exit [Costard]. Shoot within. 





14 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


iv. ii. 


[Scene II. The same.] 

Enter Dull, Holofernes the Pedant , and 
Nathaniel. 

Nath. Very reverend sport, truly, and done 
in the testimony of a good conscience. 

Hoi. The deer was, as you know, sanguis , in 
blood ; ripe as the pomewater, who now liangeth 
like a jewel in the ear of caelo , the sky, the 
welkin, the heaven ; and anon falleth like [s 
a crab on the face of terra , the soil, the land, 
the earth. 

Nath. Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets 
are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least; 
but, sir, I assure ye, it was a buck of the first 
head. 10 

Hoi. Sir Nathaniel, hand credo. 

Pull. ’T was not a baud credo; ’twas a 
pricket. 

Hoi. Most barbarous intimation ! yet a kind 
of insinuation, as it were, in via , in way, of ex¬ 
plication ; facere, as it were, replication, or ra¬ 
ther, ostentare , to show, as it were, his incli- [is 
nation, after his undressed, unpolished, unedu¬ 
cated, unpruned, untrained, or rather, unlet¬ 
tered, or ratherest, unconfirmed fashion, to 
assert again my haud credo for a deer. 20 

Pull. I said the deer was not a haud credo ; 
’t was a pricket. 

Hoi. Twice-sod simplicity, bis coctus ! 

O thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost 
thou look ! 

Nath. Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties 
that are bred in a book ; 25 

he hath not eat paper, as it were ; he hath not 
drunk ink ; his intellect is not replenished; he is 
only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts ; 
And such barren plants are set before us, that 
we thankful should be, 2« 

Which we of taste and feeling are, for those 
parts that do fructify in us more than he. 
For as it w r ould ill become me to be vain, indis¬ 
creet, or a fool, 

So were there a patch set on learning, to see him 
in a school: 

But omne bene , say I; being of an old father’s 
mind, 

Many can brook the weather that love not the 
wind. 

Pull. You two are book-men; can you tell 
me by your wit 35 

What was a month old at Cain’s birth, that’s 
not five weeks old as yet ? 

Hoi. Dictynna, goodman Dull; Dictynna, 
good man Dull. 

Pull. What is Dictynna ? 

Nath. A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the 
moon. 

Hoi. The moon was a month old when Adam 
was no more, 40 

And raught not to five weeks when he came to 
five-score. 

The allusion holds in the exchange. 

Pull. ’T is true indeed ; the collusion holds 
in the exchange. 

Hoi. God comfort thy capacity ! I say, the 
allusion holds in the exchange. 46 


Pull. And I say, the pollusion holds in the 
exchange, for the moon is never but a month 
old ; and I say beside that, ’t was a pricket that 
the Princess killed. c » 

Hoi. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extempo¬ 
ral epitaph on the death of the deer ? And, to 
humour the ignorant, call I the deer the Princess 
killed a pricket. 

Nath. Perge , good Master Holofernes, 
perge; so it snail please you to abrogate [ss 
scurrility. 

Hoi. I will something affect the letter, for it 
argues facility. 

“The preyful princess pierc’d and prick’d a 
pretty pleasing pricket; 

Some say a sore ; but not a sore, till now 
made sore with shooting. 

The dogs did yell: put L to sore, then sorel 
jumps from thicket; » 

Or pricket sore, or else sorel; the people fall 
a-hooting. 

If sore be sore, then l to sore make fifty sores 
one sorel. 

Of one sore I an hundred make by adding but 
one more L.” 

Nath. A rare talent! 

Pull. [ Aside .] If a talent be a claw, look 
how he claws him with a talent. cs 

Hoi. This is a gift that I have, simple, sim¬ 
ple ; a foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, 
figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, 
motions, revolutions. These are begot in the 
ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb [to 
of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellow¬ 
ing of occasion. But the gift is good in those 
in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for 
it. 

Nath. Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and 
so may my parishioners ; for their sons are [to 
well tutor'd by you, and their daughters profit 
very greatly under you. You are a good mem¬ 
ber of the commonwealth. 

Hoi. Mehercle, if their sons be ingenious, [so 
they shall want no instruction ; if their daugh¬ 
ters be capable, I will put it to them: but vir 
sapit qui pauca loquitur; a soul feminine sa- 
luteth us. 

Enter Jaquenetta and the Clown [Costard], 

Jaq. God give you good morrow, master 
Parson. 

Hoi. Master Parson, quasi pers-on. An if [so 
one should be pierc’d, which is the one ? 

Cost. Marry, master schoolmaster, he that is 
likest to a hogshead. 

Hoi. Of piercing a hogshead! a good lustre 
of conceit in a tuft of earth ; fire enough for a 
flint, pearl enough for a swine ; ’t is pretty ; [90 
it is well. 

Jaq. Good master Parson, be so good as read 
me this letter. It was given me by Costard, 
and sent me from Don Armado. I beseech you, 
read it. 

Hoi. Fauste , precor gelida quando pecus 
omne sub umbra ruminat. — and so forth. Ah, [w> 





LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


IV. iii. 




good old Mantuan ! I may speak of thee as the 
traveller doth of Venice: 

Venetia, Venetia , 

Chi non ti vede non tiprelia. too 

Old Mantuan, old Mantuan! who understandeth 
thee not, loves thee not. Ut, re, so/, la, mi, fa. 
Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? or 
rather, as Horace says in his — What, my soul, 
verses ? 105 

Nath. Ay, sir, and very learned. 

Hoi. Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse; 

lege, domine. 

Nath. [i?ea</s.] 

“ If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear 
to love ? 

Ah, never faith could hold, if not to heauty 
vowed! no 

Though to myself forsworn, to thee I ’ll faith¬ 
ful prove; 

Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like 
osiers bowed. 

Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine 
eyes, 

Where all those pleasures live that art would 
comprehend. 

If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall 
suffice; us 

Well learned is that tongue that well can thee 
commend, 

All ignorant that soul that sees thee without 
wonder; 

Which is to me some praise that I thy parts 
admire. 

Thy eye Jove’s lightning bears, thy voice his 
dreadful thunder, 

Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet 
fire. 120 

Celestial as thou art, 0 , pardon love this wrong, 
That sings heaven’s praise with such an earthly 
tongue.” 

Hoi. You find not the apostrophas, and so 
miss the accent: let me supervise the canzonet. 
Here are only numbers ratified ; but, for the [125 
elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy, 
caret. Ovidius Naso was the man ; and why, 
indeed, Naso, but for smelling out the odorifer¬ 
ous flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention ? 
Imitari is nothing : so doth the hound his mas¬ 
ter, the ape his keeper, the tired horse his [130 
rider. But, damosella virgin, was this directed 
to you ? 

Jaq. Ay, sir, from one Monsieur Biron, one 
of the strange queen’s lords. 

Hoi. I will overglance the superscript: “To [135 
the snow-white hand of the most beauteous 
Lady Rosaline.” I will look again on the intel¬ 
lect of the letter, for the nomination of the party 
writing to the person written unto: “Your 
ladyship’s in all desired employment, Biron.” 
Sir Nathaniel, this Biron is one of the vota- [140 
ries with the King ; and here he hath framed 
a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen’s, 
which accidentally, or by the way of progres¬ 
sion, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my sweet; 
deliver this paper into the royal hand of the [145 
King; it may concern much. Stay not thy com¬ 
pliment ; I forgive thy duty. Adieu. 


Jaq. Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God 
save your life ! iso 

Cost. Have with thee, my girl. 

• [Exeunt [Cost, and Jaq.] 

Nath. Sir, you have done this in the fear of 
God, very religiously; and, as a certain father 
saith, — 

Hoi. Sir, tell not me of the father; I do 
fear colourable colours. But to return to the [iso 
verses : did they please you, Sir Nathaniel ? 

Nath. Marvellous well for the pen. 

Hoi. I do dine to-day at the father’s of a cer¬ 
tain pupil of mine; where, if, before repast, it 
shall please you to gratify the table with a [101 
grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the 
parents of the foresaid child or pupil, undertake 
your ben venuto; where I will prove those verses 
to be very unlearned, neither savouring of po¬ 
etry, wit, nor invention. I beseech your so- [10s 
ciety. 

Nath. And thank you too ; for society, saith 
the text, is the happiness of life. 

Hoi. And, certes, the text most infallibly 
concludes it. [To Dull.] Sir, I do invite you [170 
too ; you shall not say me nay: pauca verba. 
Away ! the gentles are at their game, and we 
will to our recreation. [ Exeunt. 


[Scene III. The same.] 

Enter Biron, with a paper in his hand, alone. 

Bir. The King he is hunting the deer, I am 
coursing myself; they have pitched a toil, I 
am toiling in a pitch,—pitch that defiles; — 
defile! a foul word. Well, “ set thee down, sor¬ 
row ! ” for so they say the fool said, and so say 
I, and I the fool: well proved, wit ! By the [s 
Lord, this love is as mad as Ajax. It kills sheep; 
it kills me. I a sheep : well proved again o’ my 
side ! I will not love ; if I do, hang me ; i’ faith, 
I will not. O, but her eye, — by this light, but 
for her eye, I would not love her; yes, for [10 
her two eyes. Well, I do nothing in the world 
but lie, and lie in my throat. By heaven, I do 
love ; and it hath taught me to rhyme and to be 
melancholy ; and here is part of my rhyme, and 
here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o’ [is 
my sonnets already ; the clown bore it, the fool 
sent it, and the lady hath it: sweet clown, 
sweeter fool, sweetest lady ! By the world, I 
would not care a pin, if the other three were in. 
Here comes one with a paper ; God give him F20 
grace to groan ! [He stands aside. 

Enter the King [with a paper]. 

King. Ay me! 

Bir. [Aside.] Shot, by heaven! Proceed, 
sweet Cupid ; thou hast thump’d him with thy 
bird-bolt under the left pap. In faith, secrets! [26 

King. [Beads.] 

“ So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not 

To those fresh morning drops upon the rose, 
As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have 
smote 

The dew of night that on my cheeks down 
flows; 

Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright 3f 







i6 


LOVE’S LABOUR S LOST 


iv. iii 


Through the transparent hosom of the deep, 
As doth thy face through tears of mine give 
light. 

Thou shin’st in every tear that I do weep, 

No drop but as a coach doth carry thee ; 

So ridest thou triumphing in my woe. 35 
Do but behold the tears that swell in me, 

And they thy glory through my grief will 
show. 

But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep 
My tears for glasses, and still make me weep. 

O queen of queens ! how far dost thou excel *0 
No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal 
tell.” 

How shall she know my griefs ? I ’ll drop the 
paper. 

Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes 
here ? [Steps aside. 

Enter Longaville [with a paper]. 

What, Longaville ! and reading ! Listen, ear. 
Bir. Now, in thy likeness, one more fool 
appear! « 

Long. Ay me, I am forsworn ! 

Bir. Why, he comes in like a perjure, wear¬ 
ing papers. 

King. In love, I hope; sweet fellowship in 
shame. 

Bir. One drunkard loves another of the 
name. so 

Long. Am I the first that have been perjured 
so ? 

Bir. I could put thee in comfort. Not by two 
that I know. 

Thou makest the triumviry, the corner-cap of 
society, 

The shape of Love’s Tyburn that hangs up sim¬ 
plicity. 

Long. I fear those stubborn lines lack power 
to move. 65 

O sweet Maria, empress of my love ! 

These numbers will I tear, and write in prose. 
Bir. O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid’s 
hose: 

Disfigure not his slop. 

Long. This same shall go. 

[He reads the sonnet. 
“ Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, 60 
’Gainst whom the world cannot hold argu¬ 
ment, 

Persuade my heart to this false perjury ? 

Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment. 
A woman I forswore ; but I will prove, 

Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee. 65 
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love ; 
Thy grace being gained cures all disgrace in 
me. 

Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is ; 
Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost 
shine, 

Exhal’st this vapour-vow ; in thee it is. 70 
If broken then, it is no fault of mine ; 

If by me broke, what fool is not so wise 
To lose an oath to win a paradise ? ” 

Bir. This is the liver-vein, which makes flesh 
a deity 74 


A green goose a goddess ; pure, pure idolatry. 
God amend us, God amend! We are much out 
o’ the way. 

Enter Dumain [with a paper]. 

Long. By whom shall I send this ? — Com¬ 
pany ! stay. [/Steps aside.] 

Bir. “ All hid, all hid ; ” an old infant play. 
Like a demigod here sit I in the sky, 79 

And wretched fools’ secrets heedfully o’er-eye. 
More sacks to the mill! O heavens, I have my 
wish! 

Dumain transform’d ! four woodcocks in a dish ! 

Bum. O most divine Kate ! 

Bir. 0 most profane coxcomb ! 

Bum. By heaven, the wonder in a mortal eye ! 

Bir. By earth, she is not, corporal; there you 
lie. 86 

Bum. Her amber hairs for foul hath amber 
quoted. 

Bir. An amber-colour’d raven was well 
noted. 

Bum. As upright as the cedar. 

Bir. Stoop, I say; 

Her shoulder is with child. 

Bum. As fair as day. 90 

B ir. Ay, as some days ; but then no sun must 
shine. 

Bum. 0 that I had my wish ! 

Long. And I had mine I 

King. And I mine too, good Lord! 

Bir. Amen, so I had mine. Is not that a good 
word ? 94 

Bum. I would forget her ; but, a fever, she 
Reigns in my blood and will rememb’red be. 

Bir. A fever in your blood! why, then in¬ 
cision 

Would let her out in saucers ; sweet misprision ! 

Bum. Once more I ’ll read the ode that I 
have writ. 

Bir. Once more I ’ll mark how love can vary 
wit. 100 

Bum. [Reads.] 

“ On a day — alack the day ! — 

Love, whose month is ever May, 

Spied a blossom passing fair 
Playing in the wanton air. 

Through the velvet leaves the wind, 105 
All unseen, can passage find ; 

That the lover, sick to death, 

Wish himself the heaven’s breath. 

Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow ; 

Air, would I might triumph so ! n* 

But, alack, my hand is sworn 
Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn ; 
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet, 

Youth so apt to pluck a sweet 1 ' 

Do not call it sin in me, 115 

That I am forsworn for thee ; 

Thou for whom Jove would swear 
Juno but an Ethiope were ; 

And deny himself for Jove, 

Turning mortal for thy love.” no 

This will I send and something else more plain, 
That shall express my true love’s fasting pain. 
0 , would the King, Biron, and Longaville, 
Were lovers too! Ill, to example ill, 






LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


17 


IV. iii. 


Would from my forehead wipe a perjur’d note ; 
For none offend where all alike do dote. 120 
Long. [ Advancing .] Dumain, thy love is far 
from charity, 

That in love’s grief desir’st society. 

You may look pale, but I should blush, I know, 
To be o’erheard and taken napping so. 130 
King. [Advancing.] Come, sir, you blush; 
as his your case is such ; 

You chide at him, offending twice as much. 
You do not love Maria; Longaville 
Did never sonnet for her sake compile, 

Nor never lay his wreathed arms athwart 135 
His loving bosom to keep down his heart. 

I have been closely shrouded in this bush 
And mark’d you both ; and for you both did 
blush. 

I heard your guilty rhymes, observ’d your 
fashion, 

Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your pas¬ 
sion. 140 

“ Ay me ! ” says one ; “ 0 Jove ! ” the other 
cries; 

One, her hairs were gold, crystal the other’s eyes: 
[ To Long.] You would for paradise break faith 
and troth; 

[To Bum.] And Jove, for your love, would in¬ 
fringe an oath. 

What will Biron say when that he shall hear 
Faith infringed, which such zeal did swear ? 140 
How will he scorn ! how will he spend his wit! 
How will he triumph, leap and laugh at it! 

For all the wealth that ever I did see, 

I would not have him know so much by me. 100 
Bir. Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy. 

[Advancing.] 

Ah, good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me ! 
Good heart, what grace hast thou, thus to re¬ 
prove 

These worms for loving, that art most in love ? 
Your eyes do make no coaches ; in your tears 
There is no certain Princess that appears ; 106 

You ’ll not be perjur’d, ’t is a hateful thing ; 
Tush, none but minstrels like of sonneting! 

But you are not asham’d ? Nay, are you not, 
All three of you, to be thus much o’ershot ? 160 
You found his mote ; the King your mote did 
see; 

But I a beam do find in each of three. 

0 , what a scene of foolery have I seen, 

Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen ! 

0 me, with what strict patience have I sat, 100 
To see a king transformed to a gnat! 

To see great Hercules whipping a gig, 

And profound Solomon to tune a jig, 

And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys, 
And critic Timon laugh at idle toys ! i?o 

Where lies thy grief , O, tell me, good Dumain ? 
And, gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain ? 
And where my liege’s ? All about the breast! 
A caudle, ho! 

King. Too bitter is thy jest. 

Are we betray’d thus to thy over-view ? ns 
Bir. Not you to me, but I betray’d by you, 

I, that am honest; I, that hold it sin 
To break the vow I am engaged in ; 

I am betray’d by keeping company 


With men like you, men of inconstancy. iso 
When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme, 
Or groan for love, or spend a minute’s time 
In pruning me ? When shall you hear that I 
Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye, 

A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist, isi 
A le^, a limb ? 

King. Soft! whither away so fast ? 

A true man or a thief that gallops so ? 

Bir. I post from love; good lover, let me go. 

Enter Jaquenetta and Clown [Costard]. 

Jaq. God bless the King! 

King. What present hast thou there ? 

Cost. Some certain treason. 

King. What makes treason here ? iso 

Cost. Nay, it makes nothing, sir. 

King. If it mar nothing neither, 

The treason and you go in peace away together. 
Jaq. I beseech your Grace, let this letter be 
read. 

Our parson misdoubts it;’t was treason, he said. 
King. Biron, read it over. 19s 

[He reads the letter. 

Where hadst thou it ? 

Jaq. Of Costard. 

King. Where hadst thou it ? 

Cost. Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio. 

[Biron tears the letter.] 
King. How now ! what is in you ? Why dost 
thou tear it ? 200 

B ir. A toy, my liege, a toy ; your Grace needs 
not fear it. 

Long. It did move him to passion, and there¬ 
fore let’s hear it. 

Bum. It is Biron’s writing, and here is his 
name. [Gathering up the pieces.] 

Bir. [To Costard.] Ah, you whoreson logger- 
head ! you were born to do me shame. 
Guilty, my lord, guilty! I confess, I confess. 
King. What ? 206 

Bir. That you three fools lack’d me fool to 
make up the mess. 

He, he, and you, — and you, my liege, and I, 
Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die. 
0 , dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you 
more. 210 

Bum. Now the number is even. 

Bir. True, true ; we are four. 

Will these turtles be gone ? 

King. Hence, sirs ; away! 

Cost. Walk aside the true folk, and let the 
traitors stay. 

[Exeunt Costard and Jaquenetta.] 
Bir. Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O, let us em¬ 
brace ! 

As true we are as flesh and blood can be. 210 
The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face, 
Young blood doth not obey an old decree. 

We cannot cross the cause why we were born ; 
Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn. 
King. What, did these rent lines show some 
love of thine ? 22# 

Bir. Did they, quoth you? Who sees the 
heavenly Rosaline, 

That, like a rude and savage man of Inde, 

At the first opening of the gorgeous east. 






i8 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


IV. m. 


Bows not his vassal head and strucken blind 
Kisses the base ground with obedient breast ? 
What peremptory eagle-sighted eye 226 

Dares look upon the heaven of her brow, 
That, is not blinded by her majesty ? 

King. What zeal, what fury hath inspir’d 
thee now ? 

My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon ; 230 

She an attending star, scarce seen a light. 

Kir. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Biron. 

0 , but for my love, day would turn to night! 
Of all complexions the cull’d sovereignty 

Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek, 235 
Where several worthies make one dignity. 
Where nothing wants that want itself doth 
seek. 

Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues, — 
Fie, painted rhetoric ! O, she needs it not. 

To things of sale a seller’s praise belongs, 240 
She passes praise ; then praise too short doth 
blot. 

A wither’d hermit, five-score winters worn, 
Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye. 
Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born, 

And gives the crutch the cradle’s infancy. 245 
0 , ’t is the sun that maketh all things shine, — 
King. By heaven, thy love is black as ebony. 
Bir. Is ebony like her ? 0 "wood divine ! 

A wife of such wood were felicity. 

0 , who can give an oath ? Where is a book 250 
That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack, 
If that she learn not of her eye to look ? 

No face is fair that is not full so black. 

King. 0 paradox ! Black is the badge of hell, 
The hue of dungeons and the scowl of night; 
And beauty’s crest becomes the heavens well. 
Bir. Devils soonest tempt, resembling spii’its 
. of light. 257 

0 , if in black my lady’s brows be deck’d, 

It mourns that, painting and usurping hair 
Should ravish doters with a false aspect; 200 

And therefore is she born to make black fair. 
Her favour turns the fashion of the days, 

For native blood is counted painting now ; 
And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise, 
Paints itself black, to imitate her brow. 265 
Bum. To look like her are chimney-sweepers 
black. 

Long. And since her time are colliers counted 
bright. 

King. And Ethiopes of their sweet complex¬ 
ion crack. 

Bum. Dark needs no candles now, for dark 
is light. 

Bir. Your mistresses dare never come in 
rain, 270 

For fear their colours should be washed 
away. 

King. ’T were good, yours did ; for sir, to tell 
you plain, 

I ’ll find a fairer face not wash’d to-day. 

Bir. I ’ll prove her fair, or talk till doomsday 
here. 

King. No devil will fright thee then so much 
as she. 275 

Bum. I never knew man hold vile stuff so 
dear. 


Long. Look, here’s thy love; my foot and 
her face see. 

Bir. O, if the streets were paved with thine 
eyes, 

Her feet were much too dainty for such 
tread ! 

Bum. 0 vile ! then, as she goes, what upward 
lies 28# 

The street should see as she walk’d over¬ 
head. 

King. But what of this ? Are we not all in love ? 
Bir. Nothing so sure; and thereby all for¬ 
sworn. 

King. Then leave this chat; and, good Biron, 
now prove 

Our loving lawful, and our faith not 
torn. 285 

Bum. Ay, marry there ; some flattery for this 
evil. 

Long. O, some authority how to proceed ; 
Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the 
devil. 

Bum. Some salve for perjury. 

Bir. ’T is more than need. 

Have at you, then, affection’s men at arms. 290 
Consider what you first did swear unto, 

To fast, to study, and to see no woman ; 

Flat treason ’gainst the kingly state of youth. 
Say, can you fast? Your stomachs are too 
young; 

And abstinence engenders maladies. 295 

And where that you have vow’d to study, lords, 
In that each of you have forsworn his book, 

Can you still dream and pore and thereon look ? 
[For when Avould you, my lord, or you, or you, 
Have found the ground of study’s excellence 
Without the beauty of a woman’s face ? soi 

From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive ; 
They are the ground, the books, the academes 
From whence doth spring the true Promethean 
fire.] 

W hy, universal plodding poisons up 305 

The nimble spirits in the arteries, 

As motion and long-during action tires 
The sinewy vigour of the traveller. 

Now, for not looking on a woman’s face, 

You have in that forsworn the use of eyes 310 
And study too, the causer of your vow. 

For where is any author in the world 
Teaches such beauty as a woman’s eye ? 
Learning is but an adjunct to ourself, 

And where we are our learning likewise is, 315 
Then when ourselves we see in ladies’ eyes, 

Do we not likewise see our learning there ? 

O, we have made a vow to study, lords, 

And in that vow we have forsworn our books. 
For when would you, my liege, or you, or you, 320 
In leaden contemplation have found out 
Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes 
Of beauty’s tutors have enrich’d you with ? 
Other slow arts entirely keep the brain ; 

And therefore, finding barren praetisers, 32 E 
Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil; 

But love, first learned in a lady’s eyes, 

Lives not alone immured in the brain; 

But, with the motion of all elements, 

Courses as swift as thought in every power, sao 








V. 1. 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


l 9 


And gives to every power a double power. 
Above their functions and their offices. 

It adds a precious seeing to the eye ; 

A lover’s eyes will gaze an eagle blind ; 

A lover’s ear will hear the lowest sound, 335 

When the suspicious head of theft is stopp’d; 
Love’s feeling is more soft and sensible 
Than are the tender horns of cockled snails ; 
Love’s tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in 
taste. 

For valour, is not Love a Hercules, 340 

Still climbing trees in the Hesperides ? 

Subtle as Sphinx ; as sweet and musical 
As bright Apollo’s lute, strung with his hair ; 
And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods 
Make heaven drowsy with the harmony. 345 
Never durst poet touch a pen to write 
Until his ink were temp’red with Love’s sighs; 
0 , then his lines would ravish savage ears 
And plant in tyrants mild humility. 

From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive: 350 

They sparkle still the right Promethean fire ; 
They are the books, the arts, the academes. 
That show, contain, and nourish all the world, 
Else none at all in aught proves excellent. 

Then fools you were these women to for¬ 
swear, 355 

Or keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools. 
For wisdom’s sake, a word that all men love, 
Or for love’s sake, a word that loves all men, 

Or for men’s sake, the authors of these women, 
Or women’s sake, by whom we men are men, seo 
Let us once lose our oaths to find ourselves, 

Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths. 

It is religion to be thus forsworn, 

For charity itself fulfils the law, 

And who can sever love from charity ? 365 

King. Saint Cupid, then! and, soldiers, to 
the field ! 

Bir. Advance your standards, and upon 
them, lords; 

Pell-mell, down with them ! but be first advis’d, 
In conflict that you get the sun of them. 

Long. Now to plain-dealing, lay these glozes 
by. 370 

Shall we resolve to woo these girls of France ? 
King. And win them too ; therefore let us 
devise 

Some entertainment for them in their tents. 
Bir. First, from the park let us conduct 
them thither; 

Then homeward every man attach the hand 375 
Of his fair mistress. In the afternoon 
We will with some strange pastime solace them, 
Such as the shortness of the time can shape ; 
For revels, dances, masks, and merry hours 
Forerun fair Love, strewing her way with 
flowers. 880 

King. Away, away ! no time shall be omitted 
That will be time, and may by us be fitted. 

Bir. Allons ! allons! Sow’d cockle reap’d no 
corn; 

And justice always whirls in equal measure. 
Light wenches may prove plagues to men for¬ 
sworn ; 388 

If so, our copper buys no better treasure. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT [V] 

[Scene I. The same.] 

Enter the Pedant [Holofernes], the Curate 
[Sir Nathaniel], and Dull. 

Hoi. Satis quod sufficit. 

Nath. I praise God for you, sir. Your rea¬ 
sons at dinner have been sharp and sententious; 
pleasant without scurrility, witty without affec¬ 
tion, audacious without impudency, learned 
without opinion, and strange without heresy. [5 
I did converse this quondam day with a com¬ 
panion of the King’s, who is intituled, nomi¬ 
nated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado. 

Hoi. Novihominem tanquam te; his humor [10 
is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue 
filed, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical, and 
his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, and thra¬ 
sonical. He is too picked, too spruce, too af¬ 
fected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate, 
as I may call it. ia 

Nath. A most singular and choice epithet. 

[Draws out his table-book. 
Hoi. He draweth out the thread of his ver¬ 
bosity finer than the staple of his argument. 
I abhor such fanatical phantasimes, such in¬ 
sociable and point-devise companions ; such [20 
rackers of orthography, as to speak dout, fine, 
when he should say doubt; det, when he should 
pronounce debt, — d, e , b, t , not d , e, t: he 
clepeth a calf, cauf; half, hauf; neighbour va¬ 
catur nebour ; neigh abbreviated ne. This is [25 
abhominable, — which he would call abbomina- 
ble ; it insinuateth me of insanie ; ne intelligis, 
domine ? to make frantic, lunatic. 

Nath. Laus Deo , bone intelligo. 30 

Hoi. Bone ? bone for bene, Priscian a little 
scratched, ’t will serve. 

Enter Braggart [Armado], Boy [Moth, and 
Costard] . 

Nath. Videsne quis venit ? 

Hoi. Video, et gaudeo. 

Arm. [To Moth.] Chiirah ! 35 

Hoi. (Juare chirrah, not sirrah ? 

Arm. Men of peace, well encountered. 

Hoi. Most military sir, salutation. 

Moth. [Aside to Costard.] They have been at a 
great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps. [40 
Cost. 0 , they have liv’d long on the alms- 
basket of words. I marvel thy master hath not 
eaten thee for a word, for thou art not so long 
by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus. Thou 
art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon. 45 
Moth. Peace! the peal begins. 

Arm. [To Hoi.] Monsieur, are y 6 u not let- 
t’red ? 

Moth. Yes, yes ; he teaches boys the horn¬ 
book. What is a, b , spelt backward, with 
the horn on his bead ? 50 

Hoi. Ba , pueritia, with a horn added. 

Moth. Ba, most silly sheep with a horn. You 
hear his learning. 

Hoi. Quis, quis , thou consonant ? m 

Moth. The third of the five vowels, if you re* 
peat them ; or the fifth, if I. 







20 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


v. iL 


Hoi. I will repeat them, — a, e, i, — 

Moth. The sheep. The other two concludes 

it, — 0, U. ' 60 

Arm. Now, by the salt wave of the Mediter- 
raneum, a sweet touch, a quick venue of wit! 

— snip, snap, quick and home ! It rejoiceth my 
intellect. True wit! 

Moth. Offered by a child to an old man; 
which is wit-old. es 

Hoi. What is the figure ? What is the figure ? 

Moth. Horns. 

Hoi. Thou disputes like an infant; go, whip 
thy gig. to 

Moth. Lend me your horn to make one, and 
I will whip about your infamy unum cita, — a 
gig of a cuckold’s horn. 

Cost. An I had but one penny in the world, 
thou shouldst have it to buy gingerbread. 
Hold, there is the very remuneration I had [75 
of thy master, thou halfpenny purse of wit, thou 
pigeon-egg of discretion. 0 , an the heavens were 
so pleased that thou wert but my bastard, what 
a joyful father wouldst thou make me ! Go 
to; thou hast it ad dunghill , at the fingers’ [so 
ends, as they say. 

Hoi. 0 , I smell false Latin ; dunghill for un- 
guem. 

Arm.. Arts-man, preambulate, we will be [sb 
singuled from the barbarous. Do you not edu¬ 
cate youth at the charge-house on the top of 
the mountain ? 

Hoi. Or mows, the hill. 

Arm. At your sweet pleasure, for the moun¬ 
tain. 90 

Hoi. Ido, sans question. 

Arm. Sir, it is the King’s most sweet pleasure 
and affection to congratulate the Princess at her 
pavilion in the posteriors of this day, which the 
rude multitude call the afternoon. 95 

. Hoi. The posterior of the day, most generous 
sir, is liable, congruent, and measurable for 
the afternoon. The word is well culled, chose, 
sweet, and apt, I do assure you, sir, I do as¬ 
sure. 

Arm. Sir, the King is a noble gentleman, 
and my familiar, I do assure ye, very good [100 
friend; for what is inward between us, let it 
pass ; — I do beseech thee, remember thy cour¬ 
tesy ; I beseech thee, apparel thy head ; — and 
among other important and most serious designs, 
and of great import indeed, too,—but let that [105 
pass. For I must tell thee, it will please his 
Grace, by the world, sometime to lean upon my 
poor shoulder, and with his royal finger, thus, 
dally with my excrement, with my mustachio ; 
but, sweet heart, let that pass. By the world, [no 
I recount no fable: some certain special honours 
it pleaseth his greatness to impart to Armado, 
a soldier, a man of travel, that hath seen the 
world ; but let that pass. The very all of all is, 

— but, sweet heart, I do implore secrecy, — [no 
that the King would have me present the Prin¬ 
cess, sweet chuck, with some delightful osten¬ 
tation, or show, or pageant, or antic, or firework. 
Now, understanding that the curate and your 
sweet self are good at such eruptions and [120 
sudden breaking out of mirth, as it were, I have 


acquainted you withal, to the end to crave your 
assistance. 

Hoi. Sir, you shall present before her the Nine 
Worthies. Sir [Nathaniel], as concerning some 
entertainment of time, some show in the [125 
posterior of this day, to be render’d by our as¬ 
sistants, at the King’s command, and this most 
gallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, be¬ 
fore the Princess, I say none so fit as to pre¬ 
sent the Nine Worthies. 130 

Nath. Where will you find men worthy 
enough to present them ? 

Hoi. Joshua, yourself ; myself or this gallant 
gentleman, Judas Maccabseus; this swain, be¬ 
cause of his great limb or joint, shall pass [135 
[as] Pompey the Great; the page, Hercules, — 

Arm. Pardon, sir ; error. He is not quantity 
enough for that Worthy’s thumb ; he is not so 
big as the end of his club. 

Hoi. Shall I have audience ? He shall pre¬ 
sent Hercules in minority ; his enter and exit [no 
shall be strangling a snake; and I will have an 
apology for that purpose. 

Moth. An excellent device ! so, if any of the 
audience hiss, you may cry, “ Well done, [145 
Hercules! now thou crushest the snake! ” 
That is the way to make an offenoe gracious, 
though few have the grace to do it. 

Arm. For the rest of the Worthies? — 

Hoi. I will play three myself. iso 

Moth. Thrice-worthy gentleman! 

Arm. Shall I tell you a thing ? 

Hoi. We attend. 

Arm.. We will have, if this fadge not, an 
antic. I beseech you, follow. 155 

Hoi. Via, goodman Dull! thou hast spoken 
no word all this while. 

Hull. Nor understood none neither, sir. 

Hoi. Allons ! we will employ thee. 

Dull. I’ll make one in a dance, or so; or I 
will play iso 

On the tabor to the Worthies, and let them 
dance the hay. 

Hoi. Most dul 1 , honest Dull! To our sport, 
away! [Exeunt. 

[Scene II. The same.] 

Enter the [Princess, and] Ladies. 

Erin. Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we 
depart, 

If fairings come thus plentifully in. 

A lady wall’d about with diamonds ! 

Look you what I have from the loving King. 

Eos. Madam, came nothing else along with 
that ? 6 

Prin. Nothing but this ? Yes, as much love 
in rhyme 

As would be cramm’d up in a sheet of paper, 
Writ o’ both sides the leaf, margent and all. 
That he was fain to seal on Cupid’s name. 

Eos. That was the way to make his godhead 
wax, 10 

For he hath been five thousand year a boy. 

Kath. Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too. 

Eos. You ’ll ne’er be friends with him; ’a 
kill’d your sister. 




\ 


V.ii. LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


Kath. He made her melancholy, sad, and 
heavy, 

And so she died. Had she been light, like 
you, is 

Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit, 

She might ha’ been a grandam ere she died. 
And so may you ; for a light heart lives long. 

Eos. What’s your dark meaning, mouse, of 
this light word ? 

Kath. A light condition in a beauty dark. 20 

Eos. We need more light to find your mean¬ 
ing out. 

Kath. You ’ll mar the light by taking it in 
snuff; 

Therefore I ’ll darkly end the argument. 

Eos. Look, what you do, you do it still i’ the 
dark. 

Kath. So do not you, for you are a light 
wench. 25 

Eos. Indeed I weigh not you, and therefore 
light. 

Kath. You weigh me not ? O, that’s you 
care not for me. 

Eos. Great reason ; for “ past cure is still 
past care.” 

Prin. Well bandied both; a set of wit well 
played. 

But, Rosaline, you have a favour too. so 

Who sent it ? and what is it ? 

Eos. I would you knew. 

An if my face were but as fair as yours, 

My favour were as great; be witness this. 

Nay, I have verses too, I thank Biron ; 

The numbers true, and, were the numbering 
too, 30 

I were the fairest goddess on the ground. 

I am compar’d to twenty thousand fairs. 

0 , lie hath drawn my picture in his letter! 

Prin. Any thing like ? 

Eos. Much in the letters; nothing in the 
praise. 40 

Prin. Beauteous as ink ; a good conclusion. 

Kath. Fair as a text B in a copy-book. 

Eos. Ware pencils, ho ! let me not die your 
debtor, 

My red dominical, my golden letter ; 

0 that your face were not so full of O’s ! 45 

Prin. A pox of that jest! and I beshrew all 
shrews. 

But, Katharine, what was sent to you from fair 
Dumain ? 

Kath. Madam, this glove. 

Prin. Did he not send you twain ? 

Kath. Yes, madam, and moreover 
Some thousand verses of a faithful lover, so 
A huge translation of hypocrisy, 

Vilely compil’d, profound simplicity. 

Mar. This and these pearls to me sent Longa- 
ville. 

The letter is too long by half a mile. 

Prin. I think no less. Dost thou not wish in 
heart ss 

The chain were longer and the letter short ? 

Mar. Ay, or I would these hands might never 
part. 

Prin. We are wise girls to mock our lovers 

so. 


Eos. They are worse fools to purchase mock¬ 
ing so. 

That same Biron I ’ll torture ere I go. ec 

O that I knew he were but in by the week! 
How I would make him fawn and beg and seek. 
And wait the season and observe the times, 
And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes, 
And shape his service wholly to my bests, 

And make him proud to make me proud that 
jests! 

So pedant-like would I o’ersway his state 
That he should be my fool and I his fate. 

Prin. None are so surely caught, when they 
are cateh’d, 

As wit turn’d fool; folly, in wisdom hatch’d, 
Hath wisdom’s warrant and the help of school 
And wit’s own grace to grace a learned fool. 
Eos. The blood of youth burns not with such 
excess 

As gravity’s revolt to wantonness. 

Mar. Folly in fools bears not so strong a 
note 7 s 

As foolery in the wise, when wit doth dote ; 
Since all the power thereof it doth apply 
To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity. 

Enter Boyet. 

Prin. Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his 
face. 

Boyet. 0 , I am stabb’d with laughter! 

Where’s her Grace ? bo 

Prin . Thy news, Boyet ? 

Boyet. Prepare, madam, prepare ! 

Arm, wenches, arm ! Encounters mounted are 
Against your peace. Love doth approach dis¬ 
guis’d, 

Armed in arguments ; you ’ll be surpris’d. 
Muster your wits; stand in your own de¬ 
fence ; so 

Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence. 
Prin. Saint Denis to Saint Cupid! What 
are they 

That charge their breath against us ? Say, scout, 
say. 

Boyet. Under the cool shade of a sycamore 
I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour • 
When, lo ! to interrupt my purpos’d rest, 91 
Toward that shade I might behold address’d 
The King and his companions. Warily 
I stole into a neighbour thicket by, 

And overheard what you shall overhear, 95 
That, by and by, disguis’d they will be here. 
Their herald is a pretty knavish page. 

That well by heart hath conn’d his embassage. 
Action and accent did they teach him there ; 

“ Thus must thou speak,” and “ thus thy body 
bear; ” 10a 

And ever and anon they made a doubt 
Presence majestical would put him out; 

“For,” quoth the King, “an angel shalt thou 
see ; 

Yet fear not thou, but speak audaciously.” 

The boy replied, “ An angel is not evil; ios 
I should have fear’d her had she been a devil.” 
With that, all laugh’d and clapp’d him on the 
shoulder 

Making the bold wag by their praises bolder. 






22 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


V. 11 


One rubb'd his elbow thus, and fleer’d and 
swore 

A better speech was never spoke before ; no 
Another, with his finger and his thumb, 

Cried, “ Via! we will do’t, come what will 
come ; ” 

The third he caper’d, and cried, “All goes 
well; ” 

The fourth turn’d on the toe, and down he fell. 
With that, they all did tumble on the ground, ns 
With such a zealous laughter, so profound, 

That in this spleen ridiculous appears, 

To check their folly, passion’s solemn tears. 
Pn'n. But what, but what, come they to visit 
us? 

Boyet . They do, they do ; and are apparell’d 
thus 120 

Like Muscovites or Russians, as I guess. 

Their purpose is to parle, to court, and dance ; 
And every one his love-feat will advance 
Unto his several mistress, which they ’ll know 
By favours several which they did bestow. 125 
Prin. And will they so ? The gallants shall 
be task’d, 

For, ladies, we will every one be mask’d; 

And not a man of them shall have the grace, 
Despite of suit, to see a lady’s face. 

Hold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt wear, iso 
And then the King will court thee for his dear, 
Hold, take thou this, my sweet, and give me 
thine, 

So shall Biron take me for Rosaline 
And change you favours too; so shall your 
loves 

Woo contrary, deceiv’d by these removes. 135 
Bos. Come on, then ; wear the favours most 
in sight. 

Bath. But in this changing what is your in- 
4 tent ? 

Prin. The effect of my intent is to cross 
theirs. 

They do it but in mocking merriment, 

And mock for mock is only my intent. 140 

Their several counsels they unbosom shall 
To loves mistook, and so be mock’d withal 
Upon the next occasion that we meet, 

With visages display’d, to talk and greet 
Bos . But shall we dance, if they desire us 
to’t ? 145 

Prin. No, to the death, we will not move a 
foot; 

Nor to their penn’d speech render we no grace, 
But while’t is spoke each turn away her face. 
Boyet. Why, that contempt will kill the 
speaker’s heart, 

And quite divorce his memory from his part, iso 
Prin. Therefore I do it; and I make no 
doubt 

The rest will ne’er come in, if he be out. 

There’s no such sport as sport by sport o’er- 
thrown, 

To make theirs ours and ours none but our own ; 
So shall we stay, mocking intended game, iss 
And they, well mock’d, depart away with 
shame. [Trumpet sounds [within], 

Boyet. The trumpet sounds : be mask’d ; the 
maskers come. [The Ladies mask.] 


Enter Blackamoors with music , the Boy [Moth] 
with a speech , and the rest of the Lords dis' 
guised. 

Moth. “All hail, the richest beauties on the 
earth ! ” — 

Boyet. Beauties no richer than rich taffeta. 
Moth. “ A holy parcel of the fairest dames 16^ 
[The Ladies turn their hacks to him. 
That ever turn’d their — backs — to mortal 
views! ” 

Bir. [Aside to Moth.] Their eyes, villain, their 
eyes. 

Moth. “ That ever turn’d their eyes to mortal 
views! — 

Out” — 

Boyet. True ; out indeed. # i 65 

Moth. “ Out of your favours, heavenly spirits 
vouchsafe 
Not to behold ” — 

Bir. [Aside to Moth.] Once to behold, rogue. 
Moth. “ Once to behold with your sun-beamed 
eyes, 

-with your sun-beamed eyes ” — ion 

Boyet. They will not answer to that epithet; 
Yon were best call it “ daughter-beamed eyes,” 
Moth . They do not mark me, and that brings 
me out. 

Bir. Is this your perfectness ? Be gone, you 
rogue ! [Exit Moth.] 

Bos. What would these strangers ? Know 
their minds. Boyet. 

If they do speak our language, ’t is our will its 
T hat some plain man recount their purposes. 
Know what they would. 

Boyet. What would you with the Princess ? 
Bir. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation. 
Bos. What would they, say they ? iso 

Boyet. Nothing but peace and gentle visita 
tion. 

Bos. Why, that they have ; and bid them so 
be gone. 

Boyet. She says, you have it, and you may be 
gone. 

King. Say to her, we have measur’d many 
miles 

To tread a measure with her on this grass, iss 
Boyet. They say, that they have measur’d 
many a mile 

To tread a measure with you on this grass. 

Bos. It is not so. Ask them how many inches 
Is in one mile : if they have measur’d many, 
The measure then of one is easily told. ioo 
Boyet. If to come hither you have measur’d 
miles, 

And many miles, the Princess bids you tell 
How many inches doth fill up one mile. 

Bir. Tell her, we measure them by weary 
steps. 

Boyet. She hears herself. 

Bos. How many weary steps 

Of many weary miles you have o’ergone, m« 
Are numb’red in the travel of one mile ? 

Bir. We number nothing that we spend for 

. y° u . ; 

Our duty is so rich, so infinite, 

That we may do it still without accompt. 200 







V. ll. 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


23 


Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face, 
That we, like savages, may worship it. 

Bos. My face is but a moon, and clouded too. 

King. Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds 
do! 

Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to 
shine, 205 

Those clouds remov’d, upon our watery eyne. 

Bos. O vain petitioner ! beg a greater matter ; 
Thou now requests but moonshine in the water. 

King. Then, in our measure do but vouchsafe 
one change. 209 

Thou bid’st me beg; this begging i3 not strange. 

Bos. Play, music, then ! Nay, you must do 
it soon. [Music plays.] 

Not yet! no dance ! Thus change I like the 
moon. 

King. Will you not dance ? How come you 
thus estranged ? 

Bos. You took the moon at full, but now 
she’s changed. 214 

King. Yet still she is the moon, and I the man. 
The music plays ; vouchsafe some motion to it. 

Bos. Our ears vouchsafe it. 

King. But your legs should do it. 

Bos. Since you are strangers and come here 
by chance, 

We ’ll not be nice; take hands. We will not 
dance. 219 

King. Why take we hands, then ? 

Bos. Only to part friends. 

Curtsey, sweet hearts ; and so the measure ends. 

King. More measure of this measure ; be not 
nice. 

Bos. We can afford no more at such a price. 

King. Price you yourselves ; what buys your 
company ? 

Bos. Your absence only. 

King. That can never be. 

Bos. Then cannot we be bought; and so, 
adieu; . 226 

Twice to your visor, and half once to you. 

King. If you deny to dance, let’s hold more 
chat. 

Bos. In private, then. 

King. I am best pleased with that. 

[They converse apart.] 

Bir. White-handed mistress, one sweet word 
with thee. 230 

Prin. Honey, and milk, and sugar; there is 
three. 

Bir. Nay then, two treys, an if you grow so 
nice, 

Metheglin, wort, and malmsey; well run, dice ! 
There’s half-a-dozen sweets. 

Prin. Seventh sweet, adieu. 234 

Since you can cog, I ’ll play no more with you. 

Bir One word in secret. 

Prin. Let it not be sweet. 

Bir. Thou grievest my gall. 

Prin. Gall! bitter. 

Bir. Therefore meet. 

[They converse apart.] 

Bum. Will you vouchsafe with me to change 
a word ? 

Mar. Name it. 

Bum. Fair lady — 


Mar. Say you so? Fair lord, — 

Take that for your fair lady. 

Bum. Please it you, 

As much in private, and I ’ll bid adieu. 241 
[They converse apart.] 

Kath. What, was your vizard made without 
a tongue ? 

Long. I know the reason, lady, why you ask. 

Kath. 0 for your reason! quickly, sir; I 
long. 

Long. You have a double tongue within your 
mask, 245 

And would afford my speechless vizard half. 

Kath. “ Veal,” quoth the Dutchman. Is not 
veal a calf ? 

Long. A calf, fair lady ! 

Kath. No, a fair lord calf. 

Long. Let’s part the word. 

Kath. No, I ’ll not be your half. 

Take all, and wean it; it may prove an ox. 250 

Long. Look, how you butt yourself in these 
sharp mocks! 

Will you give horns, chaste lady ? Do not so. 

Kath. Then die a calf, before your horns do 
grow. 

Long. One word in private with you, ere I 
die. 

Kath. Bleat softly then; the butcher hears 
you cry. [They converse apart.] 

Boyet. The tongues of mocking wenches are 
as keen 200 

As is the razor’s edge invisible, 

Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen. 

Above the sense of sense ; so sensible. 
Seemeth their conference; their conceits have 
wings 260 

Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, 
swifter things. 

Bos. Not one word more, my maids ; break 
off, break off. 

Bir. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure 
scoff! 

King. Farewell, mad wenches; you have 
simple wits. 

. [Exeunt [King, Lords , and Blackamoors], 

Prin. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovite. 
Are these the breed of wits so wond’red at ? 200 

Boyet. Tapers they are, with your sweet 
breaths puff’d out. 

Bos. Well-liking wits they have ; gross, gross ; 
fat, fat. 

Prin. 0 poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout! 
Will they not, think you, hang themselves to¬ 
night ? . 270 

Or ever, but in vizards, show their faces ? 
This pert Biron was out of countenance quite. 

Bos. 0 , they were all in lamentable cases ! 
The King was weeping-ripe for a good word. 

Prin. Biron did swear himself out of all 
Suit. 276 

Mar. Dumain was at my service, and his 
sword. 

“No point,” quoth I; my servant straight 
was mute. 

Kath. Lord Longaville said I came o’er his 
heart; 

And trow you what he call’d me ? 




24 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


v. ii 


Prin. Qualm, perhaps. 

Kath. Yes, in good faith. 

Prin. Go, sickness as thou art! 

Bos. Well, better wits have worn plain 

statute-caps. 281 

But will you hear? The King is my love 

sworn. 

Prin. And quick Biron hath plighted faith 
to me. 

Kath. And Longaville was for my service born. 

Mar. Dumain is mine, as sure as bark on 
tree. _ 285 

Boyet. Madam, and pretty mistresses, give 

ear: 

Immediately they will again he here 
In their own shapes ; for it can never be 
They will digest this harsh indignity. 

Prin. Will they return ? 

Boyet. They will, they will, God knows, 
And leap for joy, though they are lame with 
blows: 291 

Therefore change favours ; and, when they re¬ 
pair, 

Blow like sweet roses in this summer air. 

Prin. How blow ? how blow ? speak to be 
understood. 

Boyet. Fair ladies mask’d are roses in their 
bud; 295 

Dismask’d, their damask sweet commixture 
shown, 

Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown. 

Prin. Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we 
do, 

If they return in their own shapes to woo ? 

Bos. Good madam, if by me you ’ll be ad¬ 
vis’d, 300 

Let’s mock them still, as well known as dis¬ 
guis’d. 

Let us complain to them what fools were here, 
Disguis’d like Muscovites, in shapeless gear ; 
And wonder what they were, and to what end 
Their shallow shows and prologue vilely penn’d 
And their rough carriage so ridiculous, soe 

Should be presented at our tent to us. 

Boyet. Ladies, withdraw ; the gallants are at 
hand. 

Prin. Whip to our tents, as roes run over 
land. 

[Exeunt [Princess and Ladies ]. 

Be-enter the King, and the rest [in their proper 
habits ]. 

King. Fair sir, God save you! Where’s the 
Princess ? 310 

Boyet. Gone to her tent. Please it your 
majesty 

Command me any service to her thither ? 

King. That she vouchsafe me audience for 
one word. 

Boyet. I will; and so will she, I know, my 
lord. [Exit. 

Bir. This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons 
pease, . 316 

And uttera it again when God doth please. 

He is wit’s pedler, and retails his wares 
At wakes and wassails, meetings, markets, 
fairs' 


And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know, 
Have not the grace to grace it with such show. 
This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve ; 321 
Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve. 

’A can carve too, and lisp ; why, this is he 
That kiss’d his hand away in courtesy ; 

This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice, 325 
That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice 
In honourable terms ; nay, he can sing 
A mean most meanly ; and in ushering 
Mend him who can. The ladies call him sweet; 
The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet. 
This is the flower that smiles on every one, 331 
To show his teeth as white as whale’s bone ; 
And consciences, that will not die in debt, 

Pay him the due of honey-tongu’d Boyet. 

King. A blister on his sweet tongue, with my 
heart, 335 

That put Armado’s page out of his part! 

Be-enter the [Princess, attended by Boyet and 
her ] Ladies. 

Bir. See where it comes! Behaviour, what 
wert thou 

Till this man show’d thee ? And what art thou 
now ? 

King. All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of 
day ! 

Prin. “ Fair ” in “ all hail ” is foul, as I con¬ 
ceive. 840 

King. Construe my speeches better, if you may. 
Prin. Then wish me better; I will give you 
leave. 

King. We came to visit you, and purpose now 
To lead you to our court; vouchsafe it then. 
Prin. This field shall hold me ; and so hold 
your vow: 345 

Nor God, nor I, delights in perjur’d men. 
King. Rebuke me not for that which you pro¬ 
voke. 

The virtue of your eye must break my oath. 
Prin. You nickname virtue; vice you should 
have spoke, 

For virtue’s office never breaks men’s troth. 
Now by my maiden honour, yet as pure 351 

As the unsullied lily, I protest, 

A world of torments though I should endure, 

I would not yield to be your house’s guest; 

So much I hate a breaking cause to be sss 

Of heavenly oaths, vow’d with integrity. 

King. O, you have liv’d in desolation here, 
Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame. 

Prin. Not so, my lord ; it is not so, I swear; 
We have had pastimes here and pleasant 
game. 36 o 

A mess of Russians left us but of late. 

King. How, madam ! Russians ! 

Prin. Ay, in truth, my lord ; 

Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state. 
Bos. Madam, speak true. It is not so, my 
lord. 

My lady, to the manner of the days, sce 

In courtesy gives undeserving praise. 

We four indeed confronted were with four 
In Russian habit; here they stay’d an hour, 
And talk’d apace ; and in that hour, my lord. 
They did not bless us with one happy word, aie 







V. 11. 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


2 5 


I dare not call them fools ; but this I think, 
When they are thirsty, fools would fain have 
drink. 

Bir. This jest is dry to me. [Fair] gentle 
sweet, 

Your wit makes wise things foolish. When we 
greet, 

With eyes best seeing, heaven’s fiery eye, 37a 
By light we lose light; your capacity 
Is of that nature that to your huge store 
Wise things seem foolish and rich tilings but 
poor. 

Bos. This proves you wise and rich, for in my 
eye — 

Bir. I am a fool, and full of poverty. 3 so 
Bos. But that you take what doth to you be¬ 
long, 

It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue. 
Bir. 0 , I am yours, and all that I possess ! 
Bos. All the fool mine ? 

Bir. I cannot give you less. 

Bos. Which of the vizards was it that you 
wore ? 385 

Bir. Where? When? What vizard? Why 
demand you this ? 

Bos. There, then, that vizard ; that superflu¬ 
ous case 

That hid the worse and show’d the better face. 
King. \Aside.) We were descried; they ’ll 
mock us now downright. 

Bum. Let us confess and turn it to a jest. 390 
Prin. Amaz’d, my lord? Why looks your 
highness sad ? 

Bos. Help, hold his brows 1 he ’ll swoon ! 
Why look you pale ? 

Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy. 

Bir. Thus pour the stars down plagues for per¬ 
jury. 

Can any face of brass hold longer out ? 395 

Here stand I; lady, dart thy skill at me, 
Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a 
flout; 

Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my igno¬ 
rance ; 

Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit; 

And I will wish thee never more to dance, 400 
Nor never more in Russian habit wait. 

0 , never will I trust to speeches penn’d, 

Nor to the motion of a schoolboy’s tongue, 
Nor never come in vizard to my friend, 

Nor woo in rhyme, like a blind harper’s 
song! 4 oa 

Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, 
Three-piled hyperboles, spruce affectation, 
Figures pedantical; these summer-flies 
Have blown me full of maggot ostentation. 

I do forswear them, and I here protest, 410 
By this white glove,—how white the hand, 
God knows! — 

Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express’d 
In russet yeas and honest kersey noes ; 

And, to begin, wench, —so God help me, 
la! — 

My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw. 415 
Bos. Sans sans, I pray you. 

Bir. Yet I have a trick 

Of the old rage. Bear with me, I am sick; 


I ’ll leave it by degrees. Soft, let us see : — 
Write “ Lord have mercy on us ” on those 
three. 

They are infected ; in their hearts it lies : 4 *# 

They have the plague, and caught it of your 

eyes. 

These lords are visited ; you are not free, 

For the Lord’s tokens on you do I see. 

Prin. No, they are free that gave these 
tokens to us. 

Bir. Our states are forfeit; seek not to undo 

US. 426 

Bos. It is not so ; for how can this be true, 
That you stand forfeit, being those that sue ? 

Bir. Peace! for I will not have to do with 
you. 

Bos. Nor shall not, if I do as I intend. 

Bir. Speak for yourselves ; my wit is at an 
end. 430 

King. Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude 
transgression 
Some fair excuse. 

Prin. The fairest is confession. 

Were not you here but even now disguis’d ? 

King. Madam, I was. 

Prin. And were you well advis’d ? 

King. I was, fair madam. 

Prin. When you then were here, 

What did you whisper in your lady’s ear ? 436 

King. That more than all the world I did 
respect her. 

Prin. When she shall challenge this, you 
will reject her. 

King. Upon mine honour, no. 

Prin. Peace, peace ! forbear. 

Your oath once broke, you force not to for¬ 
swear. 440 

King. Despise me, when I break this oath of 
mine. 

Prin. I will; and therefore keep it. Rosa¬ 
line, 

What did the Russian whisper in your ear ? 

Bos. Madam, he swore that he did hold me 
dear 

As precious eyesight, and did value me 445 
Above this world ; adding thereto, moreover, 
That he would wed me, or else die my lover. 

Prin. God give thee joy of him! The noble 
lord 

Most honourably doth uphold his word. 

King. What mean you, madam ? By my life, 
my troth, 450 

I never swore this lady such an oath. 

Bos. By heaven, you did ; and to confirm it 
plain, 

You gave me this ; but take it, sir, again. 

King. My faith and this the Princess I did 
give. 

I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve. 455 

Prin. Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she 
wear; 

And Lord Biron, I thank him, is my dear. 
What, will you have me, or your pearl again ? 

Bir. Neither of either; I remit both twain. 

I see the trick on’t; here was a consent, 
Knowing aforehand of our merriment, 

To dash it like a Christmas comedy, 





26 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


v. it 


Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight 
zany, 

Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, 
some Dick, 

That smiles his cheek in years and knows the 
trick 465 

To make my lady laugh when she’s dispos’d, 
Told our intents before ; which once disclos’d, 
The ladies did change favours ; and then we, 
Following the signs, woo’d but the sign of she. 
Now, to our perjury to add more terror, 470 

We are again forsworn, in will and error. 

Much upon this it is; and might not you 

[To Boyet.] 

Forestall our sport, to make us thus untrue ? 

Do not you know my lady’s foot by the squire, 
And laugh upon the apple of her eye ? 475 

And stand between her back, sir, and the fire, 
Holding a trencher, jesting merrily ? 

You put our page out. Go, you are allow’d ; 

Die when you will, a smock shall be your 
shroud. 

You leer upon me, do you ? There’s an eye 480 
Wounds like a leaden sword. 

Boyet. Full merrily 

Hath this brave manage, this career, been run. 
Bir. Lo, he is tilting straight! Peace! I 
have done. 

Enter Clown [Costard]. 

Welcome, pure wit! thou partest a fair fray. 
Cost. 0 Lord, sir, they wmuld know 485 

Whether the three Worthies shall come in or no. 
B ir. What, are there but three ? 

Cost. No, sir; but it is vara fine, 

For every one pursents three. 

Bir. And three times thrice is nine. 

Cost. Not so, sir; under correction, sir ; I 
hope it is not so. 

You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir; 

we know what we know. 490 

I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir, — 

Bir. Is not nine. 

Cost. Under correction, sir, we know where- 
until it doth amount. 

Bir. By Jove, I always took three threes [495 
for nine. 

Cost. 0 Lord, sir, it were pity you should get 
your living by reckoning, sir. 

Bir. How much is it ? 

Cost. 0 Lord, sir, the parties themselves, 
the actors, sir, will show whereuntil it doth [boo 
amount. For mine own part, I am, as they say, 
but to parfect one man in one poor man, Pom- 
pion the Great, sir. 

Bir. Art thou one of the Worthies ? bob 
Cost. It pleased them to think me worthy of 
Pompey the Great; for mine own part, I know 
not the degree of the Worthy, but I am to stand 
for him. 

Bir. Go, bid them prepare. bio 

Cost. We will turn it finely off, sir; we will 
take some care. [Exit. 

King. Biron, they will shame us; let them 
not approach. 

Bir. We are shame-proof, my lord ; and’t is 
gome policy 


To have one show worse than the King’s and 
his company. 

King. I say they shall not come. sis 

Brin. Nay, my good lord, let me o’errule you 
now; 

That sport best pleases that doth least know 
how ; 

Where zeal strives to content, and the con¬ 
tents 

Dies in the zeal of that which it presents. 

Their form confounded makes most form in 
mirth, _ . B20 

When great things labouring perish in their 
birth. 

Bir. A right description of our sport, my 
lord. 

Enter Braggart [Armado]. 

Arm. Anointed, I implore so much expense 
of thy royal sweet breath as will utter a brace 
of words. 52s 

[Converses apart with the King , and 
delivers him a paper.] 

Prin. Doth this man serve God ? 

Bir. Why ask you ? 

Prin. ’A speaks not like a man of God’s mak¬ 
ing. 

Arm. That is all one, my fair, sweet, honey [530 
monarch ; for, I protest, the schoolmaster is ex¬ 
ceeding fantastical; too too vain, too too vain • 
but we will put it, as they say, to fortuna de la 
guerra. I wish you the peace of mind, most 
royal couplement! [Exit. 535 

King. Here is like to be a good presence of 
Worthies. He presents Hector of Troy; the 
swain, Pompey the Great; the parish curate, 
Alexander ; Armado’s page, Hercules ; the ped¬ 
ant, Judas Maccabasus; . 540 

And if these four Worthies in their first show 
thrive, 

These four will change habits, and present the 
other five. 

Bir. There is five in the first show. 

King. You are deceived ; ’t is not so. 

Bir. The pedant, the braggart, the hedge- [b4b 
priest, the fool, and the boy: 

Abate throw at Novum, and the whole world 
again 

Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his 
vein. 

King. The ship is under sail, and here she 
comes amain. B49 

Enter [Costard, for] Pompey. 

Cost. “ I Pompey am,” — 

Bir. You lie, you are not he. 

Cost. “ I Pompey am,” — 

Boyet. With libbard’s head on knee. 

Bir. Well said, old mocker. I must needs 
be friends with thee. 

Cost. “ I Pompey am, Pompey surnamed the 
Big,” — 

Bum. The Great. 

Cost. It is “ Great,” sir: — 

“ Pompey surnamed the Great; 
That oft in field, with targe and shield, did 
make my foe to sweat; bob 






V. 11. 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


27 


And travelling along this coast, I here am come 
by chance, 

And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet 
lass of France.” 

If your ladyship would say, “Thanks, Pom- 
pey,” I had done. 

Prin. Great thanks, great Pompey. sen 

Cost. ’T is not so much worth ; but I hope I 
was perfect. I made a little fault in “ Great.” 

Bir. My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves 
the best Worthy. 

Enter Curate [Sir Nathaniel], far Alexander. 

Nath. “ When in the world I liv’d, I was the 
world’s commander ; bog 

By east, west, north, and south, I spread my 
conquering might. 

My scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisan- 
der,” — 

Boyet. Your nose says, no, you are not; for it 
stands too right. 

Bir. Your nose smells “no” in this, most 
tender-smelling knight. 

Prin. The conqueror is dismay’d. Proceed, 
good Alexander. 570 

Nath. “ When in the world I liv’d, I was the 
world’s commander,” — 

Boyet. Most true, ’t is right; you were so, 
Alisander. 

Bir. Pompey the Great, — 

Cost. Your servant, and Costard. 

Bir. Take away the conqueror, takeaway [s75 
Alisander. 

Cost. [To Sir Nath.] O, sir, you have over¬ 
thrown Alisander the conqueror ! You will be 
scrap’d out of the painted cloth for this. Your 
lion, that holds his poll-axe sitting on a close- [sso 
stool, will be given to Ajax ; he will be the ninth 
Worthy. A conqueror, and afeard to speak! 
Run away for shame, Alisander. [Nath, retires .] 
There, an’t shall please you, a foolish mild 
man, an honest man, look you, and soon dash’d. 
He is a marvellous good neighbour, faith, [gss 
and a very good bowler ; but, for Alisander, — 
alas, you see how’t is, — a little o’erparted. But 
there are Worthies a-coming will speak their 
mind in some other sort. [Exit Curate, coo 
Prin. Stand aside, good Pompey. 

Enter Pedant [Holofernes], for Judas , and 
the Boy [Moth], for Hercules. 

Hoi. “ Great Hercules is presented by this 
imp. 

Whose club kill’d Cerberus, that three-headed 
canus; 

And when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp, 
Thus did he strangle serpents in his manus. bog 
Qiioniam he seemeth in minority, 

Ergo I come with this apology.” 

[Aside.] Keep some state in thy exit, and van¬ 
ish. [Moth retires.] 

“Judas I am,” — 

l)um. A Judas ! coo 

Hoi. Not Iscariot, sir. 

“Judas I am, ycliped Maccabseus.” 

Bum. Judas Maccabseus dipt is plain Ju¬ 
das. 


Bir. A kissing traitor. How art thou prov’d 
Judas ? 

Hoi. “Judas I am,”— eos 

Bum. The more shame for you, Judas. 

Hoi. What mean you, sir ? 

Boyet. To make Judas hang himself. 

Hoi. Begin, sir ; you are my elder. 

Bir. Well follow’d: Judas was hang’d on an 
elder. 010 

Hoi. I will not be put out of countenance. 
Bir. Because thou hast no face. 

Hoi. What is this ? 

Boyet. A cittern-head. 

Bum. The head of a bodkin. eis 

Bir. A Death’s face in a ring. 

Long. The face of an old Roman coin, scarce 
seen. 

Boyet. The pommel of Caesar’s falchion. 
Bum. The carv’d-bone face on a flask. 

B ir. Saint George’s half-cheek in a brooch. 020 
Bum. Ay, and in a brooch of lead. 

Bir. Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth- 
drawer. 

And now forward ; for we have put thee in 
countenance. 

Hoi. You have put me out of countenance. 
Bir. False ; v r e have given thee faces. 02s 
Hoi. But you have out-fac’d them all. 

Bir. An thou wert a lion, we would do so. 
Boyet. Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go. 
And so adieu, sweet Jude! Nay, why dost thou 
stay ? 

Bum. For the latter end of his name. eso 
Bir. For the ass to the Jude; give it him. 
Jud-as, away! 

Hoi. This is not generous, not gentle, not 
humble. 

Boyet. A light for Monsieur Judas ! It grows 
dark, he may stumble. [Hoi. retires.] 
Prin. Alas, poor Maccabaeus, how hath he 
been baited! 

Enter Braggart [Armado, for Hector], 

B ir. Hide thy head, Achilles; here comes [635 
Hector in arms. 

Bum. Though my mocks come home by me, 
I will now be merry. 

King. Hector was but a Troyan in respect of 

this. 640 

Boyet. But is this Hector ? 

King. I think Hector was not so clean-tim- 
ber’d. 

Long. His leg is too big for Hector’s. 

Bum. More calf, certain. 645 

Boyet. No ; he is best indued in the small. 
Bir. This cannot be Hector. 

Bum. He’s a god or a painter; for he makes 
faces. 

Arm. “ The armipotent Mars, of lances the 

almighty, ggo 

Gave Hector a gift,”— 

Bum. A gilt nutmeg. 

Bir. A lemon. 

Long. Stuck with cloves. 

Bum. No, cloven. cgs 

Arm. Peace ! — 

“ The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty 







28 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


V. 11. 


Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion ; 

A man so breathed, that certain he would fight, 
yea, 

From morn till night, out of his pavilion. 660 
1 am that flower,” — 

Dum. That mint. 

Long. That columbine. 

Arm. Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy 
tongue. 

Long. I must rather give it the rein, for it 
runs against Hector. 

Dum. Ay, and Hector’s a greyhound. 665 
Arm. The sweet war-man is dead and rot¬ 
ten ; sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the 
buried. When he breathed, he was a man. 
But I will forward witli my device. [To the 
Princess .] Sweet royalty, bestow on me the 
sense of hearing. 670 

Prin. Speak, brave Hector; we are much 
delighted. 

Arm. I do adore thy sweet grace’s slipper. 
Doyet. Loves her by the foot. 

Dum. He may not by the yard. 675 

Arm. “ This Hector far surmounted Han¬ 
nibal,”— 

Cost. The party is gone, fellow Hector, she 
is gone ; she is two months on her way. 

Arm. What meanest thou ? eso 

Cost. Faith, unless you play the honest 
Troyan, the poor wench is cast away. She ’s 
quick; the child brags in her belly already. 
’T is yours. 

Arm. Dost thou infamonize me among po¬ 
tentates ? Thou shalt die. css 

Cost. Then shall Hector be whipp’d for 
Jaquenetta that is quick by him and bang’d for 
Pompey that is dead by him. 

Dum. Most rare Pompey ! 

Boyet. Renowned Pompey! eoo 

Bir. Greater than great, great, great, great 
Pompey ! Pompey the Huge ! 

Dum. Hector trembles. 

Bir. Pompey is moved. More Ates, more 
Ates ! stir them on ! stir them on ! 695 

Dum. Hector will challenge him. 

Bir. Ay, if ’a have no more man’s blood in 
his belly than will sup a flea. 

Arm. By the north pole, I do challenge thee. 
Cost. I will not fight with a pole like a [700 
northern man; I ’ll slash ; I ’ll do it by the 
sword. I bepray you, let me borrow my arms 
again. 

Dum. Room for the incensed Worthies ! 

Cost. I ’ll do it in my shirt. 

Dum. Most resolute Pompey ! 705 

Moth. Master, let me take you a button-hole 
lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for 
the combat ? What mean you ? You will lose 
your reputation. 

Arm. Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me; 
I will not combat in my shirt. 711 

Dum. You may not deny it; Pompey hath 
made the challenge. 

Arm. Sweet bloods, I both may and will. 
Bir. What reason have you for’t ? 715 

Arm. The naked truth of it is, I have no 
ghirt; I go woolward for penance. 


Boyet. True, and it was enjoined him in 
Rome for want of linen; since when, I’ll be 
sworn, he wore none but a dishclout of Jaque- 
netta’s, and that ’a wears next his heart [720 
for a favour. 

Enter a Messenger , Monsieur Mercade. 

Mer. God save you, madam ! 

Prin. Welcome, Mercade; 

But that thou interruptest our merriment. _ 725 
Mer. I am sorry, madam ; for the news I bring 
Is heavy in my tongue. The King, your father — 
Prin. Dead, for my life ! 

Mer. Even so ; my tale is told. 

Bir. Worthies, away! The scene begins 
to cloud. 730 

Arm. For mine own part, I breathe free 
breath. I have seen the day of wrong through 
the little hole of discretion, and I will right 
myself like a soldier. [Exeunt Worthies. 735 
King. How fares your majesty ? 

Prin. Boyet, prepare ; I will away to-night. 
King. Madam, not so ; I do beseech you, 
stay. 

Prin. Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious 
lords, 

For all your fair endeavours ; and entreat, 740 
Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe 
In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide 
The liberal opposition of our spirits, 

If over-boldly we have borne ourselves 

In the converse of breath. Your gentleness 745 

Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord! 

A heavy heart bears not a humble tongue. 
Excuse me so, coming too short of thanks 
For my great suit so easily obtain’d. 

King. The extreme parts of time extremely 
forms 75 ® 

All causes to the purpose of his speed, 

And often, at his very loose, decides 
That which long process could not arbitrate. 
And though the mourning brow of progeny 
Forbid the smiling courtesy of love 756 

The holy suit which fain it would convince, 
Yet, since love’s argument was first on foot, 
Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it 
From what it purpos’d; since, to wail friends 
lost 

Is not by much so wholesome-profitable 76 o 

As to rejoice at friends but newly found. 

Prin. I understand you not; my griefs are 
double. 

Bir. Honest plain words best pierce the ear 
of grief; 

And by these badges understand the King. 

For your fair sakes have we neglected time, 706 
Play’d foul play with our oaths. Your beauty, 
ladies, 

Hath much deformed us, fashioning our hu¬ 
mours 

Even to the opposed end of our intents ; 

And what in us hath seem’d ridiculous, — 

As love is full of unbefitting strains, 770 

All wanton as a child, skipping, and vain, 
Form’d by the eye and therefore, like the 
eye, 

Full of strange shapes, of habits, and of forms, 





V. 11. 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


29 


Varying in subjects as the eye doth roll 
To every varied object in his glance ; 775 

Which parti-coated presence of loose love 
Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes, 

Have misbecom’d our oaths and gravities, 
Those heavenly eyes that look into these faults, 
Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies, 7 so 
Our love being yours, the error that love makes 
Is likewise yours. VVe to ourselves prove false, 
By being once false for ever to be true 
To those that make us both, — fair ladies, you ; 
And even that falsehood, in itself a sin, 785 
Thus purifies itself and turns to grace. 

Prin. We have receiv’d your letters full of 
love; 

Your favours, the ambassadors of love , 

And, in our maiden council, rated them 
At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy, 700 
As bombast and as lining to the time ; 

But more devout than this in our respects 
Have we not been ; and therefore met your loves 
In their own fashion, like a merriment. 

Bum. Our letters, madam, show’d much 
more than jest. 705 

Long. So did our looks. 

Bos. We did not quote them so. 

King. Now, at the latest minute of the hour, 
Grant us your loves. 

Prin. A time, methinks, too short 

To make a world-without-end bargain in. 

No, no, my lord, your Grace is perjured much, 
Full of dear guiltiness ; and therefore this: 801 
If for my love, as there is no such cause, 

You will do aught, this shall you do for me : 
Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed 
To some forlorn and naked hermitage, soa 
Remote from all the pleasures of the world ; 
There stay until the twelve celestial signs 
Have brought about the annual reckoning. 

If this austere insociable life 
Change not your offer made in heat of blood ; 810 
If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds 
Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love, 

But that it bear this trial, and last love ; 

Then, at the expiration of the year, 

Come challenge me, challenge me by these 
deserts, 815 

And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine, 

I will be thine ; and till that instant shut 
My woeful self up in a mourning house, 

Raining the tears of lamentation 
For the remembrance of my father’s death. 820 
If this thou do deny, let our hands part, 
Neither inti tied in the other’s heart. 

King. If this, or more than this, I would deny, 
To flatter up these powers of mine with rest, 
The sudden hand of death close up mine eye ! 825 
Hence ever then my heart is in thy breast. 
[Bir. And what to me, my love ? and what 
to me ? 

Eos. You must be purged too, your sins are 
racked, 

You are attaint with faults and perjury: 
Therefore if you my favour mean to get, 830 
A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never 
rest, 

But seek the weary beds of people sick.] 


Bum. But what to me, my love ? but what 
to me ? 

A wife ? 

Kath. A beard, fair health, and honesty ; 
With three-fold love I wish you all these three. 
Bum. 0 , shall I say, 1 thank you, gentle 
wife ? 836 

Kath. Not so, my lord; a twelvemonth and 
a day 

I ’ll mark no words that smootli-fac’d wooers 
say. 

Come when the King doth to my lady come ; 
Then, if I have much love, I ’ll give you some. 
Bum. I ’ll serve thee true and faithfully till 
then. 841 

Kath. Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn 

again. 

Long. What says Maria ? 

Mar. At the twelvemonth’s end 

I ’ll change my black gown for a faithful friend. 
Long. 1 ’ll stay with patience ; but the time 
is long. 845 

Mar. The liker you ; few taller are so young. 
Bir. Studies my lady ? Mistress, look on me ; 
Behold the window of my heart, mine eye, 
What humble suit attends thy answer there. 
Impose some service on me for thy love. sso 

Eos. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord 
Biron, 

Before I saw you ; and the world’s large tongue 
Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks, 
Full of comparisons and wounding flouts, 
Which you on all estates will execute 855 

That lie within the mercy of your wit. 

To weed this wormwood from your fruitful 
brain, 

And therewithal to win me, if you please, 
Without the which I am not to be won, 

You shall this twelvemonth term from day to 
day 86 # 

Visit the speechless sick and still converse 
With groaning wretches; and yourtask shall be, 
With all the fierce endeavour of your wit 
To enforce the pained impotent to smile. 

Bir. To move wild laughter in the throat of 
death ? 866 

It cannot be ; it is impossible ; 

Mirth cannot move a soul in agony. 

Eos. Why, that’s the way to choke a gibing 
spirit, 

Whose influence is begot of that loose grace 
Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools. 

A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear 871 

Of him that hears it, never in the tongue 
Of him that makes it; then, if sickly ears, 
Deaf’d with the clamours of their own dear 
groans, 

Will hear your idle scorns, continue then, 875 
And I will have you and that fault withal; 

But if they will not, throw away that spirit, 
And I shall find you empty of that fault, 

Right joyful of your reformation. 

Bir. A twelvemonth ! Well, befall what will 
befall, . 880 

I ’ll jest a twelvemonth in a hospital. 

Prin. [To the King.] Ay, sweet my lord; 
and so I take my leave. 




30 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


v. 11 . 


King. No, madam ; we will bring you on 
your way. 

Bir. Our wooing doth not end like an old 
play; 

Jack hath not Jill. These ladies’ courtesy 885 
Might well have made our sport a comedy. 
King. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and 
a day, 

And then ’twill end. 

Bir. That’s too long for a play. 

Re-enter Braggart [Armado]. 

Arm. Sweet majesty, vouchsafe me, — 

Prin. Was not that Hector ? 
l)um. The worthy knight of Troy. 800 

Arm. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take 
leave. I am a votary ; I have vow’d to Jaque- 
netta to hold the plough for her sweet love 
three year. But, most esteemed greatness, will 
you hear the dialogue that the two learned men 
have compiled in praise of the owl and the (_ 8 oo 
cuckoo ? It should have followed in the end of 
our show. 

King. Call them forth quickly; we will 
do so. 

Arm. Holla ! approach. ooo 

Enter all. 

This side is Hiems, Winter; this Ver, the 
Spring; the one maintained by the owl, the 
other by the cuckoo. Ver, begin. 

The Song. 

Spring. When daisies pied and violets blue 
And lady-smocks all silver-white ooc 

And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue 

Do paint the meadows with delight, 

The cuckoo then on every tree 


Mocks married men ; for thus sings he, 

“Cuckoo; 910 

Cuckoo, cuckoo,” — 0 word of fear, 
Unpleasing to a married ear ! 

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws 
And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks, 
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, 9i6 
And maidens bleach their summer smocks, 
The cuckoo then on every tree 
Mocks married men ; for thus sings he, 

‘ ‘ Cuckoo ; 

Cuckoo, cuckoo,” —O word of fear, 928 

Unpleasing to a married ear ! 

Winter. When icicles hang by the wall 
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail 
And Tom bears logs into the hall 
And milk comes frozen home in pail, 9*6 
When blood is nipp’d and ways be foul, 

Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

“Tu-whit, tu-who!” — 

A merry note, 

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 930 

When all aloud the wind doth blow 
And coughing drowns the parson’s saw 
And birds sit brooding in the snow 
And Marian’s nose looks red and raw, 
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, 936 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

“ Tu-whit, tu-who 1 ” — 

A merry note, 

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

Arm. The words of Mercury are harsh 
after the songs of Apollo. You that way : [940 
we this way. [ Exeunt . 




THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


There has been very general agreement in regarding The Comedy of Errors as one of the earliest 
of Shakespeare’s productions. A play called A Comedy of Errors (“ like to Plautus his Menaech- 
mus ”) was acted by players at Gray’s Inn on December 28, 1594, and there seems no reason to 
doubt that this was the present play. Of internal evidences, the most pointed is the reference in 
in. ii. 125-127 to France as “ making war against her heir,” which is taken as an allusion to the 
contest between Henry of Navarre and the League (1589-94). But Henry of Navarre was heir 
to the French throne before the death of Henry III in 1589, and had been at war with France as 
early as 1585. Thus there is nothing in the passage to prevent this comedy from having come at 
the very beginning of Shakespeare’s career. The large amount of verbal quibbling in the style 
of the play ; the versification, which is marked by much rime both in couplets and alternates, 
by a considerable amount of doggerel, and by the absence of weak and light endings ; and the 
comparative rarity of prose, all point to an early date. The year 1591 has been most frequently 
conjectured, and the play may well enough have been written still earlier. It was first published 
in the First Folio of 1623, and on this the present text is based. 

The main plot is derived from the Menechmi of Plautus, which Shakespeare may have read 
either in the original or in the translation by W. W. (? William Warner). Though this transla¬ 
tion was not published till 1595, it is stated in the printer’s note to the readers that the work had 
been done by the translator “for the use and delight of his private friends,” so that Shakespeare 
may have had opportunity of access to it some time previously. 

The characters common to Plautus and Shakespeare are the two Antipholuses (Menechmi), 
Dromio of Syracuse (Messenio), Adriana (Mulier), the Courtezan (Erotium), and Pinch (Medicus). 
Shakespeare preserves in the Dromio of Syracuse, whom he borrows, and bestows upon the 
Dromio of Ephesus, whom he invents, the stock characteristics of the witty slave of Plautus. 
In Pinch’s attempt to diagnose the madness of Antipholus, there is a strong reminiscence of the 
Medicus of Plautus. Mulier in the Menechmi is more of the conventional shrew than Adriana. 
The Parasite who plays a large part in the Latin comedy, the cook and maid-servant of the 
Courtezan, and Senex, the father of Mulier, are all discarded by Shakespeare. On the other hand, 
the enveloping plot of the parents of the twins, with the characters of d£geon, ^Emilia, Solinus, 
Luciana, the Merchants, and Luce, are all due to Shakespeare’s invention. Little of the detail is 
drawn from Plautus, the most notable borrowings being the humorous treatment of the eonjurer, 
the frequent thrashings of Dromio, and the reproof administered by the Abbess to Adriana, which 
resembles the remarks addressed to Mulier by Senex. 

From the Amphitruo of Plautus are derived the scene (hi. i.) in which Antipholus of Ephesus 
and his Dromio are shut out of their own home,and the notion of “ doubling” the slaves as well 
as the masters. This play had formed the basis of an early farce, Jack Juggler (1562-63), but 
no trace is discernible of Shakespeare’s having used this intermediary. The riming fourteen- 
syllabled lines in which the Dromios often speak belong to the tradition of the early drama, and 
have also suggested an English intermediary ; a supposition which receives a slight support from 
the unexplained presence of the names Sereptus and Errotis added to Antipholus of Ephesus and 
Antipholus of Syracuse respectively in the stage directions of the Folio. Some have thought that 
Shakespeare may have founded his play on a “ Historie of Error showen at Hampton Court on 
Newyeres daie at night enacted by the Children of Powles ” (157%) ; but, though possible, 
this is far from certain. The word “ Error ” was at that time the common term for mistaken 
identity, and this was so common a device in the drama that no argument can be based on its 
mere occurrence in a title not otherwise identical. 

Though The Comedy of Errors is notable among Shakespeare’s plays for the slightness of the 
characterization, yet a comparison with Plautus shows, especially in the case of Adriana, a 
substantial superiority in elaboration and vitality on the part of Shakespeare’s creations. 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


[DRAMATIS PERSONAL 


Solinus, duke of Ephesus. 

A£geon, a merchant of Syracuse. 

Antipholus of Ephesus, ) twin brothers, and sons to 
Antipholus of Syracuse, ) ASgeon and /Emilia. 
Dromio of Ephesus, ) twin brothers, and attendants on 
Dkomio of Syracuse, ) the two Antipholuses. 
Balthazar, a merchant. 

Angelo, a goldsmith. 

First Merchant, friend to Antipholus of Syracuse. 


Second Merchant, to whom Angelo is a debtor. 
Pinch, a schoolmaster. 

^Emilia, wife to iEgeon, an abbess at Ephesus. 
Adriana, wife to Antipholus of Ephesus. 
Luciana, her sister. 

Luce, servant to Adriana. 

A Courtezan. 


Gaoler, Officers, and other Attendants. 


Scene : Ephesus .] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [A hall in the Duke 1 s palace.] 

Enter Duke, JEgeon, Gaoler, [Officers,] and 
other Attendants. 

AEge. Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall, 
And by the doom of death end woes and all. 

Duke. Merchant of Syracusa, plead no more ; 
I am not partial to infringe our laws. 

The enmity and discord which of late e 

Sprung from the rancorous outrage of your 
duke 

To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen, 
Who, wanting guilders to redeem their lives, 
Have seal’d his rigorous statutes with their 
bloods, 

Excludes all pity from our threatening looks. 10 
For, since the mortal and intestine jars 
’Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us, 

It hath in solemn synods been decreed, 

Both by the Syracusians and ourselves, 

To admit no traffic to our adverse towns. is 
Nay, more: 

If any born at Ephesus be seen 
At any Syracusian marts and fairs ; 

Again, if any Syracusian born 
Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies, 20 

His goods confiscate to the Duke’s dispose, 
Unless a thousand marks be levied, 

To quit the penalty and to ransom him. 

Thy substance, valu’d at the highest rate, 
Cannot amount unto a hundred marks ; 25 

Therefore by law thou art condemn’d to die. 
AEge. Yet this my comfort: when your words 
are done, 

My woes end likewise with the evening sun. 

Duke. Well, Syracusian, say in brief the cause 
Why thou departed’st from thy native home, 30 
And for what cause thou cam’st to Ephesus. 
jEge. A heavier task could not have been 
impos’d 

Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable ; 


Yet, that the world may witness that my end 
Was wrought by nature, not by vile offence, 3 s 
I ’ll utter what my sorrow gives me leave. 

In Syracusa was I born, and wed 
Unto a woman, happy but for me, 

And by me, had not our hap been bad. 

With her I liv’d in joy ; our wealth increas’d *0 
By prosperous voyages I often made 
To Epidamnum, till my factor’s death 
And the great care of goods at random left 
Drew me from kind embracements of my 
spouse; 

From whom my absence was not six months 
old # _ .4° 

Before herself, almost at fainting under 
The pleasing punishment that women bear, 

Had made provision for her following me, 

And soon and safe arrived where I was. 

There had she not been long but she became 
A joyful mother of two goodly sons ; r>i 

And, which was strange, the one so like the 
other 

As could not be distinguish’d but by names. 
That very hour, and in the self-same inn, 

A meaner woman was delivered as 

Of such a burden, male twins, both alike. 
Those, for their parents were exceeding poor, 

I bought and brought up to attend my sons. 

My wife, not meanly proud of two such 
boys, 

Made daily motions for our home return. 0 # 
Unwilling I agreed. Alas ! too soon 
We came aboard. 

A league from Epidamnum had we sail’d 
Before the always wind-obeying deep 
Gave any tragic instance of our harm ; es 

But longer did we not retain much hope ; 

For what obscured light the heavens did grant 
Did but convey unto our fearful minds 
A doubtful warrant of immediate death ; 
Which though myself would gladly have em¬ 
brac’d, 70 

Yet the incessant weepings of my wife, 





1 .11. 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


33 


Weeping before for what she saw must come, 
And piteous plainings of the pretty babes, 

That mourn’d for fashion, ignorant what to fear, 
Forc’d me to seek delays for them and me. 75 
And this it was, for other means was none : 

The sailors sought for safety by our boat, 

And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us. 

My wife, more careful for the latter born, 

Had fast’ned him unto.a small spare mast, so 
Such as seafaring men provide for storms. 

To him one of the other twins was bound, 
Whilst I had been like heedful of the other. 
The children thus dispos’d, my wife and I, 
Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix’d, bs 
Fast’ned ourselves at either end the mast; 

And floating straight, obedient to the stream, 
Was carried towards Corinth, as we thought. 
At length the sun, gazing upon the earth, 
Dispers’d those vapours that offended us ; »o 
And, by the benefit of his wished light, 

The seas wax’d calm, and we discovered 
Two ships from far making amain to us, 

Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this. 

But ere they came, — O, let me say no more ! 
Gather the sequel by that went before. no 

Duke. Nay, forward, old man ; do not break 
off so; 

For we may pity, though not pardon thee. 

xEge. O, had the gods done so, I had not now 
Worthily term’d them merciless to us ! 100 

For, ere the ships could meet by twice five 
leagues, 

We were encount’red by a mighty rock ; 

Which being violently borne upon, 

Our helpful ship was splitted in the midst; 

So that, in this unjust divorce of us, 105 

Fortune had left to both of us alike 
What to delight in, what to sorrow for. 

Her part, poor soul! seeming as burdened 
With lesser weight but not with lesser woe, 
Was carried with more speed before the wind ; 
And in our sight they three were taken up in 
By fishermen of Corinth, as we thought. 

At length, another ship had seiz’d on us ; 

And, knowing whom it was their hap to save, 
Gave healthful welcome to their shipwreck’d 
guests; 116 

And would have reft the fishers of their prey, 
Had not their bark been very slow of sail ; 

And therefore homeward did they bend their 
course. 

Thus have you heard me sever’d from my bliss, 
That by misfortunes was my life prolong’d 120 
To tell sad stories of my own mishaps. 

Duke. And, for the sake of them thou sorrow- 
est for, 

Do me the favour to dilate at full 
What hath befallen of them and thee till now. 
jEge. My youngest boy, and yet my eldest 
care, 126 

At eighteen years became inquisitive 
After his brother ; and importun’d me 
That his attendant — so his case was like, 

Reft of his brother, but retain’d his name — 
Might bear him company in the quest of him ; 
Whom whilst I labour’d of a love to see, 131 
I hazarded the loss of whom I lov’d. 


Five summers have I spent in farthest Greece, 
Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia, 
And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus; 136 
Hopeless to find, yet loath to leave unsought 
Or that or any place that harbours men. 

But here must end the story of my life ; 

And happy were I in my timely death, 

Could all my travels warrant me they live, u# 
Duke. Hapless H£geon, whom the fates have 
mark’d 

To bear the extremity of dire mishap! 

Now, trust me, were it not against our laws, 
Against my crown, my oath, my dignity, 
Which princes, would they, may not disannul, 
My soul should sue as advocate for thee. i*t 
But, though thou art adjudged to the death, 
And passed sentence may not be recall’d 
But to our honour’s great disparagement, 

Yet I will favour thee in what I can. i» 

Therefore, merchant, I ’ll limit thee this day 
To seek thy life by beneficial help. 

Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus ; 

Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum, 

And live ; if no, then thou art doom’d to die. 
Gaoler, take him to thy custody. 150 

Gaol. I will, my lord. 

AEge. Hopeless and helpless doth ^Sgeon 
wend, 

But to procrastinate his lifeless end. [Exeunt. 

[Scene II. The mart.] 

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse, Dromio of 
Syracuse, and First Merchant. 

1. Mer. Therefore give out you are of Epi- 
damnum, 

Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate. 
This very day a Syracusian merchant 
Is apprehended for arrival here ; 

And, not being able to buy out his life s 

According to the statute of the town, 

Dies ere the weary sun set in the west. 

There is your money that I had to keep. 

Ant. S. Go bear it to the Centaur, where we 
host. 

And stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee. 10 
Within this hour it will be dinner-time ; 

Till that, I ’ll view the manners of the town, 
Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings, 
And then return and sleep within mine inn, 

For with long travel I am stiff and weary. is 
Get thee away. 

Dro. S. Many a man would take you at your 
word. 

And go, indeed, having so good a mean. [Exit. 

Ant. S. A trusty villain, sir, that very oft, 
When I am dull with care and melancholy, 20 
Lightens my humour with his merry jests. 
What, will you walk with me about the town, 
And then go to my inn and dine with me ? 

1. Mer. I am invited, sir, to certain mer¬ 
chants, 

Of whom I hope to make much benefit; 26 

I crave your pardon. Soon, at five o’clock, 
Please you, I ’ll meet with you upon the mart 
And afterward consort you till bed-time. 

My present business calls me from you now. 








34 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


ii. i. 


Ant. S. Farewell till then. I will go lose my¬ 
self, _ # 30 

And wander up and down to view the city. 

1 . Mer. Sir, I commend you to your own 
content. _ [Exit. 

Ant . S. He that commends me to mine own 
content 

Commends me to the thing I cannot get. 

I to the world am like a drop of water 35 

That in the ocean seeks another drop, 

Who, falling there to find his fellow forth, 
Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself. 

So I, to find a mother and a brother, 

In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself. 40 

Enter Dromio of Ephesus. 

Here comes the almanac of my true date. 

What now ? How chance thou art return’d so 
soon ? 

Dro. E. Return’d so soon ! rather approach’d 
too late. 

The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit, 
The clock hath strucken twelve upon the 
bell; > 45 

My mistress made it one upon my cheek, 

She is so hot because the meat is cold ; 

The meat is cold because you come not home ; 
You come not home because you have no 
stomach; 

You have no stomach having broke your fast; 
But we that know what ’tis to fast and pray gi 
A re penitent for your default to-day. 

Ant. S. Stop in your wind, sir ; tell me this, 
I pray: 

Where have you left the money that I gave 
you ? 

Dro. E. 0 , — sixpence, that I had o’ Wednes¬ 
day last _ 65 

To pay the saddler for my mistress’ crupper ? 
The saddler had it, sir ; I kept it not. 

Ant. S. I am not in a sportive humour 
now. 

Tell me, and dally not, where is the money ? 
We being strangers here, how dar’st thou trust 
So great a charge from thine own custody ? 01 

Dro. E. I pray you, jest, sir, as you sit at 
dinner. 

I from my mistress come to you in post ; 

If I return, I shall be post indeed, 

For she will score your fault upon my pate. 65 
Methinks your maw, like mine, should be your 
clock 

And strike you home without a messenger. 

Ant. S. Come, Dromio, come, these jests are 
out of season; 

Reserve them till a merrier hour than this. 
Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee ? to 

Dro. E. To me, sir ? Why, you gave no gold 
to me. 

Ant. S. Come on, sir knave, have done your 
foolishness 

And tell me how thou hast dispos’d thy charge. 

Dro. E. My charge was but to fetch you from 
the mart 

Home to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to din¬ 
ner. 75 

My mistress and her sister stays for you. 


Ant. S. Now, as I am a Christian, answer me 
In what safe place you have bestow’d my 
money, 

Or I shall break that merry sconce of yours 
That stands on tricks when I am undispos’d. 
Where is the thousand marks thou hadst of 
me ? 81 

Dro. E. I have some marks of yours upon my 
pate, 

Some of my mistress’ marks upon my shoul¬ 
ders, 

But not a thousand marks between you both. 

If I should pay your worship those again, 80 
Perchance you will not bear them patiently. 

Ant. S. Thy mistress’ marks ? What mis¬ 
tress, slave, hast thou ? 

Dro. E. Your worship’s wife, my mistress at 
the Phoenix ; 

She that doth fast till you come home to dinner, 
And prays that you will hie you home to din¬ 
ner. 00 

Ant. S. What, wilt thou flout me thus unto 
my face, 

Being forbid ? There, take you that, sir knave. 

Dro. E. What mean you, sir ? For God’s 
sake, hold your hands ! 

Nay, an you will not, sir, I ’ll take my heels. 

[Exit. 

Ant. S. Upon my life, by some device or 
other 96 

The villain is o’erraught of all my money. 

They say this town is full of cozenage, 

As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye, 
Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind, 
Soul-killing witches that deform the body, 100 
Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks, 

And many such-like liberties of sin. 

If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner. 

I ’ll to the Centaur to go seek this slave ; 

I greatly fear my money is not safe. [Exit. 105 

ACT II 

[Scene I. The house of Antipholus of Ephesus .] 
Enter Adriana and Luciana. 

Adr. Neither my husband nor the slave re¬ 
turn’d, 

That in such haste I sent to seek his master! 
Sure, Luciana, it is two o’clock. 

Luc. Perhaps some merchant hath invited 
him 

And from the mart he’s somewhere gone to 
dinner. 5 

Good sister, let us dine and never fret. 

A man is master of his liberty. 

Time is their master, and when they see time 
They ’ll go or come ; if so, be patient, sister. 

Adr. Why should their liberty than ours be 
more ? 10 

Luc. Because their business still lies out o’ 
door. 

Adr. Look, when I serve him so, he takes it 
ill. 

Luc. 0 , know he is the bridle of your will. 

Adr. There’s none but. asses will be bridled 
so. 





THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


35 


ii. i. 


Luc. Why, headstrong liberty is lash’d with 
woe. is 

There ’s nothing situate under heaven’s eye 
But hath his hound ; in earth, in sea, in sky, 
The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls 
Are their males’ subjects and at their controls ; 
Man, more divine, the master of all these, 20 
Lord of the wide world and wild watery seas, 
Indu’d with intellectual sense and souls, 

Of more preeminence than fish and fowls, 

Are masters to their females, and their lords: 
Then letyour will attend on their accords. 25 
Adr. This servitude makes you to keep un¬ 
wed. 

Luc. Not this, but troubles of the marriage- 
bed. 

Adr. But, were you wedded, you would bear 
some sway. 

Luc. Ere I learn love, I ’ll practise to obey. 
Adr. How if your husband start some other 
where ? 30 

Luc. Till he came home again, I would for¬ 
bear. 

Adr. Patience unmov’d! no marvel though 
she pause. 

They can be meek that have no other cause. 

A wretched soul, bruis’d with adversity, 

We bid be quiet, when we hear it cry ; 35 

But were we burd’ned with like weight of pain, 
As much or more we should ourselves complain ; 
So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve 
thee, 

With urging helpless patience would relieve 
me ; 

But, if thou live to see like right bereft, 40 
This fool-begg’d patience in thee will be left. 

Luc. Well, I will marry one day, but to try. 
Here comes your man; now is your husband 
nigh. 

Enter Dromio of Ephesus. 

Adr. Say, is your tardy master now at hand ? 
Dro. E. Nay, he’s at two hands with me, 
and that my two ears can witness. « 

Adr. Say, didst thou speak with him ? 
Know’st thou his mind ? 

Dro. E. Ay, ay, he told his mind upon mine 
ear. 

Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it. 

Luc. Spake he so doubtfully, thou couldst 
not feel his meaning ? so 

Dro. E. Nay, he struck so plainly, I could 
too well feel his blows ; and withal so doubtfully 
that I could scarce understand them. 

Adr. But say, I prithee, is he coming home ? [55 
It seems he hath great care to please his wife. 
Dro. E. Why, mistress, sure my master is 
horn-mad. 

Adr. Horn-mad, thou villain ! 

Dro. E. I mean not cuckold-mad ; 

But, sure, he is stark mad. 

When I desir’d him to come home to dinner, 00 
He ask’d me for a thousand marks in gold. 
“’Tis dinner-time,” quoth I; ‘‘My gold,” 
quoth he. 

“ Your meat doth burn,” quoth I; “ My gold ! ” 
quoth he. 


“Will you come home ? ” quoth I; “ My gold ! ” 
quoth he, 

“Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, 
villain ? ” 65 

“The pig - ,” quoth I, “is burn’d; ” “My 
gold ! ” quoth he. 

“ My mistress, sir,” quoth I; “ Hang up thy 
mistress! 

I know not thy mistress. Out on thy mistress ! ” 

Luc. Quoth who ? 

Dro. E. Quoth my master. to 

“ I know,” quoth he, “ no house, no wife, no 
mistress.” 

So that my errand, due unto my tongue, 

I thank him, I bare home upon my shoulders ; 
For, in conclusion, he did beat me there. 

Adr. Go back again, thou slave, and fetch 
him home. to 

Dro. E. Go back agaiu, and be new beaten 
home ? 

For God’s sake, send some other messenger. 

Adr. Back, slave, or I will break thy pate 
across. 

Dro. E. And he will bless that cross with 
other beating. 

Between you I shall have a holy head. so 

Adr. Hence, prating peasant! Fetch thy 
master home. 

Dro. E. Am I so round with you as you with 
me, 

That like a football you do spurn me thus ? 
You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me 
hither. 

If I last in this service, you must case me in 
leather. [Exit.] 05 

Luc. Fie, how impatience loureth in your 
face! 

Adr. His company must do his minions 
grace, 

Whilst I at home starve for a merry look. 

Hath homely age the alluring beauty took 
From my poor cheek ? Then he hath wasted 
it. ao 

Are my discourses dull ? Barren my wit ? 

If voluble and sharp discourse be marr’d, 
Unkindness blunts it more than marble hard. 
Do their gay vestments his affections bait ? 
That’s not my fault; he’s master of my state. 
What ruins are in me that can be found sw 
By him not ruin’d ? Then is he the ground 
Of my defeatures. My decayed fair 
A sunny look of his would soon repair. 

But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale 100 
And feeds from home ; poor I am but his stale. 

Luc. Self-harming jealousy! fie, beat it 
hence ! 

Adr. Unfeeling fools can with such wrongs 
dispense. 

I know his eye doth homage otherwhere, 

Or else what lets it but he would be here ? 105 

Sister, you know he promis’d me a chain ; 
Would that alone, alone he would detain, 

So he would keep fair quarter with his bed ! 

I see the jewel best enamelled 
Will lose his beauty; and tho’ gold bides still 
That others touch, yet often touching will in 
Wear gold ; and no man that hath a name, 











36 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


ii. ii. 


By falsehood and corruption doth it shame. 
Since that my beauty cannot please his eye, 

I ’ll weep what’s left away, and weeping die. 
Luc. How many fond fools serve mad jeal¬ 
ousy ? [j Exeunt, ns 

[Scene II. A public place.] 

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse. 

Ant. S. The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up 
Safe at the Centaur ; and the heedful slave 
Is wand’red forth, in care to seek me out. 

By computation and mine host’s report, 

I could not speak with Dromio since at first o 
I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes. 

Enter Dromio of Syracuse. 

How now, sir! is your merry humour alter’d ? 
As you love strokes, so jest with me again. 

You know no Centaur ? You receiv’d no gold ? 
Your mistress sent to have me home to din¬ 
ner ? 10 

My house was at the Phoenix ? Wast thou 
mad, 

That thus so madly thou didst answer me ? 

Dro. 8. What answer, sir ? When spake I 
such a word ? 

Ant. S. Even now, even here, not half an 
hour since. 

Dro. S. I did not see you since you sent me 
hence, is 

Home to the Centaur, with the gold you gave 
me. 

Ant. S. Villain, thou didst deny the gold’s 
receipt 

And told’st me of a mistress and a dinner ; 

For which, I hope, thou felt’st I was displeas’d. 
Dro. S. I am glad to see you in this merry 
vein. 20 

What means this jest ? I pray you, master, tell 
me. 

Ant. 8. Yea, dost thou jeer and flout me in 
the teeth ? 

Think’st thou I jest? Hold, take thou that, 
and that. [ Beats Dro. 

Dro. 8. Hold, sir, for God’s sake ! Now your 
jest is earnest. 

Upon what bargain do you give it me ? 25 

Ant. S. Because that I familiarly sometimes 

Do use you for my fool and chat with you, 

Your sauciness will jest upon my love 
And make a common of my serious hours. 
When the sun shines let foolish gnats make 
sport, 30 

But creep in crannies when he hides his beams. 
If you will jest with me, know my aspect 
And fashion your demeanour to my looks, 

Or I will beat this method in your sconce. 

Dro. S. Sconce call you it V So you would 
leave battering, I had rather have it a head. [33 
An you use these blows long, I must get a 
sconce for my head and insconce it too, or else 
I shall seek my wit in my shoulders. But, I 
pray, sir, why am I beaten ? 40 

Ant. S. Dost thou not know ? 

Dro. S. Nothing, sir, but that I am beaten. 
Ant. S. Shall I tell you why ? 


Dro. S. Ay, sir, and wherefore ; for they say 
every why hath a wherefore. 45 

Ant. S. Why, first, — for flouting me ; and 
then, wherefore, — 

For urging it the second time to me. 

Dro. S. Was there ever any man thus beaten 
out of season, 

When in the why and the wherefore is neither 
rhyme nor reason ? 

Well, sir, I thank you. eo 

Ant. 8. Thank me, sir! For what ? 

Dro. S. Marry, sir, for this something that 
you gave me for nothing. 

Ant. S. I ’ll make you amends next, to give 
you nothing for something. But say, sir, is it 
dinner-time ? cs 

Dro. S. No, sir. I think the meat wants that 
I have. 

Ant. 8. In good time, sir; what’s that ? 

Dro. S. Basting. 

Ant. 8. Well, sir, then ’twill be dry. eo 
Dro. S. If it be, sir, I pray you, eat none of 
it. 

Ant. S. Your reason ? 

Dro. S. Lest it make you choleric and pur¬ 
chase me another dry basting. 

Ant. S. Well, sir, learn to jest in good 
time. There’s a time for all things. 66 

Dro. S. I durst have denied that, before you 
were so choleric. 

Ant. S. By what rule, sir ? 

Dro. S. Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as 
the plain bald pate of father Time himself. 70 
Ant. S. Let’s hear it. 

Dro. S. There’s no time for a man to re¬ 
cover his hair that grows bald by nature. 

Ant. S. May he not do it by fine and re¬ 
covery ? 75 

Dro. 8. Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig and 
recover the lost hair of another man. 

Ant. 8.' Why is Time such a niggard of hair, 
being, as it is, so plentiful an excrement ? 

Dro. 8. Because it is a blessing that he [»« 
bestows on beasts; and what he hath scanted 
men in hair he hath given them in wit. 

Ant. 8 . Why, but there’s many a man hath 
more hair than wit. 

Dro. 8. Not a man of those but he hath the 
wit to lose his hair. sc 

Ant. 8. Why, thou didst conclude hairy men 
plain dealers without wit. 

Dro. 8. The plainer dealer, the sooner lost; 
yet he loseth it in a kind of jollity. ue 

Ant. S. For what reason ? 

Dro. S. For two; and sound ones too. 

Ant. S. Nay, not sound, I pray you. 

Dro. S. Sure ones, then. 

Ant. S. Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing. 95 
Dro. S. Certain ones, then. 

Ant. S. Name them. 

Dro. S. The one, to save the money that he 
spends in tiring; the other, that at dinner, they 
should not drop in his porridge. 109 

Ant. S. You would all this time have prov’d 
there is no time for all things. 

Dro. S. Marry, and did, sir; namely, no time 
to recover hair lost by nature. 






II. 11. 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


37 


Ant. S. But your reason was not substantial, 
why there is no time to recover. iog 

Dro. S. Thus i mend it: Time himself is 
bald and therefore to the world’s end will have 
bald followers. 

Ant. S. I knew ’t would be a bald conclu¬ 
sion. — But, soft! who wafts us yonder ? m 

Enter Adriana and Luciana. 

Adr. Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange and 
frown, 

Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects ; 

I am not Adriana, nor thy wife. 

The time was once when thou unurg’d wouldst 

VOW 116 

That never words were music to thine ear, 

That never object pleasing in thine eye, 

That never touch well welcome to thy hand, 
That never meat sweet-savour’d in thy taste, 
Unless I spake, or look’d, or touch’d, or carv’d 
to thee. 120 

How comes it now, my husband, 0 , how comes 

it, 

That thou art then estranged from thyself ? 
Thyself I call it, being strange to me, 

That, undividable, incorporate, 

Am better than thy dear self’s better part. 125 
Ah, do not tear away thyself from me ! 

For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall 
A drop of water in the breaking gulf 
And take unmingled thence that drop again, 
Without addition or diminishing, 130 

As take from me thyself and not me too. 

How dearly would it touch thee to the quick 
Shouldst thou but hear I were licentious, 

And that this body, consecrate to thee, 

By ruffian lust should be contaminate I 135 
Wouldst thou not spit at me, and spurn at me, 
And hurl the name of husband in my face, 

And tear the stain’d skin off my harlot-brow, 
And from my false hand cut the wedding-ring 
And break it with a deep-divorcing vow ? no 
I know thou canst; and therefore see thou do it. 
I am possess’d with an adulterate blot; 

My blood is mingled with the crime of lust; 

For if we two be one and thou play false, 

I do digest the poison of thy flesh, 1*6 

Being strumpeted by thy contagion. 

Keep then fair league and truce with thy true 
bed; 

I live distain’d, thou undishonoured. 

Ant. S. Plead you to me, fair dame ? I know 
you not. 

In Ephesus I am but two hours old, 160 

As strange unto your town as to your talk ; 
Who, every word by all my wit being scann’d, 
Wants wit in all one word to understand. 

Luc. Fie, brother! how the world is chang’d 
with you! 

When were you wont to use my sister thus ? 155 
She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner. 
Ant. S. By Dromio ? 

Dro. 1 S. By me ? 

Adr. By thee ; and this thou didst return 
from him, 

That he did buffet thee, and in his blows 100 
Denied my house for his, me for his wife. 


Ant. S. Did you converse, sir, with this gen¬ 
tlewoman ? 

What is the course and drift of your compact ? 
Dro. S. I, sir ? I never saw her till this time. 
Ant. S. Villain, thou liest; for even her very 
words 166 

Didst thou deliver to me on the mart. 

Dro. S. I never spake with her in all my life. 
Ant. S. How can she thus then call us by our 
names, 

Unless it be by inspiration ? 

Adr. How ill agrees it with your gravity no 
To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave, 
Abetting him to thwart me in my mood 1 
Be it my wrong you are from me exempt, 

But wrong not that wrong with a more con¬ 
tempt. 

Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine, ns 
Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine, 

Whose weakness married to thy stronger state 
Makes me with thy strength to communicate. 
If aught possess thee from me, it is dross, 
Usurping ivy, brier, or idle moss ; iso 

Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion 
Infect thy sap and live on thy confusion. 

Ant. S. To me she speaks ; she moves me for 
her theme. 

What, was I married to her in my dream ? 

Or sleep I now and think I hear all this ? 186 

What error drives our eyes and ears amiss ? 
Until I know this sure uncertainty, 

I ’ll entertain the offer’d fallacy. 

Luc. Dromio, go bid the servants spread for 
dinner. 

Dro. S. 0 , for my beads! I cross me for a 
sinner. ioo 

This is the fairy land. 0 spite of spites ! 

We talk with goblins, owls, and sprites. 

If we obey them not, this will ensue, 

They ’ll suck our breath or pinch us black and 
blue. 

Luc. Why prat’st thou to thyself and an- 
swer’st not ? i 9 « 

Dromio, thou Dromio, thou snail, thou slug, 
thou sot! 

Dro. S. I am transformed, master, am not I ? 
Ant. S. I think thou art in mind, and so 
am I. 

Dro. S. Nay, master, both in mind and in my 
shape. 

Ant. S. Thou hast thine own form. 

Dro. S. No, I am an ape. 

Luc. If thou art chang’d to aught, ’tis to an 
ass. 201 

Dro. S. ’T is true; she rides me and I long 
for grass. 

’T is so, I am an ass ; else it could never be 
But I should know her as well as she knows me. 

Adr. Come, come ; no longer will I be a fool, 
To put the finger in the eye and weep, 20c 

Whilst man and master laughs my woes to scorn. 
Come, sir, to dinner. Dromio, keep the gate. 
Husband, I ’ll dine above with you to-day 
And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks. 2w 
Sirrah, if any ask you for your master. 

Say he dines forth and let no creature enter. 
Come, sister. Dromio, play the porter well. 




3» 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


III. L 


Ant. S. Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell? 
Sleeping or waking ? Mad or well-advis’d ? 215 
Known unto these, and to myself disguis’d 1 
I ’ll say as they say and persever so, 

And in this mist at all adventures go. 

Dro. S. Master, shall I be porter at the gate ? 
Adr. Ay; and let none enter, lest I break 
your pate. 220 

Luc. Come, come, Antipholus, we dine too 
late. \Exeunt.\ 

ACT III 

Scene I. [ Before the house of Antipholus of 
Ephesus.] 

Enter Antipholus of Ephesus, Dromio of 
Ephesus, Angelo, the goldsmith , and Bal¬ 
thazar, the merchant. 

Ant. E. Good Signior Angelo, you must 
excuse us all; 

My wife is shrewish when I keep not hours. 

Say that I linger’d with you at your shop 
To see the making of her carcanet, 

And that to-morrow you will bring it home, s 
But here’s a villain that would face me down 
He met me on the mart, and that I beat him 
And charg’d him with a thousand marks in 
gold. 

And that I did deny my wife and house. 

Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by 
this ? 10 

Dro. E. Say what you will, sir, but I know 
what I know. 

That you beat me at the mart, I have your hand 
to show. 

If the skin were parchment and the blows you 
gave were ink, 

Your own handwriting would tell you what I 
think. 

Ant. E. I think thou art an ass. 

Dro. E. Marry, so it doth appear 

By the wrongs I suffer and the blows I bear, is 
I should kick, being kick’d ; and, being at that 
pass, 

You would keep from my heels and beware of 
an ass. 

Ant. E. You ’re sad, Signior Balthazar ; pray 
God our cheer 

May answer my good will and your good wel¬ 
come here. 20 

Bal. I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your 
welcome dear. 

Ant. E. O, Signior Balthazar, either at flesh 
or fish, 

A table-full of welcome makes scarce one dainty 
dish. 

Bal. Good meat, sir, is common ; that every 
churl affords. 

Ant. E. And welcome more common; for 
that ’s nothing but words. 25 

Bal. Small cheer and great welcome makes 
a merry feast. 

Ant. E. Ay, to a niggardly host and more 
sparing guest; 

But though my cates be mean, take them in good 
part; 


Better cheer may you have, but not with better 
heart. 

But, soft! my door is lock’d. Go bid them let 
us in. # 30 

Dro. E. Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicely, Gil¬ 
lian, Ginn! 

Dro. S. [ Within.] Mome, malt-horse, capon, 
coxcomb, idiot, patch! 

Either get thee from the door or sit down at the 
hatch. 

Dost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call’s! 
for such store 

When one is one too many ? Go get thee from 
the door. ss 

Dro. E. What patch is made our porter ? My 
master stays in the street. 

Dro. S. [ Within.] Let him walk from whence 
he came, lest he catch cold on’s feet. 

Ant. E. Who talks within there ? Ho, open 
the door! 

Dro. S. [Within.] Right, sir; I’ll tell you 
when, an you ’ll tell me wherefore. 

Ant. E. Wherefore ? For my dinner. I have 
not din’d to-day. « 

Dro. S. [ Within.] Nor to-day here you must 
not, come again when you may. 

Ant. E. What art thou that keep’st me out 
from the house I owe ? 

Dro. S. [ Within.] The porter for this time, 
sir, and my name is Dromio. 

Dro. E. O villain ! thou hast stolen both mine 
office and my name. 

The one ne’er got me credit, the other mickle 
blame. « 

If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my 
place, 

Thou wouldst have chang’d thy face for a name, 
or thy name for an ass. 

Enter Luce [within]. 

Luce. [ Within .] What a coil is there, Dromio ? 
Who are those at the gate ? 

Dro. E. Let my master in, Luce. 

Luce. [Within.] Faith, no ; he comes too late ; 

And so tell your master. 

. Dro. E. O Lord, I must laugh ! 

Have at you with a proverb — Shall I set in my 
staff ? 6 i 

Luce. [Within.] Have at you with another; 
that’s — When ? Can you tell ? 

Dro. S. [Within.] If thy name be called 
Luce, — Luce, thou hast answer’d him 
well. 

Ant. E. Do you hear, you minion ? You ’ll 
let us in, I hope ? 

Luce. [Within.] I thought to have ask’d you. 

Dro. S. [Within.] And you said no. 

Dro. E. So, come, help : well struck ! there 
was blow for blow. 00 

Ant. E. Thou baggage, let me in. 

Luce. [ Within.] Can you tell for whose sake ? 

Dro. E. Master, knock the door hard. 

Luce. [Within.] Let him knock till it ache. 

Ant. E. You ’ll cry for this, minion, if I beat 
the door down. 

Luce. [Within.] What needs all that, and a 
pair of stocks in the town ? #0 








III. 11. 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


39 


Enter Adriana [within]. 

Adr. [Within.] Who is that at the door that 
keeps all this noise ? 

Dro. S. [ Within.] By my troth, your town is 
troubled with unruly boys. 

Ant. E. Are you there, wife ? You might 
have come before. 

Adr. [ Within.] Your wife, sir knave! Go, 
get you from the door. 

Dro. E. If you went in pain, master, this 
knave would go sore. iss 

Ang. Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome ; 
we would fain have either. 

Bal. In debating which was best, we shall 
part with neither. 

Dro. E. They stand at the door, master ; bid 
them welcome hither. 

Ant. E. There is something in the wind, that 
we cannot get in. 

Dro. E. You would say so, master, if your 
garments were thin. 70 

Your cake here is warm within ; you stand 
here in the cold. 

It would make a man mad as a buck, to be 
so bought and sold. 

Ant. E. Go fetch me something ; I ’ll break 
ope the gate. 

Dro. 8. [ Within.] Break any breaking here, 
and I ’ll break your knave’s pate. 

Dro. E. A man may break a word with you, 
sir, and words are but wind, 75 

Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it 
not behind. 

Dro. S. [ Within.] It seems thou want’st 
breaking. Out upon thee, hind ! 

Dro. E. Here’s too much “ out upon thee! ” 
I prav thee, let me in. 

Dro. S. [Within.] Ay, when fowls have no 
feathers, and fish have no fin. 

Ant. E. Well, I ’ll break in ; go borrow me 
a crow. so 

Dro. E. A crow without feather ? Master, 
mean you so ? 

For a fish without a fin, there’s a fowl without 
a feather. 

If a crow help us in, sirrah, we ’ll pluck a crow 
together. 

Ant. E. Go, get thee gone; fetch me an 
iron crow. 

Bal. Have patience, sir ; 0 , let it not be so ! 
Herein you war against your reputation sc 

And draw within the compass of suspect 
The unviolated honour of your wife. 

Once this, — your long experience of her wis¬ 
dom, 

Her sober virtue, years, and modesty, 00 

Plead on her part some cause to you unknown ; 
And doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse 
Why at this time the doors are made against you. 
Be rul’d by me ; depart in patience, 

And let us to the Tiger all to dinner; os 

And about evening come yourself alone 
To know the reason of this strange restraint. 

If by strong hand you offer to break in 
Now in the stirring passage of the day, 

A vulgar comment will be made of it, wo 


And that supposed by the common rout 
Against your yet ungalled estimation 
That may with foul intrusion enter in 
And dwell upon your grave when you are dead ; 
For slander lives upon succession, 105 

For ever hous’d where’t gets possession. 

Ant. E. You have prevail’d. I will depart 
in quiet, 

And, in despite of mirth, mean to be merry. 

I know a wench of excellent discourse, 

Pretty and witty, wild, and yet, too, gentle, no 
There will we dine. This woman that I mean, 
My wife — but, I protest, without desert — 
Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal. 

To her will we to dinner. [To Ang.] Get you 
home 

And fetch the chain; by this I know ’t is 
made. ne 

Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpentine ; 

For there’s the house. That chain will I be¬ 
stow — 

Be it for nothing but to spite my wife — 

Upon mine hostess there. Good sir, make haste. 
Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, 120 
I ’ll knock elsewhere, to see if they ’ll disdain 
me. 

Ang. I ’ll meet you at that place some hour 
hence. 

Ant. E. Do so. This jest shall cost me some 
expense. [Exeunt. 

[Scene II. The san.e.] 

Enter Luciana and Antipholus of Syracuse. 

Luc. And may it be that you have quite forgot 
A husband’s office ? Shall, Antipholus, 

Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot ? 

Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous? 

If you did wed my sister for her wealth, s 
Then for her wealth’s sake use her with more 
kindness ; 

Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth ; 
Muffle your false love with some show of 
blindness; 

Let not my sister read it in your eye ; 

Be not thy tongue thy own shame’s orator ; 
Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty ; 11 

Apparel vice like virtue’s harbinger ; 

Bear a fair presence, though your heart be 
tainted ; 

Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint; u 
Be secret-false. What need she be acquainted ? 

What simple thief brags of his own attaint? 
’T is double wrong, to truant with your bed 
And let her read it in thy looks at board. 
Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed; 

Ill deeds is doubled with an evil word. 20 
Alas, poor women ! make us but believe, 

Being compact of credit, that you love us ; 
Though others have the arm, show us the 
sleeve ; 

We in your motion turn and you may move us. 
Then, gentle brother, get you in again ; _ 26 

Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife. 

’T is holy sport to be a little vain, 

When the sweet breath of flattery conquers 
strife. 









40 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


hi. il 


Ant. S. Sweet mistress, — what your name is 
else, I know not, 

Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine, — 
Less in your knowledge and your grace you 
show not si 

Than our earth’s wonder, more than earth 
divine. 

Teach me, dear creature, how to think and 
speak ; 

Lay open to my earthy, gross conceit, 
Smoth’red in errors, feeble, shallow, weak, 35 
The folded meaning of your words’ deceit. 
Against my soul’s pure truth why labour you 
To make it wander in an unknown field ? 

Are you a god ? Would you create me new ? 
Transform me then, and to your power I ’ll 
yield. 40 

But if that I am I, then well I know 
Your weeping sister is no wife of mine, 

Nor to her bed no homage do I owe. 

Far more, far more to you do I decline. 

0 , train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note, 
To drown me in thy sister’s flood of tears. *6 
Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote ; 

Spread o’er the silver waves thy golden hairs, 
And as a bed I ’ll take them and there lie, 

And in that glorious supposition think so 

He gains by death that hath such means to die. 
Let Love, being light, be drowned if she sink ! 
Luc. What, are you mad, that you do reason 
so ? 

Ant. S. Not mad, hut mated ; how, I do not 
know. 

Luc. It is a fault that springeth from your 
eye. 55 

Ant. S : For gazing on your beams, fair sun, 
being by. 

Luc. Gaze when you should, and that will 
clear your sight. 

Ant. S. As good to wink, sweet love, as look 
on night. 

Luc. Why call you me love ? Call my sister 
so. 

Ant. S. Thy sister’s sister. 

Luc. That’s my sister. 

Ant. S. ' No; 

It is thyself, mine own self’s better part, 61 

Mine eye’s clear eye, my dear heart’s dearer 
heart, 

My food, my fortune, and my sweethope’s aim, 
My sole earth’s heaven, and my heaven’s claim. 
Luc. All this my sister is, or else should be. 
Ant. S. Call thyself sister, sweet, for I am 
thee. ee 

Thee will I love and with thee lead my life ; 
Thou hast no husband yet nor I no wife. 

Give me thy hand. 

Luc. ' 0, soft, sir ! hold you still. 09 

I ’ll fetch my sister, to get her good will. [Exit. 

Enter Dromio of Syracuse. 

Ant. S. Why, how now, Dromio! Where 
runn’st thou so fast ? 

Dro. S. Do you know me, sir ? Am I Dro¬ 
mio ? Am I your man ? Am I myself ? 

Ant. S. Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, 
thou art thyself. 76 


Dro. S. I am an ass, I am a woman’s man, 
and besides myself. 

Ant. S. What woman’s man, and how besides 
thyself ? so 

Dro. S. Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due 
to a woman ; one that claims me, one that haunts 
me, one that will have me. 

Ant. S. What claim lays she to thee ? 

Dro. S. Marry, sir, such claim as you would 
lay to your horse ; and she would have me as [se 
a beast: not that, I being a beast, she would 
have me ; but that she, being a very beastly crea¬ 
ture, lays claim to me. 

Ant. S. What is she ? 00 

Dro. S. A very reverend body ; ay, such a 
one as a man may not speak of without he say 
“Sir-reverence.” I have but lean luck in the 
match, and yet is she a wondrous fat mar¬ 
riage. 

Ant. S. How dost thou mean a fat marriage ? 
Dro. S. Marry, sir, she’s the kitchen wench 
and all grease ; and I know not what use to [07 
put her to but to make a lamp of her and run 
from her by her own light. I warrant, her rags 
and the tallow in them will burn a Poland win¬ 
ter. If she lives till doomsday, she ’ll burn a 
week longer than the whole world. 102 

Ant. S. What complexion is she of? 

Dro. S. Swart, like my shoe, but her face 
nothing like so clean kept: for why, she 
sweats ; a man may go over shoes in the [105 
grime of it. 

Ant. S. That’s a fault that water will mend. 
Dro. S. No, sir, ’t is in grain ; Noah’s flood 
could not do it. 

Ant. S. What’s her name ? up 

Dro. S. Nell, sir; but her name and three 
quarters, that’s an ell and three quarters, will 
not measure her from hip to hip. 

Ant. S. Then she bears some breadth ? 

Dro. S. No longer from head to foot than [us 
from hip to hip. She is spherical, like a globe ; 
I could find out countries in her. 

Ant. S. In what part of her body stands 
Ireland ? 

Dro. S. Marry, sir, in her buttocks ; I found 
it out by the bogs. 121 

A nt. S. Where Scotland ? 

Dro. S. I found it by the barrenness ; hard 
in the palm of the hand. 

Ant. S. Where France ? 12s 

Dro. S. In her forehead; armed and re¬ 
verted, making war against her heir. 

Ant. S. Where England ? 

Dro. S. I looked for the chalky cliffs, but I 
could find no whiteness in them ; but I guess it 
stood in her chin, by the salt rheum that [131 
ran between France and it. 

Ant. S. Where Spain ? 

Dro. S. Faith, I saw it not; but I felt it hot 
in her breath. 136 

Ant. S. Where America, the Indies ? 

Dro. S. Oh, sir, upon her nose, all o’er em¬ 
bellished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, de¬ 
clining their rich aspect to the hot breath of 
Spain ; who sent whole armadoes of caracks to 
be ballast at her nose. i« 




IV. 1. 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


4i 


Ant. S. Where stood Belgia, the Nether¬ 
lands ? 

Dro. S. Oh, sir, I did not look so low. To 
conclude, this drudge, or diviner, laid claim to 
me ; called me Dromio ; swore I was assur’d to 
her; told me what privy marks I had [i« 
about me, as, the mark of my shoulder, the 
mole in my neck, the great wart on my left 
arm, that I, amaz’d, ran from her as a witch. 
And, I think, if my breast had not been made 
of faith and my heart of steel, 130 

She had transform’d me to a curtal dog and 
made me turn i’ the wheel. 

Ant. S. Go, hie thee presently post to the 
road ; 

An if the wind blow any way from shore, 

I will not harbour in this town to-night. 

If any bark put forth, come to the mart, 155 
Where I will walk till thou return to me. 

If every one knows us and we know none, 

’Tis time, I think, to trudge, pack, and be 
gone. 

Dro. S. As from a bear a man would run for 
life, 139 

So fly I from her that would be my wife. [Exit. 
Ant. S. There’s none but witches do inhabit 
here ; 

And therefore’t is high time that I were hence. 
She that doth call me husband, even my soul 
Doth for a wife abhor. But her fair sister, 
Possess’d with such a gentle sovereign grace, i 65 
Of such enchanting presence and discourse, 
Hath almost made me traitor to myself. 

But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong, 

I ’ll stop mine ears against the mermaid’s song. 

Enter Angelo with the chain. 

Ang. Master Antipholus,— 

Ant. S. Ay, that’s my name. 

Ang. I know it well, sir; lo, here is the 
chain. m 

I thought to have ta’en you at the Porpentine ; 
The chain unfinish’d made me stay thus long. 
Ant. S. What is your will that I shall do 
with this ? 

Ang. What please yourself, sir ; I have made 
it for you. its 

Ant. S. Made it for me, sir! I bespoke it 
not. 

Ang. Not once, nor twice, but twenty times 
you have. 

Go home with it and please your wife withal; 
And soon at supper-time I ’ll visit you 
And then receive my money for the chain, iso 
Ant. S. I pray you, sir, receive the money 
now, 

For fear you ne’er see chain nor money more. 
Ang. You are a merry man, sir ; fare you 
well. < [Exit. 

Ant. S. What I should think of this, I can¬ 
not tell; 

But this I think, there’s no man is so vain iss 
That would refuse so fair an offer’d chain. 

I.see a man here needs not live by shifts, 

When in the streets he meets such golden gifts. 
I ’ll to the mart and there for Dromio stay, iso 
If any ship put out, then straight away. [Exit. 


ACT IV 

Scene I. [A public place.\ 

Enter Second Merchant, Angelo, and an 
Officer. 

2. Mer. You know since Pentecost the sum 
is due, 

And since I have not much importun’d you; 
Nor now I had not, but that I am bound 
To Persia and want guilders for my voyage. 
Therefore make present satisfaction, s 

Or I ’ll attach yo-i by this officer. 

Ang. Even just the sum that I do owe to you 
Is growing to me by Antipholus, 

And in the instant that I met with you 
He had of me a chain. At five o’clock 10 

I shall receive the money for the same. 
Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house, 
I will discharge my bond and thank you too. 

Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and Dromio of 
Ephesus from the courtezan's. 

Off. That labour may you save ; see where 
he comes. 

Ant. E. While I go to the goldsmith’s house, 
go thou is 

And buy a rope’s end ; that will I bestow 
Among my wife and her confederates, 

For locking me out of my doors by day. 

But, soft! I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone , 
Buy thou a rope and bring it home to me. 20 
Dro. E. I buy a thousand pound a year! I 
buy a rope ! [Exit. 

Ant. E. A man is well holp up that trusts to 
you. 

I promised your presence and the chain, 

But neither chain nor goldsmith came to me. 
Belike you thought our love would last too 
long, 25 

If it were chain’d together, and therefore came 
not. 

Ang. Saving your merry humour, here’s the 
note 

How much your chain weighs to the utmost 
carat, 

The fineness of the gold, and chargeful fashion, 
Which doth amount to three odd ducats more 
Than I stand debted to this gentleman. 31 

I pray you, see him presently discharg’d. 

For he is bound to sea and stays but for it. 

Ant. E. I am not furnish’d with the present 
money ; 

Besides, I have some business in the town. 35 
Good signior, take the stranger to my house ; 
And with you take the chain, and bid my wife 
Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof. 
Perchance I will be there as soon as you. 

Ang. Then you will bring the chain to her 
yourself ? *0 

Ant. E. No ; bear it with you, lest I come not 
time enough. 

Ang. Well, sir, I will. Have you the chain 
about you ? 

Ant. E. An if I have not, sir, I hope you 
have, 

Or else you may return without your money. 





42 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


iv. ii. 


Ang. Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the 
chain. « 

Both wind and tide stays for this gentleman, 
And I, to blame, have held him here too long. 

Ant. E. Good Lord I you use this dalliance 
to excuse 

Your breach of promise to the Porpentine. 

I should have chid you for not bringing it, eo 
But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl. 

2 . Mer. The hour steals on; I pray you, sir, 
dispatch. 

Ang. You hear how he importunes me; — 
the chain ! 

Ant. E. Why, give it to my wife, and fetch 
your money. 

Ang. Come, come, you know I gave it you 
even now. 55 

Either send the chain or send by me some 
token. 

Ant. E. Fie, now you run this humour out of 
breath. 

Come, where’s the chain ? I pray you, let me 
see it. 

2 . Mer. My business cannot brook this dal¬ 
liance. 

Good sir, say whether you ’ll answer me or no ; 
If not, I ’ll leave him to the officer. 61 

Ant. E. 1 answer you ! What should I an¬ 
swer you ? 

Ang. The money that you owe me for the 
chain. 

Ant. E. I owe you none till I receive the 
chain. 

Ang. You know I gave it you half an hour 
since. 65 

Ant. E. You gave me none ; you wrong me 
much to say so. 

Ang. You wrong me more, sir, in denying it. 
Consider how it stands upon my credit. 

2 . Mer. Well, officer, arrest him at my suit. 

Off. I do; and charge you in the Duke’s 
name to obey me. 70 

Ang. This touches me in reputation. 

Either consent to pay this sum for me 
Or I attach you by this officer. 

Ant. E. Consent to pay thee that I never 
had ! 

Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou dar’st. 76 

Ang. Here is thy fee ; arrest him, officer. 

I would not spare my brother in this case, 

If he should scorn me so apparently. 

Off. I do arrest you, sir: you hear the suit. 

Ant. E. I do obey thee till I give cnee bail, so 
But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear 
As all the metal in your shop will answer. 

Ang. Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus, 

To your notorious shame ; I doubt it not. 

Enter Dromio of Syracuse, from the bay. 

Dro. S. Master, there is a bark of Epidam- 
num 80 

That stays but till her owner comes aboard, 
And then, sir, she bears away. Our fraughtage, 
sir, 

I have convey’d aboard, and I have bought 
The oil, thebalsamum, and aqua-vitae. 

The ship is in her trim ; the merry wind 90 


Blows fair from land ; they stay for nought at 
all 

But for their owner, master, and yourself. 

Ant. E. How now ! a madman ! Why, thou 
peevish sheep, 

What ship of Epidamnum stays for me ? 

Dro. S. A ship you sent me to, to hire waft- 
age. 96 

Ant. E. Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for 
a rope, 

And told thee to what purpose and what end. 

Dro. S. You sent me for a rope’s end as soon. 
You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark. 

Ant. E. I will debate this matter at more 
leisure, io« 

And teacfi your ears to list me with more heed. 
To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight; 

Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk 
That’s cover’d o’er with Turkish tapestry 
There is a purse of ducats ; let her send it. iob 
T ell her I am arrested in the street 
And that shall bail me. Hie thee, slave, be 
gone ! 

On, officer, to prison till it come. 

[Exeunt [ 2 . Merchant , Angelo , Offi¬ 
cer , and Ant. E.].. 

Dro. S. To Adriana! That is where we 
din’d, 

Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband. 
She is too big, I hope, for me to compass. m 
Thither I must, although against my will, 

For servants must their masters’ minds fulfil. 

[Exit. 

[Scene II. The house of Antipholus of Ephe¬ 
sus.] 

Enter Adriana and Lucian a. 

Adr. Ah, Luciaua, did he tempt thee so ? 
Mightst thou perceive austerely in his eye 
That lie did plead in earnest ? Yea or no ? 

Look’d he or red or pale, or sad or merrily ? 
What observation mad’st thou in this case 6 
Of his heart’s meteors tilting in his face ? 

Luc. First he deni’d you had in him no right. 
Adr. He meant he did me none; the more 
my spite. 

Luc. Then swore he that he was a stranger 

here. 

Adr. And true he swore, though yet for¬ 
sworn he were. 10 

Luc. Then pleaded I for you. 

Adr. And what said he ? 

Luc. That love I begg’d for you he begg’d of 
me. 

Adr. With what persuasion did he tempt thy 
love ? 

Luc. With words that in an honest suit might 
move. 14 

First he did praise my beauty, then my speech. 
Adr. Didst speak him fair ? 

Luc. Have patience, I beseech. 

Adr. I cannot, nor I will not, hold me still; 
My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his 
will. 

He is deformed, crooked, old, and sere, 
Ill-fae’d, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere; 




THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


43 


iv. iii. 


Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind, 21 

Stigmatical in making, worse in mind. 

Luc. Who would be jealous then of such a 
one ? 

No evil lost is wail’d when it is gone. 

Adr. Ah, but I think him better than I 
say, . 25 

And yet would herein others’ eyes were 
worse. 

Far from her nest the lapwing cries away. 

My heart prays for him, though my tongue 
do curse. 

Enter Dromio of Syracuse. 

Dro. S. Here ! go ; the desk, the purse! 
Sweet, now, make haste. 

Luc. How hast thou lost thy breath ? 

Dro. S. By running fast. 

Adr. Where is thy master, Dromio ? Is he 
well ? 31 

Dro. S. No, he’s in Tartar limbo, worse than 

hen. 

A devil in an everlasting garment hath him ; 

One whose hard heart is button’d up with steel; 

A fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough; 35 

A wolf, nay, worse, a fellow all in buff; 

A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that 
countermands 

The passages of alleys, creeks, and narrow 
lands, 

A hound that runs counter and yet draws dry- 
foot well; 

One that before the judgement carries poor 
souls to hell. 40 

Adr. Why, man, what is the matter? 

Dro. S. 1 do not know the matter; he is 
’rested on the case. 

Adr. What, is he arrested ? Tell me at 
whose suit. 

Dro. S. I know not at whose suit he is 
arrested well ; 

But he’s in a suit of buff which ’rested him, that 
can I tell. ' 415 

Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the 
money in his desk ? 

Adr. Go fetch it, sister. This I wonder at, 

[Exit Luciana. 

That he, unknown to me, should be in debt. 

Tell me, was he arrested on a band? 

Dro. S. Not on a band but on a stronger 
thing, 60 

A chain, a chain ! Do you not hear it ring ? 

Adr. What, the chain ? 

Dro. S. No, no, the bell; ’t is time that I 
were gone. 

It was two ere I left hirn, and now the clock 
strikes one. 

Adr. The hours come back ! That did I never 
hear. 65 

Dro. S. 0 , yes ; if any hour meet a sergeant, 
’a turns back for very fear. 

Adr. As if Time were in debt! How fondly 
dost thou reason! 

Dro. S. Time is a very bankrupt and owes 
more than he’s worth to season. 

Nay, he’s a thief too ; have you not heard men 
say, 


That Time comes stealing on by night and 
day ? 60 

If ’a be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the 
way, 

Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a 

day ? 

Re-enter Luciana. 

Adr. Go, Dromio ; there’s the money, bear 
it straight, 

And bring thy master home immediately. 
Come, sister ; I am press’d down with conceit — 
Conceit, my comfort and my injury. 6 o 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III. A public place.] 

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse. 

Ant. S. There’s not a man I meet but doth 
salute me 

As if I were their well-acquainted friend ; 

And every one doth call me by my name. 

Some tender money to me ; some invite me ; 
Some other give me thanks for kindnesses ; s 
Some offer me commodities to buy. 

Even now a tailor call’d me in his shop 
And sliow’d me silks that he had bought for 
me 

And therewithal took measure of my body. 
Sure, these are but imaginary wiles, 10 

And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here. 

Enter Dromio of Syracuse. 

Dro. S. Master, here’s the gold you sent me 
for. What, have you got the picture of old 
Adam new-apparell’d ? 

Ant. 6 ’. What gold is this ? What Adam dost 
thou mean ? 16 

Dro. S. Not that Adam that kept the Para¬ 
dise, but that Adam t hat keeps the prison ; he 
that goes in the calf’s skin that was kill’d for the 
Prodigal; he that came behind you, sir, like an 
evil angel, and bid you forsake your liberty. [20 
Ant. S. I understand thee not. 

Dro. S. No ? Why, ’t is a plain case : he that 
went, like a bass-viol, in a case of leather; the 
man, sir, that, when gentlemen are tired, gives 
them a bob and ’rests them; he, sir, that 
takes pity on decayed men and gives them [26 
suits of durance ; he that sets up his rest to do 
more exploits with his mace than a morris-pike. 
Ant. S. What, thou mean’st an officer ? 

Dro. S. Ay, sir, the sergeant of the band ; he 
that brings any man to answer it that breaks [31 
his band ; one that thinks a man always going 
to bed and says, God give you good rest! 

Ant. S. Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. 
Is there any ship puts forth to-night ? May we 
be gone ? 35 

Dro. S. Why, sir, I brought you word an 
hour since that the bark Expedition put forth 
to-night.; and then were you hind’red by the 
sergeant, to tarry for the hoy Delay. Here [40 
are the angels that you sent for to deliver you. 

Ant. S. The fellow is distract, and so am I; 
And here we wander in illusions. 

Some blessed power deliver us from hence 1 








44 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


iv. iv. 


Enter a Courtezan. 

Cour. Well met, well met, Master Antipholus. 
I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now. 4c 
Is that the chain you promis’d me to-day ? 

Ant. S. Satan, avoid! I charge thee, tempt 
me not. 

Dro. S. Master, is this Mistress Satan ? 

Ant. S. It is the devil. so 

Dro. S. Nay, she is worse, she is the devil’s 
dam, and here she comes in the habit of a light 
wench; and thereof comes that the wenches 
say, “ God damn me ; ” that’s as much to say, 
God make me a light wench. It is written, 
they appear to men like angels of light; light [es 
is an effect of fire, and fire will burn ; ergo , light 
wenches will burn. Come not near her. 

Cour. Your man and you are marvellous 
merry, sir. 

Will you go with me ? We ’ll mend our dinner 
here ? eo 

Dro. S. Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat; 
or bespeak a long spoon. 

Ant. S. Why, Dromio ? 

Dro. S. Marry, he must have a long spoon 
that must eat with the devil. 65 

Ant. S. Avoid then, fiend ! What tell’st thou 
me of supping ? 

Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress. 

I conjure thee to leave me and be gone. 

Cour. Give me the ring of mine you had at 
dinner, 

Or, for my diamond, the chain you promis’d, to 
A nd I ’ll be gone, sir, and not trouble you. 

Dro. S. Some devils ask but the parings of 
one’s nail, 

A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin, 

A nut, a cherry-stone ; 

But she, more covetous, would have a chain. 75 
Master, be wise ; an if you give it her, 

The devil will shake her chain and fright us 
with it. 

Cour. I pray you, sir, my ring, or else tne 
chain. 

I hope you do not mean to cheat me so ? 

Ant. S. Avaunt, thou witch ! Come, Dromio, 
let us go. so 

Dro. S. Fly pride, says the peacock: mis¬ 
tress, that you know. 

[Exeunt [Ant. S. and Dro. $.]. 
Cour. Now, out of doubt Antipholus is mad, 
Else would he never so demean himself. 

A ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats, 
And for the same he promis’d me a chain. 85 
Both one and other he denies me now. 

The reason that I gather he is mad, 

Besides this present instance of his rage, 

Is a mad tale he told to-day at dinner, 

Of his own doors being shut against his en¬ 
trance. 90 

Belike his wife, acquainted with his fits, 

On purpose shut the doors against his way. 

My way is now to hie home to his house, 

And tell his wife that, being lunatic, 

He rush’d into my house and took perforce 95 
My ring away. This course I fittest choose ; 
For forty ducats is too much to lose. [Exit.] 


LScene IV. A street .] 

Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and the Officer. 
Ant. E. Fear me not, man ; I will not break 
away. 

I ’ll give thee, ere I leave thee, so much money, 
To warrant thee, as I am ’rested for. 

My wife is in a wayward mood to-day, 

And will not lightly trust the messenger. b 

That I should be attach’d in Ephesus, 

I tell you, ’t will sound harshly in her ears. 

Enter Dromio of Ephesus with a rope's-end. 

Here comes my man ; I think he brings the 
money. 

How now, sir ! have you that I sent you for ? 
Dro. E. Here’s that, I warrant you, will pay 
them all. 10 

Ant. E. But where’s the money ? 

Dro. E. Why, sir, I gave the money for the 
rope. 

Ant. E. Five hundred ducats, villain, for a 
rope ? 

Dro. E. I ’ll serve you, sir, five hundred at 
the rate. 

Ant. E. To what end did I bid thee hie thee 
home ? is 

Dro. E. To a rope’s end, sir ; and to that end 
am I return’d. 

Ant. E. And to that end, sir, I will welcome 
you. [Beating him.] 

Off. Good sir, be patient. 

Dro. E. Nay, ’tis for me to be patient; I 
am in adversity. 21 

Off. Good, now, hold thy tongue. 

Dro. E. Nay, rather persuade him to hold his 
hands. 

Ant. E. Thou whoreson, senseless villain ! 25 
Dro. E. I would I were senseless, sir, that I 
might not feel your blows. 

Ant. E. Thou art sensible in nothing but 
blows, and so is an ass. 

Dro. E. I am an ass, indeed ; you may 
prove it by my long ’ears. I have served him [30 
from the hour of my nativity to this instant, 
and have nothing at his hands for my service 
but blows. When I am cold, he heats me with 
beating; when I am warm, he cools me with 
beating : I am wait’d with it when I sleep ; [35 
rais’d with it when I sit; driven out of doors 
with it when I go from home ; welcom’d home 
with it when I return : nay, I bear it on my 
shoulders, as a beggar wont her brat; and, I 
think, when he hath lam’d me, I shall beg [40 
with it from door to door. 

Enter Adriana, Luciana, the Courtezan, 
and a Schoolmaster call'd Pinch. 

Ant. E. Come, go along ; my wife is coming 
yonder. 

Dro. E. Mistress, respice finern , respect your 
end; or rather, to prophesy like the parrot, [45 
“beware the rope’s-end.” 

Ant. E. Wilt thou still talk? [Beatinghim.] 
Cour. How say you now ? Is not your hus¬ 
band mad ? 

Adr. His incivility confirms no less. 






IV. IV. 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


45 


Good Doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer ; so 
Establish him in his true sense again, 

And I will please you what you will demand. 
Luc. Alas, how fiery and how sharp he looks ! 
Cour. Mark how he trembles in his ecstasy ! 
Pinch. Give me your hand and let me feel 
your pulse. es 

Ant. E. There is my hand, and let it feel your 
ear. [ Striking him.] 

Pinch. I charge thee, Satan, hous’d within 
this man, 

To yield possession to my holy prayers 
And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight. 
I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven ! 60 

Ant. E. Peace, doting wizard, peace ! I am 
not mad. 

Adr. O, that thou wert not, poor distressed 
soul! 

Ant. E. You minion, you, are these your cus¬ 
tomers ? 

Did this companion with the saffron face 
Revel and feast it at my house to-day, 66 

Whilst upon me the guilty doors were shut 
And I denied to enter in my house ? 

Adr. 0 husband, God doth know you din’d 
at home ; 

Where would you had remain’d until this time, 
Free from these slanders and this open shame ! 
Ant. E. Din’d at home ! Thou villain, what 
sayest thou ? 7 i 

Pro. E. Sir, sooth to say, you did not dine at 
home. 

Ant. E. Were not my doors lock’d up and I 
shut out ? 

Pro. E. Perdie, your doors were lock’d and 
you shut out. 

Ant. E. And did not she herself revile me 
there ? ™ 

Pro. E. Sans fable, she herself revil’d you 
there. 

Ant. E. Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt, 
and scorn me ? 

Pro. E. Certes, she did; the kitchen-vestal 
scorn’d you. 

Ant. E. And did not I in rage depart from 
thence ? 

Pro. E. In verity you did; my bones bear 
witness, so 

That since have felt the vigour of his rage. 
Adr. Is’t good to soothe him in these con¬ 
traries? 

Pinch. It is no shame. The fellow finds his 
vein. 

And, yielding to him, humours well his frenzy. 
Ant. E. Thou hast suborn’d the goldsmith 
to arrest me. 85 

Adr. Alas, I sent you money to redeem 
you, 

By Dromio here, who came in haste for it. 

Pro. E. Money by me ! Heart and good-will 
you might, 

But surely, master, not a rag of money. 

Ant. E. Went’st not thou to her for a purse 
of ducats ? 90 

Adr. He came to me and I deliver’d it. 

Luc. And I am witness with her that she 
did. 


Pro. E. God and the rope-maker bear me 
witness 

That I was sent for nothing but a rope ! 

Pinch. Mistress, both man and master is pos¬ 
sess’d ; ae 

I know it by their pale and deadly looks. 

They must be bound and laid in some dark 
room. 

Ant. E. Say, wherefore didst thou lock me 
forth to-day ? 

And why dost thou deny the bag of gold ? 

Adr. I did not, gentle husband, lock thee 
forth. ioo 

Pro. E. And, gentle master, I receiv’d no 
gold; 

But I confess, sir, that we were lock’d out. 

Adr. Dissembling villain, thou speak’st false 
in both. 

A nt. E. Dissembling harlot, thou art false in 
all 

And art confederate with a damned pack 106 
To make a loathsome abject scorn of me ; 

But with these nails I ’ll pluck out these false 
eyes 

That would behold in me this shameful sport. 

Enter three or four , and offer to bind him. He 
strives. 

Adr. 0 , bind him, bind him ! Let him not 
come near me. 

Pinch. More company ! The fiend is strong 
within him. no 

Luc. Ay me, poor man, how pale and wan he 
looks ! 

Ant. E. What, will you murder me ? Thou 
gaoler, thou, 

I am thy prisoner. Wilt thou suffer them 
To make a rescue ? 

Off. Masters, let him go. iu 

He is my prisoner, and you shall not have him. 

Pinch. Go bind this man, for he is frantic 
too. [ They offer to bind Pro. E.] 

Adr. What wilt thou do, thou peevish offi¬ 
cer ? 

Hast thou delight to see a wretched man 
Do outrage and displeasure to himself ? 

Off. He is my prisoner ; if I let him go, no 
The debt he owes will be requir’d of me. 

Adr. I will discharge thee e’er I go from thee- 
Bear me forthwith unto his creditor 
And, knowing how the debt grows, I will pay it. 
Good master doctor, see him safe convey’d ne 
Home to my house. O most unhappy day ! 

Ant. E. O most unhappy strumpet! 

Pro. E. Master, I am here ent’red in bond 
for you. 

Ant. E. Out on thee, villain ! wherefore dost 
thou mad me ? 

Pro. E. Will you be bound for nothing ? Be 
mad, good master ; cry “ The devil! ” m 

Luc. God help,* poor souls, how idly do they 
talk ! 

Adr. Go bear him hence. Sister, go you with 
me. 

Say now, whose suit is he arrested at ? 

[Exeunt, all but Adriana , Luciana , 
Officer, and Courtezan. 





46 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


v. i. 


Off. One Angelo, a goldsmith. Do you know 
him ? i 35 

Adr. I know the man. What is the sum he 

owes ? 

Off. Two hundred ducats. 

Adr . Say, how grows it due ? 

Off. Due for a chain your husband had of him. 
Adr. He did bespeak a chain for me, but had 
it not. 

Cour. When as your husband all in rage to¬ 
day 140 

Came to my house and took away my ring — 
The ring I saw upon his finger now — 

Straight after did I meet him with a chain. 

Adr. It may be so, but I did never see it. 
Come, gaoler, bring me where the goldsmith is. 
I long to know the truth hereof at large. us 

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse with his rapier 

drawn , and Dromio of Syracuse. 

Luc. God, for thy mercy! they are loose 
again. 

Adr. And come with naked swords. 

Let’s call more help to have them bound again. 
Off. Away ! they ’ll kill us. 

[Exeunt all [but Ant. S. and Dro. <S.] 
as fast as may be, frighted. 

Ant. S. I see these witches are afraid of 
swords. 151 

Dro. S. She that would be your wife now ran 
from you. 

Ant. S. Come to the Centaur; fetch our stuff 
from thence ; 

I long that we were safe and sound aboard. 

Dro. S. Faith, stay here this night; they 
will surely do us no harm. You saw they [ins 
speak us fair, give us gold ; methinks they are 
such a gentle nation that., but for the mountain 
of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, I could 
find in my heart to stay here still and turn 
witch. leo 

Ant. S. I will not stay to-night for all the 
town ; 

Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard. 

[ Exeunt. 

ACT V 

Scene I. [A street before a Priory .] 

Enter Second Merchant and Angelo. 

Ang. I am sorry, sir, that I have hind’red you; 
Cut, I protest, he had the chain of me, 

Though most dishonestly he doth deny it. 

2. Mer. How is the man esteem’d here in 
the city ? 

A ng. Of very reverend reputation, sir, 6 
Of credit, infinite, highly belov’d, 

Second to none that lives here in the city. 

His word might bear my wealth at any time. 

2. Mer. Speak softly; yonder, as I think, he 
walks. 

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of 
Syracuse. 

Ang. ’Tis so ; and that self chain about his 
neck io 


Which he forswore most monstrously to have. 
Good sir, draw near to me, I ’ll speak to him. 
Signior Antipholus, I wonder much 
That you would put me to this shame and 
trouble ; 

And, not without some scandal to yourself, 16 
With circumstance and oaths so to deny 
This chain which now you wear so openly. 
Beside the charge, the shame, imprisonment, 
You have done wrong to this my honest friend, 
Who, but for staying on our controversy, 20 
Had hoisted sail and put to sea to-day. 

This chain you had of me ; can you deny it ? 
Ant. S. I think I had ; I never did deny it. 

2. Mer. Yes, that you did, sir, and forswore 
it too. 

Ant. S. Who heard me to deny it or forswear 
it ? 25 

2. Mer. These ears of mine, thou know’st, 
did hear thee. 

Fie on thee, wretch ! ’T is pity that thou liv’st 
To walk where any honest men resort. 

Ant. S. Thou art a villain to impeach me 
thus. 

I ’ll prove mine honour and mine honesty 3 i 
Against thee presently, if thou dar’st stand. 

2. Mer. I dare, and do defy thee for a vil¬ 
lain. [They draw. 

Enter Adriana, Luciana, the Courtezan and 
others. 

Adr. Hold, hurt him not, for God’s sake ! 
He is mad. 

Some get within him ; take his sword away. 
Bind Dromio too, and bear them to my house. 
Dro. S. Run, master, run; for God’s sake, 
take a house ! 36 

This is some priory. In, or we are spoil’d ! 

[Exeunt Ant. S. and Dro. S. to the 
Priory. 

Enter the Lady Abbess. 

Abb. Be quiet, people. Wherefore throng 
you hither ? 

Adr. To fetch my poor distracted husband 
hence. 

Let us come in, that we may bind him fast 40 
And bear him home for his recovery. 

Ang. I knew he was not in his perfect wits. 
2. Mer. I am sorry now that I did draw on 
him. 

Abb. How long hath this possession held the 
man ? 

Adr. This week he hath been heavy, sour, 
sad, 45 

And much different from the man he was ; 

But till this afternoon his passion 
Ne’er brake into extremity of rage. 

Abb. Hath he not lost much wealth by wreck 
of sea ? 

Buried some dear friend? Hath not else his 
eye. so 

Stray’d his affection in unlawful love ? 

A sin prevailing much in youthful men, 

Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing. 
Which of these sorrows is he subject to? 

Adr. To none of these, except it be the last; 




THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


47 


V. i. 


Namely, some love that drew him oft from 
home. 60 

Abb. You should for that have reprehended 
him. 

Adr. Why, so I did. 

Abb. Ay, but not rough enough. 

Adr. As roughly as my modesty would let 
me. 

Abb. Haply, in private. 

Adr. And in assemblies too. 

Abb. Ay, but not enough. ox 

Adr. It was the copy of our conference, 
in bed he slept not for my urging it ; 

At board he fed not for my urging it; 

Alone, it was the subject of my theme ; 65 

In company I often glanced it; 

Still did I tell him it was vile and bad. 

Abb. And thereof came it that the man was 
mad. 

The venom clamours of a jealous woman 
Poisons more deadly than a mad dog’s tooth, to 
I t seems his sleeps werehind’red by thy railing, 
And thereof comes it that his head is light. 
Thou say’st his meat was sauc’d with thy up- 
braidings ; 

Unquiet meals make ill digestions. 

Thereof the raging fire of fever bred ; ts 

And what’s a fever but a fit of madness ? 

Thou say’st his sports were hind’red by thy 
brawls: 

Sweet recreation hair’d, what doth ensue 
But moody and dull melancholy, 

Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair, so 
And at her heels a huge infectious troop 
Of pale distemperatures and foes to life? 

In food, in sport, and life-preserving rest 
To be disturb’d, would mad or man or beast. 
The consequence is, then, thy jealous fits 
Hath scar’d thy husband from the use of wits. 

Luc. She never reprehended him but mildly. 
When he demean’d himself rough, rude, and 
wildly. 

Why bear you these rebukes and answer not ? 

Adr. She did betray me to my own reproof, oo 
Good people, enter and lay hold on him. 

Abb. No, not a creature enters in my house. 
Adr. Then let your servants bring my hus¬ 
band forth. 

Abb. Neither. He took this place for sanc¬ 
tuary, 

And it shall privilege him from your hands &<> 
Till I have brought him to his wits again, 

Or lose my labour in assaying it. 

Adr. I will attend my husband, be his nurse, 
Diet his sickness for it is my office, 

And will have no attorney but myself ; ioo 
And therefore let me have him home with me. 

Abb. Be patient; for I will not let him stir 
Till I have us’d the approved means I have, 
With wholesome syrups, drugs, and holy pray¬ 
ers, 

To.make of him a formal man again. 105 

It is a branch and parcel of mine oath, 

A charitable duty of my order. 

Therefore depart and leave him here with me. 
Adr. I will not hence and leave my husband 
here ; 


And ill it doth beseem your holiness no 

To separate the husband and the wife. 

Abb. Be quiet and depart; thou shalt not 
have him. [Exit.) 

Luc. Complain unto the Duke of this indig¬ 
nity. 

Adr. Come, go. I will fall prostrate at his 
feet 

And never rise until my tears and prayers iifi 
Have won his grace to come in person hither 
And take perforce my husband from the abbess. 

2. Mer. By this, I think, the dial points at five. 
Anon, I’m sure, the Duke himself in person 
Comes this way to the melancholy vale, wo 
The place of death and sorry execution, 

Behind the ditches of the abbey here. 

Ang. Upon what cause ? 

2. Mer. To see a reverend Syracusian mer¬ 
chant, 

Who put unluckily into this bay i*s 

Against the laws and statutes of this town, 
Beheaded publicly for his offence. 

Ang. See where they come; we will behold 
his death. 

Luc. Kneel to the Duke before he pass the 
abbey. 

Enter Duke [attended], and TSgeon bare¬ 
headed, with the Headsman and other Officers. 

Duke. Yet once again proclaim it publicly, wo 
If any friend will pay the sum for him, 

He shall not die ; so much we tender him. 

Adr. Justice, most sacred Duke, against the 
abbess! 

Duke. She is a virtuous and a reverend lady; 
It cannot be that she hath done thee wrong, 13s 
Adr. May it please your grace, Antipholus, 
my husband, 

Who I made lord of me and all I had, 

At your important letters, —this ill day 
A most outrageous fit of madness took him ; 
That desperately he hurried through the 
street, — m« 

With him his bondman, all as mad as he, — 
Doing displeasure to the citizens 
By rushing in their houses, bearing thence 
Rings, jewels, any thing his rage did like. 

Once did I get him bound and sent him home, 
Whilst to take order for the wrongs I ■went i« 
That here and there his fury had committed. 
Anon, I wot not by what strong escape, 

He broke from those that had the guard of him ; 
And with his mad attendant and himself, iso 
Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords, 
Met us again and, madly bent on us, 

Chas’d us away, till, raising of more aid, 

We came again to bind them. Then they fled 
Into this abbey, whither we pursu’d them ; iw 
And here the abbess shuts the gates on us, 

And will not suffer us to fetch him out, 

Nor send him forth that we may bear him hence. 
Therefore, most gracious Duke, with thy com¬ 
mand 

Let him be brought forth and borne hence for 
help. ioo 

Duke. Long since thy husband serv’d me in 
my wars, 







4 8 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


v. i. 


And I to thee engag’d a prince’s word, 

When thou didst make him master of thy bed, 
To do him all the grace and good I could. 

Go, some of you, knock at the abbey-gate ics 
And bid the lady abbess come to me. 

I will determine this before I stir. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. O mistress, mistress, shift and save 
yourself! 

My master and his man are both broke loose, 
Beaten the maids a-row and bound the doctor, 
Whose beard they have sing’d off with brands 
of fire; 

And ever, as it blaz’d, they threw on him 
Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair. 
My master preaches patience to him and the 
while 

His man with scissors nicks him like a fool, ns 
And sure, unless you send some present help, 
Between them they will kill the conjurer. 

Adr. Peace, fool! thy master and his man 
are here, 

And that is false thou dost report to us. 

Mess. Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true ; 
I have not breath’d almost since I did see it. isi 
He cries for you, and vows, if he can take you, 
To scorch your face and to disfigure you. 

[Cry within. 

Hark, hark ! I hear him, mistress. Fly, be 
gone ! 

Duke. Come, stand by me; fear nothing. 

Guard with halberds ! iss 

Adr. Ay me, it is my husband! Witness you, 
That he is borne about invisible. 

Even now we hous’d him in the abbey here ; 
And now he’s there, past thought of human 
reason. 

Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and Dromio of 
Ephesus. 

Ant. E. Justice, most gracious Duke, 0 , 
grant me justice ! 190 

Even for the service that long since I did thee, 
When I bestrid thee in the wars, and took 
Deep scars to save thy life ; even for the blood 
That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice. 
AEge. Unless the fear of death doth make me 
dote, ins 

I see my son Antipholus and Dromio. 

Ant. E. Justice, sweet prince, against that 
woman there ! 

She whom thou gav’st to me to be my wife, 
That hath abused and dishonoured me 
Even in the strength and height of injury ! 200 

Beyond imagination is the wrong 
That she this day hath shameless thrown on 
me. 

Duke. Discover how, and thou shalt find me 
just. 

Ant. E. This day, great Duke, she shut the 
doors upon me, 

While she with harlots feasted in my house. 205 
Duke. A grievous fault! Say, woman, didst 
thou so ? 

Adr. No, my good lord. Myself, he, and my 
sister 


To-day did dine together. So befall my soul 
As this is false he burdens me withal! 

Luc. Ne’er may I look on day, nor sleep on 
night, _ 210 

But she tells to your highness simple truth ! 
Ang. 0 perjur’d woman ! They are both for¬ 
sworn. 

In this the madman justly chargeth them. 

Ant. E. My liege, I am advised what I say, 
Neither disturbed with the effect of wine, 215 
Nor heady-rash, provok’d with raging ire, 
Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad. 
This woman lock’d me out this day from dinner. 
That goldsmith there, were he not pack’d with 
her, 

Could witness it, for he was with me then ; 220 

Who parted with me to go fetch a chain. 
Promising to bring it to the Porpentine, 

Where Balthazar and I did dine together. 

Our dinner done, and he not coming thither, 

I went to seek him. In the street I met him 225 
And in his company that gentleman. 

There did this perjur’d goldsmith swear me 
down 

That I this day of him receiv’d the chain, 
Which, God he knows, I saw not; for the which 
He did arrest me with an officer. 230 

I did obey, and sent my peasant home 
For certain ducats ; he with none return’d. 
Then fairly I bespoke the officer 
To go in person with me to my house. 

By the way we met 235 

My wife, her sister, and a rabble more 
Of vile confederates. Along with them 
They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-fac’d 
villain, 

A mere anatomy, a mountebank, 

A threadbare juggler and a fortune-teller, 

A needy, hollow-ey’d, sharp-looking wretch, 240 
A living dead man. This pernicious slave, 
Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer, 

And, gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse, 
And with no face, as’t were, outfacing me, • 
Cries out, I was possess’d. Then all together 245 
They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence, 
And in a dark and dankish vault at home 
There left me and my man, both bound to¬ 
gether ; 

Till, gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, 
I gain’d my freedom, and immediately 250 
Ran hither to your grace ; whom I beseech 
To give me ample satisfaction 
For these deep shames and great indignities. 
Ang. My lord, in truth, thus far I witness 
with him, 254 

That he din’d not at home, but was lock’d out. 
Duke. But had he such a chain of thee or no ? 
Ang. He had, my lord ; and when he ran in 
here, 

These people saw the chain about his neck. 

2 . Mer. Besides, I will be sworn these ears 
of mine 

Heard you confess you had the chain of him 200 
After you first forswore it on the mart; 

And thereupon I drew my sword on you ; 

And then you fled into this abbey here, 

From whence, I think, you are come by miracle. 






V. 1. 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


49 


Ant. E. I never came within these abbey- 

walls, 2(55 

Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me. 

I never saw the chain, so help me heaven ! 

And this is false you burden me withal. 

Duke. Why, what an intricate impeach is 
this! 

I think you all have drunk of Circe’s cup. 270 
If here you hous’d him, here he would have 
been. 

If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly. 
You say he din’d at home ; the goldsmith here 
Denies that saying. Sirrah, what say you ? 

Dro. E. Sir, he din’d with her there, at the 
Porpentine. 275 

Cour. He did, and from my finger snatch’d 
that ring. 

Ant. E. ’T is true, my liege, this ring I had 
of her. 

Duke. Saw’st thou him enter at the abbey 
here ? 

Cour. As sure, my liege, as I do see your 
grace. 

Duke. Why, this is strange. Go call the ab¬ 
bess hither. 280 

I think you are all mated or stark mad. 

[Exit one to the Abbess. 
yEge. Most mighty Duke, vouchsafe me 
speak a word. 

Haply I see a friend will save my life 
And pay the sum that may deliver me. 

Duke. Speak freely, Syracusian, what thou 
wilt. > 286 

^Ege. Is not your name, sir, call’d Antipho- 
lus ? 

And is not that your bondman, Dromio? 

Dro. E. Within this hour I was his bondman, 
sir. 

But he, I thank him, gnaw’d in two my cords. 
Now am I Dromio and his man unbound. 290 
AEge. I am sure you both of you remember me. 
Dro. E. Ourselves we do remember, sir, by 
you; 

For lately we were bound, as you are now. 

You are not Pinch’s patient, are you, sir? 

AEge. Why look you strange on me? You 
know me well. _ 295 

Ant. E. I never saw you in my life till now. 
AEge. 0 , grief hath chang’d me since you saw 
me last, 

And careful hours with time’s deformed hand 
Have written strange defeatures in my face. 299 
But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice ? 
Ant. E. Neither. 
jEge. Dromio, nor thou ? 

Dro. E. No, trust me, sir, nor I. 

AEge. I am sure thou dost. 

Dro. E. Ay, sir, but I am sure I do not; and 
whatsoever a man denies, you are now bound to 
believe him. t 306 

AEge. Not know my voice! O time’s ex¬ 
tremity, 

Hast thou so crack’d and splitted my poor 
tongue 

In seven short years, that here my only son 
Knows not my feeble key of untun’d cares ? sio 
Though now this grained face of mine be hid 


In sap-consuming winter’s drizzled snow, 

And all the conduits of my blood froze up, 

Yet hath my night of life some memory, 

My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left, 315 
My dull deaf ears a little use to hear. 

All these old witnesses — I cannot err — 

Tell me thou art my son Antipholus. 

Ant. E. I never saw my father in my life. 319 
xEge. But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy, 
Thou know’st we parted ; but perhaps, my son, 
Thou sham’st to acknowledge me in misery. 
Ant. E. The Duke and all that know me in 
the city 

Can witness with me that it is not so. 

I ne’er saw Syracusa in my life. 325 

Duke. I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years 
Have I been patron to Antipholus, 

During which time he ne’er saw Syracusa. 

I see tliy age and dangers make thee dote. 

Re-enter Abbess, with Antipholus of Syracusa 
and Dromio of Syracuse. 

Abb. Most mighty Duke, behold a man much 
wrong’d. [ALL gather to see them. 330 
Adr. I see two husbands, or mine eyes de¬ 
ceive me. 

Duke. One of these men is Genius to the 
other; 

And so of these. Which is the natural man, 
And which the spirit ? Who deciphers them ? 
Dro. S. I, sir, am Dromio; command him 
away. 335 

Dro. E. I, sir, am Dromio; pray, let me 
stay. 

Ant. S. zEgeon art thou not? or else his 
ghost ? 

Dro. S. O, my old master! Who hath bound 
him here ? 

Abb. Whoever bound him, I will loose his 
bonds 

And gain a husband by his liberty. 340 

Speak, old zEgeon, if thou be’st the man 
That hadst a wife once call’d zEmilia 
That bore thee at a burden two fair sons. 

0 , if thou be’st the same ^Egeon, speak, 

And speak unto the same ^Emilia ! 345 

AEge. If I dream not, thou art ^Emilia. 

If thou art she, tell me, where is that son 
That floated with thee on the fatal raft ? 

Abb. By men of Epidamnum he and I 
And the twin Dromio all were taken up ; 350 

But by and by rude fishermen of Corinth 
By force took Dromio and my son from them, 
And me they left with those of Epidamnum. 
What then became of them I cannot tell; 

I to this fortune that you see me in. 355 

Duke. Why, here begins his morning story 
right. 

These two Antipholuses, these two so like, 

And these two Dromios, one in semblance, — 
Besides her urging of her wreck at sea, — 
These are the parents to these children, son 
Which accidentally are met together. 
Antipholus, thou cam’st from Corinth first ? 
Ant. S. No, sir, not I; I came from Syracuse. 
Duke. Stay, stand apart; I know not which 
is which. 




5° 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


v. 1 . 


Ant. E. I came from Corinth, my most gra¬ 
cious lord, — 30c 

Dro. E. And I with him. 

Ant. E. Brought to this town by that most 
famous warrior, 

Duke Menaphon, your most renoAvned uncle. 

Adr. Which of you two did dine with me 
to-day ? 

Ant. S. I, gentle mistiness. 

Adr. And are not you my husband ? 

Ant. E. No ; I say nay to that. 371 

Ant. S. And so do I, yet did she call me so; 
And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here, 

Did call me brother. [ To Luc.] What I told you 
then, 

I hope I shall have leisure to make good ; 37s 

If this be not a dream I see and hear. 

Ang. That is the chain, sir, which you had 
of me. 

Ant. S'. I think it be, sir ; I deny it not. 

Ant. E. And you, sir, for this chain arrested 
me. 

Ang. I think I did, sir ; I deny it not. 380 

Adr. I sent you money, sir, to be your bail, 
By Dromio ; but I think he brought it not. 

Era. E. No, none by me. 

Ant. S'. This purse of ducats I receiv’d from 
y°u 

And Dromio my man did bring them me. 385 

I see we still did meet each other’s man, 

And I was ta’en for him, and he for me, 

And thereupon these errors are arose. 

Ant. E. These ducats pawn I for my father 
here. 

Duke. It shall not need ; thy father hath his 
life. 390 

Cour. Sir, I must have that diamond from 
you. 

Ant. E. There, take it; and much thanks 
for my good cheer. 

Abb. Renowned Duke, vouchsafe to take the 
pains 

To go with us into the abbey here 

And hear at large discoursed all our fortunes ; 


And all that are assembled in this place, 39c 
That by this sympathized one day’s error 
Have suffer’d wrong, go, keep us company, 
And we shall make full satisfaction. 
Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail 
Of you, my sons ; and till this present hour 401 
My heavy burden ne’er delivered. 

The Duke, my husband, and my children both, 
And you the calendars of their nativity, 

Go to a gossips’ feast, and go Avith me ; 405 

After so long grief, such nativity ! 

Duke. With all my heart, I ’ll gossip at this 
feast. 

[.Exeunt all but Ant. S., Ant. E., 
Dro. S., and Dro. E. 

Dro. S. Master, shall I go fetch your stuff 
• from shipboard ? 

Ant. E. Dromio, Avliat stuff of mine hast 
thou embark’d ? 

Dro. S. Your goods that lay at host, sir, in 
the Centaur. 410 

Ant. S. He speaks to me. I am your master, 
Dromio. 

Come, go with us ; we ’ll look to that anon. 
Embrace thy brother there ; rejoice with him. 

[Exeunt [Ant. S. and Ant. E .]. 
Dro. S. There is a fat friend at your master’s 
house, 

That kitchen’d me for you to-day at dinner; 4 ir> 
She now shall be my sister, not my wife. 

Dro. E. Methinks you are my glass, and not 
my brother. 

I see by you I am a sweet-fac’d youth. 

Will you walk in to see their gossiping ? 

Dro. S. Not I, sir ; you are my elder. 420 
Dro. E. That’s a question : how shall we try 
it ? 

Dro. S. We ’ll draw cuts for the senior; till 
then lead thou first. 

Dro. E. Nay, then, thus : 

We came into the world like brother and 
brother ; 

And now let’s go hand in hand, not one before 
another. [Exeunt. 425 


t 





THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


No text of this play exists earlier than that in the First Folio, and on it the present edition is based. 
The title is mentioned by Meres in his Palladis Tamia ( 1598 ), and the internal evidence points to 
a still earlier date. Estimates have varied from 1591 to 1595 . The metrical evidence is ambiguous. 
Rimes are not so frequent as in Love’s Labour ’s Lost and some other early plays; while, on the 
other hand, the occurrence of doggerel lines, of verses rimed alternately, and of sonnets, points 
to the earliest group. To these should be added the unskilfulness of the denouement, and the 
presence of what appear to be first sketches of characters and devices which are elaborated in 
later plays. Such are the contrast of the two heroines; the clowns; and the scene in which Julia 
discusses her suitors with her maid. None of the supposed references to current events or publi¬ 
cations is of weight as evidence; and the theory that the play was written at two different times 
has received little support. 

The most important source so far found for the plot is in the story of the shepherdess Felismena 
in Diana , the famous collection of romances in Spanish by Jorge de Montemayor, published in 
1560 . No printed English version of Diana appeared before that of Bartholomew Yonge in 1598 , 
but this had existed in manuscript since about 1582 . Other manuscript versions were in existence, 
so there is no great difficulty in supposing that Shakespeare knew the story from this source. 
Further, it is possible, but by no means certain, that the lost play called Felix and Philiomena, 
which was acted at Greenwich in 1584 , may have dealt with the same theme. 

Felismena in Montemayor’s romance corresponds to Shakespeare’s Julia, and Felix to Proteus; 
and it is Julia’s part of the plot that is found in the Spanish tale. The courtship of Felismena 
by Felix is much more minutely described in the novel, but its general character is retained by 
the dramatist. The scene in which Lucetta offers Proteus’s letter to Julia follows closely the 
action of the corresponding scene in the original. The sending of Proteus to court, Julia’s fol¬ 
lowing him in disguise as a man, the scene in which she overhears the serenade to her rival, her 
taking service with Proteus as a page and being sent to Silvia as a messenger, her expressions 
of sympathy with her own case in her conversation with Proteus, her discussion of the awkward¬ 
ness of her position when she is sent to plead with Silvia against her own interest, her report of 
her own beauty to her rival, and Silvia’s distrust of Proteus because of his unfaithfulness to his 
first love, are the main features in which the play follows the romance. On the other hand, the 
character of Valentine is completely absent in Montemayor, so that Proteus’s treachery in friend¬ 
ship is no part of his character in the novel. Moreover, Celia, who corresponds to Shakespeare’s 
Silvia, falls in love with the disguised Felismena (as Olivia does with Viola in Twelfth Night), 
and finding her love unreciprocated, voluntarily ends her life. The events by which Felix and 
Felismena are finally brought together bear no resemblance to the closing scenes of The Two 
Gentlemen. 

A volume of Englische Cornedien und Tragedien published in Germany in 1620 contains a 
play with a strong resemblance to the Silvia plot of the present comedy. It is a crude German 
reproduction of an English tragedy now lost, which had been performed by English actors in 
Germany. In it Julius corresponds to Proteus, Romulus to Valentine, and Hippolyta to Silvia. 
The play ends with the killing of Julius by Romulus, and the suicides of Romulus and Hippolyta. 
It is quite possible that the original was the Phillipo and Hewpolyto mentioned in Henslowe’s 
diary, and that it formed the source of that part of Shakespeare’s plot which deals with the re¬ 
lations of Proteus and Silvia to Valentine. 

The alleged reminiscences of Sidney’s Arcadia and Brookes’s Pomeus and Juliet are unim* 
portant. 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


[DRAMATIS PERSONAE] 


Duke [of Milan], father to Silvia. 

Proteus^' } the two Gentlemen. 
Antonio, father to Proteus. 

Thurio, a foolish rival to Valentine. 
Eglamour, agent for Silvia in her escape. 
Host, where Julia lodges. 

Outlaws, with Valentine. 


Speed, a clownish servant to Valentine. 
Launce, the like to Proteus. 

Panthino, servant to Antonio. 

Julia, beloved of Proteus. 

Silvia, beloved of Valentine. 

Lucetta, waiting woman to Jalia. 


[Servants, Musicians.] 


Verona; Milan; and in a forest on the frontiers of Mantua.] 


[Scene: 

ACT I 

Scene I. [ Verona. An open place.] 

Enter Valentine and Pkoteus. 

Val. Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus. 
Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits. 
Were ’t not affection chains thy tender days 
To the sweet glances of thy honour’d love, 

I rather would entreat thy company s 

To see the wonders of the world abroad 
Than, living dully sluggardiz’d at home, 

Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness. 
But since thou lov’st, love still and thrive 
therein, 

Even as I would when I to love begin. 10 

Pro. Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, 
adieu ! 

Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest 
Some rare note-worthy object in thy travel. 
Wish me partaker in thy happiness 
When thou dost meet good hap ; and in thy 
danger, 1 b 

If ever danger do environ thee, 

Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers, 
For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine. 

Val. And on a love-book pray for my suc¬ 
cess ? 

Pro. Upon some book I love I ’ll pray for 
thee. 20 

Val. That’s on some shallow story of deep 
love. 

How young Leander cross’d the Hellespont. 

Pro. That’s a deep story of a deeper love, 
For he was more than over shoes in love. 

Val. ’T is true; for you are over boots in 
love, 25 

. And yet you never swam the Hellespont. 

Pro. Over the boots ? Nay, give me not the 
boots. 

T 7 aZ. No, I will not, for it boots thee not. 

Pro. What ? 

Val. To be in love, where scorn is bought 
with groans; 


Coy looks with heart-sore sighs; one fading 
moment’s mirth . 30 

With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights: 
If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain; 

If lost, why then a grievous labour won ; 
However, but a folly bought with wit, 

Or else a wit by folly vanquished. 35 

Pro. So, by your circumstance, you call me 
fool. 

Val. So, by your circumstance, I fear you ’ll 
prove. 

Pro. ’T is love you cavil at ; I am not Love. 
Val. Love is your master, for he masters you; 
And he that is so yoked by a fool, 40 

Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise. 

Pro. Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud 
The eating canker dwells, so eating love 
Inhabits in the finest wits of all. 

Val. And writers say, as the most forward 
bud 45 

Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, 

Even so by love the young and tender wit 
Is turn’d to folly, blasting in the bud, 

Losing his verdure even in the prime 
And all the fair effects of future hopes. bo 
B ut wherefore waste I time to counsel thee 
That art a votary to fond desire ? 

Once more adieu ! My father at the road 
Expects my coming, there to see me shipp’d. 
Pro. And thither will I bring thee, Valen¬ 
tine. 65 

Val. Sweet Proteus, no ; now let us take our 
leave. 

To Milan let me hear from thee by letters 
Of thy success in love, and what new's else 
Betideth here in absence of thy friend ; 

And I likewise will visit thee with mine. 00 

Pro. All happiness bechance to thee in 

Milan! 

Val. As much to you at home ! and so fare¬ 
well. [Exit. 

Pro. He after honour hunts, I after love. 

He leaves his friends to dignify them more ; 

I leave myself, my friends, and all, for love. <» 




1.11. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


S3 


Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphos’d rue, 
Made me neglect my studies, lose my time, 
War with good counsel, set the world at 
nought; 

Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with 
thought. 

[Enter Speed.] 

Speed. Sir Proteus, save you! Saw you my 
master ? 70 

Pro. But now he parted hence, to embark 
for Milan. 

Speed. Twenty to one, then, he is shipp’d 
already, 

And I have play’d the sheep in losing him. 

Pro. Indeed, a sheep doth very often stray, 
An if the shepherd be a while away. 75 

Speed. You conclude that my master is a 
shepherd, then, and I a sheep? 

Pro. Ido. 

Speed. Why then, my horns are his horns, 
whether I wake or sleep. so 

Pro. A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep. 
Speed. This proves me still a sheep. 

Pro. True ; and thy master a shepherd. 
Speed. Nay, that I can deny by a circum¬ 
stance. 85 

Pro. It shall go hard but I ’ll prove it by 
another. 

Speed. The shepherd seeks the sheep, and 
not the sheep the shepherd; but I seek my 
master, and my master seeks not me: therefore 
I am no sheep. 91 

Pro. The sheep for fodder follow the shep¬ 
herd ; the shepherd for food follows not the 
sheep : thou for wages followest thy master ; 
thy master for wages follows not thee : therefore 
thou art a sheep. _ »s 

Speed. Such another proof will make me cry 
“baa.” 

Pro. But, dost thou hear ? gav’st thou my 
letter to Julia ? 100 

Speed. Ay, sir; I, a lost mutton, gave your 
letter to her, a lac’d mutton, and she, a lac’d 
mutton, gave me, a lost mutton, nothing for my 
labour. 

Pro. Here’s too small a pasture for such 

store of muttons. i°s 

Speed. If the ground be overcharg’d, you 

were best stick her. 

Pro. Nay, in that you are astray ; ’t were 
best pound you. 110 

Speed. Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve 
me for carrying your letter. 

Pro. You mistake; I mean the pound,—a 
pinfold. 

Speed. From a pound to a pin ? Fold it over 
and over, 115 

’T is threefold too little for carrying a letter to 
your lover. 

Pro. But what said she ? 

Speed. [Nodding.] Ay. 

Pro. Nod-ay ; — why, that’s noddy. 

Speed. You mistook, sir. I say, she did nod ; 
and you ask me if she did nod, and I say, [121 
“ Ay.” 

Pro. And that set together is noddy. 


Speed. Now you have taken the pains to set 
it together, take it for your pains. 

Pro. No, no; you shall have it for bearing 
the letter. 120 

Speed. Well, I perceive I must be fain to 
bear with you. 

Pro. Why, sir, how do you bear with me ? 

Speed. Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly ; 
having nothing but the word “ noddy ” for my 
pains. 131 

Pro. Beshrew me, but you have a quick 
wit. 

Speed. And yet it cannot overtake your slow 
purse. 

Pro. Come, come, open the matter in brief. 
What said she ? iss 

Speed. Open your purse, that the money and 
the matter may be both at once delivered. 

Pro. Well, sir, here is for your pains. What 

said she ? no 

Speed. Truly, sir, I think you ’ll hardly win 
her. 

Pro. Why, couldst thou perceive so much 
from her ? 

Speed. Sir, I could perceive nothing at all 
from her, no, not so much as a ducat for [ns 
delivering your letter; and being so hard to me 
that brought your mind, I fear she ’ll prove as 
hard to you in telling your mind. Give her no 
token but stones, for she’s as hard as steel. 

Pro. What said she ? Nothing ? iso 

Speed. No, not so much as “Take this for 
thy pains.” To testify your bounty, I thank 
you, you have testern’d me ; in requital where¬ 
of, henceforth carry your letters yourself: and 
so, sir, I ’ll commend you to my master. iss 

Pro. Go, go, be gone, to save your ship fr&m 
wreck, 

Which cannot perish having thee aboard, 

Being destin’d to a drier death on shore. 

[Exit Speed.] 

I must go send some better messenger. 

I fear my Julia would not deign my lines, iso 
Receiving them from such a worthless post. 

[Exit. 

Scene II. [The same. Garden of Julia's house.] 
Enter Julia and Lucetta. 

Jul. But say, Lucetta, now we are alone, 
Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love ? 

Luc. Ay, madam, so you stumble not un- 
heedfully. 

Jul. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen 
That every day with parle encounter me, b 
I n thy opinion which is worthiest love ? 

Luc. Please you repeat their names, I ’ll show 
my mind 

According to my shallow simple skill. 

Jul. What think’st thou of the fair Sir Ecla- 
mour ? 

Luc. As of a knight well-spoken, neat, and 
fine; # 10 

But, were I you, he never should be mine. 

Jul. What think’st thou of the rich Mercatio ? 

Luc. Well of his wealth; but of himself, so 
so. 




54 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


1. 11 . 


Jul. What think’st thou of the gentle Pro¬ 
teus ? 

Luc. Lord, Lord ! to see what folly reigns in 
us! _ 1 5 

Jul. How now! what means this passion at 
his name ? 

Luc. Pardon, dear madam; 'tis a passing 
shame 

That I, unworthy body as I am, 

Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen. 

Jul. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest ? 

Luc. Then thus: of many good I think him 
best. 21 

Jul. Your reason ? 

Luc. I have no other hut a woman’s reason : 
I think him so because I think him so. 

Jul. And wouldst thou have me east my love 
on him ? 2c 

Luc. Ay, if you thought your love not cast 
away. 

Jul. Why he, of all the rest, hath never 
mov’d me. 

Luc. Yet he, of all the rest, I think, best 
loves ye. 

Jul. His little speaking shows his love but 
small. 

Luc. Fire that’s closest kept burns most of 
all. 30 

Jul. They do not love that do not show their 
love. 

Luc. O, they love least that let men know 
their love. 

Jul. I would I knew his mind. 

Luc. Peruse this paper, madam. 

Jul. “ To Julia.” Say, from whom ? 35 

Luc. That the contents will show. 

Jul. Say, say, who gave it thee ? 

Luc. Sir Valentine’s page , and sent, I think, 
from Proteus. 

He would have given it you ; but I, being in 
the way, 

Did in your name receive it. Pardon the fault, 
I pray. 40 

Jul. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker ! 
Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines ? 

To whisper and conspire against my youth ? 
Now, trust me, ’tis an office of great worth 
And you an officer fit for the place. 45 

There, take the paper ; see it be return’d, 

Or else return no more into my sight. 

Luc. To plead for love deserves more fee 
than hate. 

Jul. Will ye be gone? 

Luc. That you may ruminate. 

[Exit. 

Jul. And yet I would I had o’erlook’d the 
letter: 00 

It were a shame to call her back again 
And pray her to a fault for which I chid her. 
What ’ fool is she, that knows I am a maid, 
And would not force the letter to my view ! 
Since maids, in modesty, say “ no ” to that, 35 
Which they would have the profferer construe 
“ay.” 

Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love, 

That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse 
And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod ! 


How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence, w 

When willingly I would have had her here ! 
How angerly I taught my brow to frown, . 
When inward joy enforc’d my heart to smile ! 
My penance is to call Lucetta back 
And ask remission for my folly past. es 

What I10! Lucetta! 

[ Re-enter Lucetta.] 

Luc. What would your ladyship ? 

Jul. Is’t near dinner-time ? 

Luc. I would it were, 

That you might kill your stomach on your 
meat, 

And not upon your maid. 

Jul. What is’t that you took up so gingerly ? 
Luc. Nothing. u 

Jul. Why didst thou stoop, then ? 

Luc. To take a paper up that I let fall. 

Jul. And is that paper nothing? 

Luc. Nothing concerning me. 75 

Jul. Then let it lie for those that it concerns. 
Luc. Madam, it will not lie where it con¬ 
cerns 

Unless it have a false interpreter. 

Jul. Some love of yours hath writ to you in 
rhyme. 

Luc. That I might sing it. madam, to a tune. 
Give me a note ; your ladyship can set. 31 

Jul. As little by such toys as may be possi¬ 
ble. 

Best sing it to the tune of “ Light o’ love.” 

Luc. It is too heavy for so light a tune. 

Jul. Heavy! belike it hath some burden 
then ? Rfi 

Luc. Ay, and melodious were it, would you 
sing it. 

Jul. And why not you ? 

Luc. I cannot reach so high. 

Jul. Let’s see your song. How now, minion ! 
Luc. Keep tune there still, so you will sing it 
out. 

And yet methinks I do not like this tune. oo 
Jut. You do not? 

Luc. No, madam ; it is too sharp. 

Jul. You, minion, are too saucy. 

Luc. Nay, now you are too flat, 

And mar the concord with too harsh a descant. 
There wanteth but a mean to fill your song, as 
Jul. The mean is drown’d with your unruly 
bass. 

Luc. Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus. 

Jul. This babble shall not henceforth trouble 
me. 

Here is a coil with protestation ! 

[Tears the letter .] 
Go get you gone, and let the papers lie. 100 
You would be fingering them, to anger me. 

Luc. She makes it strange ; but she would be 
best pleas’d 

To be so ang’red with another letter. [Exit.] 
Jul. Nay, would I were so ang’red with the 
same ! 

0 hateful hands, to tear such loving words ! 105 
Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey 
And kill the bees that yield it with your stings ! 
I ’ll kiss each several paper for amends. 






THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


55 


I. iii. 


Look, here is writ “kind Julia.” Unkind 
Julia! 

As in revenge of thy ingratitude, no 

I throw thy name against the bruising stones, 
Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain. 

And here is writ “love-wounded Proteus.” 
Poor wounded name ! my bosom as a bed 
Shall lodge thee till thy wound be throughly 
heal’d; no 

And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss. 

But twice or thrice was “Proteus” written 
down. 

Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away 
Till I have found each letter in the letter, 
Except mine own name; that some whirlwind 
bear 120 

Unto a ragged, fearful, hanging rock 
And throw it thence into the raging sea ! 

Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ, 

“ Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus, 

To the sweet Julia.” That I ’ll tear away ; 125 

And yet I will not, sith so prettily 
He couples it to His complaining names. 

Thus will I fold them one upon another. 

Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will. 

[Re-enter Lucetta.] 

Luc. Madam, 130 

Dinner is ready, and your father stays. 

Jul. Well, let us go. 

Luc. What, shall these papers lie like tell¬ 
tales here ? 

Jul. If you respect them, best to take them 

up. 

Luc. Nay, I was taken up for laying them 
down; 135 

Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold. 
Jul. I see you have a month’s mind to them. 
Luc. Ay, madam, you may say what sights 
you see; 

I see things too, although you judge I wink. 
Jul. Come, come ; will ’t please you go? uo 

[JZxeunt. 

Soene III. [The same. Antonio's house.] 
Enter Antonio and Panthino. 

Ant. Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was 
that 

Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister ? 
Pan. ’T was of his nephew Proteus, your 
son. 

Ant. Why, what of him? 

Pan. He wond’red that your lordship 

Would suffer him to spend his youth at home, e 
While other men, of slender reputation, 

Put forth their sons to seek preferment out, 
Some to the wars, to try their fortune there ; 
Some to discover islands far away ; 

Some to the studious universities. 10 

For any or for all these exercises 
He said that Proteus your son was meet, 

And did request me to importune you 
To let him spend his time no more at home, 
Which would be great impeachment to his 
age, 16 

In having known no travel in his youth. 


Ant. Nor need’st thou much importune me to 
that 

Whereon this month I have been hammering. 

I have consider’d well his loss of time 
And how he cannot be a perfect man, 20 

Not being tried and tutor’d in the world. 
Experience is by industry achiev’d, 

And perfected by the swift course of time. 

Then tell me, whither were I best to send him ? 

Pan. I think your lordship is not ignorant 25 
How his companion, youthful Valentine, 
Attends the Emperor in his royal court. 

Ant. I know it well. 

Pan. ’T were good, I think, your lordship 
sent him thither. 

There shall he practise tilts and tournaments, so 
Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen, 
And be in eye of every exercise 
Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth. 

Ant. I like thy counsel; well hast thou 
advis’d; 

And that thou mayst perceive how well I like 

it 3 E 

The execution of it shall make known. 

Even with the speediest expedition 
I will dispatch him to the Emperor’s court. 
Pan. To-morrow, may it please you, Don 
Alphonso 

With other gentlemen of good esteem 40 

Are journeying to salute the Emperor, 

And to commend their service to his will. 

Ant. Good company; with them shall Pro¬ 
teus go, 

And— In good time ! Now will we break with 
him. 

[Enter Proteus.] 

Pro. Sweet love I sweet lines ! sweet life 1 «c 
Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; 

Here is her oath for love, her honour’s pawn. 

0 , that our fathers would applaud our loves, 

To seal our happiness with their consents 1 
0 heavenly Julia ! so 

Ant. How now ! what letter are you reading 
there ? 

Pro. May’t please your lordship, ’t is a word 
or two 

Of commendations sent from Valentine, 
Deliver’d by a friend that came from him. 

Ant. Lend me the letter. Let me see what 
news. ss 

Pro. There is no news, my lord, but that he 
writes 

How happily he lives, how well belov’d 
And daily graced by the Emperor ; 

Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune. 
Ant. And how stand you affected to His wish r 
Pro. As one relying on your lordship’s will 
And not depending on his friendly wish. 62 
Ant. My will is something sorted with his 
wish. 

Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed, 

For what I will, I will, and there an end. es 
I am resolv’d that thou slialt spend some time 
With Valentinus in the Emperor’s court. 

What maintenance he from his friends receives, 
Like exhibition thou shalt have from me. 






56 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


11 . i. 


To-morrow be in readiness to go. 70 

Excuse it not, for I am peremptory. 

Pro. My lord, I cannot be so soon provided. 
Please you, deliberate a day or two. 

Ant. Look, what thou want’st shall be sent 
after thee. 

No more of stay ! To-morrow thou must go. 75 
Come on, Panthino ; you shall be employ’d 
To hasten on his expedition. 

[.Exeunt Ant. and Pan.] 
Pro. Thus have I shunn’d the fire for fear 
of burning, 

And drench’d me in the sea, where I am 
drown’d. 

I fear’d to show my father Julia’s letter, so 
Lest he should take exceptions to my love ; 
And with the vantage of mine own excuse 
Hath he excepted most against my love. 

O, how this spring of love resembleth 

The uncertain glory of an April day, ss 

Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, 
And by and by a cloud takes all away ! 

[. Re-enter Panthino.] 

Pan. Sir Proteus, your father calls for you. 

He is in haste ; therefore, I pray you, go. 
Pro. Why, this it is; my heart accords 
thereto, 90 

And yet a thousand times it answers “ no.” 

[ Exeunt. 


ACT II 

Scene I. [Milan. The Duke's palace.] 
Enter Valentine and Speed. 

Speed. Sir, your glove. 

Val. Not mine ; my gloves are on. 

Speed. Why, then, this may be yours, for 
this is but one. 

Val. Ha ! let me see ; ay, give it me, it’s 
mine. 

Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine ! 

Ah, Silvia, Silvia ! _ 5 

Speed. Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia ! 

Val. How now, sirrah ? 

Speed. She is not within hearing, sir. 

Val. Why, sir, who bade you call her ? 

Speed. Your worship, sir ; or else I mistook. 

Val. Well, you ’ll still be too forward. 11 

Speed. And yet I was last chidden for being 
too slow. 

Val. Go to, sir. Tell me, do you know Madam 
Silvia ? ib 

Speed. She that your worship loves ? 

Val. Why, how know you that I am in love ? 

Speed. Marry, by these special marks : first, 
you have learn’d, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe 
your arms like a malcontent; to relish a love- [20 
song, like a robin-redbreast ; to walk alone, 
like one that had the pestilence ; to sigh, like a 
school-boy that had lost his A B C ; to weep, 
like a young wench that had buried her gran- 
dam ; to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, 
like one that fears robbing ; to speak puling, [25 
like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, 


when you laugh’d, to crow like a cock ; when 
you walk’d, to walk like one of the lions, 
when you fasted, it was presently after dinner; 
when you look’d sadly, it was for want of [30 
money : and now you are metamorphos’d with 
a mistress, that, when I look on you, I can 
hardly think you my master. 

Val. Are all these things perceiv’d in me ? 
Speed. They are all perceiv’d without ye. 35 
Val. Without me ? They cannot. 

Speed. Without you ? Nay, that’s certain, 
for, without you were so simple, none else would; 
but you are so without these follies, that these 
follies are within you and shine through you 
like the water in an urinal, that not an eye [40 
that sees you but is a physician to comment on 
your malady. 

Val. But tell me, dost thou know my lady 
Silvia ? « 

Speed. She that you gaze on so as she sits at 
supper ? 

Val. Hast thou observ’d that? Even she, I 
mean. 

Speed. Why, sir, I know her not. 50 

Val. Dost thou know her by my gazing on 
her, and yet know’st her not ? 

Speed. Is she not hard-favour’d, sir ? 

Val. Not so fair, boy, as well-favour’d. 
Speed. Sir, I know that well enough. 65 

Val. What dost thou know ? 

Speed. That she is not so fair as, of you, well 
favour’d. 

Val. I mean that her beauty is exquisite, but 
her favour infinite. eo 

Speed. That’s because the one is painted and 
the other out of all count. 

Val. How painted ? and how out of count ? 
Speed. Marry, sir, so painted to make her 
fair, that no man counts of her beauty. 65 

Val. How esteem’st thou me ? I account of 
her beauty. 

Speed. You never saw her since she was de¬ 
form'd. 

Val. How long hath she been deform’d ? /o 
Speed. Ever since you lov’d her. 

Val. I have lov’d her ever since I saw her, 
and still I see her beautiful. 

Speed. If you love her, you cannot see her. 
Val. Why? . 75 

Speed. Because Love is blind. 0 , that you 
had mine eyes, or your own eyes had the lights 
they were wont to have when you chid at Sir 
Proteus for going ungarter’d ! 

Val. What should I see then ? so 

Speed. Your own present folly and her pass¬ 
ing deformity; for he, being in love, could not 
see to garter his hose, and you, being in love, 
cannot see to put on your hose. 

Val. Belike, boy, then, you are in love ; for [se 
last morning you could not see to wipe my 
shoes. 


Speed. True, sir ; I was in love with my bed. 
I thank you, you swing’d me for my love, which 
makes me tbe bolder to chide you for yours. 
Val. In conclusion, I stand affected to her. 90 
Speed. I would you were set, so your affec¬ 
tion would cease. 




II. 11. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


57 


Val. Last night she enjoin’d me to write 
some lines to one she loves. 

Speed. And have you ? 95 

Val. I have. 

Speed. Are they not lamely writ ? 

Val. No, boy, but as well as I can do them. 
Peace ! here she comes. 

Speed. [Asi'rfe.] 0 excellent motion! O [100 
exceeding puppet! Now will he interpret to her. 

[Enter Silvia.] 

Val. Madam and mistress, a thousand good- 
morrows. 

Speed. [ Aside.] 0 ,’ give ye good even! here ’s 
a million of manners. 105 

Sil. Sir Valentine and servant, to you two 
thousand. 

Speed. [Aside.'] He should give her interest, 
and she gives it him. 

Val. As you enjoin’d me, I have writ your 
letter no 

Unto the secret nameless friend of yours ; 
Which I was much unwilling to proceed in 
But for my duty to your ladyship. 

Sil. I thank you, gentle servant. ’T is very 
clerkly done. 

Val. Now trust me, madam, it came hardly 
off; no 

For being ignorant to whom it goes 
I writ at random, very doubtfitlly. 

Sil. Perchance you think too much of so 
much pains ? 

Val. No, madam ; so it stead you, I will write, 
Please you command, a thousand times as 
much; 120 

And yet — 

Sil. A pretty period! Well, I guess the 
sequel; 

And yet I will not name it; and yet I care 
not; 

And yet take this again ; and yet I thank you, 
Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. 125 
Speed. [Asirfe.] And yet you will; and yet 
another “yet.” 

Val. What means your ladyship? Do you 
not like it ? 

Sil. Yes, yes, the lines are very quaintly 
writ; 

But since unwillingly, take them again. 

Nay, take them. 130 

Val. Madam, they are for you. 

Sil. Ay, ay ; you writ them, sir, at my re¬ 
quest ; 

But I will none of them ; they are for you. 

I would have had them writ more movingly. 
Val. Please you, I ’ll write your ladyship 
another. 135 

Sil. And when it’s writ, for my sake read it 
over, 

And if it please you, so ; if not, why, so. 

Val. If it please me, madam, what then ? 
Sil. Why, if it please you, take it for your 
labour; 

And so, good morrow, servant. . [Exit, ho 
Speed. O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, 
As a nose on a man’s face or a weathercock on 
a steeple! 


My master sues to her, and she hath taught her 
suitor, 

He being her pupil, to become her tutor. 

0 excellent device ! was there ever heard abet¬ 
ter, _ 145 

That my master, being scribe, to himself should 
write the letter ? 

Val. How now, sir ? What are you reason¬ 
ing with yourself? 

Speed. Nay, I was rhyming; ’tis you that 
have the reason. iso 

Val. To do what ? 

Speed. To be a spokesman for Madam Silvia. 
Val. To whom ? 

Speed. To yourself. Why, she wooes you by 
a figure. iss 

Val. What figure? 

Speed. By a letter, I should say. 

Val. Why, she hath not writ to me. 

Speed. What need she, when she hath made 
you write to yourself ? Why, do you not per¬ 
ceive the jest ? 160 

Val. No, believe me. 

Speed. No believing you, indeed, sir. But 
did you perceive her earnest ? 

Val. She gave me none, except an angry 
word. 

Speed. Why, she hath given you a letter. i 65 
T r a/. That’s the letter I writ to her friend. 
Speed. And that letter hath she deliver’d, 
and there an end. 

Val. I would it were no worse. 

Speed. I ’ll warrant you, ’t is as well: i"o 

“ For often have you writ to her; and she, in 
modesty, 

Or else for want of idle time, could not again 
reply; 

Or fearing else some messenger that might her 
mind discover, 

Herself hath taught her love himself to write 
unto her lover.” 

All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. 
Why muse you, sir ? ’T is dinner time. ire 
Val. I have din’d. 

Speed. Ay, but hearken, sir; though the 
chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one 
that am nourish’d by my victuals and would fain 
have meat. O, be not like your mistress ; be [iso 
moved, be moved. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. [Verona. Julia's house.] 

Enter Proteus and Julia. 

Pro. Have patience, gentle Julia. 

Jul. I must, where is no remedy. 

Pro. When possibly I can, I will return. 

Jul. If you turn not, you will return the 
sooner. 

Keep this remembrance for thy Julia’s sake, b 

[Giving a ring.] 
Pro. Why, then, we ’ll make exchange. 
Here, take you this.. 

Jul. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss. 
Pro. Here is my hand for my true constancy; 
And when that hour o’erslips me in the day 
Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake, 10 
The next ensuing hour some foul mischance 





58 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


II. iv. 


Torment me for my love’s forgetfulness ! 

My father stays my coming ; answer not; 

The tide is now: — nay, not thy tide of tears ; 
That tide will stay me longer than I should, is 
Julia, farewell! # [Exit Julia A 

What, gone without a word ? 
Ay, so true love should do ; it cannot speak ; 
For truth hath better deeds than words to 
grace it. 

[Enter Panthino.] 

Pan. Sir Proteus, you are stay’d for. 

Pro. Go ; I come, I come. 20 

Alas ! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. [The same. A street.\ 

Enter Launce [leading a dog]. 

Launce. Nay, ’t will be this hour ere I have 
done weeping ; all the kind of the Launces have 
this very fault. I have receiv’d my proportion, 
like the prodigious son, and am going with Sir 
Proteus to the Imperial’s court. I think Crab [s 
my dog be the sourest-natured dog that lives. 
My mother weeping, my father wailing, my 
sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wring¬ 
ing her hands, and all our house in a great 
perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur 
shed one tear. He is a stone, a very pebble [10 
stone, and has no more pity in him than a dog. 
A Jew would have wept to have seen our part¬ 
ing ; why, my grandam, having no eyes, look 
ou, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, 
’ll show you the manner of it. This shoe is [is 
my father ; no, this left shoe is my father ; no, 
no, this left shoe is my mother ; nay, that can¬ 
not be so neither; yes, it is so, it is so, it hath 
the worser sole. This shoe, with the hole in it, 
is my mother, and this my father; a ven- [20 
geance on’t! there’t is. Now, sir, this staff is 
my sister, for, look you, she is as white as a lily 
and as small as a wand. This hat is Nan, our 
maid. I am the dog ; —no, the dog is himself, 
and I am the dog, — 0 ! the dog is me, and I 
am myself; ay, so, so. Now come I to my [25 
father : “ Father, your blessing.” Now should 
not the shoe speak a word for weeping. Now 
should I kiss my father; well, he weeps on. 
Now come I to my mother. Oh, that she could 
speak now like a wood woman ! Well, I kiss [30 
her; why, there ’t is; here’s my mother’s 
breath up and down. Now come I to my sister ; 
mark the moan she makes. Now the dog all 
this while sheds not a tear nor speaks a word ; 
but see how I lay the dust with my tears. [35 

[Enter Panthino.] 

Pan. Launce, away, away, aboard! Thy 
master is shipp’d and thou art. to post after with 
oars. What’s the matter ? Why weep’st thou, 
man ? Away, ass! you ’ll lose the tide, if you 
tarry any longer. 40 

Launce. It is no matter if the tied were lost; 
for it is the unkindest tied that ever any man 
tied. 

Pan . What’s the unkindest tide ? 


Launce. Why, he that’s tied here, Crab, my 

dog. 45 

Pan. Tut, man, I mean thou ’It lose the flood, 
and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in 
losing thy voyage, lose thy master, and, in losing 
thy master, iose thy service, and, in losing thy 
service, — Why dost thou stop my mouth ? go 
Launce. For fear thou shouldst lose thy 
tongue. 

Pan. Where should I lose my tongue ? 
Launce. In thy tale. 

Pan. In thy tail! 65 

Launce. Lose the tide, and the voyage, and 
the master, and the service, and the tied I Why, 
man, if the river were dry, I am able to fill it 
with my tears ; if the wind were down, I could 
drive the boat with my sighs. go 

Pan. Come, come away, man ; I was sent to 
call thee. 

Launce. Sir, call me what thou dar’st. 

Pan. Wilt thou go ? 

Launce. Well, I will go. [Exeunt. « 

Scene IV. [Milan. The Duke's palace.] 

Enter Silvia, Valentine, Thurio, and 
Speed. 

Sil. Servant! 

Val. Mistress? 

Speed. Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you. 
Val. Ay, boy, it’s for love. 

Speed. Not of you. 0 

Val. Of my mistress, then. 

Speed. ’T were good you knock’d him. 

[Exit.] 

Sil. Servant, you are sad. 

Val. Indeed, madam, I seem so. 

Thu. Seem you that you are not ? 10 

Val. Haply I do. 

Thu. So do counterfeits. 

Val. So do you. 

Thu. What seem I that I am not ? 

Val. Wise. # 15 

Thu. What instance of the contrary? 

Val. Your folly. 

Thu. And how quote you my folly ? 

Val. I quote it in your jerkin. 

Thu. My jerkin is a doublet. 20 

Val. Well, then, I ’ll double your folly. 

Thu. How ? 

Sil. What, angry, Sir Thurio ! Do you change 
colour ? 

Val. Give him leave, madam ; he is a kind 
of chameleon. 20 

Thu. That hath more mind to feed on your 
blood than live in your air. 

Val. You have said, sir. 

Thu. Ay, sir, and done too, for this time, so 
Val. I know it well, sir ; you always end ere 
you begin. 

Sil. A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and 
quickly shot off. 

# Val. ’Tis indeed, madam; we thank the 
giver. 35 

Sil. Who is that, servant ? 

Val. Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the 
fire. Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your 








II. IV. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


59 


ladyship’s looks, and spends what he borrows 
kindly in your company. 40 

Thu. Sir, if you spend word for word with me, 
I shall make your wit bankrupt. 

Val. I know it well, sir ; you have an ex¬ 
chequer of words, and, I think, no other trea¬ 
sure to give your followers, for it appears, by 
their bare liveries, that they live by your bare [45 
words. 

Sil. No more, gentlemen, no more; here 
comes my father. 

[Enter Duke.] 

Duke. Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard 
beset. 

Sir Valentine, your father’s in good health, so 
What say you to a letter from your friends 
Of much good news ? 

Val. My lord, I will be thankful 

To any happy messenger from thence. 

Duke. Know ye Don Antonio, your country¬ 
man ? 

Val. Ay, my good lord, I know the gentle¬ 
man 55 

To be of worth and worthy estimation, 

And not without desert so well reputed. 

Duke. Hath he not a son ? 

Val. Ay, my good lord; a son that well de¬ 
serves 

The honour and regard of such a father. go 

Duke. You know him well ? 

Va/. I knew him as myself, for from our 
infancy 

We have convers’d and spent our hours to¬ 
gether ; 

And though myself have been an idle truant, 
Omitting the sweet benefit of time 05 

To clothe mine age with angel-like perfec¬ 
tion, 

Yet hath Sir Proteus, for that’s his name, 
Made use and fair advantage of his days ; 

His years but young, but his experience old ; 
His head unmellowed, but his judgement ripe ; 
And, in a word, for far behind his worth n 
Comes all the praises that I now bestow, 

He is complete in feature and in mind 
W ith all good grace to grace a gentleman. 
Duke. Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this 
good, 75 

He is as worthy for an empress’ love 
As meet to be an emperor’s counsellor. 

Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me 
With commendation from great potentates ; 
And here he means to spend his time awhile, so 
I think ’tis no unwelcome news to you. 

Val. Should I have wish’d a thing, it had 
been he. 

Duke. Welcome him then according to his 
worth. 

Silvia, I speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio ; 

For Valentine, I need not cite him to it. ^ 
I will send him hither to you presently. [Exit.] 
Val. This is the gentleman I told your lady¬ 
ship 

Had come along with me, but that his mis¬ 
tress 

Did hold his eyes lock’d in her crystal looks. 


Sil. Belike that now she hath enfranchis’d 
them 90 

Upon some other pawn for fealty. 

Val. Nay, sure, I think she holds them pris¬ 
oners still. 

Sil. Nay, then he should be blind; and, being 
blind. 

How could he see his way to seek out you ? 
Val. Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of 
eyes. ob 

Thu. They say that Love hath not an eye at 
all. 

Val. To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself. 

Upon a homely object Love can wink. 

Sit. Have done, have done ; here comes the 
gentleman. [Exit Thurio .] 

[Enter Proteus.] 

Val. Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I 
beseech you, 100 

Confirm his welcome with some special favour. 
Sil. His worth is warrant for his welcome 
hither, 

If this be he you oft have wish’d to hear from. 
Val. Mistress, it is. Sweet lady, entertain 
him 

To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship. 105 
Sil. Too low a mistress for so high a servant. 
Pro. Not so, sweet lady; but too mean a 
servant 

To have a look of such a worthy mistress. 

Val. Leave off discourse of disability. 

Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant, no 
Pro. My duty will I boast of, nothing else. 
Sil. And duty never yet did want his meed. 

Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mis¬ 
tress. 

Pro. I ’ll die on him that says so but yourself. 
Sil. That you are welcome ? 

Pro. That you are worthless. 

[Re-enter Thtjrio.] 

Thu. Madam, my lord your father would 
speak with you. u« 

Sil. I wait upon his pleasure. Come, Sir 
Thurio, 

Go with me. Once more, new servant, welcome. 

I ’ll leave you to confer of home affairs ; 

When you have done, we look to hear from 
you. 120 

Pro. We ’ll both attend upon your ladyship. 

[Exeunt Silvia and Thurio .] 
Val. Now, tell me, how do all from whence 
you came ? 

Pro. Your friends are well and have them 
much commended. 

Val. And how do yours ? 

Pro. I left them all in health. 

Val. How does your lady, and how thrives 
your love ? 12* 

Pro. My tales of love were wont to weary 
you; 

I know you joy not in a love-discourse. 

Val. Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter’d now. 

I have done penance for contemning Love, 

Whose high imperious thoughts have punish’d 
me is® 






6o 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


II. V. 


With bitter fasts, with penitential groans, 

With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs ; 
For in revenge of my contempt of love, 

Love hath chas’d sleep from my enthralled 
eyes 

A.nd made them watchers of mine own heart’s 
sorrow. _ 135 

O gentle Proteus, Love’s a mighty lord 
And hath so humbled me as I confess 
There is no woe to his correction, 

Nor to his service no such joy on earth. 

Now no discourse, except it be of love ; 

Now can I break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep, 
Upon the very naked name of love. 

Pro. Enough; I read your fortune in your 
eye. 

Was this the idol that you worship so ? 

Val. Even she ; and is she not a heavenly 
saint ? 146 

Pro. No ; but she is an earthly paragon. 

Val. Call her divine. 

Pro. I will not flatter her. 

Val. 0 , flatter me; for love delights in 
praises. 

Pro. W T hen I was sick, you gave me bitter 
pills, 

And I must minister the like to you. ieo 

Val. Then speak the truth by her; if not di¬ 
vine, 

Yet let her be a principality, 

Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth. 

Pro. Except my mistress. 

Val. Sweet, except not any ; 

Except thou wilt except against my love. iss 
Pro. Have I not reason to prefer mine own ? 
Val. And I will help thee to prefer her too. 
She shall be dignified with this high honour — 
To bear my lady’s train, lest the base earth 
Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss, 
And, of so great a favour growing proud, i6i 
Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower 
And make rough winter everlastingly. 

Pro. Why, Valentine, what braggardism is 
this ? 

Val. Pardon me, Proteus; all I can is no¬ 
thing 165 

To her, whose worth makes other worthies 
nothing. 

She is alone. 

Pro. Then let her alone. 

Val. Not for the world. Why, man, she is 
mine own, 

And I as rich in having such a jewel 
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, no 
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. 
Forgive me that I do not dream on thee, 
Because thou see’st me dote upon my love. 

My foolish rival, that her father likes 

Only for his possessions are so huge, ns 

Is gone with her along, and I must after, 

For love, thou know’st, is full of jealousy. 

Pro. But she loves you ? 

Val. Ay, and we are betroth’d: nay, more, 
our marriage-hour, 

With all the cunning manner of our flight, iso 
Determin’d of; how I must climb her win¬ 
dow, 


The ladder made of cords, and all the means 
Plotted and ’greed on for my happiness. 

Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber, 

In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel, iss 

Pro. Go on before ; I shall inquire you forth. 
I must unto the road, to disembark 
Some necessaries that I needs must use, 

And then I ’ll presently attend you.- 

Val. Will you make haste ? [Exit. wo 

Pro. I will. 

Even as one heat another heat expels, 

Or as one nail by strength drives out another, 
So the remembrance of my former love 
Is by a newer object quite forgotten. ise 

Is it mine [eye], or Valentinus’ praise, 

Her true perfection, or my false transgression, 
That makes me, reasonless, to reason thus ? 

She is fair ; and so is Julia that I love — 

That I did love, for now my love is thaw’d ; 200 
Which, like a waxen image ’gainst a fire, 

Bears no impression of the thing it was. 
Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold, 

And that I love him not as I was wont. 

O, but I love his lady too too much ! _ 205 

And that’s the reason I love him so little. 

How shall I dote on her with more advice, 

That thus without advice begin to love her ! 

’T is but her picture I have yet beheld, 

And that hath dazzled my reason’s light; 210 

But when I look on her perfections, 

There is no reason but I shall be blind. 

If I can check my erring love, I will; 

If not, to compass her I ’ll use my skill. [Exit 

Scene Y. [The same. A street .] 

Enter Speed and Launce [severally\. 

Speed. Launce ! By mine honesty, welcome 
to Milan ! 

Launce. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, 
for I am not welcome. I reckon this always, 
that a man is never undone till he be hang’d, [5 
nor never welcome to a place till some certain 
shot be paid and the hostess say, “ Welcome ! ” 

Speed. Come on, you madcap, I ’ll to the ale¬ 
house with you presently; where, for one shot 
of five pence, thou shalt have five thousand [10 
welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master part 
with Madam Julia ? 

Launce. Marry, after they clos’d in earnest, 
they parted very fairly in jest. 

Speed. But shall she marry him ? is 

Launce. No. 

Speed. How then ? Shall he marry her? 

Launce. No, neither. 

Speed. What, are they broken ? 

Launce. No, they are both as whole as a 
fish. 20 

Speed. Why, then, how stands the matter 
with them ? 

Launce. < Marry, thus : when it stands well 
with him, it stands well with her. 

Speed. What an ass art thou! I understand [25 
thee not. 

Launce. What a block art thou, that thou 
canst not! My staff understands me. 

Speed. What thou say’st ? 






II. Vll. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


61 


Launce. Ay, and what I do too. Look thee, [30 
I ’ll but lean, and my staff understands me. 
Speed. It stands under thee, indeed. 

Launce. Why, stand-under and under-stand 
is all one. 

. Speed. But tell me true, will’t be a match ? 35 
Launce. Ask my dog. If he say ay, it will; 
if he say, no, it will; if he shake his tail and 
say nothing, it will. 

Speed. The conclusion is then that it will. 
Launce. Thou shalt never get such a secret [40 
from me but by a parable. 

Speed. ’T is well that I get it so. But, Launce, 
how say’st thou, that my master is become a 
notable lover ? 

Launce. I never knew him otherwise. 45 
Speed. Than how ? 

Launce. A notable lubber, as thou reportest 
him to be. 

Speed. Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mis- 
tak’st me. bo 

Launce. Why, fool, I meant not thee ; I 
meant thy master. 

Speed. I tell thee, my master is become a hot 
lover. 

Launce. Why, I tell thee, I care not though [bb 
he burn himself in love. If thou wilt, go with me 
to the alehouse ; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a 
Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian. 
Speed. Why? 

Launce. Because thou hast not so much [eo 
charity in thee as to go to the ale with a Chris¬ 
tian. Wilt thou go ? 

Speed. At thy service. [ Exeunt. 

Scene VI. [The same. The Duke's palace.] 
Enter Proteus. 

Pro. To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn ; 
To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn ; 

To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn ; 
And even that power which gave me first my 
oath 

Provokes me to this threefold perjury. b 

Love bade me swear and Love bids me for¬ 
swear. 

O sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinned, 
Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it! 
At first I did adore a twinkling star, 

But now I worship a celestial sun. 10 

Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken ; 
And he wants wit that wants resolved will 
To learn his wit to exchange the bad for better. 
Fie, fie, unreverend tongue ! to call her bad, 
Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr’d ib 
With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths. 

I cannot leave to love, and yet I do; 

But there I leave to love where I should love. 
Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose. 

If I keep them, I needs must lose myself. 20 
If I lose them, thus find I by their loss 
For Valentine, myself, for Julia, Silvia. 

I to myself am dearer than a friend, 

For love is still most precious in itself ; 

And Silvia — witness Heaven, that made her 
fair! — # 26 

Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. 


I will forget that Julia is alive, 

Remembering that my love to her is dead ; 
And Valentine I ’ll hold an enemy, 

Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend. so 

I cannot now prove constant to myself, 
Without some treachery us’d to Valentine. 
This night he meaneth with a corded ladder 
To climb celestial Silvia’s chamber-window, 
Myself in counsel, his competitor. *5 

Now presently I ’ll give her father notice 
Of their disguising and pretended flight, 

Who, all enrag’d, will banish Valentine. 

For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter; 
But, Valentine being gone, I ’ll quickly cross 40 
By some sly trick blunt Thurio’s dull proceed- 
ing. 

Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift, 
As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift! 

[ Exit . 

Scene VII. [Verona. Julia's house.] 
Enter Julia and Lucetta. 

Jul. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me ; 
And even in kind love I do conjure thee, 

Who art the table wherein all my thoughts 
Are visibly character’d and engrav’d, 

To lesson me and tell me some good mean 5 
How, with my honour, I may undertake 
A journey to my loving Proteus. 

Luc. Alas, the way is wearisome and long I 
Jul. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary 
To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps ; 10 
Much less shall she that hath Love’s wings to fly, 
And when the flight is made to one so dear, 

Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus. 

Luc. Better forbear till Proteus make return. 
Jul. O, know’st thou not his looks are my 
SOUI’S food ? 16 

Pity the dearth that I have pined in, 

By longing for that food so long a time. 

Didst thou but know the inly touch of love, 
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow 
As seek to quench the fire of love with words. 20 
Luc. I do not seek to quench your love’s hot 
fire, 

But qualify the fire’s extreme rage, 

Lest it should burn above the bounds of rea¬ 
son. 

Jul. The more thou damm’st it up, the more 
it burns. 

The current that with gentle murmur glides, 25 
Thou know’st, being stopp’d, impatiently doth 
rage; 

But when his fair course is not hindered, 

He makes sweet music with the enamell’d 
stones, 

Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge 
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage : so 

And so by many winding nooks ne strays 
With willing sport to the wild ocean. 

Then let me go, and hinder not my course. 

I ’ll be as patient as a gentle stream, 

And make a pastime of each weary step, sb 
Till the last step have brought me to my love ; 
And there I ’ll rest, as after much turmoil 
A blessed soul doth in Elysium. 




62 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


III. L 


Luc. But in what habit will you go along ? 
Jui. Not like a woman; for I would pre¬ 
vent 40 

The loose encounters of lascivious men. 

Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds 
As may beseem some well-reputed page. 

Luc. YVhy, then, your ladyship must cut your 
hair. 

Jul. No, girl; I ’ll knit it up in silken 
strings 46 

With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots. 

To be fantastic may become a youth 
Of greater time than I shall show to be. 

Luc. YVhat fashion, madam, shall I make 
your breeches ? 

Jul. That fits as w'ell as, “ Tell me, good my 
lord, # 50 

What compass will you wear your farthingale ? ’ ’ 
Why even what fashion thou best likes, Lu¬ 
cetta. 

Luc. You must needs have them with a cod¬ 
piece, madam. 

Jul. Out, out, Lucetta! that will be ill-fa- 
vour’d. 

Luc. A round hose, madam, now’s not worth 
a pin, 55 

Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on. 

Jul. Lucetta, as thou lov’st me, let me have 
What thou think’st meet and is most mannerly. 
But tell me, wench, how will the world repute 
me 

For undertaking so unstaid a journey ? go 

I fear me, it will make me scandaliz’d. 

Luc. If you think so, then stay at home and 
go not. 

Jul. Nay, that I will not. 

Luc. Then never dream on infamy, but go. 

If Proteus like your journey when you come, 65 
No matter who’s displeas’d when you are gone : 
I fear me, he will scarce be pleas’d withal. 

Jul. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear. 

A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears, 

And instances of infinite of love to 

Warrant me welcome to my Proteus. 

Luc. All these are servants to deceitful men. 
Jul. Base men, that use them to so base 
effect! 

But truer stars did govern Proteus’ birth ; 

His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles, tg 
Eis love sincere, his thoughts immaculate, 

His tears pure messengers sent from his heart, 
His heart as far from fraud as heaven from 
earth. 

Luc. Pray heaven he prove so, when you 
come to him ! 

Jul. Now, as thou lov’st me, do him not that 
wrong so 

To bear a hard opinion of his truth : 

Only deserve my love by loving him ; 

And presently go with me to my chamber, 

To take a note of what I stand in need of, 

To furnish me upon my longing journey. 85 
All that is mine I leave at thy dispose, 

My goods, my lands, my reputation ; 

Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence. 

Come, answer not, but to it presently ! 

I am impatient of my tarriance. [ Exeunt. so 


ACT III 

Scene I. [Milan. The Duke's palace .] 
Enter Duke, Thurio, and Proteus. 
Duke. Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, 
awhile ; 

We have some secrets to confer about. 

[Exit Thu.] 

Now, tell me, Proteus, what’s your will with 
me ? 

Pro. My gracious lord, that which I would 
discover 

The law of friendship bids me to conceal; b 
B ut when I call to mind your gracious favours 
Done to me, undeserving as I am, 

My duty pricks me on to utter that 
Which else no worldly good should draw from 
me. 9 

Know, w'orthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend, 
This night intends to steal away your daughter. 
Myself am one made privy to the plot. 

I know you have determin’d to bestow her 
On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates ; 
And should she thus be stolen away from you, 
It would be much vexation to your age. ig 

Thus, for my duty’s sake, I rather chose 
To cross my friend in his intended drift 
Than, by concealing it, heap on your head 
A pack of sorrows which would press you down, 
Being unprevented, to your timeless grave. 21 
Duke. Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest 
care; 

Which to requite, command me while I live. 
This love of theirs myself have often seen, 
Haply when they have judg’d me fast asleep, 
And oftentimes have purpos’d to forbid 26 
Sir Valentine her company and my court; 

But, fearing lest my jealous aim might err, 

And so unworthily disgrace the man, — 

A rashness that I ever-yet have shunn’d, — so 
I gave him gentle looks, thereby to find 
That which thyself hast now disclos’d to me. 
And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this, 
Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested, 

I nightly lodge her in an upper tower, 35 

The key whereof myself have ever kept; 

And thence she cannot be convey’d away. 

Pro. Know, noble lord, they have devis’d a 
mean 

How he her chamber-window will ascend 
And with a corded ladder fetch her down ; *o 
For which the youthful lover now is gone, 

And this way comes he with it presently ; 
Where, if it please you, you may intercept him. 
But, good my lord, do it so cunningly 
That my discovery be not aimed at; 45 

For love of you, not hate unto my friend, 

Hath made me publisher of this pretence. 

Duke. Upon mine honour, he shall never 
know 

That I had any light from thee of this. 

Pro. Adieu, my lord ; Sir Valentine is com* 
ing. [Exit.] bo 

[Enter Valentine.] 

Duke. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast ? 





III. 1. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


63 


Val. Please it your grace, there is a messen¬ 
ger 

That stays to bear my letters to my friends, 
And I am going to deliver them. 

Duke. Be they of much import ? 55 

Val. The tenour of them doth but signify 
My health and happy being at your court. 
Duke. Nay then, no matter; stay with me 
awhile ; 

I am to break with thee of some affairs 
That touch me near, wherein thou must be se¬ 
cret. 60 

’T is not unknown to thee that I have sought 
To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter. 
Val. I know it well, my lord ; and, sure, the 
match 

Were rich and honourable ; besides, the gentle¬ 
man 

Is full of virtue, bounty, worth, and qualities 65 
Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter. 
Cannot your Grace win her to fancy him ? 
Duke. No, trust me; she is peevish, sullen, 
fro ward, 

Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty, 
Neither regarding that she is my child 70 

Nor fearing me as if I were her father ; 

And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers, 

Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her ; 
And, where I thought the remnant of mine age 
Should have been cherish’d by her child-like 
duty, 76 

I now am full resolv’d to take a wife 
And turn her out to who will take her in. 

Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower, 

For me and my possessions she esteems not. 
Val. What would your Grace have me to do 
in this ? so 

Duke. There is a lady of Verona here 
Whom I affect; but she is nice and coy 
And nought esteems my aged eloquence. 

Now, therefore, would I have thee to my tu¬ 
tor— 

For long agone I have forgot to court; 85 

Besides, the fashion of the time is chang’d — 
How and which way I may bestow myself 
To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. 

Val. Win her with gifts, if she respect not 
words. 

Dumb jewels often in their silent kind »o 

More than quick words do move a woman’s 
mind 

Duke. But she did scorn a present that I 
sent her. 

Val. A woman sometimes scorns what best 
contents her. 

Send her another; never give her o’er ; 

For scorn at first makes after-love the more, oc 
If she do frown, ’t is not in hate of you, 

But rather to beget more love in you. 

If she do chide, ’t is not to have you gone ; 

For why, the fools are mad, if left alone. 

Take no repulse, whatever she doth say ; 100 

For “get you gone,” she doth not mean 
“ away ! ” 

Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces; 
Though ne’er so black, say they have angels’ 
faces. 


That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, 
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. 106 
Duke. But she I mean is promis’d by her 
friends 

Unto a youthful gentleman of worth, 

And kept severely from resort of men, 

That no man hath access by day to her. 

Val. Why, then, I would resort to her by 
night. no 

Duke. Ay, but the doors be lock’d and keys 
kept safe, 

That no man hath recourse to her by night. 
Val. What lets but one may enter at her 
window ? 

Duke. Her chamber is aloft, far from the 
ground, 

And built so shelving that one cannot climb 
it us 

Without apparent hazard of his life. 

Val. Why then, a ladder, quaintly made of 
cords, 

To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks, 
Would serve to scale another Hero’s tower, 

So bold Leander would adventure it. 129 

Duke. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood, 
Advise me Avhere I may have such a ladder. 
Val. When would you use it P Pray, sir, tell 
me that. 

Duke. This very night; for Love is like a 
child, 

That longs for every thing that he can come by. 
Val. By seven o’clock I’ll get you such a 
ladder. 126 

Duke. But, hark thee ; I will go to her alone. 
How shall I best convey the ladder thither ? 
Val. It will be light, my lord, that you may 
bear it 

Under a cloak that is of any length. 130 

Duke. A cloak as long as thine will serve the 
turn? 

Val. Ay, my good lord. 

Duke. Then let me see thy cloak. 

I ’ll get me one of such another length. 

Val. Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my 
lord. 

Duke. How shall I fashion me to wear a 
cloak ? 135 

I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me. 
What letter is this same? What’s here? “To 
Silvia”! 

And here an engine fit for my proceeding. 

I ’ll be so bold to break the seal for once. 

[Reads.] 

“My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia 
nightly, no 

And slaves they are to me that send them 
flying: 

0 , could their master come and go as lightly, 
Himself would lodge where senseless they are 
lying! 

My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest 
them, 

While I, their king, that hither them impor¬ 
tune, i« 

Do curse the grace that with such grace hath 
bless’d them. 

Because myself do want my servants’ fortune. 





6 4 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


III. i. 


I curse myself, for they are sent by me,. 

That they should, harbour where their lord 
would be.” 

What’s here ? 15 ° 

“Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee.” 
’Tis so ; and here ’s the ladder for the purpose. 
Why, Phaethon, — for thou art Merops 1 son, — 
Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car 
And with thy daring folly burn the world ? ice 
Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on 
thee ? 

Go, base intruder ! overweening slave ! 

Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates, 
And think my patience, more than thy desert, 
Is privilege for thy departure hence. ieo 

Thank me for this more than for all the favours 
Which all too much I have bestowed on thee. 
But if thou linger in my territories 
Longer than swiftest expedition 
Will give thee time to leave our royal court, 165 
By heaven! my wrath shall far exceed the 
love 

I ever bore my daughter or thyself. 

Be gone ! I will not hear thy vain excuse ; 

But, as thou lov’st thy life, make speed from 
hence. \JExit.] 

Val. And why not death rather than living 

torment ? 170 

To die is to be banish’d from myself, 

And Silvia is myself. Banish’d from her 
Is self from self, a deadly banishment! 

What light is light, if Silvia be not seen ? 

What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by ? 175 

Unless it be to think that she is by, 

And feed upon the shadow of perfection. 
Except I be by Silvia in the night, 

There is no music in the nightingale ; 

Unless I look on Silvia in the day, iso 

There is no day for me to look upon. 

She is my essence, and I leave to be, 

If I be not by her fair influence 
Foster’d, illumin’d, cherish’d, kept alive. 

I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom. iss 
Tarry I here, I but attend on death ; 

But, fly I hence, I fly away from life. 

[Enter Proteus and Launce.] 

Pro. Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out. 
Launce. Soho, soho! 

Pro. What seest thou ? 100 

Launce. Him we go to find. There’s not a 
hair on’s head but ’tis a Valentine. 

Pro. Valentine? 

Val. No. 

Pro. Who then ? His spirit ? 195 

Val. Neither. 

Pro. What then ? 

Val. Nothing. 

Launce. Can nothing speak ? Master, shall I 
strike ? 

Pro. Who wouldst thou strike ? 200 

Launce.' Nothing. 

Pro. Villain, forbear. 

Launce. Why, sir, I ’ll strike nothing. I pray 
you,— 

Pro. Sirrah, I say, forbear. Friend Valen¬ 
tine, a word. 


Val. My ears are stopp’d and cannot hear 
good news, 20s 

So much of bad already hath possess’d them. 

Pro. Then in dumb silence will I bury mine, 
For they are harsh, untuneable, and bad. 

Val. Is Silvia dead ? 

Pro. No, Valentine. . 210 

Val. No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia. 
Hath she forsworn me ? 

Pro. No, Valentine. 

Val. No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn 
me. 

What is your news ? 215 

Launce. Sir, there is a proclamation that you 
are vanished. 

Pro. That thou art banished — 0 , that’s the 
news! — 

From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy 
friend. 

Val. 0 , I have fed upon this woe already, 
And now excess of it will make me surfeit. 220 
Doth Silvia know that I am banished ? 

Pro. Ay, ay; and she hath offered to the 
doom — 

Which, unrevers’d, stands in effectual force — 
A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears. 
Those at her father’s churlish feet she tender’d ; 
With them, upon her knees, her humble self, 22c 
Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became 
them 

As if but now they waxed pale for woe. 

But neither bended knees, pure hands held 
o up, 

Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding 
tears, 230 

Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire ; 

But Valentine, if he be ta’en, must die. 

Besides, her intercession chaf’d him so, 

When she for thy repeal was suppliant, 

That to close prison he commanded her, 230 
With many bitter threats of biding there. 

Val. No more ; unless the next word that 
thou speak’st 

Have some malignant power upon my life ; 

If so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear, 

As ending anthem of my endless dolour. 240 
Pro. Cease to lament for that thou canst not 
help, 

And study help for that which thou lament’st. 
Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. 

Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love ; 
Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life. 246 
Hope is a lover’s staff ; walk hence with that 
And manage it against despairing thoughts. 
Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence ; 
Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver’d 
Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love. 250 
The time now serves not to expostulate. 

Come, I ’ll convey thee through the city-gate ; 
And, ere I part with thee, confer at large 
Of all that may concern thy love-affairs. 

As thou lov’st Silvia, though not for thyself 235 
Regard thy danger, and along with me ! 

Val. I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest 
. m Y hoy, 

Bid him make haste and meet me at the North- 
gate. 





hi. i. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


65 


Pro. Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valen¬ 
tine. 

Val. 0 my dear Silvia! Hapless Valen¬ 
tine ! [Exeunt Val. and Pro.] 200 

Launce. I am but a fool, look you, and yet I 
have the wit to think my master is a kind of 
a knave ; but that’s all one, if he be but one 
knave. He lives not now that knows me to be 
in love; yet I am in love ; but a team of horse 
shall not pluck that from me ; nor who’t is [265 
I love ; and yet ’t is a woman ; but what woman 
I will not tell myself ; and yet’t is a milkmaid ; 
yet’t is not a maid, for she hath had gossips ; yet 
’tis a maid, for she is her master’s maid, and 
serves for wages. She hath more qualities [270 
than a water-spaniel, — which is much in a bare 
Christian. [ Pulling out a paper.] Here is the 
cate-log of her condition. “ Imprimis: She can 
fetch and carry.” Why, a horse can do no more ; 
nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry; [275 
therefore is she better than a jade. “ Item: She 
can milk ; ” look you, a sweet virtue in a maid 
with clean hands. 

[Enter Speed.] 

Speed. How now, Signior Launce! what 
news with your mastership ? 280 

Launce. With my master’s ship ? Why, it is 
at sea. 

Speed. Well, your old vice still; mistake the 
word. What news, then, in your paper ? 

Launce. The blackest news that ever thou [285 
heard’st. 

Speed. Why, man, how black ? 

Launce. Why, as black as ink. 

Speed. Let me read them. 

Launce. Fie on thee, jolt-head ! Thou canst 
not read. 291 

Speed. Thou liest; I can. 

Launce. I will try thee. Tell me this : who 
begot thee ? 

Speed. Marry, the son of my grandfather. [295 

Launce. 0 illiterate loiterer ! it was the son 
of thy grandmother. This proves that thou 
canst not read. 

Speed. Come, fool, come; try me in thy 
paper. 

Launce. There; and Saint Nicholas be thy [300 
speed ! 

Speed. [Reads.] “ Imprimis: She can 
milk.” 

Launce. Ay, that she can. 

Speed. “ Item : She brews good ale.” 

Launce. And thereof comes the proverb : [305 
’* Blessing of your heart, you brew good ale.” 

Speed. “ Item : She can sew.” 

Launce. That’s as much as to say, “ Can she 
so?” 

Speed. “ Item : She can knit.” 310 

Launce. What need a man care for a stock 
with a wench, when she can knit him a stock ? 

Speed. ” Item : She can wash and scour.” 

Launce. A special virtue ; for then she need 
not be wash’d and scour’d. 315 

Speed. “ Item: She can spin.” 

Launce. Then may I set the world on wheels, 
when she can spin for her living. 


Speed. “ Item: She hath many nameless vir¬ 
tues.” 329 

Launce. That’s as much as to say, bastard 
virtues, that, indeed, know not their fathers 
and therefore have no names. 

Speed. Here follow her vices. 

Launce. Close at the heels of her virtues. 325 
Speed. “ Item: She is not to be [kiss’d] fast¬ 
ing, in respect of her breath.” 

Launce. Well, that fault may be mended 
with a breakfast. Read on. 

Speed. “ Item : She hath a sweet mouth.” [339 
Launce. That makes amends for her sour 
breath. 

Speed. “ Item : She doth talk in her sleep.” 
Launce. It’s no matter for that, so she sleep 
not in her talk. 335 

Speed. “ Item : She is slow in words.” 
Launce. O villain, that set this down among 
her vices! To be slow in words is a woman’s 
only virtue. I pray thee, out with’t, and place 
it for her chief virtue. 349 

Speed. “ Item: She is proud.” 

Launce. Out with that too; it was Eve’s 
legacy, and cannot be ta’en from her. 

Speed. “ Item : She hath no teeth.” 

Launce. I care not for that neither, because I 
love crusts. 340 

Speed. “Item: She is curst.” 

Launce. Well, the best is, she hath no teeth 
to bite. 

Speed. “ Item: She will often praise her [350 
liquor.” 

Launce. If her liquor be good, she shall; if 
she will not, I will; for good things should be 
praised. 

Speed. “ Item: She is too liberal.” 355 

Launce. Of her tongue she cannot, for that’s 
writ down she is slow of ; of her purse she shall 
not, for that I ’ll keep shut. Now, of another 
thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, 
proceed. 360 

Speed. “ Item : She hath more hair than wit, 
and more faults than hairs, and more wealth 
than faults.” 

Launce. Stop there ; I ’ll have her. She was 
mine and not mine twice or thrice in that last 
article. Rehearse that once more. 300 

Speed. “ Item: She hath more hair than 
wit,” — 

Launce. More hair than wit ? It may be ; I ’ll 
prove it. The cover of the salt hides the salt, 
and therefore it is more than the salt; the [370 
hair that covers the wit is more than the 
wit, for the greater hides the less. What’s 
next ? 

Speed. “ And more faults than hairs,” — 
Launce. That’s monstrous. 0 , that that were 
out! 375 

Speed. “ And more wealth than faults.” 
Launce. Why, that word makes the. faults 
gracious. Well, I ’ll have her; and if it be a 
match, as nothing is impossible,— 

Speed. What then ? . sso 

Launce. Why, then will I tell thee — that thy 
master stays for thee at the North-gate. 

Speed. For me ? 




66 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


hi. ii. 


Launce. For thee ! Ay, who art thou ? He 
hath stay’d for a better man than thee. 385 

Speed. And must I go to him ? 

Launce. Thou must run to him, for thou hast 
stay’d so long that going will scarce serve the 
turn. 

Speed. Why didst not tell me sooner ? Pox of 
your love-letters ! [Exit.] 391 

Launce. Now will he be swing’d for reading 
my letter ; — an unmannerly slave, that will 
thrust himself into secrets! I ’ll after, to re¬ 
joice in the boy’s correction. [Exit. 395 

Scene II. [The same. The Duke's palace.] 
Enter Duke and Thurio. 

Duke. Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will 
love you, 

Now Valentine is banish’d from her sight. 

Thu. Since his exile she hath despis’d me most, 
Forsworn my company, and rail’d at me, 

That I am desperate of obtaining her. 5 

Duke. This weak impress of love is as a figure 
Trenched in ice, which with an hour’s heat 
Dissolves to water and doth lose his form. 

A little time will melt her frozen thoughts 
And worthless Valentine shall be forgot. 10 

[Enter Proteus.] 

How now, Sir Proteus ! Is your countryman 
According to our proclamation gone ? 

Pro. Gone, my good lord. 

Duke. My daughter takes his going grievously. 
Pro. A little time, my lord, will kill that 
grief. is 

Duke. So I believe ; but Thurio thinks not so. 
Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee — 

For thou hast shown some sign of good desert — 
Makes me the better to confer with thee. 

Pro. Longer than I prove loyal to your Grace 
Let me not live to look upon your Grace. 21 
Duke. Thou know’st how willingly I would 
effect 

The match between Sir Thurio and my daugh¬ 
ter. 

Pro. I do, my lord. 

Duke. And also, I think, thou art not igno¬ 
rant 25 

How she opposes her against my will. 

Pro. She did, my lord, when Valentine was 
here. 

Duke. Ay, and perversely she persevers so. 
What might we do to make the girl forget 
The love of Valentine, and love Sir Thurio ? 30 
Pro. The best way is to slander Valentine 
With falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent, 
Three things that women highly hold in hate. 
Duke. Ay, but she ’ll think that it is spoke 
in hate. 

Pro. Ay, if his enemy deliver it; 35 

Therefore it must with circumstance be spoken 
By one whom she esteemeth as his friend. 
Duke. Then you must undertake to slander 
him. 

Pro. And that, my lord, I shall be loath to do. 
’T is an ill office for a gentleman, 40 

Especially against his very friend. 


Duke. Where your good word cannot ad¬ 
vantage him, 

Your slander never can endamage him ; 
Therefore the office is indifferent, 

Being entreated to it by your friend. 45 

Pro. You have prevail’d, my lord. If I can 
do it 

By aught that I can speak in his dispraise, 

She shall not long continue love to him. 

But say this weed her love from Valentine, 

It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio. 50 
Thu. Therefore, as you unwind her love from 
him, 

Lest it should ravel and be good to none, 

You must provide to bottom it on me ; 

Which must be done by praising me as much 
As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine. sb 
D uke. And, Proteus, we dare trust you in 
this kind, 

Because we know, on Valentine’s report, 

You are already Love’s firm votary 
And cannot soon revolt and change your mind. 
Upon this warrant shall you have access 00 
Where you with Silvia may confer at large, — 
For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy, 

And, for your friend’s sake, will be glad of 
you, — 

Where you may temper her by your persua¬ 
sion 

To hate young Valentine and love my friend. 65 
Pro. As much as I can do, I will effect. 

But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough. 

You must lay lime to tangle her desires 
By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes 
Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows. 70 
Duke. Ay, 

Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy. 

Pro. Say that upon the altar of her beauty 
You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart; 
Write till your ink be dry, and with your 
tears 76 

Moist it again, and frame some feeling line 
That may discover such integrity : 

For Orpheus’ lute was strung with poets’ sinews, 
Whose golden touch could soften steel and 
stones, 

Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans so 

Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands. 
After your dire-lamenting elegies, 

Visit by night your lady’s chamber-window 
With some sweet consort; to their instru¬ 
ments 

Tune a deploring dump. The night’s dead 
silence ss 

Will well become such sweet-complaining griev¬ 
ance. 

This, or else nothing, will inherit her. 

Duke. This discipline shows thou hast been 
in love. 

Thu. And thy advice this night I ’ll put in 
practice. 

Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver, so 

Let us into the city presently 

To sort some gentlemen well skill’d in music. 

I have a sonnet that will serve the turn 
To give the onset to thy good advice. 

Duke. About it, gentlemen ! oe 






IV. 11. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


67 


Pro. We ’ll wait upon your Grace till after 
supper, 

And afterward determine our proceedings. 
Puke. Even now about it! I will pardon 
you. [Exeunt. 

ACT IV 

Scene I. [A forest on the frontiers of Mantua .] 
Enter certain Outlaws. 

1. Out. Fellows, stand fast; I see a passen¬ 

ger. 

2. Out. If there be ten, shrink not, but down 

with ’em. 

[Enter Valentine and Speed.] 

3. Out. Stand, sir, and throw us that you 

have about ye. 

If not, we ’ll make you sit and rifle you. 

Speed. Sir, we are undone; these are the 
villains e 

That all the travellers do fear so much. 

Val. My friends, — 

1. Out. That’s not so, sir; we are your 

enemies. 

2. Out. Peace ! we ’ll hear him. 

3. Out. Ay, by my beard, will we, for he’s a 

proper man. 10 

Val. Then know that I have little wealth to 
lose. 

A man I am cross’d with adversity ; 

My riches are these poor habiliments. 

Of which if you should here disfurnish me, u 
You take the sum and substance that I have. 

2. Out. Whither travel you ? 

Val. To Verona. 

1. Out. Whence came you ? 

Val. From Milan. 

3. Out. Have you long sojourn’d there ? 20 

Val. Some sixteen months, and longer might 

have stay’d. 

If crooked fortune had not thwarted me. 

1. Out. What, were you banish’d thence? 
Val. I was. 

2. Out. For what offence ? 25 

Val. For that which now torments me to re¬ 
hearse. 

I kill’d a man, whose death I much repent; 

But yet I slew him manfully in fight, 

Without false vantage or base treachery. 

1. Out. Why, ne’er repent it, if it were done 

so. 30 

But were you banish’d for so small a fault ? 
Val. I was, and held me glad of such a 
doom. 

2. Out. Have you the tongues ? _ 

Val. My youthful travel therein made me 
happy. 

Or else I often had been miserable. . 36 

3. Out. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood’s 

fat friar, 

This fellow were a king for our wild faction ! 

1. Out. We ’ll have him. Sirs, a word. 

Speed. Master, be one of them; it’s an 
honourable kind of thievery. 40 

Val. Peace, villain! 


2. Out. Tell us this: have you anything to 

take to ? 

Val. Nothing but my fortune. 

3. Out. Know, then, that some of us are 

gentlemen, 

Such as the fury of ungovern’d youth *6 

Thrust from the company of awful men. 

Myself was from Verona banished 
For practising to steal away a lady, 

An heir, and near allied unto the Duke. 

2. Out. And I from Mantua, for a gentle¬ 
man, 60 

Who, in my mood, I stabb’d unto the heart. 

1. Out. And I for such like petty crimes as 

these. 

But to the purpose, — for we cite our faults, 
That they may hold excus’d our lawless lives ; 
And partly, seeing you are beautified 66 

With goodly shape, and by your own report 
A linguist and a man of such perfection 
As we do in our quality much want, — 

2. Out. Indeed, because you are a banish’d 

man, 

Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you. eo 
Are you content to be our general ? 

To make a virtue of necessity 

And live, as we do, in this wilderness ? 

3. Out. What say’st thou ? Wilt thou be of 

our consort ? 

Say ay, and be the captain of us all. ee 

We ’ll do thee homage and be rul’d by thee, 
Love thee as our commander and our king. 

1. Out. But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou 

diest. 

2. Out. Thou shalt not live to brag what we 

have offer’d. 

Val. I take your offer and will live with 
you, 78 

Provided that you do no outrages 
On silly women or poor passengers. 

3. Out. No, we detest such vile base prac¬ 

tices. 

Come, go with us, we ’ll bring thee to our 
crews, 

And show thee all the treasure we have got; 75 
Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [Milan. Outside the Puke's palace , 
under Silvia's window.] 

Enter Proteus. 

Pro. Already have I been false to Valentine 
And now I must be as unjust to Thurio. 

Under the colour of commending him, 

I have access my own love to prefer. 

But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, 

To be corrupted with my worthless gifts. 

When I protest true loyalty to her, 

She twits me with my falsehood to my friend ; 
When to her beauty I commend my vows, 

She bids me think how I have been forsworn 10 
In breaking faith with Julia whom I loved ; 
And, notwithstanding all her sudden quips, 
The least whereof would quell a lover’s hope, 
Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love, 
The more it grows, and fawneth on her still, if 







68 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


IV. ll. 


But here comes Thurio. Now must we to her 
window, 

An d give some evening music to her ear. 

[Enter Thukio and Musicians.] 

Thu. How now, Sir Proteus, are you crept 
before us ? 

Pro. Ay, gentle Thurio ; for you know that 
love 

Will creep in service where it cannot go. 20 
Thu. Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not 
here. 

Pro. Sir, but I do ; or else I would be hence. 
Thu. Who? Silvia? 

Pro. Ay, Silvia; for your sake. 

Thu. I thank you for your own. Now, gen¬ 
tlemen, 

Let’s tune, and to it lustily awhile. 25 

[Enter, at a distance , Host, and Julia in boy's 
clothes .] 

Host. Now, my young guest, methinks 
you ’re allycholly. I pray you, why is it ? 

Jul. Marry, mine host, because I cannot be 
merry. 2a 

Host. Come, we ’ll have you merry. I ’ll 
brftig you where you shall hear music and see 
the gentleman that you ask’d for. 

Jul. But shall I hear him speak ? 

Host. Ay, that you shall. 

Jul. That will be music. [Music plays.] sb 
H ost. Hark, hark ! 

Jul. Is he among these ? 

Host. Ay ; but, peace ! let’s hear ’em. 

Song. 

Who is Silvia ? What is she, 

That all our swains commend her ? *0 

Holy, fair, and wise is she ; 

The heaven such grace did lend her, 
That she might admired be. 

Is she kind as she is fair ? 

For beauty lives with kindness. 

Love doth to her eyes repair 
To help him of his blindness, 

And, being help’d, inhabits there. 

Then to Silvia let us sing 

That Silvia is excelling ; eo 

She excels each mortal thing 
Upon the dull earth dwelling. 

To her let us garlands bring. 

Host. How now ! are you sadder than you 
were before ? How do you, man ? The music 
likes you not. 56 

Jul. You mistake ; the musician likes me not. 
Host. Why, my pretty youth ? 

Jul. He plays false, father. 

Host. How ? Out of tune on the strings ? co 
Jul. Not so ; but yet so false that he grieves 
my very heart-strings. 

Host. You have a quick ear. 

Jul. Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes me 
have a slow heart. es 


Host. I perceive you delight not in music. 
Jul. Not a whit, when it jars so. 

Host. Hark, what fine change is in the mu¬ 
sic ! 

Jul. Ay, that change is the spite. 

Host. You would have them always play but 
one thing ? n 

Jul. 1 would always have one play but one 
thing. 

But, host, doth this Sir Proteus that we talk on 
Often resort unto this gentlewoman ? 

Host. I tell you what Launce, his man, 
told me : he lov’d her out of all nick. ™ 

Jul.. Where is Launce ? 

Host. Gone to seek his dog ; which to-mor¬ 
row, by his master’s command, he must carry 
for a present to his lady. so 

Jul. Peace ! stand aside ; the company parts. 
Pro. Sir Thurio, fear not you. I will so plead 
That you shall say my cunning drift excels. 
Thu. Where meet we ? 

Pro. At Saint Gregory’s well. 

Thu. Farewell. 

[Exeunt Thu. and Musicians .] 

[Enter Silvia above.] 

Pro. Madam, good even to your ladyship, sb 
Sil. I thank you for your music, gentlemen. 
Who is that that spake ? 

Pro. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart’s 
truth, 

You would quickly learn to know him by his 
voice. 

Sil. Sir Proteus, as I take it. so 

Pro. Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your ser¬ 
vant. 

Sil. What’s your will ? 

Pro. That I may compass yours. 

Sil. You have your wish. My will is even 
this, 

That presently you hie you home to bed. 

Thou subtle, perjur’d, false, disloyal man ! 95 

Think’st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless, 
To be seduced by thy flattery, 

That hast deceiv’d so many with thy vows ? 
Return, return, and make thy love amends. 

For me, by this pale queen of night I swear, 100 
I am so far from granting thy request 
That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit; 

And by and by intend to chide myself 
Even for this time I spend in talking to thee. 
Pro. I grant, sweet love, that I did love a 
lady; iob 

But she is dead. 

Jul. [Aside.] ’T were false, if I should speak 
it; 

For I am sure she is not buried. 

Sil. Say that she be; yet Valentine thy 
friend 

Survives, to whom, thyself art witness, no 

I am betroth’d ; and art thou not asham’d 
To wrong him with thy importunacy? 

Pro. I likewise hear that Valentine is dead. 
Sil. And so suppose am I; for in his grave 
Assure thyself my love is buried. ns 

Pro. Sweet lady, let me rake it from the 
earth. 





IV. IV. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


69 


Sil. Go to thy lady’s grave and call hers 
thence ; 

Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine. 

Jul. [Aside .] He heard not that. 

Pro. Madam, if your heart be so obdu¬ 
rate, 120 

Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love, 
The picture that is hanging in your chamber. 
To that I ’ll speak, to that I ’ll sigh and weep ; 
For since the substance of your perfect self 
Is else devoted, I am but a shadow; 125 

And to your shadow will I make true love. 

Jul. [Asic/e.] If ’t were a substance, you 
would, sure, deceive it, 

And make it but a shadow, as I am. 

Sil. I am very loath to be your idol, sir ; 

But since your falsehood shall become you 
well 130 

To worship shadows and adore false shapes, 
Send to me in the morning and I ’ll send it; 
And so, good rest. 

Pro. As wretches have o’ernight 

That wait for execution in the morn. 

[Exeunt Pro. and Sil. severally.] 
Jul. Host, will you go V 135 

Host. By my halidom, I was fast asleep. 

Jul. Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus ? 

Host. Marry, at my house. Trust me, I 
think’t is almost day. 

Jul. Not so; but it hath been the longest 
night wo 

That e’er I watch’d and the most heaviest. 

[Exeunt.] 

Scene III. [The same.] 

Enter Eglamour. 

Egl. This is the hour that Madam Silvia 
Entreated me to call and know her mind. 

There’s some great matter she’d employ me 
in. 

Madam, madam ! 

[Enter Silvia above.] 

Sil. Who calls ? 

Egl. Your servant and your friend ; 

One that attends your ladyship’s command. 5 
Sil. Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good 
morrow. 

Egl. As many, worthy lady, to yourself. 
According to your ladyship’s impose, 

I am thus early come to know what service 
It is your pleasure to command me in. 10 

Sil. O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman, — 
Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not, — 
Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplish’d. 
Thou art not ignorant what dear good will 
I bear unto the banish’d Valentine, is 

Nor how my father would enforce me marry 
Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors. 
Thyself hast lov’d ; and I have heard thee say 
No grief did ever come so near thy heart 
As when thy lady and thy true love died, 20 
Upon whose grave thou vow’dst pure chastity. 
Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine, 

To Mantua, where I hear he makes abode ; 
And, for the ways are dangerous to pass, 


I do desire thy worthy company, ib 

Upon whose faith and honour I repose. 

Urge not my father’s anger, Eglamour, 

But think upon my grief, a lady’s grief, 

And on the justice of my flying hence, 

To keep me from a most unholy match, 30 
Which heaven and fortune still rewards with 
plagues. 

I do desire thee, even from a heart 
As full of sorrows as the sea of sands, 

To bear me company and go with me ; 

If not, to hide what I have said to thee, so 
That I may venture to depart alone. 

Egl. Madam, I pity much your grievances; 
Which since I know they virtuously are plac’d, 
I give consent to go along with you, 

Recking as little what betideth me *0 

As much I wish all good befortune you. 

When will you go ? 

Sil. This evening coming. 

Egl. Where shall I meet you ? 

Sil. At Friar Patrick’s cell, 

Where I intend holy confession. 

Egl. I will not fail your ladyship. Good [« 
morrow, gentle lady. 

Sil. Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour. 

[Exeunt [severally]. 

Scene IV. [The same.] 

Enter Launce [with his Dog]. 

Launce. When a man’s servant shall play the 
cur with him, look you, it goes hard: one that 
I brought up of a puppy ; one that I sav’d from 
drowning, when three or four of his blind bro¬ 
thers and sisters went to it. I have taught him, 
even as one would say precisely, “ Thus I [s 
would teach a dog.” I was sent to deliver him 
as a present to Mistress Silvia from my mas¬ 
ter ; and I came no sooner into the dining- 
chamber but he steps me to her trencher and 
steals her capon’s leg. O, ’t is a foul thing [10 
when a cur cannot keep himself in all compa¬ 
nies ! I would have, as one should say, one 
that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, to 
be, as it were, a dog at all things. If I had not 
had more wit than he, to take a fault upon 
me that he did, I think verily he had been [is 
bang’d for’t; sure as I live, he had suffer’d 
for’t. You shall judge. He thrusts me himself 
into the company of three or four gentleman¬ 
like dogs, under the Duke’s table. He had 
not been there — bless the mark ! — a piss- [20 
ing while, but all the chamber smelt him. 
“ Out with the dog ! ” says one. “ What cur is 
that ? ” says another. “ Whip him out! ” says 
the third. “ Hang him up ! ” says the Duke. 
I, having been acquainted with the smell be¬ 
fore, knew it was Crab, and goes me to the [25 
fellow that whips the dogs. “ Friend,” quoth 
I, “you mean to whip the dog ? ” “ Ay, marry, 
do I,” quoth he. “You do him the more 
wrong,” quoth I ; “’t was I did the thing you 
wot of.” He makes me no more ado, but [30 
whips me out of the chamber. How many mas¬ 
ters would do this for his servant ? Nay, I ’ll 
be sworn, I have sat in the stocks for puddings 








7 ° 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


IV. IV 


lie hath stolen, otherwise he had been executed; 
I have stood on the pillory for geese he hath [35 
kill’d, otherwise he had suffer’d for ’t. Thou 
think’st not of this now. Nay, I remember the 
trick you serv’d me when I took my leave of 
Madam Silvia. Did not I bid thee still mark 
me and do as I do ? When didst thou see me 
heave up my leg and make water against a [10 
gentlewoman’s farthingale? Didst thou ever 
see me do such a trick ? 

[Enter Proteus and Julia.] 

Pro. Sebastian is thy name ? I like thee 
well 

And will employ thee in some service pre¬ 
sently. « 

Jul. In what you please. I ’ll do what I can. 
Pro. I hope thou wilt. [To Launce .] How 
now, you whoreson peasant! 

Where have you been these two days loitering ? 

Launce. Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia 
the dog you bade me. eo 

Pro. And what says she to my little jewel ? 
Launce. Marry, she says your dog was a cur, 
and tells you currish thanks is good enough for 
such a present. 

Pro. But she receiv’d my dog ? 66 

Launce. No, indeed, did she not; here have 
I brought him back again. 

Pro. What, didst thou offer her this from me ? 
Launce. Ay, sir; the other squirrel was 
stolen from me by the hangman’s boys in the [eo 
market-place; and then I offer’d her mine own, 
who is a dog as big as ten of yours, and there¬ 
fore the gift the greater. 

Pro. Go get thee hence, and find my dog 
again, 

Or ne’er return again into my sight. 66 

Away, I say ! stay’st thou to vex me here ? 

[Exit Launce.} 

A slave, that still an end turns me to shame ! 
Sebastian, I have entertained thee, 

Partly that I have need of such a youth 
That can with some discretion do my business, to 
F or’t is no trusting to yond foolish lout, 

But chiefly for thy face and thy behaviour, 
Which, if my augury deceive me not, 

Witness good bringing up, fortune, and truth : 
Therefore know thou, for this I entertain 
thee. 

Go presently, and take this ring with thee, to 
D eliver it to Madam Silvia. 

She lov’d me well deliver’d it to me. 

Jul. It seems you lov’d not her, to leave her 
token. 

She is dead, belike ? 

Pro. Not so ; I think she lives. 

Jul. Alas ! si 

Pro. Why dost thou cry “ alas ” ? 

Jul. I cannot choose 

But pity her. 

Pro. Wherefore shouldst thou pity her ? 
Jul. Because methinks that she lov’d you as 
well 

As you do love your lady Silvia. so 

She dreams on him that has forgot her love ; 
You dote on her that cares not for your love. 


’T is pity love should be so contrary ; 

And thinking on it makes me cry “ alas! ” 
Pro. Well, give her that ring and there¬ 
withal 90 

This letter. That’s her chamber. Tell my lady 
I claim the promise for her heavenly picture. 
Your message done, hie home unto my chamber, 
Where thou shalt find me, sad and solitary. 

[Exit.] 

Jul. How many women would do such a mes¬ 
sage ? . 06 

Alas, poor Proteus ! thou hast entertain’d 
A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs. 

Alas, poor fool! why do I pity him 
That with his very heart despiseth me ? 
Because he loves her, he despiseth me ; u* 
Because I love him, I must pity him. 

This ring I gave him when lie parted from 
me, 

To bind him to remember my good will; 

And now am I, unhappy messenger, 

To plead for that, which I would not obtain, toe 
To carry that which I would have refus’d, 

To praise his faith which I would have dis¬ 
prais’d. 

I am my master’s true-confirmed love ; 

But cannot be true servant to my master, 
Unless I prove false traitor to myself. no 

Yet will I woo for him, but yet so coldly 
As, heaven it knows, I would not have him 
speed. 

[Enter Silvia, attended.'] 

Gentlewoman, good day! I pray you, be my 
mean 

To bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia. 
Sil. What would you with her, if that I be 
she ? lie 

Jul. If you be she, I do entreat your patience 
To hear me speak the message I am sent on. 
Sil. From whom ? 

Jul. From my master, Sir Proteus, madam. 
Sil. O, he sends you for a picture. i*o 

Jul. Ay, madam. 

Sil. Ursula, bring my picture there. 

Go give your master this. Tell him from me, 
One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget, m 
Would better fit his chamber than this shadow. 

Jul. Madam, please you peruse this letter. — 
Pardon me, madam ; i have unadvis’d 
Deliver’d you a paper that I should not. 

This is the letter to your ladyship. 

Sil. I pray thee, let me look on that again, isr 
Jul. It may not be ; good madam, pardon me. 
Sil. There, hold! 

I will not look upon your master’s lines. 

I know they are stuff’d with protestations 
And full of new-found oaths, which he will 
break ion 

As easily as I do tear his paper. 

Jul. Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring. 
Sil. The more shame for him that he sends 
it me ; 

For I have heard him say a thousand times 
His Julia gave it him at his departure. no 
Though his false finger have profan’d the ring, 
Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong. 





V. 11. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


7 i 


Jul. She thanks you. 

Sil. What say’st thou? 

Jul. I thank you, madam, that you tender 
her. us 

Poor gentlewoman! my master wrongs her 
much. 

Sil. Dost thou know her ? 

Jul. Almost as well as I do know myself. 

To think upon her woes I do protest 
That I have wept a hundred several times, iso 
Sil. Belike she thinks that Proteus hath for¬ 
sook her ? 

Jul. I think she doth ; and that’s her cause 
of sorrow. 

Sil. Is she not passing fair ? 

Jul. She hath been fairer, madam, than she 
is. 

When she did think my master lov’d her 
> Well, . 165 

She, in my judgement, was as fair as you 
But since she did neglect her looking-glass 
And threw her sun-expelling mask away, 

The air hath starv’d the roses in her cheeks 
And pinch’d the lily-tincture of her face, ieo 
That now she is become as black as I. 

Sil. How tall was she ? 

Jul. About my stature ; for at Pentecost, 
When all our pageants of delight were play’d, 
Our youth got me to play the woman’s part, les 
And I was trimm’d in Madam Julia’s gown, 
Which served me as fit, by all men’s judge¬ 
ments, 

As if the garment had been made for me ; 
Therefore I know she is about my height. 

And at that time I made her weep agood, no 
For I did play a lamentable part. 

Madam, ’twas Ariadne passioning 
For Theseus’ perjury and unjust flight; 

Which I so lively acted with my tears 
That my poor mistress, moved therewithal, its 
W ept bitterly ; and would I might be dead 
If I in thought felt not her very sorrow ! 

Sil. She is beholding to thee, gentle youth. 
Alas, poor lady, desolate and left! 

I weep myself to think upon thy words. no 
Here, youth, there is my purse ; I give thee this 
For thy sweet mistress’ sake, because thou 
lov’st her. 

Farewell. [Exit Silvia , with attendants .] 

Jul. And she shall thank you for’t, if e’er 
you know her. 

A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beauti¬ 
ful ! 185 

I hope my master’s suit will be but cold, 

Since she respects my mistress’ love so much. 
Alas, how love can trifle with itself ! 

Here is her picture ; let me see. I think, 

If I had such a tire, this face of mine ioo 

Were full as lovely as is this of hers ; 

And yet the painter flatter’d her a little, 

Unless I flatter with myself too much. 

Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow : 

If that be all the difference in his love, i»s 
I ’ll get me such a colour’d periwig. 

Her eyes are grey as glass, and so are mine. 

Ay, but her forehead’s low, and mine’s as 
high. 


What should it be that he respects in her 
But I can make respective in myself, 200 

If this fond Love were not a blinded god ? 
Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up, 
For ’t is thy rival. 0 thou senseless form, 

Thou shalt be worshipp’d, kiss'd, lov’d, and 
ador’d ! 

And, were there sense in his idolatry, 205 

My substance should be statue in thy stead. 

I ’ll use thee kindly for thy mistress’ sake, 
That us’d me so ; or else, by Jove I vow, 

I should have scratch’d out your unseeing eyes, 
To make my master out of love with thee ! 210 

[Exit. 

ACT V 

Scene I. [Milan. An abbey.] 

Enter Eglamour. 

Egl. The sun begins to gild the western sky, 
And now it is about the very hour 
That Silvia, at Friar Patrick’s cell, should meet 
me. 

She will not fail, for lovers break not hours, 
Unless it be to come before their time ; s 

So much they spur their expedition. 

See where she comes. 

[Enter Silvia.] 

Lady, a happy evening ! 
Sil. Amen, amen ! Go on, good Eglamour, 
Out at the postern by the abbey-wall. 

I fear I am attended by some spies. 10 

Egl. Fear not; the forest is not three leagues 
off. 

If we recover that, we are sure enough. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. [The same. The Duke's palace .] 

Enter Thurio, Proteus, and Julia. 

Thu. Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my 
suit? 

Pro. 0 , sir, I find her milder than she was ; 
And yet she takes exceptions at your person. 
Thu. What, that my leg is too long ? 

Pro. No ; that it is too little. s 

Thu. I ’ll wear a boot, to make it somewhat 
rounder. 

[Jul. Aside.] But love will not be spurr’d to 
what it loathes. 

Thu. What says she to my face ? 

Pro. She says it is a fair one. 

Thu. Nay, then the wanton lies ; my face is 
black. 10 

Pro. But pearls are fair ; and the old saying 
is, 

Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies’ eyes. 
[Jul. Aside.] ’T is true; such pearls as put 
out ladies’ eyes; 

For I had rather wink than look on them. 

Thu. How likes she my discourse ? is 

Pro. Ill, when you talk of war. 

Thu. But well, when I discourse of love and 
peace ? 

Jul. [Aside.] But better, indeed, when yon 
hold your peace. 






72 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


v. iv. 


Thu. What says she to my valour ? 

Pro. 0 , sir, she makes no doubt of that. 20 
Jul. [Aside.] She needs not, when she knows 
it cowardice. 

Thu. What says she to my birth ? 

Pro. That you are well deriv’d. 

Jul. [Aside.] True; from a gentleman to a 
fool. 

Thu. Considers she my possessions ? 25 

Pro. 0 , ay ; and pities them. 

Thu. Wherefore ? 

Jul. [Aside.] That such an ass should owe 
them. 

Pro. That they are out by lease. 

Jul. Here comes the Duke. 30 

[Enter Duke.] 

Puke. How now, Sir Proteus! How now, 
Thurio ! 

Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late ? 

Thu. Not I. 

Pro. Nor I. 

Puke. Saw you my daughter ? 

Pro. Neither. 

Puke. Why then, 

She’s fled unto that peasant Valentine, 36 
And Eglamour is in her company. 

’Tis true; for Friar Laurence met them both, 
As he in penance wander’d through the forest. 
Him he knew well, and guess’d that it was 
she. 

But, being mask’d, he was not sure of it. *o 
Besides, she did intend confession 
At Patrick’s cell this even ; and there she was 
not. 

These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence. 
Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse, 
But mount you presently and meet with me 45 
Upon the rising of the mountain-foot 
That leads toward Mantua, whither they are 
fled. 

Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me. 

[Exit.] 

Thu. Why, this it is to be a peevish girl, 
That flies her fortune when it follows her. eo 
I ’ll after, more to be reveng’d on Eglamour 
Than for the love of reckless Silvia. [Exit.] 
Pro. And I will follow, more for Silvia’s love 
Than hate of Eglamour that goes with her. 

[Exit.] 

Jul. And I will follow, more to cross that 
love 66 

Than hate for Silvia that is gone for love. 

[Exit. 

Scene III. [The frontiers of Mantua. The 
forest .] 

Enter Outlaws with Silvia. 

1 . Out. Come, come, 

Be patient; we must bring you to our captain. 
Sil. A thousand more mischances than this 
one 

Have learn’d me how to brook this patiently. 

2 . Out. Come, bring her away. 5 

1 . Qut. Where is the gentleman that was 

with her ? 


3. Out. Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun 
us, 

But Moyses and Valerius follow him. 

Go thou with her to the west end of the wood ; 
There is our captain. We ’ll follow him that’s 
fled. 10 

The thicket is beset; he cannot ’scape. 

1 . Out. Come, I must bring you to our cap¬ 
tain’s cave. 

Fear not; he bears an honourable mind, 

And will not use a woman lawlessly. 

Sil. O Valentine, this I endure for thee ! is 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [Another part of the forest.] 
Enter Valentine. 

Val. How use doth breed a habit in a man ! 
This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, 

I better brook than flourishing peopled towns. 
Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, 

And to the nightingale’s complaining notes 6 
Tune my distresses and record my woes. 

0 thou that dost inhabit in my breast, 

Leave not the mansion so long tenantless, 

Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall 
And leave no memory of what it was! 10 

Repair me with thy presence, Silvia ! 

Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain ! 
What halloing and what stir is this to-day ? 
These are my mates, that make their wills their 
law, 

Have some unhappy passenger in chase. ie 
They love me well; yet I have much to do 
To keep them from uncivil outrages. 

Withdraw thee, Valentine: who’s this comes 
here ? [Steps aside.] 

[Enter Proteus, Silvia, and Julia.] 

Pro. Madam, this service I have done for 

y° u , 

Though you respect not aught your servant 
doth, 20 

To hazard life and rescue you from him 
That would have forc’d your honour and your 
love. 

Vouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look ; 
A smaller boon than this I cannot beg 
And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give. 2R 
Val. [Aside.] How like a dream is this! I 
see and hear. 

Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile. 

Sil. 0 miserable, unhappy that I am ! 

Pro. Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came ; 
But by my coming I have made you happy, so 
Sil. By thy approach thou mak’st me most 
unhappy. 

Jul. [Aside.] And me, when he approacheth 
to your presence. 

Sil. Had I been seized by a hungry lion, 

I would have been a breakfast to the beast, 
Rather than have false Proteus rescue me. 36 
0 , Heaven be judge how I love Valentine, 
Whose life’s as tender to me as my soul! 

And full as much, for more there cannot be, 

I do detest false perjur’d Proteus. 

Therefore be gone; solicit me no more. 40 





v. W. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


73 


Pro. What dangerous action, stood it next to 
death, 

Would I not undergo for one calm look ! 

0 , ’t is the curse in love, and still approv’d, 
When 'women cannot love where they ’re be- 
lov’d ! 

Sil. When Proteus cannot love where he’s 
belov’d. 45 

Read over Julia’s heart, thy first, best love, 
For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy 
faith 

Into a thousand oaths ; and all those oaths 
Descended into perjury, to love me. 

Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou ’dst 
two, eo 

And that’s far worse than none. Better have 
none 

Than plural faith, which is too much by one. 
Thou counterfeit to thy true friend ! 

Pro. In love 

Who respects friend ? 

Sil. All men but Proteus. 

Pro. Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving 
words os 

Can no way change you to a milder form, 

I ’ll woo you like a soldier, at arms’ end. 

And love you ’gainst the nature of love, — force 
y e - 

Sil. 0 heaven ! 

Pro. I ’ll force thee yield to my desire. 

Val. Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch, eo 
Thou friend of an ill fashion ! 

Pro. Valentine! 

Val. Thou common friend, that’s without 
faith or love, 

For such is a friend now ! Treacherous man, 
Thou hast beguil’d my hopes ! Nought but mine 
eye 

Could have persuaded me. Now I dare not say 
I have one friend alive ; thou wouldst disprove 
me. ec 

Who should be trusted [now], when one’s right 
hand 

Is perjured to the bosom ? Proteus, 

I am sorry I must never trust thee more, 

But count the world a stranger for thy sake, to 
T he private wound is deepest. O time most 
accurst, 

’Mongst all foes that a friend should be the 
worst! 

Pro. My shame and guilt confounds me. 
Forgive me, Valentine ; if hearty sorrow 
Be a sufficient ransom for offence, 76 

I tender’t here ; I do as truly suffer 
As e’er I did commit. 

Val. Then I am paid ; 

And once again I do receive thee honest. 

Who by repentance is not satisfied 
Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are 
pleas’d. 80 

By penitence the Eternal’s wrath’s appeas’d ; 
And, that my love may appear plain and free, 
All that was mine in Silvia I give thee. 

Jul. 0 me unhappy! [Swoons.] 

Pro. Look to the boy. 85 

Val. Why, boy! why, wag! how now! 
what’s the matter ? Look up ; speak. 


Jul. 0 good sir, my master charg’d me to de¬ 
liver a ring to Madam Silvia, which, out of my 
neglect, was never done. so 

Pro. Where is that ring, boy ? 

Jul. Here’t is ; this is it. 

Pro. How ? let me see ! 

Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia. 

Jul. O, cry you mercy, sir, I have mistook ; 
This is the ring you sent to Silvia. os 

Pro. But how cam’st thou by this ring ? At 
my depart 

I gave this unto Julia. 

Jul. And Julia herself did give it me ; 

And Julia herself hath brought it hither. 

Pro. How! Julia! ioo 

Jul. Behold her that gave aim to all thy 
oaths, 

And entertain’d ’em deeply in her heart. 

How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root! 
O Proteus let this habit make thee blush ! 

Be thou asham’d that I have took upon me ios 
S uch an immodest raiment, if shame live 
In a disguise of love. 

It is the lesser blot, modesty finds, 

Women to change their shapes than men their 
minds. 

Pro. Than men their minds! ’t is true. O 
heaven ! were man no 

But constant, he were perfect. That one error 
Fills him with faults ; makes him run through 
all the sins. 

Inconstancy falls off ere it begins. 

What is in Silvia’s face, but I may spy 
More fresh in Julia’s with a constant eye ? ns 
Val. Come, come, a hand from either. 

Let me be blest to make this happy close; 
’Twere pity two such friends should be long 
foes. 

Pro. Bear witness, Heaven, I have my wish 
for ever. 

Jul. And I mine. 120 

[Enter Outlaws, with Duke and Thurio.] 

Outlaws. A prize, a prize, a prize ! 

Val. Forbear, forbear, I say ! It is my lord 
the Duke. 

Your Grace is welcome to a man disgrac’d, 
Banished Valentine. 

Duke. Sir Valentine! 

Thu. Yonder is Silvia; and Silvia’s mine. 125 
Val. Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy 
death ; 

Come not within the measure of my wrath. 

Do not name Silvia thine ; if once again, 
Verona shall not hold thee. Here she stands : 
Take but possession of her with a touch, — 130 
I dare thee but to breathe upon my love. 

Thu. Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I. 

I hold him but a fool that will endanger 
His body for a girl that loves him not. 

I claim her not, and therefore she is thine. 135 
Duke. The more degenerate and base art 
thou, 

To make such means for her as thou hast done 
And leave her on such slight conditions. 

Now, by the honour of my ancestry, 

I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, i*o 








74 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 


v. iv. 


And think thee worthy of an empress’ love. 
Know then, I here forget all former griefs, 
Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again, 
Plead a new state in thy unrival’d merit, 

To which I thus subscribe: Sir Valentine, us 
Thou art a gentleman and well deriv’d ; 

Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserv’d 
her. 

Val. I thank your Grace ; the gift hath made 
me happy. 

I now beseech you, for your daughter’s sake, 
To grant one boon that I shall ask of you. ico 
Duke. I grant it, for thine own, whate’er it 
be. 

Val. These banish’d men that I have kept 
withal 

Are men endu’d with worthy qualities. 

Forgive them what they have committed here 
And let them he recall’d from their exile. iss 
They are reformed, civil, full of good, 

And fit for great employment, worthy lord. 


Duke. Thou hast prevail’d ; I pardon them 
and thee ; 

Dispose of them as thou know’st their deserts. 
Come, let us go ; we will include all jars iso 
With triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity. 

Val. And, as we walk along, I dare be bold 
With our discourse to make your Grace to smile. 
What think you of this page, my lord ? 

Duke. I think the hoy hath grace in him ; he 
blushes. i»6 

Val. I warrant you, my lord, more grace 
than hoy. 

Duke. What mean you by that saying ? 

Val. Please you, I’ll tell you as we pass 
along 

That you will wonder what hath fortuned. 
Come, Proteus ; ’t is your penance but to hear 
The story of your loves discovered ; m 

That done, our day of marriage shall be yours 5 
One feast, one house, one mutual happiness. 

[Exeunt. 








A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


In 1600 two quarto editions of A Midsummer-Night's Dream appeared. The earlier, printed 
for Thomas Fisher, seems to have been taken from an authentic manuscript, and on it the pre¬ 
sent text is based. The later, printed by James Roberts, follows the earlier with few changes 
beyond the addition of some stage directions. The text of the play in the First Folio appears to 
have been printed from a prompter’s copy of Roberts’s Quarto. The chief differences are in the 
division into acts, not hitherto marked, and in the presence of yet more detailed stage directions. 

The only piece of external evidence of the existence of the play before 1600 is the mention of 
it by Meres in 1598. Attempts to date it more exactly are based chiefly on very slight probabil¬ 
ities. The supposed borrowing of ii. i. 2, 3 from the sixth book of The Faerie Queene , and the pos¬ 
sible allusion in v. i. 52 to Spenser’s Teares of the Muses are of no real assistance. Slightly more 
plausible is the theory that Titania’s description of the inverted seasons in n. i. 88-114 derived 
point from the violent storms which afflicted England in 1594, and was perhaps suggested by 
them. It is hard to believe that the fear of the clowns lest the lion should frighten the ladies 
needed the hint of an actual incident occurring at a spectacle at the Scottish court in 1594, when 
a Moor was substituted for a lion lest the spectators should be disturbed. So far as these very 
slight indications go, they point to 1594-95. The impression one receives of the stage of maturity 
implied in the style, characterization, and construction of the play, and the evidence from the 
meter fit this date ; and most modern scholars incline to accept it. 

Certain marked peculiarities of A Midsummer-Night's Dream indicate that it was not written 
primarily for the public stage. The prominence of the marriage of Theseus in the setting, the gen¬ 
eral masque-like character of the whole, with its abundance of lyric, dance, and spectacle, and 
the virtual epithalamium with which it closes, all suggest that it was originally devised for some 
nobleman’s wedding. The open flattery of Elizabeth in n. i. 157-164, and the praise of chastity 
in i. i. 74, 75, point further to the actual presence of the Queen. The most suitable occasion so 
far suggested is the marriage of the Earl of Derby to Elizabeth Vere, which took place at the 
Court at Greenwich in 1594. 

No original for the main plot has been found. The most obvious sources whence Shakespeare 
may have derived infonnation about Theseus are Chaucer’s Knight's Tale and North’s translation 
of Plutarch’s Life of Theseus. From the former he might have got the idea of the marriage fes¬ 
tivities of Theseus, the May-Day observances, the hunting scene, the name of Philostrate, and 
some minor details. From the latter he might have taken a few proper names, and allusions to 
the previous adventures of Theseus in love and war. 

The story of Pyramus and Thisbe was accessible to him in Ovid’s Metamorphoses , in Golding’s 
translation of the same, in Chaucer’s Legend of Good Women , and in various later forms. A love- 
potion with an effect somewhat similar to, but by no means identical with, that of the love-juice 
of Oberon plays a part in the Diana of Montemayor, from which the dramatist had taken part of 
the plot of The Two Gentlemen of Verona. ! 

The fairy-lore is based mainly on popular tradition. Titania is one of Ovid’s names for Diana. 
Oberon had appeared in medieval romances such as Muon of Bordeaux , in Greene’s James IV, 
in The Faerie Queene , and elsewhere. Robin Goodfellow was a familiar figure in folk-lore, and had 
already made his way into books. But Shakespeare worked on these figures, and on the fairy- 
world in general, a transformation into something all his own; and in so doing permanently 
modified this whole field of popular fancy. There is perhaps no one achievement of his genius 
which has had so pervasive an effect as his treatment of fairies in the present play and in Mer- 
cutio’s speech on Queen Mab, in Borneo and Juliet . 



A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


[DRAMATIS PERSONAE 


Theseus, duke of Athens. 

Egeus, father to Hermia. 

Lysander, betrothed to Hermia. 

Demetrius, in love with Hermia. 

Philostrate, master of the revels to Theseus. 


Quince, a carpenter, 
Bottom, a weaver, 

Flute, a bellows-mender, 
Snout, a tinker, 

Snug, a joiner, 
Starveling, a tailor, 


presenting 


1 

( 


Prologue. 

Pyramus. 

Thisbe. 

Wall. 

Lion. 

Moonshine. 


Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons, betrothed to The¬ 
seus. 

Hermia, daughter to Egeus, betrothed to Lysander. 
Helena, in love with Demetrius. 


Oberon, king of the fairies. 
Titania, queen of the fairies. 
Robin Goodfellow, a Puck. 
Peaseblossom, 1 
Cobweb, l fairies . 

Moth, 

Mustardseed, j 


Other fairies attending their King and Queen. 
Attendants on Theseus and Hippolyta. 


Scene : Athens , and a wood near it .] 


ACT I 

[Scene I. Athens. The palace of Theseus .] 

Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, [Philostrate,] 
with others. 

The. Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour 
Draws on apace. Four happy days bring in 
Another moon ; but, 0, methinks, how slow 
This old moon wanes ! She lingers my desires, 
Like to a step-dame or a dowager s 

Long withering out a young man’s revenue. 
Hip. Four days will quickly steep themselves 
in night; 

Four nights will quickly dream away the time ; 
And then the moon, like to a silver bow 
New-bent in heaven, shall behold the night io 
Of our solemnities. 

The. ' Go, Philostrate, 

Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments ; 
Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth ; 
Turn melancholy forth to funerals ; 

The pale companion is not for our pomp. is 

[Exit Philostrate.] 

Hippolyta, I woo’d thee with my sword, 

And won thy love, doing thee injuries ; 

But I will wed thee in another key, 

With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling. 

Enter Egeus, Hermia, Lysander, and Deme¬ 
trius. 

Ege. Happy be Theseus, our renowned Duke ! 
The. Thanks, good Egeus ; what’s the news 
with thee ? 21 

Ege. Full of vexation come I, with complaint 
Against my child, my daughter Hermia. 

Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble lord, 

This man hath my consent to marry her. 25 


Stand forth, Lysander : and, my gracious Duke, 
This man hath bewitch’d the bosom of my 
child. 

Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her 
rhymes, 

And interchang'd love-tokens with my child. 
Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung so 
With faining voice verses of faining love, 

And stolen the impression of her fantasy 
With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, con¬ 
ceits, 

Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats, — mes¬ 
sengers 

Of strong prevailment in unhard’ned youth. 35 
With cunning hast thou filch’d my daughter’s 
heart, 

Turn’d her obedience, which is due to me, 

To stubborn harshness; and, my gracious 
Duke, 

Be it so she will not here before your Grace 
Consent to marry with Demetrius, 40 

I beg the ancient privilege of Athens, 

As she is mine, I may dispose of her; 

Which shall be either to this gentleman 
Or to her death, according to our law 
Immediately provided in that case. 4 b 

The. What say you, Hermia ? Be advis’d, 
fair maid. 

To you your father should be as a god, 

One that compos’d your beauties, yea, and one 
To whom you are but as a form in wax 
By him imprinted, and within his power so 
To leave the figure or disfigure it. 

Demetrius is a worthy gentleman. 

Her. So is Lysander. 

The. . In himself he is; 

But in this kind, wanting your father’s voice, 
The other must be held the worthier. cb 






A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 


77 


i. i. 


Her. I would my father look’d but with my 
eyes. 

The. Rather your eyes must with his judge¬ 
ment look. 

Her. I do entreat your Grace to pardon me. 

I know not by what power I am made bold, 
Nor how it may concern my modesty, eo 

In such a presence here to plead my thoughts ; 
But I beseech your Grace that I may know 
The worst that may befall me in this case, 

If I refuse to wed Demetrius. 

The.' Either to die the death or to abjure os 
For ever the society of men. 

Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires, 
Know of your youth, examine well your blood, 
Whether, if you yield not to your father’s 
choice, 

You can endure the livery of a nun, to 

For aye to be in shady cloister mew’d, 

To live a barren sister all your life, 

Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon. 
Thrice-blessed they that master so their blood 
To undergo such maiden pilgrimage ; 75 

But earthlier happy is the rose distill’d, 

Than that which withering on the virgin thorn 
Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness. 

Her. So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord, 
Ere I will yield my virgin patent up so 

Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke 
My soul consents not to give sovereignty. 

The. Take time to pause; and, by the next 
new moon — 

The sealing-day betwixt my love and me, 

For everlasting bond of fellowship— sc 

Upon that day either prepare to die 
For disobedience to your father’s will, 

Or else to wed Demetrius, as he would, 

Or on Diana’s altar to protest 
For aye austerity and single life. so 

Hem. Relent, sweet Hermia ; and, Lysander, 
yield 

Thy crazed title to my certain right. 

Lys. You have her father’s love, Demetrius, 
Let me have Hermia’s ; do you marry him. 
Ege. Scornful Lysander! true, he hath my 
love, # 95 

And what is mine my love shall render him. 
And she is mine, and all my right of her 
I do estate unto Demetrius. 

Lys. I am, my lord, as well deriv’d as he, 

As well possess’d ; my love is more than his ; 100 
My fortunes every way as fairly rank’d, 

If not with vantage, as Demetrius’; 

And, which is more than all these boasts can be, 
I am belov’d of beauteous Hermia. 

Why should not I then prosecute my right ? ioc 
Demetrius, I ’ll avouch it to his head, 

Made love to Nedar’s daughter, Helena, 

And won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes, 
Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry, 

Upon this spotted and inconstant man. no 

The. I must confess that I have heard so 
much. 

And with Demetrius thought to have spoke 
thereof; 

But, being over-full of self-affairs, 

My mind did lose it. But, Demetrius, come; 


And come, Egeus ; you shall go with me, ms 
I have some private schooling for you both. 

For you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourself 
To fit your fancies to your father’s will; 

Or else the law of Athens yields you up — 
Which by no means we may extenuate— 120 

To death, or to a vow of single life. 

Come, my Hippolyta ; what cheer, my love ? 
Demetrius and Egeus, go along. 

I must employ you in some business 
Against our nuptial, and confer with you 12c 
Of something nearly that concerns yourselves. 
Ege. With duty and desire we follow you. 

[Exeunt all but Lysander and Hermia. 
Lys. How now, my love ! why is your cheek 
so pale ? 

How chance the roses there do fade so fast ? 
Her. Belike for want of rain, which I could 
well 130 

Beteem them from the tempest of my eyes. 

Lys. Ay me! for aught that I could ever 
read, 

Could ever hear by tale or history, 

The course of true love never did run smooth ; 
But, either it was different in blood, — 13c 

Her. O cross ! too high to be enthrall’d to 
low. 

Lys. Or else misgraffed in respect of years, — 
Her. O spite ! too old to be engag’d to young. 
Lys. Or else it stood upon the choice of 
friends, — 

Her. 0 hell! to choose love by another’s 
eyes. 140 

Lys. Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, 
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, 
Making it momentany as a sound, 

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, 

Brief as the lightning in the collied night, i 4 "> 
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and 
earth, 

And ere a man hath power to say “ Behold ! ” 
The jaws of darkness do devour it up ; 

So quick bright things come to confusion. 

Her. If then true lovers have been ever 
cross’d, 100 

It stands as an edict in destiny. 

Then let us teach our trial patience, 

Because it is a customary cross, 

As due to love as thoughts and dreams and 
sighs, 

Wishes and tears, poor fancy’s followers. 155 

Lys. A good persuasion ; therefore, hear me, 
Hermia. 

I have a widow aunt, a dowager 
Of great revenue, and she hath no child. 

From Athens is her house remote seven leagues; 
And she respects me as her only son. ieo 

There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee ; 

And to that place the sharp Athenian law 
Cannot pursue us. If thou lov’st me then, 

Steal forth thy father’s house to-morrow night; 
And in the wood, a league without the town, 
Where I did meet thee once with Helena 
To do observance to a morn of May, 

There will I stay for thee. 

Her. My good Lysander 1 

I swear to thee, by Cupid’s strongest bow, 




7 S 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


I. 11. 


By his best arrow with the golden head, no 
By'the simplicity of Venus’ doves, 

By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves, 
And by that fire which burn’d the Carthage 
queen, 

When the false Troyan under sail was seen, 

By all the vows that ever men have broke, its 
I n number more than ever women spoke, 

In that same place thou hast appointed me 
To-morrow truly will I meet with thee. 

Lys. Keep promise, love. Look, here comes 
Helena. 

Enter Helena. 

Her. God speed fair Helena! Whither 
away ? iso 

Hel. Call you me fair ? That fair again 
unsay. 

Demetrius loves your fair, 0 happy fair! 

Your eyes are lode-stars, and your tongue’s 
sweet air 

More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear 
. When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds 
appear. iss 

Sickness is catching ; 0 , were favour so, 

Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go; 

My ear should catch your voice, my eye your 
eye, 

My tongue should catch your tongue’s sweet 
melody. 

Were the world mine, Demetrius being 
bated, ioo 

The rest I ’ll give to be to you translated. 

O, teach me how you look, and with what art 
You sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart. 

Her. I frown upon him, yet he loves me still. 
Hel. 0 that your frowns would teach my 
smiles such skill! 195 

Her. I give him curses, yet he gives me love. 
Hel. 0 that my prayers could such affection 
move! 

Her. The more I hate, the more he follows 
me. 

Hel. The more I love, the more he hateth me. 
Her. His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine. 
Hel. None, but your beauty. Would that fault 
were mine! 201 

Her. Take comfort; he no more shall see 
my face ; 

Lysander and myself will fly this place. 

Before the time I did Lysander see, 

Seem’d Athens as a paradise to me ; 205 

O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, 

That he hath turn’d a heaven unto a hell! 

Lys. Helen, to you our minds we will unfold. 
To-morrow night, when Phoebe doth behold 
Her silver visage in the watery glass, 210 

Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass, 

A time that lovers’ flights doth still conceal, 
Through Athens’ gates have we devis’d to steal. 

Her. And in the wood, where often you and I 
Upon faint primrose-beds were wont to lie, 215 
Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet, 
There my Lysander and myself shall meet; 
And thence from Athens turn away our eyes, 
To seek new friends and stranger companies. 
Farewell, sweet playfellow! Pray thou for us ; 


And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius! 221 

Keep word, Lysander ; we must starve our sight 
From lovers’ food till morrow deep midnight. 
Lys. I will, my Hermia. [Exit Herm. 

Helena, adieu: 

As you on him, Demetrius dote on you ! 225 

[Exit. 

Hel. How happy some o’er other some can be ! 
Through Athens I am thought as fair as she. 
But what of that ? Demetrius thinks not so ; 
He will not know what all but he do know ; 
And as he errs, doting on Hermia’s eyes,’ 230 
So I, admiring of his qualities. 

Things base and vile, holding no quantity, 

Love can transpose to form and dignity. 

Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind, 
And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind. 23s 
Nor hath Love’s mind of any judgement taste ; 
Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste ; 

And therefore is Love said to be a child, 
Because in choice he is so oft beguil’d. 

As waggish boys in game themselves for¬ 
swear, 246 

So the boy Love is perjur’d every where: 

For ere Demetrius look’d on Hermia’s eyne, 

He hail’d down oaths that he was only mine ; 
And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt, 
So he dissolv’d, and showers of oaths did 
melt. 245 

I will go tell him of fair Hermia’s flight; 

Then to the wood will he to-morrow night 
Pursue her ; and for this intelligence 
If I have thanks, it is a dear expense. 

But herein mean I to enrich my pain, 250 

To have his sight thither and back again. 

[Exit. 

[Scene II. Athens. Quince's house .] 

Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, 
and Starveling. 

Quin. Is all our company here ? 

Bot. You were best to call them»generally, 
man by man, according to the scrip. 

Quin. Here is the scroll of every man’s 
name, which is thought fit, through all Athens, 
to play in our interlude before the Duke and [5 
the Duchess, on his wedding-day at night. 

Bot. First, good Peter Quince, say what the 
play treats on, then read the names of the 
actors, and so grow to a point. 10 

Quin. Marry, our play is, The most lamentable 
comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and 
Thisby. 

Bot. A very good piece of work, I assure 
you, and a merry. Now, good Peter Quince, 
call forth your actors by tbe scroll. Masters, [is 
spread yourselves. 

Quin. Answer as I call you. Nick Bottom, 
the weaver. 

Bot. Ready. Name what part I am for, and 
proceed. 2 i 

Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for 
Pyramus. 

Bot. What is Pyramus ? A lover, or a tyrant ? 
Quin. A lover, that kills himself most gal¬ 
lant for love. 26 






A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


79 


n. i. 


Bot. Tlxat will ask some tears in the true 
performing of it. If I do it, let the audience 
look to their eyes. I will move storms, I will 
condole in some measure. To the rest. Yet my 
chief humour is for a tyrant. I could play [30 
Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make 
all split. 

“ The raging rocks 
And shivering shocks 
Shall break the locks ss 

Of prison gates; 

And Phibbus’ car 
Shall shine from far 
And make and mar 

The foolish Fates.” 40 

This was lofty! Now name the rest of the 
players. This is Ercles’ vein, a tyrant’s vein ; a 
lover is more condoling. 

Quin. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. 

Flu. Here, Peter Quince. « 

Quin. Flute, you must take Thisby on you. 

Flu. What is Thisby ? A wandering knight ? 

Quin. It is the lady that Pyramus must 
Jove. 

Flu. Nay, faith, let not me play a woman ; I 

have a beard coming. eo 

Quin. That’s all one ; you shall play it in a 
mask, and you may speak as small as you will. 

Bot. An I may hide my face, let me play 
Thisby too. I ’ll speak in a monstrous little 
voice, “ Thisne ! Thisne ! Ah Pyramus, my 
lover dear! thy Thisby dear, and lady [es 
dear ! ” 


Quin. No, no ; you must play Pyramus ; and, 
Flute, you Thisby. 

Bot. Well, proceed. 

Quin. Robin Starveling, the tailor. eo 

Star. Here, Peter Quince. 

Quin. Robin Starveling, you must play 
Thisby’s mother. Tom Snout, the tinker. 

Snout. Here, Peter Quince. 

Quin. You, Pyramus’ father ; myself, This¬ 
by’s father. Snug, the joiner, you, the lion’s [es 
part; and, I hope, here is a play fitted. 

Snug. Have you the lion’s part written? 
Pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of 
study. 

Quin. You may do it extempore, for it is [70 
nothing but roaring. 

Bot. Let me play the lion too. I will roar, * 
that I will do any man’s heart good to hear me. 

I will roar, that I will make the Duke say, 

“ Let him roar again, let him roar again.” 75 

Quin. An you should do it too terribly, you 
would fright the Duchess and the ladies, that 
they would shriek ; and that were enough to 
hang us all. 

All. That would hang us, every mother’s 
son. 

Bot. I grant you, friends, if you should fright 
the ladies out of their wits, they would have no 
more discretion but to hang us; but I will 
aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as 
gently as any sucking dove ; I will roar you [m 
an ’t were any nightingale. 

Quin. You can play no part but Pyramus ; 
for Pyramus is a sweet-fac’d man ; a proper 


man, as one shall see in a summer’s day; a 
most lovely gentleman-like man : therefore you 
must needs play Pyramus. 

Bot. Well, I will undertake it. What beard 
were I best to play it in ? 

Quin. Why, what you will. 

Bot. I will discharge it in either your [#s 
straw-colour beard, your orange-tawny beard, 
your purple-in-grain beard, or your French- 
crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow. 

Quin. Some of your French crowns have no 
hair at all, and then you will play barefac’d. [100 
But, masters, here are your parts ; and I am to 
entreat you, request you, and desire you, to con 
them by to-morrow night; and meet me in the 
palace wood, a mile without the town, by moon¬ 
light. There will we rehearse, for if we meet in 
the city, we shall be dogg’d with company, [ioe 
and our devices known. In the meantime I will 
draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants. 
I pray you, fail me not. 

Bot. We will meet; and there we may re- [no 
hearse most obscenely and courageously. Take 
pains; be perfect; adieu. 

Quin. At the Duke’s oak we meet. 

Bot. Enough ; hold or cut bow-strings. 

[Exeun:. 


ACT II 

[Scene I. A wood near Athens.] 

Enter a Fairy at one door and Robin Good- 
fellow at another. 

Robin. How now, spirit! whither wander 
you ? 

Fai. Over hill, over dale, 

Thorough bush, thorough brier, 

Over park, over pale, 

Thorough flood, thorough fire, e 
I do wander every where, 

Swifter than the moon’s sphere ; 

And I serve the fairy Queen, 

To dew her orhs upon the green. 

The cowslips tall her pensioners be ; 10 
In their gold coats spots you see ; 

Those be rubies, fairy favours, 

In those freckles live their savours. 

I must go seek some dewdrops here 

And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear. is 

Farewell, thou lob of spirits ; I ’ll be gone. 

Our Queen and all her elves come here anon. 
Robin. The King doth keep his revels here 
to-night; 

Take heed the Queen come not within his 
sight; 

For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, 2c 

Because that she as her attendant hath 
A lovely boy stolen from an Indian king. 

She never had so sweet a changeling; 

And jealous Oberon would have the child 
Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild ; *5 
But she perforce withholds the loved boy, 
Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all 
her joy ; 

And now they never meet in grove or green, 
By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen, 





So 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


II. L 


But they do square, that all their elves for 
fear 30 

Creep into acorn-cups and hide them there. 

Fai. Either I mistake your shape and making 
quite, 

Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite 
Call’d Robin Goodfellow. Are not you he 
That frights the maidens of the villagery, 35 

Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern, 
And bootless make the breathless housewife 
churn, 

And sometime make the drink to bear no barm, 
Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their 
harm ? 

Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet 
Puck, 40 

You do their work, and they shall have good 
luck. 

Are not you he ? 

Robin. Thou speakest aright; 

I am that merry wanderer of the night. 

Ijest to Oberon and make him smile 

When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, 45 

Neighing in likeness of a filly foal; 

And sometime lurk I in a gossip’s bowl, 

In very likeness of a roasted crab, 

And when she drinks, against her lips I bob 
And on her withered dewlap pour the ale. so 

The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, 
Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me. 
Then slip I from her bum, down topples she, 
And “ tailor ” cries, and falls into a cough ; 
And then the whole quire hold their hips and 
laugh, 55 

And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear 
A merrier hour was never wasted there* 

But, room, fairy ! here comes Oberon. 

Fai. And here my mistress. Would that he 
were gone ! 

Enter the King of Fairies [Oberon] at one 
door with his train; and the Queen [Tita- 
nia] at another with hers. 

Obe. Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania. 60 
Tita. What, jealous Oberon ! Fairies, skip 
hence: 

I have forsworn his bed and company. 

Obe. Tarry, rash wanton ! Am not I thy 
lord? 

Tita. Then I must be thy lady ; but I know 
When thou hast stolen away from fairy land, 65 
And in the shape of Corin sat all day, 

Playing on pipes of corn and versing love 
To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here, 

Come from the farthest steep of India? 

But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon, to 
Your buskin’d mistress and your warrior love, 
To Theseus must be wedded, and you come 
To give their bed joy and prosperity. 

Obe. How canst thou thus for shame, Titania, 
Glance at my credit with Hippolyta, 75 

Knowing I know thy love to Theseus ? 

Didst thou not lead him through the glimmer¬ 
ing night 

From Perigenia, whom he ravished ? 

And make him with fair iEgle break his faith, 
With Ariadne, and Antiopa ? so 


Tita. These are the forgeries of jealousy ; 
And never, since the middle summer’s spring, 
Met we on hill, in dale, forest or mead, 

By paved fountain or by rushy brook, 

Or in the beached margent of the sea, ss 

To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, 
But with thy brawls thou hast disturb’d our 
sport. 

Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, 

As in revenge, have suck’d up from the sea 
Contagious fogs ; which, falling in the land, so 
Hath every petty river made so proud 
That they have overborne their continents. 

The ox hath therefore stretch’d his yoke in 
vain. 

The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green 
corn 

Hath rotted ere his youth attain’d a beard. »* 
The fold stands empty in the drowned field, 
And crows are fatted with the murrain flock, 
The nine men’s morris is fill’d up with mud, 
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green 
For lack of tread are undistinguishable. 100 
The human mortals want their winter cheer ; 
No night is now with hymn or carol blest; 
Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, 
Pale in her anger, washes all the air, 

That rheumatic diseases do abound. 106 

And thorough this distemperature we see 
The seasons alter : hoary-headed frosts 
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, 

And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown 
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds 110 
Is, as in mockery, set; the spring, the summer, 
The childing autumn, angry winter, change 
Their wonted liveries ; and the mazed world, 
By their increase, now knows not which is 
which. 

And this same progeny of evils comes 11s 

From our debate, from our dissension ; 

We are their parents and original. 

Obe. Do you amend it then ; it lies in you. 
Why should Titania cross her Oberon ? 

I do but beg a little changeling boy 120 

To be my henchman. 

Tita.. Set your heart at rest; 

The fairy land buys not the child of me. 

His mother was a votaress of my order, 

And, in the spiced Indian air, by night, 

Full often hath she gossip’d by my side, m 
And sat with me on Neptune’s yellow sands, 
Marking the embarked traders on the flood, 
When we have laugh’d to see the sails conceive 
And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind ; 
Which she with pretty and with swimming gait 
Following, her womb then rich with my young 
squire, 131 

Would imitate, and sail upon the land 
To fetch me trifles, and return again, 

As from a voyage, rich with merchandise. 

But she, being mortal, of that boy did die ; 135 
And for her sake do I rear up her boy, 

And for her sake I will not part with him. 

Obe. How long within this wood intend you 
stay ? 

Tita. Perchance till after Theseus’wedding- 
day. 




II. 1. 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


81 


If you will patiently dance in our round uo 
And see our moonlight revels, go with us ; 

If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts. 
Obe. Give me that boy, and I will go with 
thee. 

Tita. Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, 
away! 

We shall chide downright, if I longer stay. us 
[Exit [Titania with her train]. 
Obe. Well, go thy way ; thou slialt not from 
this grove 

Till I torment thee for this injury. 

My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou remem- 
b’rest 

Since once I sat upon a promontory, 

And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back 150 
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath 
That the rude sea grew civil at her song, 

And certain stars shot madly from their 
spheres, 

To hear the sea-maid’s music ? 

Robin. I remember. 

Obe. That very time I saw, but thou couldst 
not, 155 

Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 
Cupid all arm’d. A certain aim he took 
At a fair vestal throned by the west, 

And loos’d his love-shaft smartly from his bow, 
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts ; 
But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft i 6 i 
Quench’d in the chaste beams of the watery 
moon, 

And the imperial votaress passed on, 

In maiden meditation, fancy-free. 

Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell. i 65 
It fell upon a little western flower, 

Before milk-white, now purple with love’s 
wound, 

And maidens call it love-in-idleness. 

Fetch me that flower, the herb I shew’d thee 
once. 

The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid no 

Will make or man or woman madly dote 
Upon the next live creature that it sees. 

Fetch me this herb ; and be thou here again 
Ere the leviathan can swim a league. 

Robin. I ’ll put a girdle round about the 
earth } 75 

In forty minutes. [Exit.] 

Obe. Having once this juice, 

I ’ll watch Titania when she is asleep, 

And drop the liquor of it in her eyes. 

The next thing then she waking looks upon, 

Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, iso 

On meddling monkey, or on busy ape, 

She shall pursue it with the soul of love ; 

And ere I take this charm from off her sight, 
As I can take it with another herb, 

I ’ll make her render up her page.to me. is® 
But who comes here ? I am invisible ; 

And I will overhear their conference. 

Enter Demetrius, Helena following him. 

Dem. I love thee not, therefore pursue me 
not. 

Where is Lysander and fair Hermia ? 

The one I ’ll stay, the other stayeth me. i»o 


Thou told’st me they were stolen unto this 
wood ; 

And here am I, and wood within this wood, 
Because I cannot meet my Hermia. 

Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more. 
Hel. You draw me, you hard-hearted ada¬ 
mant ; 195 

But yet you draw not iron, for my heart 
Is true as steel. Leave you your power to draw, 
And I shall have no power to follow you. 

Dem. Do I entice you ? Do I speak you fair ? 
Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth 200 

Tell you, I do not, nor I cannot love you ? 

Ilel. And even for that do I love you the 
more. 

I am your spaniel, and, Demetrius, 

The more you beat me, I will fawn on you. 

Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike 
me, 205 

Neglect me, lose me ; only give me leave, 
Unworthy as I am, to follow you. 

What worser place can I beg in your love,— 
And yet a place of high respect with me,— 
Than to be used as you use your dog ? 210 

Dem. Tempt not too much the hatred of my 
spirit, 

For I am sick when I do look on thee. 

Hel. And I am sick when I look not on you. 
Dem. You do impeach your modesty too 
much, 

To leave the city and commit yourself 215 

Into the hands of one that loves you not; 

To trust the opportunity of night 
And the ill counsel of a desert place 
With the rich worth of your virginity. 

Hel. Your virtue is my privilege. For 
that 220 

It is not night when I do see your face, 
Therefore I think I am not in the night; 

Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, 
For you in my respect are all the world. 

Then how can it be said I am alone, 225 

When all the world is here to look on me ? 
Dem. I ’ll run from thee and hide me in the 
brakes, 

And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts. 

Hel. The wildest hath not such a heart as you. 
Run when you will, the story shall be chang’d : 
Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase ; 231 

The dove pursues the griffin ; the mild hind 
Makes speed to catch the tiger ; bootless speed, 
When cowardice pursues and valour flies. 

Dem. I will not stay thy questions; let me 

go; 235 

Or, if thou follow me, do not believe 
But I shall do thee mischief in the wood. 

Hel. Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field, 
You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius 1 
Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex. 240 
We cannot fight for love, as men may do. 

We should be woo’d and were not made to woo. 

[Exit Dem.] 

I ’ll follow thee and make a heaven of hell, 

To die iipon the hand I love so well. [Exit. 
Obe. Fare thee well, nymph. Ere he do leave 
this grove, 245 

Thou shalt fly him and he shall seek thy love. 







82 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


ii. a 


Re-enter [Robin Goodfellow], 

Hast thou the flower there ? Welcome, wan¬ 
derer. 

Robin. Ay, there it is. 

Obe. I pray thee, give it me. 

I know a hank where the wild thyme blows, 
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, 250 
Quite over-canopi’d with luscious woodbine, 
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine. 
There sleeps Titania sometime of the night. 
Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight; 
And there the snake throws her enamell’d 
skin, 255 

Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in; 

And with the juice of this I ’ll streak her eyes, 
And make her full of hateful fantasies. 

Take thou some of it, and seek through this 
grove. 

A sweet Athenian lady is in love 260 

With a disdainful youth. Anoint his eyes, 

But do it when the next thing he espies 
May be the lady. Thou shalt know the man 
By the Athenian garments he hath on. 

Effect it with some care, that he may prove 265 
More fond on her than she upon her love ; 

And look thou meet me ere the first cock 
crow. 

Robin. Fear not, my lord, your servant shall 

do so. [ Exeunt. 

[Scene II. Another part of the wood.] 
Enter Titania, with her train. 

Tita. Come, now a roundel and a fairy song ; 
Then, for the third part of a minute, hence ; 
Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds, 
Some war with rere-mice for their leathern 
wings 

To make my small- elves coats, and some keep 
back 5 

The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and won¬ 
ders 

At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep ; 
Then to your offices and let me rest. 

The Fairies sing. 

[l. Fairy.] “ You spotted snakes with double 
tongue, 

Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ; 10 

Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, 
Come not near our fairy queen.” 

[ Cho .] “ Philomel, with melody 
Sing in our sweet lullaby ; 

Lulla,lulla, lullaby ; lulla, lulla, lullaby, is 
Never harm, 

Nor spell nor charm, 

Come our lovely lady nigh. 

So, good night, with lullaby.” 

1 . Fairy. “ Weaving spiders, come not here ; 
Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence 1 21 
Beetles black, approach not near ; 

Worm nor snail, do no offence.” 

[Cho.] “Philomel, with melody,” etc. 


2 . Fairy. Hence, away ! now all is well. 21 
One aloof stand sentinel. 

[Exeunt Fairies.] Titania sleeps. 

Enter OberoN [ and squeezes the flower on Ti- 
tania's eyelids]. 

Obe. What thou seest when thou dost wake, 
Do it for thy true-love take, 

Love and languish for his sake. 

Be it ounce, or cat, or bear, so 

Pard, or boar with bristled hair, 

In thy eye that shall appear 
When thou wak’st, it is thy dear. 
Wake when some vile thing is near. 

[Exit.] 

Enter Lysander and Hermia. 

Lys. Fair love, you faint with wandering in 
the wood ; 

And to speak troth, I have forgot our way. 
We ’ll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good, 
And tarry for the comfort of the day. 

Her. Be it so, Lysander. Find you out a 
bed; 

For I upon this bank will rest my head. 40 
Lys. One turf shall serve as pillow for us 
both; 

One heart, one bed, two bosoms and one troth. 
Her. Nay, good Lysander ; for my sake, my 
dear, 

Lie further off yet; do not lie so near. 

Lys. 0 , take the sense, sweet, of my inno¬ 
cence ! 45 

Love takes the meaning in love’s conference. 

I mean, that my heart unto yours is knit 
So that but one heart we can make of it; 

Two bosoms interchained with an oath ; 

So then two bosoms and a single troth. bo 

Then by your side no bed-room me deny ; 

For lying so, Hermia, I do not lie. 

Her. Lysander riddles very prettily. 

Now much beshrew my manners and my pride, 
If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied. 65 

But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy 
Lie further off ; in human modesty, 

Such separation as may well be said 
Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid, 

So far be distant; and, good night, sweet 
friend. eo 

Thy love ne’er alter till thy sweet life end ! 

Lys. Amen, amen, to that fair prayer, say I; 
And then end life when I end loyalty ! 

Here is my bed ; sleep give thee all his rest! 
Her. With half that wish the wisher’s eyes 
be press’d! [They sleep. 65 

Enter [Robin Goodfellow]. 

Robin. Through the forest have I gone, 

But Athenian found I none, 

On whose eyes I might approve 
This flower’s force in stirring love. 
Night and silence — Who is here ? 1* 
Weeds of Athens he doth wear ! 

This is he, my master said. 

Despised the Athenian maid ; 

And here the maiden, sleeping sound, 
On the dank and dirty ground. 75 




hi. i. 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


83 


Pretty soul! she durst not lie 
Near this lack-love kill-courtesy. 

Churl, upon thy eyes I throw 
All the power this charm doth owe. 

When thou wak’st, let love forbid so 
Sleep his seat on thy eyelid ; 

So awake when I am gone, 

For I must now to Oberon. [Exit. 

Enter Demetrius and Helena, running. 

Hel. Stay though thou kill me, sweet De¬ 
metrius. 

Dem. I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt 
me thus. so 

Hel. O, wilt thou darkling leave me ? Do not 
so. 

Dem. Stay, on thy peril; I alone will go. 

[Exit. 

Hel. O, I am out of breath in this fond chase ! 
The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace. 
Happy is Hermia, wheresoe’er she lies, 90 

For she hath blessed and attractive eyes. 

How came her eyes so bright ? Not with salt 
tears ; 

If so, my eyes are oftener wash’d than hers. 
No, no, I am as ugly as a bear, 

For beasts that meet me run away for fear; 95 
Therefore no marvel though Demetrius 
Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus. 

What wicked and dissembling glass of mine 
Made me compare with Hermia’s sphery eyne ? 
But who is here ? Lysander ! on the ground ! 100 
Dead ? or asleep ? I see no blood, no wound. 
Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake. 

Lys. [Awaking.] And run through fire I will 
for thy sweet sake. 

Transparent Helena ! Nature shows art, 

That through thy bosom makes me see thy 
heart. 10 5 

Where is Demetrius ? O, how fit a word 
Is that vile name to perish on my sword ! 

Hel. Do not say so, Lysander ; say not so. 
What though he love your Hermia? Lord, 
what though ? 

Yet Hermia still loves you ; then be content, no 

Lys. Content with Hermia ! No ; I do repent 
The tedious minutes I with her have spent. 

Not Hermia but Helena I love. 

Who will not change a raven for a dove ? 

The will of man is by his reason sway’d ; us 
And reason says you are the worthier maid. 
Things growing are not ripe until their season, 
So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason ; 
And touching now the point of human skill, 
Reason becomes the marshal to my will 120 
And leads me to your eyes, where I o’erlook 
Love’s stories written in love’s richest book. 

Hel. Wherefore was I to this keen mockery 
born ? 

When at your hands did I deserve this scorn ? 
Is’t not enough, is ’t not enough, young 
man, 125 

That I did never, no, nor never can. 

Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius’ eye, 

But you must flout my insufficiency ? 

Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth you do, 
In such disdainful manner me to woo. 130 


But fare you well; perforce I must confess 
I thought you lord of more true gentleness. 

O, that a lady, of one man refus’d, 

Should of another therefore be abus’d ! [Exit. 
Lys. She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep 
thou there; 135 

And never mayst thou come Lysander near ! 
For as a surfeit of the sweetest things 
The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, 

Or as the heresies that men do leave 

Are hated most of those they did deceive, no 

So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, 

Of all be hated, but the most of me ! 

And, all my powers, address your love and 
might 

To honour Helen and to be her knight. [Exit. 
Her. [Awaking.] Help me, Lysander, help 
me ! do thy best ns 

To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast! 
Ay me, for pity! what a dream was here ! 
Lysander, look how I do quake with fear. 
Methought a serpent eat my heart away, 

And you sat smiling at his cruel prey. iso 

Lysander ! what, remov’d ? Lysander! lord ! 
What, out of hearing ? Gone ? No sound, no 
word ? 

Alack, where are you ? Speak, an if you hear ; 
Speak, of all loves ! I swoon almost with fear. 
No ? then I well perceive you are not nigh, iss 
Either death or you I ’ll find immediately. 

[Exit. 

ACT III 

[Scene I. The wood. Titania lying asleep.] 

Enter the Clowns [Quince, Snug, Bottom, 
Flute, Snout, and Starveling]. 

Dot. Are we all met ? 

Quin. Pat, pat; and here’s a marvellous con¬ 
venient place for our rehearsal. This green plot 
shall be our stage, this hawthorn-brake our 
tiring-house ; and we will do it in action as we 
will do it before the Duke. 0 

Dot. Peter Quince ! 

Quin. What say’st thou, bully Bottom ? 

Dot. There are things in this comedy of 
Pyramus and Thisby that will never please. [10 
First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill him¬ 
self, which the ladies cannot abide. How an¬ 
swer you that ? 

Snout. By ’r lakin, a parlous fear. 

Star. I believe we must leave the killing 
out, when all is done. _ 10 

Dot. Not a whit! I have a device to make all 
well. Write me a prologue; and let the pro¬ 
logue seem to say, we will do no harm with our 
swords and that Pyramus is not kill’d indeed ; 
and, for the more better assurance, tell them [so 
that I Pyramus am not Pyramus, but Bottom 
the weaver. This will put them out of fear. 

Quin. Well, we will have such a prologue ; 
and it shall be written in eight and six. . 20 

Dot. No, make it two more ; let it be written 
in eight and eight. 

Snout. Will not the ladies be afeard of the 
lion ? 








8 4 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


hi. L 


Star. I fear it, I promise you. 

Bot. Masters, you ought to consider with [30 
yourselves. To bring in — God shield us ! — a 
lion among ladies, is a most dreadful thing ; for 
there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your 
lion living ; and we ought to look to ’t. 

Snout. Therefore another prologue must tell 
he is not a lion. 36 

Bot. Nay, you must name his name, and half 
his face must be seen through the lion’s neck ; 
and he himself must speak through, saying 
thus, or to the same defect, “ Ladies,” or 
“Fair ladies, I would wish you,” or “I [40 
would request you,” or “ I would entreat you, 
not to fear, not to tremble : my life for yours. If 
you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity 
of my life. No, I am no such thing ; I am a man 
as other men are ; ” and there indeed let him [45 
name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug 
the joiner. 

Quin. Well, it shall be so. But there is two 
hard things; that is, to bring the moonlight 
into a chamber; for, you know, Pyramus and 
Thisby meet by moonlight. 51 

Snout. Doth the moon shine that night we 
play our play ? 

Bot. A calendar, a calendar! Look in the 
almanac ! Find out moonshine, find out moon¬ 
shine. 55 

Quin. Yes, it doth shine that night. 

Bot. Why, then may you leave a casement 
of the great chamber window, where we play, 
open, and the moon may shine in at the case¬ 
ment. 

Quin. Ay ; or else one must come in with a [eo 
bush of thorns and a lantern, and say he comes 
to disfigure, or to present, the person of Moon¬ 
shine. Then, there is another thing: we must 
have a wall in the great chamber ; for Pyramus 
and Thisby, says the story, did talk through 
the chink of a wall. 66 

Snout. You can never bring in a wall. What 
say you, Bottom ? 

Bot. Some man or other must present Wall; 
and let him have some plaster, or some loam, or 
some rough-cast about him, to signify wall; [71 
or let him hold his fingers thus, and through 
that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisby whis¬ 
per. 

Quin. If that may be, then all is well. Come, 
sit down, every mother’s son, and rehearse 
your parts. Pyramus, you begin. When you [75 
have spoken your speech, enter into that brake. 
And so every one according to his cue. 


Enter Robin Goodfellow [behind]. 

Bobin. What hempen home-spuns have we 
swaggering here, 

So near the cradle of the fairy queen ? so 

What, a play toward ! I ’ll be an auditor ; 

An actor too perhaps, if I see cause. 

Quin. Speak, Pyramus. Thisby, stand forth. 
Bot. “ Thisby, the flowers of odious savours 
sweet,” — 

Quin. Odorous, odorous. ss 

Bot. -“ odours savours sweet; 

So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby dear. 


But hark, a voice ! Stay thou but here awhile, 
And by and by I will to thee appear. ’ ’ [Exit. 
Bobin. A stranger Pyramus than e’er play’d 
here. [Exit.] 90 

Flu. Must I speak now ? 

Quin. Ay, marry, must you ; for you must 
understand he goes but to see a noise that he 
heard, and is to come again. 

Flu. “Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white 
of hue, »5 

Of colour like the red rose on triumphant 
brier, 

Most brisky juvenal and eke most lovely 
Jew, 

As true as truest horse that yet would never 
tire, 

I ’ll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny’s tomb.” 

Quin. “ Ninus’ tomb,” man. Why, you must 
not speak that yet; that you answer to [101 
Pyramus. You speak all your part at once, 
cues and all. Pyramus enter. Your cue is past; 
it is, “ never tire.” 

Flu. O, — “ As true as truest horse, that yet 
would never tire.” 105 


[Be-enter Robin Goodfellow, and Bottom 
with an ass's head.] 

Bot. “If I were, fair Thisby, I were only 
thine.” 

Quin. O monstrous ! 0 strange ! we are 

haunted. Pray, masters ! fly, masters ! Help I 
[Exeunt [Quince, Snug, Flute, 
Snout , and Starveling]. 

Bobin. I ’ll follow you, I ’ll lead you about a 
round, 

Through bog, through bush, through brake, 
through brier. 110 

Sometime a horse I ’ll be, sometime a hound, 

A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire ; 

And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and 
burn, 

Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every 
turn. [Exit. 

Bot. Why do they run away ? This is a 
knavery of them to make me afeard. ns 

j Re-enter Snout. 


Snout. O Bottom, thou art chang’d ! What 
do I see on thee ? 

Bot. What do you see ? You see an ass-head 
of your own, do you ? [Exit Snout.] 120 

Be-enter Quince. 


Quin. Bless thee, Bottom ! bless thee! thou 
art translated. [Exit. 

Bot. I see their knavery ; this is to make 
an ass of me, to fright me, if they could. But I 
will not stir from this place, do what they can. 
I will walk up and down here, and I will [127 
sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid. 

[Singrs.] 

The ousel cock so black of hue, 

With orange-tawny bill, 

The throstle with his note so true, iso 
The wren with little quill,” — 

Tita. [Awaking.] What angel wakes me from 
my flowery bed ? 





III. 11. 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


85 


Bot. [&tn<7s.] 

“ The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, 

The plain-song cuckoo gray, 

Whose note full many a man doth mark, 
And dares not answer nay ; ” — 136 

for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish 
a bird ? Who would give a bird the lie, though 
he cry “cuckoo ” never so ? 

Tita. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again. 
Mine ear is much enamour’d of thy note ; 141 

So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape ; 

And thy fair virtues, force perforce, doth move 
me 

On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee. 

Bot. Methinks, mistress, you should have [ns 
little reason for that; and yet, to say the truth, 
reason and love keep little company together 
now-a-days ; the more the pity that some honest 
neighbours will not make them friends. Nay, 
I can gleek upon occasion. 100 

Tita. Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful. 
Bot. Not so, neither ; but if I had wit enough 
to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve 
mine own turn. 

Tita. Out of this wood do not desire to go ; 1 sc 
Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or 
no. 

I am a spirit of no common rate ; 

The summer still doth tend upon my state ; 
And I do love thee ; therefore, go with me. 

I ’ll give thee fairies to attend on thee, iso 
And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep, 
And sing while thou on pressed flowers dost 
sleep. 

And I will purge thy mortal grossness so 
That thou shalt like an airy spirit go. 
Peaseblossom ! Cobweb ! Moth! and Mustard- 
seed 1 166 

Enter Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and 
Mustardseed. 

Peas. Ready. 

Cob. And I. 

Moth. And I. 

Mus. And I. 

All. Where shall we go ? 

Tita. Be kind and courteous to this gentle¬ 
man. 

Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes ; 

Feed him with apricocks and dewberries, 

With purple grapes, green figs, and mulber¬ 
ries ; 170 

The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees, 
And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs 
And light them at the fiery glow-worm’s eyes, 
To have my love to bed and to arise ; 

And pluck the wings from painted butter¬ 
flies . 176 

To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes. 
Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies. 

Peas. Hail, mortal! 

Cob. Hail! 

Moth. Hail! 180 

Mus. Hail! 

Bot. I cry your worships mercy, heartily. 1 
beseech your worship’s name. 


Cob. Cobweb. 

Bot. I shall desire you of more acquaintance, 
good Master Cobweb. If I cut my finger, I [i*s 
shall make bold with you. Your name, honest 
gentleman ? 

Peas. Peaseblossom. 

Bot. I pray you commend me to Mistress [130 
Squash, your mother, and to Master Peascod, 
your father. Good Master Peaseblossom, I shall 
desire you of more acquaintance too. Your 
name, I beseech you, sir ? 

J!us. Mustardseed. 10s 

Bot. Good Master Mustardseed, I know your 
patience well. That same cowardly, giant-like 
ox-beef hath devoured many a gentleman of 
your house. I promise you your kindred hath 
made my eyes water ere now. I desire you 
more acquaintance, good Master Mustard- [200 
seed. 

Tita. Come, wait upon him ; lead him to my 
bower. 

The moon methinks looks with a watery eye, 
And when she weeps, weeps every little flower, 
Lamenting some enforced chastity. 205 

Tie up my love’s tongue, bring him silently. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. Another part of the wood.'] 
Enter Oberon. 

Obe. I wonder if Titania be awak’d ; 

Then, what it was that next came in her eye, 
Which she must dote on in extremity. 

Enter Robin Goodfellow. 

Here comes my messenger. 

How now, mad spirit! 
What night-rule now about this haunted 
grove ? f 

Bobin. My mistress with a monster is in 
love. 

Near to her close and consecrated bower, 

While she was in her dull and sleeping hour, 

A crew of patches, rude mechanicals, 

That work for bread upon Athenian stalls, 10 
Were met together to rehearse a play 
Intended for great Theseus’ nuptial-day. 

The shallowest thickskin of that barren sort, 
Who Pyramus presented in their sport, 

Forsook his scene and ent’red in a brake. is 
When I did him at this advantage take, 

An ass’s nole I fixed on his head. 

Anon his Thisby must be answered, 

And forth my mimic comes. When they him 

spy, 

As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye, 20 
Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort, 

Rising and cawing at the gun’s report, 

Sever themselves and madly sweep the sky, 

So, at his sight, away his fellows fly ; 

And, at our stamp, here o’er and o’er one 
falls; 

He murder cries, and help from Athens calls. 26 
Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears 
thus strong, 

Made senseless things begin to do them wrong ; 
For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch ; 





86 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


hi. 11. 


Some sleeves, some hats, from yielders all things 
catch. 30 

I led them on in this distracted fear, 

And left sweet Pyramus translated there; 
When in that moment, so it came to pass, 
Titania wak’d and straightway lov’d an ass. 

Obe. This falls out better than I could de¬ 
vise. 36 

But hast thou yet latch’d the Athenian’s eyes 
With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do ? 

Robin. I took him sleeping, — that is finish’d 
too,— 

And the Athenian woman by his side ; 

That, when he wak’d, of force she must be 
ey’d. 40 

Enter Demetrius and Hermia. 

Obe. Stand close ; this is the same Athenian. 

Robin. This is the woman, but not this the 
man. 

Rem. 0 , why rebuke you him that loves you 
so ? 

Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe. 

Her. Now I but chide ; but I should use thee 
worse, 46 

For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse. 
If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep, 

Being o’er shoes in blood, plunge in knee-deep, 
And kill me too. 

The sun was not so true unto the day 6 o 

As he to me: would he have stolen away 
From sleeping Hermia ? I ’ll believe as soon 
This whole earth may be bor’d and that the 
moon 

May through the centre creep and so displease 
Her brother’s noontide with the Antipodes. 65 
It cannot be but thou hast murd’red him ; 

So should a murderer look, so dread, so grim. 

Rem. So should the murdered look, and so 
should I, 

Pierc’d through the heart with your stern 
cruelty; 

Yet yon, the murderer, look as bright, as clear, 
As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere. 6 i 

Her. What’s this to my Lysander ? Where 
is he ? 

Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me ? 

Rem. I had rather give his carcass to my 
hounds. 

Her. Out, dog! out, cur ! thou driv’st me 
past the bounds 66 

Of maiden’s patience. Hast thou slain him, 
then ? 

Henceforth be never numb’red among men ! 

0 , once tell true, tell true, even for my sake ! 
Durst thou have look’d upon him being awake, 
And hast thou kill’d him sleeping? O brave 

touch! 70 

Could not a worm, an adder, do so much ? 

An adder did it; for with doubler tongue 
Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung. 

Rem. You spend your passion on a mispris’d 
mood. 

I am not guilty of Lysander’s blood ; 76 

Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell. 

Her. I pray thee, tell me then that he is 
well. 


Rem. An if I could, what should I get there¬ 
fore ? 

Her. A privilege never to see me more. 

And from thy hated presence part I so : so 

See me no more, whether he be dead or no. 

[Exit. 

Rem. There is no following her in this fierce 
vein; 

Here therefore for a while I will remain. 

So sorrow’s heaviness doth heavier grow 84 
For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe ; 
Which now in some slight measure it will pay, 
If for his tender here I make so’me stay. 

[Lies down [and sleeps ]. 
Obe. What hast thou done ? Thou hast mis¬ 
taken quite 

And laid the love-juice on some true-love’s 
sight. 

Of thy misprision must perforce ensue 90 

Some true love turn’d and not a false turn’d 
true. 

Robin. Then fate o’er-rules, that, one man 
holding troth, 

A million fail, confounding oath on oath. 

Obe. About the wood go swifter than the 
wind, 

And Helena of Athens look thou find. 96 

All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer 
With sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood 
dear. 

By some illusion see thou bring her here. 

I ’ll charm his eyes against she do appear. 

Robin. I go, I go ; look how I go, ioo 

Swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow. [Exit. 
Obe. Flower of this purple dye, 

Hit with Cupid’s archery, 

Sink in apple of his eye. 

When his love he doth espy, ios 

Let her shine as gloriously 
As the Venus of the sky. 

When thou wak’st, if she be by, 

Beg of her for remedy. 

Re-enter Robin Goodfellow. 

Robin. Captain of our fairy band, no 

Helena is here at hand ; 

And the youth, mistook by me, 
Pleading for a lover’s fee. 

Shall we their fond pageant see ? 

Lord, what fools these mortals be ! ns 
Obe. Stand aside. The noise they make 
Will cause Demetrius to awake. 

Robin. Then will two at once woo one ; 

That must needs be sport alone. 

And those things do best please me 
That befall preposterously. 121 

Enter Lysander and Helena. 

Lys. Why should you think that I should woo 
in scorn ? 

Scorn and derision never come in tears. 

Look, when I vow, I weep ; and vows so born, 
In their nativity all truth appears. 126 

How can these things in me seem scorn to you, 
rearing the badge of faith, to prove them true ? 
Hel. You do advance your cunning more and 
more. 





III. 11. 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


8 ; 


When truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray ! 
These vows are Herraia’s; will you give her 
o’er ? iso 

Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing 
weigh. 

Your vows to her and me, put in two scales, 
Will even weigh, and both as light as tales. 
Lys. I had no judgement when to her I swore. 
Mel. Nor none, in my mind, now you give 
her o’er. 130 

Lys. Demetrius loves her, and he loves not 
you. 

Mem. [. Awaking .] O Helen, goddess, nymph, 
perfect, divine! 

To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne ? 
Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show 
Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting 
grow! 140 

That pure congealed white, high Taurus’ snow, 
Fann’d with the eastern wind, turns to a crow 
When thou hold’st up thy hand. 0 , let me kiss 
This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss ! 

Mel. O spite ! O hell! I see you all are bent 
To set against me for your merriment. wo 

If you were civil and knew courtesy, 

You would not do me thus much injury. 

Can you not hate me, as I know you do, 

But you must join in souls to mock me too ? ico 
If you were men, as men you are in show, 

You would not use a gentle lady so ; 

To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts, 
When I am sure you hate me with your hearts. 
You both are rivals, and love Hermia ; les 
And now both rivals, to mock Helena. 

A trim exploit, a manly enterprise, 

To conjure tears up in a poor maid’s eyes 
With your derision ! None of noble sort 
Would so offend a virgin and extort ico 

A poor soul’s patience, all to make you sport. 

Lys. You are unkind, Demetrius ; be not so ; 
For you love Hermia ; this you know I know. 
And here, with all good will, with all my heart, 
In Hermia’s love I yield you up my part; ies 
And yours of Helena to me bequeath, 

Whom I do love and will do till my death. 

Hel. Never did mockers waste more idle 
breath. 

Mem. Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will 
none. 

If e’er I lov’d her, all that love is gone. iro 
My heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn’d, 
And now to Helen is it home return’d, 

There to remain. 

Lys. Helen, it is not so. 

Mem. Disparage not the faith thou dost not 
know, 

Lest, to thy peril, thou aby it dear. . its 
L ook, where thy love comes ; yonder is thy 
dear. 

Re-enter Hermia. 

Her. Dark night, that from the eye his func¬ 
tion takes, 

The ear more quick of apprehension makes ; 
Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense, 

It pays the hearing double recompense. i»o 
Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found ; 


Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound. 
But why unkindly didst thou leave me so ? 

Lys. Why should he stay, whom love doth 
press to go ? 

Mer. What love could press Lysander from 

my side ? i»s 

Lys. Lysander’s love, that would not let him 
bide. 

Fair Helena, who more engilds the night 
Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light. 

Why seek’st thou me ? Could not this make 
thee know, 

The hate I bare thee made me leave thee so ? 
Mer. You speak not as you think. It cannot 
be. i 9 i 

Hel. Lo, she is one of this confederacy ! 

Now I perceive they have conjoin’d all three 
To fashion this false sport, in spite of me. 
Injurious Hermia ! most ungrateful maid ! i 95 

Have you conspir’d, have you with these con¬ 
triv’d 

To bait me with this foul derision ? 

Is all the counsel that we two have shar’d, 

The sisters’ vows, the hours that we have 
spent, 

When we have chid the hasty-footed time 200 
For parting us, — O, is all forgot ? 

All school-days’ friendship, childhood inno¬ 
cence ? 

We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, 

Have with our needles created both one flower, 
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, 206 
Both warbling of one song, both in one key, 

As if our hands, our sides, voices and minds, 
Had been incorporate. So we grew together, 
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, 

But yet an union in partition ; 210 

Two lovely berries moulded on one stem ; 

So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart; 
Two of the first, like coats in heraldry, 

Due but to one and crowned with one crest. 
And will you rend our ancient love asunder, 215 
To join with men in scorning your poor friend ? 
It is not friendly, 't is not maidenly. 

Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it, 
Though I alone do feel the injury. 

Her. I am amazed at your passionate words. 
I scorn you not; it seems that you scorn me. 221 
Hel. Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn, 
To follow me and praise my eyes and face ? 
And made your other love, Demetrius, 

Who even but now did spurn me with his foot, 
To call me goddess, nymph, divine and rare, 226 
Precious, celestial ? Wherefore speaks he this 
To her he hates ? And wherefore doth Lysan¬ 
der 

Deny your love, so rich within his soul, 

And tender me, forsooth, affection, 230 

But by your setting on, by your consent ? 

What though I be not so in grace as you, 

So hung upon with love, so fortunate, 

But miserable most, to love unlov’d 
This you should pity rather than despise. 236 
Her. I understand not what you mean by 
this. 

Hel. Ay, do, persever, counterfeit sad looks, 
Make mouths upon me when I turn my back, 




88 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


III. 1L 


Wink each at other, hold the sweet jest up ; 
This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled. 240 
If you have any pity, grace, or manners, 

You would not make me such an argument. 
But fare ye well; ’t is partly my own fault, 
Which death or absence soon shall remedy. 

Lys. Stay, gentle Helena ; hear my excuse, 
My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena ! 246 

Hel. 0 excellent! 

Her. Sweet, do not scorn her so. 

Dem. If she cannot entreat, I can compel. 
Lys. Thou canst compel no more than she 
entreat. 

Thy threats have no more strength than her 
weak prayers. 250 

Helen, I love thee ; by my life, I do ! 

I swear by that which I will lose for thee, 

To prove him false that says I love thee not. 
Dem. I say I love thee more than he can do. 
Lys. If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it 

too. 255 

Dem. Quick, come ! 

Her. Lysander, whereto tends all this ? 

Lys. Away, you Ethiope ! 

^ Dem. No, no ; he ’ll [but] 

Seem to break loose. Take on as you would 
follow, 

But yet come not. You are a tame man, go ! 
Lys. Hang off, thou cat, thou burr! Vile 
thing, let loose, 260 

Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent! 
Her. Why are you grown so rude ? What 
change is this ? 

Sweet love, — 

Lys. Thy love ! Out, tawny Tartar, out ! 
Out, loathed medicine ! 0 hated potion, hence ! 
Her. Do you not jest ? 

Hel. Yes, sooth ; and so do you. 265 

Lys. Demetrius, I will keep my word with 
thee. 

Dem. I would I had your bond, for I perceive 
A weak bond holds you. I ’ll not trust your 
word. 

Lys. What, should I hurt her, strike her, 
kill her dead ? 

Although I hate her, I ’ll not harm her so. 270 
Her. What, can you do me greater harm than 
hate ? 

Hate me! wherefore ? O me! what news, my 
love ! 

Am not I Hermia ? Are not you Lysander ? 

I am as fair now as I was ere while. 

Since night you lov’d me ; yet since night you 
left me: 275 

Why, then you left me — 0 , the gods forbid ! — 
In earnest, shall I say ? 

Lys. Ay, by my life ; 

And never did desire to see thee more. 

Therefore be out of hope, of question, doubt; 

Be certain, nothing truer ; ’t is no jest 220 

That I do hate thee and love Helena. 

Her. 0 me! you juggler! you canker-blos¬ 
som ! 

You thief of love ! What, have you come by 
night 

And stolen my love’s heart from him ? 

Hel. Fine, i’ faith! 


Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, a «5 
No touch of bashfulness ? What, will you tear 
Impatient answers from my gentle tongue ? 

Fie, fie ! you counterfeit, you puppet, you ! 
Her- Puppet ? Why so ? Ay, that way goes 
the game. 

Now I perceive that she hath made compare 290 
Between our statures; she hath urg’d her 
height; 

And with her personage, her tall personage, 
Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail’d with 
him. 

And are you grown so high in his esteem, 
Because I am so dwarfish and so low ? 295 

How low am I, thou painted maypole ? Speak, 
How low am I ? I am not yet so low 
But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes. 
Hel. I pray you, though you mock me, gen¬ 
tlemen, 

Let her not hurt me. I was never curst ; 300 

I have no gift at all in shrewishness; 

I am a right maid for my cowardice. 

Let her not strike me. You perhaps may think, 
Because she is something lower than myself, 
That I can match her. 

Her. Lower ! hark, again. 

Hel. Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with 
me. so 6 

I evermore did love you, Hermia, 

Did ever keep your counsels, never wrong’d 
you ; 

Save that, in love unto Demetrius, 

I told him of your stealth unto this wood. 310 
He followed you ; for love I followed him ; 

But he hath chid me hence and threat’ned me 
To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too. 
And now, so you will let me quiet go, 

To Athens will I bear my folly back 8 i 6 

And follow you no further. Let me go. 

You see how simple and how fond I am. 

Her. Why, get you gone ; who is ’t that hin¬ 
ders you ? 

Hel. A foolish heart, that I leave here behind. 
Her. What, with Lysander ? 

Hel. With Demetrius. 

Lys. Be not afraid ; she shall not harm thee, 
Helena. 321 

Dem. No, sir, she shall not, though you take 
her part. 

Hel. 0 , when she’s angry, she is keen and 
shrewd! 

She was a vixen when she went to school; 

And though she be but little, she is fierce. 325 
Her. Little again! Nothing but low and 
little ! 

Why will you suffer her to flout me thus ? 

Let me come to her. 

Lys.. ' ' Get you gone, you dwarf, 

You minimus, of hindering knot-grass made ; 
You bead, you acorn. 

Dem. You are too officious 3so 

In her behalf that scorns your services. 

Let her alone ; speak not of Helena ; 

Take not her part; for, if thou dost intend 
Never so little show of love to her, 

Thou shalt aby it. 

Lys . Now she holds me not. ssb 





III. 11. 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


89 


Now follow, if thou dar’st, to try whose right, 
Of thine or mine, is most in Helena. 

Dem. Follow 1 Nay, I ’ll go with thee, cheek 
by jowl. 

[Exeunt Lysander and Demetrius. 
Her. You, mistress, all this coil is ’long of 
you. 

Nay, go not back. 

Hel. I will not trust you, I, 340 

Nor longer stay in your curst company. 

Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray, 
My legs are longer though, to run away. [Exit.] 
Her. I am amaz’d, and know not what to 
say. _ _ [Exit. 

Obe. This is thy negligence. Still thou mis- 
tak’st, 845 

Or else committ’st thy knaveries wilfully. 
Robin. Believe me, king of shadows, I mis¬ 
took. 

Did not you tell me I should know the man 
By the Athenian garments he had on ? 

And so far blameless proves my enterprise, 350 
That I have ’nointed an Athenian’s eyes; 

And so far am I glad it so did sort, 

As this their jangling I esteem a sport. 

Obe. Thou see’st these lovers seek a place to 
fight; 

Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night. 355 
The starry welkin cover thou anon 
With drooping fog as black as Acheron, 

And lead these testy rivals so astray 
As one come not within another’s way. 

Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue, 
Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong ; 36 i 
And sometime rail thou like Demetrius; 

And from each other look thou lead them thus, 
Till o’er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep 
With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep. 
Then crush this herb into Lysander’s eye ; see 
Whose liquor hath this virtuous property, 

To take from thence all error with his might, 
And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight. 
When they next wake, all this derision 370 
Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision ; 

And back to Athens shall the lovers wend, 
With league whose date till death shall never 
end. 

Whiles I in this affair do thee employ, 

I ’ll to raj' queen and beg her Indian boy; 375 

And then I will her charmed eye release 
From monster’s view, and all things shall be 
peace. 

Robin. My fairy lord, this must be done with 
haste, 

For night’s swift dragons cut the clouds full 
fast, 

And yonder shines Aurora’s harbinger, 38 o 
At whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and 
there, 

Troop home to churchyards. Damned spirits all, 
That in crossways and floods have burial, 
Already to their wormy beds are gone. 

For fear lest day should look their shames 
upon, _ 385 

They wilfully themselves exile from light 
And must for aye consort with black-brow’d 
night. 


Obe. But we are spirits of another sort. 

I with the morning’s love have oft made sport, 
And, like a forester, the groves may tread, 390 
Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red, 

Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams. 
Turns into yellow gold his salt green streams. 
But, notwithstanding, haste, make no delay. 
We may effect this business yet ere dav. 

[Exit.] 395 

Robin. Up and down, up and down, 

I will lead them up and down. 

I am fear’d in field and town. 

Goblin, lead them up and down. 

Here comes one. 400 

Re-enter Lysander. 

Lys. Where art thou, proud Demetrius? 
Speak thou now. 

Robin. Here, villain; drawn and ready. 

Where art thou ? 

Lys. I will be with thee straight. 

Robin. Follow me, then, 

To plainer ground. 

[Exit Lysander , as following the voice.] 
Re-enter Demetrius. 

Dem. Lysander, speak again ! 

Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled ? 405 
Speak ! I11 some bush ? Where dost thou hide 
thy head ? 

Robin. Thou coward, art thou bragging to 
the stars, 

Telling the bushes that thou look’st for wars, 
And wilt not come ? Come, recreant; come, 
thou child, 

I ’ll whip thee with a rod. He is defil’d 410 
That draws a sword on thee. 

Dem. Yea, art thou there ? 

Robin. Follow my voice. We ’ll try no man¬ 
hood here. [Exeunt. 

[Re-enter Lysander.] 

Lys. He goes before me and still dares me 
on. 

j When I come where he calls, then he is gone. 

! The villain is much lighter-heel’d than I; 4is 
I followed fast, but faster he did fly, 

That fallen am I in dark uneven way, 

And here will rest me. Come, thou gentle day ! 

[Lies down. 

For if but once thou show me thy grey light, 

I ’ll find Demetrius and revenge this spite. 420 

[Sleeps.] 

Re-enter Robin Goodfellow and Demetrius. 

Robin. Ho, ho, ho! Coward, why com’st 
thou not ? 

Dem. Abide me, if thou dar’st; for well I 
wot 

Thou runn’st before me, shifting every place, 
And dar’st not stand, nor look me in the face. 
Where art thou now ? 

Robin. Come hither ; I am here. 

Dem. Nay, then, thou mock’st me. Thou 
shalt buy this dear, «« 

If ever I thy face by daylight see. 

Now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me 








9° 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


iv. L 


To measure out my length, on this cold bed. 

By day’s approach look to he visited. «o 

[Lies down and sleeps .] 

Re-enter Helena. 

Hel. O weary night, O long and tedious 
night, 

Abate thy hours ! Shine, comforts, from the 
east, 

That I may back to Athens by daylight, 

From these that my poor company detest. 
And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow’s 
eye, _ < 435 

Steal me awhile from mine own company. 

[Lies down and\ sleeps. 
Robin. Yet but three ? Come one more ; 

Two of both kinds makes up four. 

Here she comes, curst and sad. 

Cupid is a knavish lad, 440 

Re-enter Hermia. 

Thus to make poor females mad. 

Her. Never so weary, never so in woe, 
Bedabbled with the dew and torn with briers, 
I can no further crawl, no further go ; 

My legs can keep no pace with my desires. 
Here will I rest me till the break of day. 446 
Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a 
fray ! [Lies down and sleeps.] 

Robin. On the ground 
Sleep sound. 

I ’ll apply 450 

To your eye, 

Gentle lover, remedy. 

[ Squ eezing the juice on Lysander's eyes.] 
When thou wak’st, 

Thou tak’st 

True delight 455 

In the sight 

Of thy former lady’s eye ; 

And the country proverb known, 

That every man should take his own, 

In your waking shall be shown. 460 

Jack shall have Jill; 

Nought shall go ill; 

The man shall have his mare again, and all 
shall be well. [Exit.] 


ACT IV 

[Scene I. The same.] 

[Lysander, Demetrius, Helena, and Her¬ 
mia, lying asleep.] 

Enter Titania and Clown [Bottom ; Pease- 
blossom, Cobweb, Moth, Mustardseed,] 
and [other] Fairies [attending]; Oberon behind 
[unseen], 

Tita. Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed, 
While I thy amiable cheeks do coy, 

And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head, 
And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. 
Bot. Where’s Peaseblossom ? 5 

Peas. Ready. 

Bot. Scratch my head, Peaseblossom. 
Where’s Mounsieur Cobweb ? 


Cob. Ready. 

Bot. Mounsieur Cobweb, good mounsieur, get 
you your weapons in your hand, and kill me a [11 
red-hipp’d humble-bee on the top of a thistle ; 
and, good mounsieur, bring me the honey-bag. 
Do not fret yourself too much in the action, 
mounsieur ; and, good mounsieur, have a care 
the honey-bag break not; I would be loath to [is 
have you overflown with a honey-bag, signior. 
Where’s Mounsieur Mustardseed ? 

Mus. Ready. 

Bot. Give me your neaf, Mounsieur Mus- [20 
tardseed. Pray you, leave your courtesy, good 
mounsieur. 

Mus. What’s your will ? 

Bot. Nothing, good mounsieur, but to help 
Cavalery Cobweb to scratch. I must to the 
barber’s, mounsieur; for methinks I am [26 
marvellous hairy about the face ; and I am such 
a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, 1 must 
scratch. 

Tita. What, wilt thou hear some music, my 
sweet love ? 

Bot. I have a reasonable good ear in music. 
Let’s have the tongs and the bones. 31 

[Music. Tongs. Rural music. 

Tita. Or say, sweet love, what thou desir’st 
to eat. 

Bot. Truly, a peck of provender; I could 
munch your good dry oats. Methinks I have a 
great desire to a bottle of hay. Good hay, 
sweet hay, hath no fellow. s# 

Tita. I have a venturous fairy that shall seek 
The squirrel’s hoard, and fetch thee new 
nuts. 

Bot. I had rather have a handful or two of 
dried peas. But, I pray you, let none of your [40 
people stir me ; I have an exposition of sleep 
come upon me. 

Tita. Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my 
arms. 

Fairies, be gone, and be always away. 

[Exeunt fairies.] 
So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle 45 
Gently entwist; the female ivy so 
Enrings the barky fingers of the elm. 

0 , how I love thee! how I dote on thee ! 

[They sleep.] 

Enter Robin Goodfellow. 

Obe. [Advancing.] Welcome, good Robin. 
See’st thou this sweet sight ? 

Her dotage now I do begin to pity ; so 

For, meeting her of late behind the wood, 
Seeking sweet favours for this hateful fool, 

I did upbraid her and fall out with her. 

For she his hairy temples then had rounded 
With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers ; 55 
And that same dew, which sometime on the 
buds 

Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls, 
Stood now within the pretty flowerets’ eyes 
Like tears that did their own disgrace be¬ 
wail. 

Wlien 1 had at my pleasure taunted her eo 
And she in mild terms begg’d my patience, 

I then did ask of her her changeling child; 





IV. 1. 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


9 1 


Which straight she gave me, and her fairy sent 
To bear him to my bower in fairy land. 

And, now I have the boy, I will undo 66 

This hateful imperfection of her eyes ; 

And, gentle Puck, take this transformed scalp 
From off the head of this Athenian swain, 
That, he awaking when the other do, 

May all to Athens back again repair, 70 

And think no more of this night’s accidents 
But as the fierce vexation of a dream. 

But first I will release the fairy queen. 

[Touching her eyes.] 
Be as thou wast wont to be ; 

See as thou w’ast wont to see: T 6 

Dian’s bud o’er Cupid’s flower 
Hath such force and blessed power. 

Now, my Titania ; wake you, my sweet queen. 

Tita. My Oberon ! what visions have I seen ! 
Methought I was enamour’d of an ass. so 

Obe. There lies your love. 

Tita. ' How came these things to pass ? 
O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now ! 
Obe. Silence awhile. Robin, take off this 
head. 

Titania, music call; and strike more dead 84 
Than common sleep of all these five the sense. 
Tita. Music, ho ! music, such as charmeth 
sleep ! [Music, still. 

Robin. Now, when thou wak’st, with thine 
own fool’s eyes peep. 

Obe. Sound, music! Come, my queen, take 
hands with me, so 

And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be. 
Now thou and I are new in amity 
And will to-morrow midnight solemnly 
Dance in Duke Theseus’ house triumphantly 
And bless it to all fair prosperity. 

There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be 95 
Wedded, •with Theseus, all in jollity. 

Robin. Fairy king, attend, and mark ; 

I do hear the morning lark. 

Obe. Then, my queen, in silence sad 

Trip we after the night’s shade. 100 
We the globe can compass soon, 
Swifter than the wandering moon. 
Tita. Come, my lord, and in our flight 
Tell me how it came this night 
That I sleeping here was found iob 
With these mortals on the ground. 
[Exeunt. Horns winded [within]. 

Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, and all 
his train. 

The. Go, one of you, find out the forester, 
For now our observation is perform’d, 

And since we have the vaward of the day, 

My love shall hear the music of my hounds, no 
Uncouple in the western valley, let them go. 
Despatch, I say, and find the forester. 

[Exit an attendant.] 

We will, fair queen, up to the mountain’s top 
And mark the musical confusion 
Of hounds and echo in conjunction. ne 

Hip. I was with Hercules and Cadmus once, 
When in a wood of Crete they bay’d the bear 
With hounds of Sparta. Never did I hear 
Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves, 


The skies, the fountains, every region near 12s 
Seem’d all one mutual cry. I never heard 
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. 

The. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan 
kind, 

So flew’d, so sanded, and their heads are hung 
With ears that sweep away the morning dew ; 
Crook-knee’d, and dew-lapp’d like Thessalian 
bulls; 126 

Slow in pursuit, but match’d in mouth like bells, 
Each under each. A cry more tuneable 
Was never holla’d to, nor cheer’d with horn, 

In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly. i?o 

Judge when you hear. But, soft! what nymphs 
are these ? 

Ege. My lord, this is my daughter here 
asleep, 

And this, Lysander ; this Demetrius is ; 

This Helena, old Nedar’s Helena. 

I wonder of their being here together. 135 

The. No doub^they rose up early to observe 
The rite of May, and, hearing our intent, 

Came here in grace of our solemnity. 

But speak, Egeus ; is not this the day 
That Hermia should give answer of her choice ? 
Ege. It is, my lord. m 

The. Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with 
their horns. 

[Horns and shout within. Lys., Hem., 
Hel., and Her. wake and start up. 
Good morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past; 
Begin these wood-birds but to couple now ? 
Lys. Pardon, my lord. 

The. I pray you all, stand up. 

I know you two are rival enemies ; ue 

How comes this gentle concord in the world, 
That hatred is so far from jealousy, 

To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity ? 

Lys. My lord, I shall reply amazedly, ieo 
Half sleep, half waking; but as yet, I swear, 

I cannot truly say how I came here. 

But, as I think, — for truly would I speak, 

And now I do bethink me, so it is, — 

I came with Hermia hither. Our intent n>5 
Was to be gone from Athens, where we might, 
Without the peril of the Athenian law — 

Ege. Enough, enough, my lord; you have 
enough. 

I beg the law, the law, upon his head. 

They would have stolen away; they would, 
Demetrius, iso 

Thereby to have defeated you and me, 

You of your wife, and me of my consent, 

Of my consent that she should be your wife. 
Hem. My lord, fair Helen told me of their 
stealth, 

Of this their purpose hither to this wood ; iec 
And I in fury hither followed them, 

Fair Helena in fancy following me. 

But, my good lord, I wot not by what power,— 
But by some power it is, — my love to Hermia, 
Melted as [is] the snow, seems to me now no 
As the remembrance of an idle gaud 
Which in my childhood I did dote upon ; 

And all the faith, the virtue of my heart, 

The object and the pleasure of mine eye, 

Is only Helena. To her, my lord, ire 







92 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


V. L 


Was I betroth’d ere I saw Hermia ; 

But like a sickness did I loathe this food ; 

But, as in health, come to my natural taste, 
Now I do wish it, love it, long for it, 

And will for evermore be true to it. iso 

The. Fair lovers, you are fortunately met; 
Of this discourse we more will hear anon. 
Egeus, I will overbear your will; 

For in the temple, by and by, with us 
These couples shall eternally be knit. iso 

And, for the morning now is something worn, 
Our purpos’d hunting shall be set aside. 

Away with us to Athens ; three and three, 

We ’ll hold a feast in great solemnity. 

Come, Hippolyta. iso 

[Exeunt The., Hip., Ege., and train. 
Hem. These things seem small and undistin- 
guishable, 

Like far-off mountains turned into clouds. 

Her. Methinks I see these things with parted 


eye ’ • yt 

When every thing seems double. 

Hel. So methinks ; 

And I have found Demetrius like a jewel, ios 
Mine own, and not mine own. 

Hem. Are you sure that we ’re awake ? It 
seems to me 

That yet we sleep, we dream. Do not you think 
The Duke was here, and bid us follow him ? 
Her. Yea ; and my father. 

Hel. And Hippolyta. 200 

Lys. And he did bid us follow to the temple. 
Hem. Why, then, we are awake. Let’s follow 
him ; 

And by the way let us recount our dreams. 

[Exeunt lovers. 

Hot. (Awaking.) When my cue comes, call 
me, and I will answer. My next is, “ Most 
fair Pyramus.” Heigh-ho! Peter Quince! [205 
Flute, the bellows-mender ! Snout, the tinker ! 
Starveling! God’s my life, stolen hence, and 
left me asleep ! I have had a most rare vision. 
I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say 
what dream it was. Man is but an ass, if he [210 
go about to expound this dream. Methought I 
was — there is no man can tell what. Methought 
I was, — and methought I had,— but man is but 
a patch’d fool, if he will offer to say what me¬ 
thought I had. The eye of man hath not [21s 
heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s 
hand is not able to taste, his tongue to con¬ 
ceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream 
was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad 
of this dream. It shall be called Bottom’s [220 
Dream, because it hath no bottom; and I will 
sing it in the latter end of a play, before the 
Duke; peradventure, to make it the more 
gracious, I shall sing it at her death. [Exit. 


[Scene II. Athens. Quince's house.] 

Enter Quince, Flute, Snout, and Starve¬ 
ling. 

Quin. Have you sent to Bottom’s house ? Is 
he come home yet ? 

Star. He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt 
he is transported. 


Flu. If he come not, then the play is marr’d. 
It goes not forward, doth it ? « 

Quin. It is not possible. You have not a man 
in all Athens able to discharge Pyramus but 
he. 

Flu. No, he hath simply the best wit of 
any handicraft man in Athens. 10 

Snout. Yea, and the best person too ; and he 
is a very paramour for a sweet voice. 

Flu. You must say “ paragon ” ; a paramour 
is, God bless us, a thing of naught. 

Enter Snug. 

Snug. Masters, the Duke is coming from [is 
the temple, and there is two or three lords and 
ladies more married. If our sport had gone for¬ 
ward, we had all been made men. 

Flu. 0 sweet bully Bottom ! Thus hath he 
lost sixpence a day during his life; he could 
not have ’scaped sixpence a day. An the [20 
Duke had not given him sixpence a day for 
playing Pyramus, I ’ll be hang’d. He would 
have deserved it. Sixpence a day in Pyramus, 
or nothing. 

Enter Bottom. 

Bot. Where are these lads ? Where are these 
hearts ? 26 

Quin. Bottom ! 0 most courageous day! O 
most happy hour! 

Bot. Masters, I am to discourse wonders, but 
ask me not what; for if I tell you, I am no [so 
true Athenian. I will tell you everything, right 
as it fell out. 

Quin. Let us hear, sweet Bottom. 

Bot. Not a word of me. All that I will tell 
you is, that the Duke hath dined. Get your [35 
apparel together, good strings to your beards, 
new ribbons to your pumps ; meet presently at 
the palace ; every man look o’er his part; for 
the short and the long is, our play is preferr’d. 
In any case, let Thisby have clean linen ; and 
let not him that plays the lion pare his nails, [41 
for they shall hang out for the lion’s claws. 
And, most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, 
for we are to utter sweet breath ; and I do not 
doubt but to hear them say, it is a sweet 
comedy. No more words ; away ! go, away ! [45 

[Exeunt. 


ACT V 

[Scene I. Athens. The palace of Theseus .] 

Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate, 
Lords [and Attendants]. 

Hip. ’T is strange, my Theseus, that these 
lovers speak of. 

The. More strange than true ; I never may 
believe 

These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. 
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains. 
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend s 

More than cool reason ever comprehends. 

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet 
Are of imagination all compact. 

One sees more devils than vast hell can hold ; 




A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


93 


v. i. 


That is, the madman. The lover, all as frantic, 
Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt. 11 
The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth 
to heaven ; 

And as imagination bodies forth 
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen i« 
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy no¬ 
thing 

A local habitation and a name. 

Such tricks hath strong imagination. 

That, if it would but apprehend some joy, 

It comprehends some bringer of that joy ; 20 

Or in the night, imagining some fear, 

How easy is a bush suppos’d a bear !• 

Hip. But all the story of the night told over, 
And all their minds transfigur’d so together, 
More witnesseth than fancy’s images, 25 

And grows to something of great constancy ; 
But, howsoever, strange and admirable. 

Enter lovers , Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, 
and Helena. 

The. Hei*e come the lovers, full of joy and 
mirth. 

Joy, gentle friends ! joy and fresh days of love 
Accompany your hearts! 

Lys. More than to us 30 

Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed! 
The. Come now ; what masques, what dances 
shall we have, 

To wear away this long age of three hours 
Between our after-supper and bed-time ? 

Where is our usual manager of mirth ? 36 

What revels are in hand ? Is there no play 
To ease the anguish of a torturing hour ? 

Call Philostrate. 

Phil. Here, mighty Theseus. 

The. Say, what abridgement have you for 
this evening ? 

What masque ? what music ? How shall we be¬ 
guile . . 40 

The lazy time, if not with some delight ? 

Phil. There is a brief how many sports are 
ripe. 

Make choice of which your Highness will see 
first. [Giving a paper.] 

The. [Reads.] “ The battle with the Centaurs, 
to be sung 

By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.” 45 

We ’ll none of that: that have I told my love, 
In glory of my kinsman Hercules. 

“The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals, 

Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.” 
That is an old device ; and it was play’d bo 
When I from Thebes came last a conqueror. 
“The thrice three Muses mourning for the 
death 

Of Learning, late deceas’d in beggary.” 

That is some satire, keen and critical, 

Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony. B 5 

“ A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus 
And his love Thisbe ; very tragical mirth.” 
Merry and tragical ! Tedious and brief ! 

That is, hot ice and wondrous strange snow. 
How shall we find the concord of this dis¬ 
cord ? *° 


Phil. A play there is, my lord, some ten 
words long, 

Which is as brief as I have known a play ; 

But by ten words, my lord, it is too long, 

Which makes it tedious ; for in all the play 
There is not one word apt, one player fitted, bg 
A nd tragical, my noble lord, it is ; 

For Pyramus therein doth kill himself. 

Which, when I saw rehears’d, I must confess, 
Made mine eyes water ; but more merry tears 
The passion of loud laughter never shed. 70 
The. What are they that do play it ? 

Phil. Hard-handed men that work in Athens 
here, 

Which never labour’d in their minds till now, 
And now have toil’d their unbreath’d memories 
With this same play, against your nuptial. 76 
The. And we will hear it. 

Phil. No, my noble lord ; 

It is not for you. I have heard it over, 

And it is nothing, nothing in the world ; 

Unless you can find sport in their intents, 79 
Extremely stretch’d and conn’d with cruel pain, 
To do you service. 

The. I will hear that play ; 

For never anything can be amiss, 

When simpleness and duty tender it. 

Go, bring them in ; and take your places, ladies. 

[Exit Philostrate.] 
Hip. I love not to see wretchedness o’er- 
charged, . 86 

And duty in his service perishing. 

The. Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no 
such thing. 

Hip. He says they can do nothing in this 
kind. 

The. The kinder we, to give them thanks for 
nothing. 

Our sport shall be to take what they mistake ;»o 
And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect 
Takes it in might, not merit. 

Where I have come, great clerks have purposed 
To greet me with premeditated welcomes ; 
Where I have seen them shiver and look pale, 
Make periods in the midst of sentences, 96 
Throttle their practis’d accent in their fears, 
And in conclusion dumbly have broke off, 

Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet, 
Out of this silence yet I pick’d a welcome ; 100 

And in the modesty of fearful duty 
I read as much as from the rattling tongue 
Of saucy and audacious eloquence. 

Love, therefore, and tongue-ti’d simplicity 
In least speak most, to my capacity. ios 

[Re-enter Philostrate.] 

Phil. So please your Grace, the Prologue is 
address’d. 

The. Let him approach. 

[Flourish of trumpets. 

Enter [Quince for] the Prologue. 

Pro. If we offend, it is with our good will. 
That you should think, we come not to 
offend, 

But with good will. To show our simple skill, 
That is the true beginning of our end. m 






94 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


v. 1. 


Consider then we come but in despite. 

We do not come as minding to content you, 
Our true intent is. All for your delight 
We are not here. That you should here re¬ 
pent you, us 

The actors are at hand, and by their show 
You shall know all that you are like to know. 
The. This fellow doth not stand upon points. 
Lys. He hath rid his prologue like a rough 
colt; he knows not the stop. A good moral, 
my lord: it is not enough to speak, but to 
speak true. 121 

Hip. Indeed he hath play’d on this prologue 
like a child on a recorder ; a sound, but not in 
government. 

The. His speech was like a tangled chain ; [125 
nothing impaired, but all disordered. Who is 
next ? 

Enter with a trumpet before them , Pyramus and 
Thisbe, Wall, Moonshine, and Lion. 

Pro. Gentles, perchance you wonder at this 
show ; 

But wonder on, till truth make all things 
plain. 

This man is Pyramus, if you would know ; 130 

This beauteous lady Thisby is certain. 

This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth pre¬ 
sent 

Wall, that vile Wall which did these lovers 
sunder; 

And through Wall’s chink, poor souls, they are 
content 

To whisper. At the which let no man won¬ 
der. 136 

This man, with lantern, dog, and bush of thorn, 
Presenteth Moonshine ; for, if you will know, 
By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn 
To meet at Ninus’ tomb, there, there to woo. 
This grisly beast, which Lion hight by name, 
The trusty Thisby, coming first by night, m 
Did scare away, or rather did affright; 

And, as she fled, her mantle she did fall, 
Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain. 
Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall, 145 
And finds his trusty Thisby’s mantle slain ; 
Whereat, with blade, with bloody blameful 
blade, 

He bravely broach’d his boiling bloody breast; 
And Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade, 149 
His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest, 
Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain 
At large discourse, while here they do remain. 

[Exeunt Prologue , Thisbe, Lion , and 
Moonshine. 

The. I wonder if the lion be to speak. 

Dem. No wonder, my lord ; one lion may, 
when many asses do. ibs 

Wall. In this same interlude it doth befall 
That I, one Snout by name, present a wall; 
And such a wall, as I would have you think, 
That had in it a crannied hole or chink, 159 
Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby, 
Did whisper often very secretly. 

This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone doth 
show 

That I am that same wall; the truth is so ; 


And this the cranny is, right and sinister, 
Through which the fearful lovers are to whis¬ 
per. _ 165 

The. Would you desire lime and hair to speak 
better ? 

Dem. It is the wittiest partition that ever I 
heard discourse, my lord. *69 

Enter Pyramus. 

The. Pyramus draws near the wall. Silence ! 
Pyr. 0 grim-look’d night! 0 night with hue 
so black! 

0 night, which ever art when day is not! 

0 night, 0 night! alack, alack, alack, 

I fear my Thisby’s promise is forgot! 

And thou, 0 wall, 0 sweet, O lovely wall, 1* 
That stand’st between her father’s ground 
and mine ! 

Thou wall, 0 wall, 0 sweet and lovely wall, _ 
Show me thy chink, to blink through with 
mine eyne ! 

[Wall holds up his fingers.] 
Thanks, courteous wall; Jove shield thee well 
for this! 

But what see I ? No Thisby do I see. _ iso 
0 wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss ! 
Curs’d be thy stones for thus deceiving me ! 
The. The wall, methinks, being sensible, 
should curse again. 

Pyr. No, in truth, sir, he should not. [i 85 
“ Deceiving me ” is Thisby’s cue. She is to en¬ 
ter now, and I am to spy her through the wall. 
You shall see it will fall pat as I told you. Yon¬ 
der she comes. 

Enter Thisbe. 

This. 0 wall, full often hast thou heard my 
moans, m 

For parting my fair Pyramus and me ! 

My cherry lips have often kiss’d thy stones, 
Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee. 
Pyr. I see a voice ! Now will I to the chink, 
To spy an I can hear my Thisby’s face. 195 
Thisby! 

This. My love thou art, my love I think. 
Pyr. Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover’s 
grace; 

And, like Limander, am I trusty still. 

This. And I like Helen, till the Fates me 
kill. 200 

Pyr. Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true. 
This. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you. 

Pyr. O, kiss me through the hole of this vile 
wall! 

This. I kiss the wall’s hole, not your lips at 
all. 

Pyr. Wilt thou at Ninny’s tomb meet me 
straightway ? 205 

This. ’Tide life, ’tide death, I come without 
delay. [ Exeunt Pyramus and Thisbe .] 
Wall. Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged 
so ; 

And, being done, thus Wall away doth go. [Exit. 

The. Now is the moon used between the two 
neighbours. 

Dem. No remedy, my lord, when walls are 
so wilful to hear without warning. 211 





A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


95 


v. i. 


Hip. This is the silliest stuff that ever I 
heard. 

The. The best in this kind are but shadows ; 
and the worst are no worse, if imagination 
amend them. 215 

Hip. It must be your imagination then, and 
not theirs. 

The. If we imagine no worse of them than 
they of themselves, they may pass for excellent 
men. Here come two noble beasts in, a man 
and a lion. 221 

Enter Lion and Moonshine. 

Lion. You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do 
fear 

The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on 
floor, 

May no w perchance both quake and tremble here, 

When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar, 
'’’hen know that I, one Snug the joiner, am 226 
A lion fell, nor else no lion’s dam ; 

For, if I should as lion come in strife 
Into this place, ’t were pity on my life. 

The. A very gentle beast, and of a good [230 
conscience. 

Hem. The very best at a beast, my lord, that 
e’er I saw. 

Lys. This lion is a very fox for his valour. 

The. True ; and a goose for his discretion. [235 

Hem. Not so, my lord ; for his valour cannot 
carry his discretion, and the fox carries the 
goose. 

The. His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry 
his valour; for the goose carries not the fox. It 
is well; leave it to his discretion, and let us [240 
hearken to the moon. 

Moon. This lantern doth the horned inoon 
present; — 

Hem. He should have worn the horns on his 
head. 

The. He is no crescent, and his horns are in¬ 
visible within the circumference. 

Moon. This lantern doth the horned moon 
present; 

Myself the man i’ the moon do seem to be. 

The. This is the greatest error of all the rest. 
The man should be put into the lantern. [261 
How is it else the man i’ the moon ? 

Hem. He dares not come there for the can¬ 
dle ; for, you see, it is already in snuff. 

Hip. I am aweary of this moon. Would he 
would change ! 266 

The. It appears, by his small light of discre¬ 
tion, that he is in the wane ; but yet, in cour¬ 
tesy, in all reason, we must stay the time. 

Lys. Proceed, Moon. 260 

Moon. All that I have to say, is, to tell you 
that the lantern is the moon ; I, the man i’ the 
moon ; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and 
this dog, my dog. 

Hem. Why, all these should be in the lan¬ 
tern ; for all these are in the moon. But, [265 
silence ! here comes Thisbe. 

Enter Thisbe. 

This. This is old Ninny’s tomb. Where is 
my love ? 


Lion. (Roaring.) Oh- [Thisbe runs off. 

Hem. Well roar’d, Lion. 270 

The. Well run, Thisbe. 

Hip. Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon 
shines with a good grace. 

[The Lion shakes Thisbe " 1 s mantle , 
and exit.] 

The. Well mous’d, Lion. 

Hem. And then came Pyramus. 

Lys. And so the lion vanish’d. 275 

Enter Pyramus. 

Pyr. Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny 
beams; 

I thank thee, Moon, for shining now so bright; 
For, by thy gracious, golden, glittering gleams, 
I trust to take of truest Thisby sight. 280 
But stay, O spite I 
But mark, poor knight, 

What dreadful dole is here I 
Eyes, do you see ? 

How can it be ? 285 

O dainty duck ! 0 dear! 

Thy mantle good. 

What, stain’d with blood I 
Approach, ye Furies fell! 

O Fates, come, come, 290 

Cut thread and thrum ; 

Quail, crush, conclude, and quell! 

The. This passion, and the death of a dear 
friend, would go near to make a man look 
sad. 

Hip. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man. 
Pyr. O wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions 
frame ? 296 

Since lion vile hath here deflower’d my dear ,* 
Which is — no, no — which was the fairest dame 
That liv’d, that lov’d, that lik’d, that look’d 
with cheer. 

Come, tears, confound ; soo 

Out, sword, and wound 
The pap of Pyramus ; 

Ay, that left pap, 

Where heart doth hop. [Stabs himself.] 

Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. 305 

Now am I dead, 

Now am I fled ; 

My soul is in the sky. 

Tongue, lose thy light; 309 

Moon, take thy flight. [Exit Moonshine. 1 
Now die, die, die, die, die. [Hies.] 

Hem. No die, but an ace, for him ; for he is 
but one. 

Lys. Less than an ace, man, for he is dead; 
he is nothing. aie 

The. With the help of a surgeon he might 
yet recover, and yet prove an ass. 

Hip. How chance Moonshine is gone before 
Thisbe comes back and finds her lover? 

Re-enter Thisbe. 

The. She will find him by starlight. Here [*20 
she comes; and her passion ends the play. 

Hip. Methinks she should not use along one 
for such a Pyramus. I hope she will be brief. 

Hem. A mote will turn the balance, which 
Pyramus, which Thisbe, is the better ; he for a 





96 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM 


v. 1 . 


man, God warrant us; she for a woman, L 326 
God bless us. 

Lys. She hath spied him already with those 
sweet eyes. 

Dem. And thus she moans, videlicet: — 330 

This. Asleep, my love ? 

What, dead, my dove ? 

0 Pyramus, arise ! 

Speak, speak ! Quite dumb ? 

Dead, dead ? A tomb 335 

Must cover thy sweet eyes. 

These lily lips, 

This cherry nose, 

These yellow cowslip cheeks, 

Are gone, are gone ! 340 

Lovers, make moan. 

His eyes were green as leeks. 

0 Sisters Three, 

Come, come to me, 

With hands as pale as milk ; 345 

Lay them in gore, 

Since you have shore 

With shears his thread of silk. 

Tongue, not a word ! 

Come, trusty sword ; _ 350 

Come, blade, my breast imbrue: 

[Stafcs fierself .] 
And, farewell, friends; 

Thus, Thisby ends. 

Adieu, adieu, adieu. [Dies.] 

The. Moonshine and Lion are left to bury [355 
the dead. 

Dem. Ay, and Wall too. 

[Bot. Starting up.] No, I assure you ; the 
wall is down that parted their fathers. Will it 
please you to see the epilogue, or to hear a Ber- 
gomask dance between two of our company ? [331 

The. No epilogue, I pray you ; for your play 
needs no excuse. Never excuse ; for when the 
players are all dead, there need none to be 
blamed. Marry, if he that writ it had played 
Pyramus and hang’d himself in Thisbe’s gar- [305 
ter, it would have been a fine tragedy; and so 
it is, truly ; and very notably discharg’d. But, 
come, your Bergomask ; let your epilogue alone. 

[A dance.] 

The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve. 
Lovers, to bed ; ’t is almost fairy time. 371 
I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn 
As much as we this night have overwatch’d. 
This palpable-gross play hath well beguil’d 
The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed. 
A fortnight hold we this solemnity 370 

In nightly revels and new jollity. [Exeunt. 

Enter Robin Goodfeelow. 

Bobin. Now the hungry lion roars, 

And the wolf behowls the moon ; 

Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, 38o 
All with weary task fordone. 

Now the wasted brands do glow, 
Whilst the screech-owl, screeching 
loud, 

Puts the wretch that lies in woe 
In remembrance of a shroud. 386 


Now it is the time of night 
That the graves, all gaping wide, 
Every one lets forth his sprite, 

In the church-way paths to glide. 

And we fairies, that do run sao 

By the triple Hecate’s team 
From the presence of the sun, 

Following darkness like a dream, 

Now are frolic. Not a mouse 

Shall disturb this hallowed house. ^ 

I am sent with broom before, 

To sweep the dust behind the door. 

Enter Oberon and Titania with their train. 

Obe. Through the house give glimmering light 
By the dead and drowsy fire, 

Every elf and fairy sprite 4o» 

Hop as light as bird from brier ; 

And this ditty, after me, 

Sing, and dance it trippingly. 

Tita. First, rehearse your song by rote, 

To each word a warbling note. 406 

Hand in hand, with fairy grace, 

Will we sing, and bless this place. 

[Sons' [and dance], 
Obe. Now, until the break of day, 

Through this house each fairy stray. 

To the best bride-bed will we, *io 

Which by us shall blessed be ; 

And the issue there create 
Ever shall be fortunate. 

So shall all the couples three 

Ever true in loving be ; *i6 

And the blots of Nature’s hand 

Shall not in their issue stand ; 

Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar, 

Nor mark prodigious, such as are 
Despised in nativity, «o 

Shall upon their children be. 

With this field-dew consecrate, 

Every fairy take his gait, 

And each several chamber bless, 
Through this palace, with sweet peace ; 
And the owner of it blest 426 

Ever shall in safety rest. 

Trip away ; make no stay; 

Meet me all by break of day. 

[Exeunt [ Oberon , Titania , and train]. 
Bobin. If we shadows have offended, 430 

Think but this, and all is mended, 

That you have but slumb’red here 
While these visions did appear. 

And this weak and idle theme, 

No more yielding but a dream, 436 

Gentles, do not reprehend. 

If you pardon, we will mend. 

And, as I am an honest Puck, 

If we have unearned luck 

Now to ’scape the serpent’s tongue, 440 

We will make amends ere long; 

Else the Puck a liar call. 

So, good night unto you all. 

Give me your hands, if we be friends, 
And Robin shall restore amends. 445 

[Exit.] 





THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


On July 22 , 1598 , James Roberts entered The Marchaunt of Venyce or otherwise called the Jewe 
of Venyce in the Stationers’ Register, and in the same year the play was named in Meres’s list. 
These two references fix a later limit for the date of the play ; but no evidence equally strong 
has been found for an earlier. An entry in Henslowe’s Diary notes the first production of “ the 
Venesyon comodey” on August 25 , 1594 , in the theatre in which Shakespeare’s company was 
then acting; and this has been interpreted as referring to The Merchant of Venice. But the fre¬ 
quency of plots from Italian sources makes the identification precarious. In 1594 Dr. Roderigo 
Lopez, a prominent Jewish physician, was hanged in London on a charge of treason and con¬ 
spiracy to murder Queen Elizabeth and the Portuguese pretender, Antonio Perez. It has been 
supposed that the present play was produced about this time in order to take advantage of the 
popular excitement stirred up by the enemies of Lopez against Jews ; and a slight corroboration 
of this theory has been found in the occurrence of the name Antonio as that of the intended vic¬ 
tim in both the history and the drama. But the maturity exhibited in the workmanship of the play 
has made scholars reluctant to accept so early a date, and it is probably not earlier than 1596 . 

Though registered in 1598 , the comedy did not appear till 1600 , when two quartos were pub¬ 
lished, one by James Roberts, the other by Thomas Heyes, both, apparently, printed by Roberts. 
The text of the First Folio is taken from Heyes’s edition. Opinion is divided as to the compara¬ 
tive merits of Roberts’s and Heyes’s quartos. Though differing but slightly, they seem to be 
printed from independent transcripts of the same copy of the original manuscript, so that neither 
can claim a superior authority throughout. The present text is the result of an attempt to reach 
as nearly as possible their original from a comparison of the readings in each case of variation. 

It seems likely that Shakespeare’s immediate source was a lost play of whose existence we are 
aware from a passage in Gosson's School of Abuse ( 1579 ), in which he speaks of the prose play of 
the Jew shown at the Bull, “ representing the greediness of worldly chusers, and bloody mindes 
of Usurers.” This is plausibly interpreted as indicating a play combining the story of the caskets 
with that of the pound of flesh. The connection of a ballad of uncertain date on the cruelty of 
“ Gernutus the Jew ” with Shakespeare’s play is slight and doubtful in the extreme. Our author 
or his immediate predecessor, however, in all probability did have access to the first novel of the 
fourth day in Ser Giovanni Fiorentino’s II Pecorone ( 1378 ), which combines the stories of the 
bond and the rings, and names Belmont as the lady’s residence. In the fourteenth tale of Masuc- 
cio di Salerno ( fi. ca. 1470 ) a young man elopes with a miser’s daughter who carries off her 
father’s jewels; but the resemblance to the story of Jessica and Lorenzo is not strong enough to 
prove a connection. The only other document of importance as a possible immediate source is 
a declamation in The Orator by Alexander Silvayn, translated into English, and printed in 1596 . 
After a summary of the story of the bond, Silvayn gives speeches by the Jew and the merchant, 
and the former of these may well have supplied hints for some of Sliylock’s lines. Besides the 
story of the caskets, however, both the underplots of Jessica and of Nenssa are absent from all 
of these extant versions of the story of the bond. Yet, so long as the play mentioned by Gosson 
remains undiscovered, it is impossible to .say how much of the elaborate construction of The 
Merchant of Venice is due to Shakespeare, and how much to his unknown predecessor. 

The constituent elements of the plot, when taken apart, are found to belong to several very 
old and widespread traditions. The story of the pound of flesh occurs in Oriental legend, m the 
Dolopathos, the Gesta Romanorum, the Cursor Mundi , and elsewhere. The story of the caskets 
appears in the romance of Barlaam and Josaphat , in the Speculum Historiale of Vincent of 
Beauvais, and in the Golden Legend of Jacobus de Voragine ; while somewhat similar tales on 
the deceptiveness of appearances are still more widespread. 








THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


[DRAMATIS PERSONS 


The Duke of Venice. 

The Prince of Morocco, ) 8uitors t Portia . 

The Prince of Arragon, ) 

Antonio, a merchant of Venice. 

Bassanio, his friend, suitor to Portia. 

Salanio, 

Salarino, 

Gratiano, 

Salerio, 

Lorenzo, in love with Jessica. 

Shylock, a rich Jew. 

Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice, Gaoler, Servants to Portia, and other attendants. 
Scene : Partly at Venice and partly at Belmont , the seat of Portia .] 


friends to Antonio and Bassanio. 


Tubal, a Jew, his friend. 

Launcelot Gobbo, a clown, servant to Shylock. 
Old Gobbo, father to Launcelot. 

Leonardo, servant to Bassanio. 

Balthasar, ) gervant8 1 0 Portia. 

Stephano, J 

Portia, a rich heiress. 

Nerissa, her waiting-gentlewoman. 

Jessica, daughter to Shylock. 


ACT I 

[Scene I. Venice. A street .] 

Enter Antonio, Salarino, and Salanio. 

Ant. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad. 
It wearies me ; you say it wearies you ; 

But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, 
What stuff’t is made of, whereof it is born, 

I am to learn ; 6 

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, 
That I have much ado to know myself. 

Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean, 
There, where your argosies with portly sail, 
Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, 10 
Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea, 

Do overpeer the petty traffickers, 

That curtsy to them, do them reverence, 

As they fly by them with their woven wings. 

Salan. Believe me, sir, had I such venture 
forth, is 

The better part of my affections would 
Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still 
Plucking the grass to know where sits the 
wind, 

Peering in maps for ports and piers and roads ; 
And every object that might make me fear 20 
Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt 
Would make me sad. 

Salar. My wind cooling my broth 

Would blow me to an ague when I thought 
What harm a wind too great at sea might do. 

I should not see the sandy hour-glass run 25 
But I should think of shallows and of flats, 
And see my wealthy Andrew dock’d in sand, 
Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs 
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church 
And see the holy edifice of stone, 30 

And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks, 
Which, touching but my gentle vessel’s side, 
Would scatter all her spices on the stream, 
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks, 


And, in a word, but even now worth this, 35 
And now worth nothing ? Shall I have the 
thought 

To think on this, and shall I lack the thought 
That such a thing bechanc’d would make me 
sad ? 

But tell not me ; I know Antonio 
Is sad to think upon his merchandise. 40 

Ant. Believe me, no. I thank my fortune for 
it, 

My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, 

Nor to one place ; nor is my whole estate 
Upon the fortune of this present year : a 

Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad. 
Salar. Why, then you are in love. 

Ant. Fie, fie! 

Salar. Not in love neither ? Then let us say 
you are sad, 

Because you are not merry ; and’t were as 
easy 

For you to laugh and leap and say you are 
merry, 

Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed 
Janus, 00 

Nature hath fram’d strange fellows in her time ; 
Some that will evermore peep through their 
eyes 

And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper, 

And other of such vinegar aspect 
That they’ll not show their teeth in way of 
smile, 55 

Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. 

Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano. 


Salan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble 
kinsman, 

Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well ; 

We leave you now with better company. 

Salar. I would have stay’d till I had made 
you merry, e« 

If worthier friends had not prevented me. 

Ant. Your worth is very dear in my regard. 





I. i. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


99 


I take it, your own business calls on you 
And vou embrace the occasion to depart. 

Salar. Good morrow, my good lords. se 
Bass. Good signiors both, when shall we 
laugh ? Say, when ? 

You grow exceeding strange. Must it be so ? 
Salar. We ’ll make our leisures to attend on 
yours. [. Exeunt Salarino and Salanio. 

Lor. My Lord Bassanio, since you have found 
Antonio, 

We two will leave you ; but at dinner-time, 70 
I pray you, have in mind where we must meet. 

Bass. I will not fail you. 

^ Gra. You look not well, Signior Antonio ; 
You have too much respect upon the world. 
They lose it that do buy it with much care. 76 
Believe me, you are marvellously chang’d. 

Ant. I hold the world but as the world, 
Gratiano, 

A stage where every man must play a part, 
A nd m ine a sad one. 

Gra 7 ~ ~ Let me play the fool! 

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come, 
And let my liver rather heat with wine si 
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. 
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, 
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster, 

Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaun¬ 
dice 86 

By being peevish ? I tell thee what, Antonio — 
I love thee, and it is my love that speaks — 
There are a sort of men whose visages 
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, 

And do a wilful stillness entertain, so 

With purpose to be dress’d in an opinion 
. Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, 

• As who should say, “ I am Sir Oracle, 
i And when I ope my lips let no dog bark ! ” 

*0 my Antonio, I do know of those 95 

That therefore only are reputed wise 
For saying nothing, when, I am very sure, 

If they should speak, would almost damn those 
ears 

Which, hearing them, would call their brothers 
fools. 

I ’ll tell thee more of this another time ; 100 

But fish not with this melancholy bait 
For this fool gudgeon, this opinion. 

Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile ; 

I ’ll end my exhortation after dinner. 

Lor. Well, we will leave you then till dinner¬ 
time. 705 

I must be one of these same dumb wise men, 
For Gratiano never lets me speak. 

Gra. Well, keep me company but two years 
moe, 

Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own 
tongue. 

Ant. Farewell! I ’ll grow a talker for this 
gear. # 710 

Gra. Thanks, i’ faith, for silence is only 
commendable 

In a neat’s tongue dri’d and a maid not 
vendible. 

[Exeunt [Gratiano and Lorenzo]. 
Ant. Is that any thing now ? 

Bass. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of 


nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His 
reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in [n« 
two bushels of chaff ; you shall seek all day 
ere you find them, and when you have them, 
they are not worth the search. 

Ant. Well, tell me now what lady is the 
same 

To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, 720 
That you to-day promis’d to tell me of ? 

Bass. ’T is not unknown to you, Antonio, 
How much I have disabled mine estate 
By something showing a more swelling port 724 
Than my faint means would grant continuance. 
Nor do I now make moan to be abridg’d 
From such a noble rate ; but my chief care 
Is to come fairly off from the great debts 
Wherein my time something too prodigal 
Hath left me gag’d. To you, Antonio, is*. 

I owe the most, in money and in love, 

And from your love I have a warranty 
To unburden all my plots and purposes 
How to get clear of all the debts I owe. 

Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know 
it; i 36 

And if it stand, as you yourself still do, 

Within the eye of honour, be assur’d, 

My purse, my person, my extremest means, 

Lie all unlock’d to your occasions. 

Bass. In my school-days, when I had lost one 
shaft, 140 

I shot his fellow of the self-same flight 
The self-same way with more advised watch 
To find the other forth, and by adventuring 
both 

I oft found both. I urge this childhood proof, 
Because what follows is pure innocence. :45 

I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth, 

That which I owe is lost; but if you please 
To shoot another arrow that self way 
Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, 
As I will watch the aim, or to find both ieo 
Or bring your latter hazard back again 
And thankfully rest debtor for the first. 

Ant. You know me well, and herein spend 
but time 

To wind about my love with circumstance ; 
And out of doubt you do me now more wrong 
In making question of my uttermost 75c 

Than if you had made waste of all I have. 
Then do but say to me what I should do 
That in your knowledge may by me be done, 
And I am prest unto it; therefore, speak. 700 
Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left; 

And she is fair and, fairer than that word, 

Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes 
I did receive fair speechless messages. 

Her name is Portia, nothing undervalu’d 705 
To Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia. 

Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth, 
For the four winds blow in from every coast 
Renowned suitors; and her sunny locks 
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece, 770 
Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos’ 
strand, 

And many Jasons come in quest of her. 

O my Antonio, had I but the means 
To hold a rival place with one qf them, 







100 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


I have a mind presages me such thrift, its 
T hat I should questionless be fortunate ! 

Ant. Thou know’st that all iny fortunes are 
at sea; 

Neither have I money nor commodity 
To raise a present sum. Therefore go forth ; 
Try what my credit can in Venice do. i»o 

That shall be rack’d, even to the uttermost, 

To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia. 

Go, presently inquire, and so will I, 

Where money is ; and I no question make 
To have it of my trust or for my sake. ias 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [Belmont. A room in Portia's house. 1 
Enter Portia ivith her waiting-woman , Nerissa. 

Por. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is 
aweary of this great world. 

Ner. You would be, sweet madam, if .your 
miseries were in the same abundance as your 
good fortunes are ; and yet, for aught I see, they 
are as sick that surfeit with too much as they [s 
that starve with nothing. It is no mean hap¬ 
piness, therefore, to be seated in the mean. 
Superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but 
competency lives longer. 10 

Por. Good sentences and well pronounc’d. 
Ner. They would be better, if well followed. 
Por. If to do were as easy as to know what 
were good to do, chapels had been churches and 
poor men’s cottages princes’ palaces. It is a 
ood divine that follows his own instructions ; [is 
can easier teach twenty what were good to be 
done, than to be one of the twenty to follow mine 
own teaching. The brain may devise laws for 
the blood, but a hot temper leaps o’er a cold 
decree ; such a hare is madness the youth, to [20 
skip o’er the meshes of good counsel the crip¬ 
ple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to 
choose me a husband. O me, the word choose ! 
I may neither choose who I would nor refuse 
who I dislike; so is the will of a living [25 
daughter curb’d by the will of a dead father. 
Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose 
one nor refuse none ? 29 

Ner. Your father was ever virtuous, and 
holy men at their death have good inspirations ; 
therefore the lottery that he hath devised in 
these three chests of gold, silver, and lead, 
whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you, 
will, no doubt, never be chosen by any rightly [35 
but one who you shall rightly love. But what 
warmth is there in your affection towards any 
of these princely suitors that are already come ? 

Por. I pray thee, over-name them; and as 
thou namest them, I will describe them ; and, [40 
according to my description, level at my affec¬ 
tion. 

Ner. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. 
Por. Ay, that’s a colt indeed, for he doth 
nothing but talk of his horse ; and he makes it 
a great appropriation to his own good parts, [45 
that he can shoe him himself. I am much 
afeard my lady his mother played false with 
a smith. 

Ner. Then there is the County Palatine. 


1 . ii. 


Por. He doth nothing but frown, as who [so 
should say, “ If you will not have me, choose.” 
He hears merry tales and smiles not. I fear he 
will prove the weeping philosopher when he 
grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness 
in his youth. I had rather be married to a [55 
death’s-head with a bone in his mouth than to 
either of these. God defend me from these 
two! 

Ner. How say you by the French lord, Mon¬ 
sieur Le Bon ? 6 » 

Por. God made him, and therefore let him 
pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to 
be a mocker ; but, he! why, he hath a horse 
better than the Neapolitan’s, a better bad habit 
of frowning than the Count Palatine. He is 
every man in no man. If a throstle sing, he 
falls straight a capering. He will fence with [65 
his own shadow. If I should marry him, I 
should marry twenty husbands. If he Avould 
despise me, I would forgive him, for if he love 
me to madness, I shall never requite him. to 

Ner. What say you, then, to Falconbridge, 
the young baron of England ? 

Por. You know I say nothing to him, for 
he understands not me, nor I him. He hath 
neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you will 
come into the court and swear that I have a [ts 
poor pennyworth in the English. He is a proper 
man’s picture, but, alas, who can converse with 
a dumb-show ? How oddly he is suited! I 
think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round 
hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and [so 
his behaviour everywhere. 

Ner. What think you of the Scottish lord 
his neighbour ? 

Por. That he hath a neighbourly eharity in [ss 
him, for he borrowed a box of the ear of the 
Englishman and swore he would pay him again 
when he was able. I think the Frenchman be¬ 
came his surety and seal’d under for another. 

Ner. How like you the young German, tin 
Duke of Saxony’s nephew ? 9 

Por. Very vilely in the morning, when he is, 
sober, and most vilely in the afternoon, when 
he is drunk. When he is best, he is a little 
worse than a man, and when he is worst, he is 
little better than a beast. An the worst fall [95 
that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go 
without him. 

Ner. If he should offer to choose, and choose 
the right casket, you should refuse to perform 
your father’s will, if you should refuse to [101 
accept him. 

Por. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray 
thee, set a deep glass of rhenish wine on the 
contrary casket, for if the devil be within and 
that temptation without, I know he will L 1(MS 
choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I ’ll 
be married to a sponge. 

Ner. You need not fear, lady, the having 
any of these lords. They have acquainted me 
with their determinations; which is, in- [no 
deed, to return to their home and to trouble 
you with no more suit, unless you may be won 
by some other sort than your father’s imposi¬ 
tion depending on the caskets. iv 




THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


IOI 


I. iii. 


Por. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will 
die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by 
the manner of my father’s will. I am glad this 
parcel of wooers are so reasonable, for there is 
not one among them but I dote on his very [120 
absence, and I pray God grant them a fair de¬ 
parture. 

Ner. Do you not remember, lady, in your fa¬ 
ther’s time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, 
that came hither in company of the Marquis 
of Montferrat ? 126 

Por. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio, —as I think, 
he was so call’d. 

Ner. True, madam. He, of all the men that 
ever my foolish eyes look’d upon, was the best 
deserving a fair lady. m 

Por. I remember him well, and I remember 
him worthy of thy praise. 

Enter a Serving-Man. 

How now ! what news ? 

Serv. The four strangers seek for you, 
madam, to take their leave ; and there is [135 
a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of 
Morocco, who brings word the Prince his mas¬ 
ter will be here to-night. 130 

Por. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so 
good a heart as I can bid the other four fare¬ 
well, I should be glad of his approach. If he 
had the condition of a saint and the complexion 
of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me 
than wive me. 145 

Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. 

While we shut the gates upon one wooer, 
another knocks at the door. [Exeunt. 

[Scene III. Venice. A public place.] 
Enter Bassanio and Shylock the Jew. 

Shy. Three thousand ducats ; well. 

Bass. Ay, sir, for three months. 

Shy. For three months ; well. 

Bass. For the which, as I told you, Antonio 
shall be bound. e 

Shy. Antonio shall become bound ; well. 

Bass. May you stead me ? Will you pleasure 
me ? Shall I know your answer ? 

Shy. Three thousand ducats for three months, 
and Antonio bound. 10 

Bass. Your answer to that. 

Shy. Antonio is a good man. 

Bass. Have you heard any imputation to the 
contrary ? 

Shy. Ho, no, no, no, no! My meaning in [is 
saying he is a good man is to have you under¬ 
stand me that he is sufficient. Yet his means 
are in supposition : he hath an argosy bound to 
Tripolis, another to the Indies ; I understand, 
moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third 
at Mexico, a fourth for England, and other [20 
ventures he hath, squand’red abroad. But 
ships are but boards, sailors but men; there 
be land-rats and water-rats, water-thieves and 
j land-thieves, I mean pirates, and then there is 
I the peril of waters, winds, and rocks. The [25 
man is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three 
thousand ducats ; I think I may take his bond. 


Bass. Be assured you may. 

Shy. I will be assured I may ; and, that I [30 
may be assured, I will bethink me. May I 
speak with Antonio ? 

Bass. If it please you to dine with us. 

Shy. Yes, to smell pork ; to eat of the habi¬ 
tation which your prophet the Nazarite con¬ 
jured the devil into. I will buy with you, sell [35 
with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so 
following; but I will not eat with you, drink 
with you, nor pray with you. What news on 
the Rialto ? Who is he comes here ? 40 

Enter Antonio. 

Bass. This is Signior Antonio. 

Shy. [Aside.] How like a fawning publican 
he looks! 

I hate him for he is a Christian, 

But more for that in low simplicity 

He lends out money gratis, and brings down 4* 

The rate of usance here with us in Venice. 

If I can catch him once upon the hip, 

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. 
He hates our sacred nation, and he rails, 

Even there where merchants most do congre¬ 
gate, 60 

On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, 
Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe, 

If I forgive him ! 

Bass. Shylock, do you hear? 

Shy. I am debating of my present store, 
And, by the near guess of my memory, ee 

I cannot instantly raise up the gross 
Of full three thousand ducats. What of that ? 
Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew' of my tribe, 

Will furnish me. But soft! how many months 
Do you desire ? [To Ant.] Rest you fair, good 
signior; &o 

Your worship was the last man in our mouths. 
Ant. Shylock. although I neither lend nor 
borrow 

By taking nor by giving of excess, 

Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, 

I ’ll break a custom. Is he yet possess’d 65 
How much ye would ? 

Shy. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats. 

Ant. And for three months. 

Shy. I had forgot ; three months ; you told 
me so. 

Well then, your bond ; and let me see ; —but 
hear you; ea 

Methought you said you neither lend nor borrow 
Upon advantage. 

Ant. I do never use it. 

Shy. When Jacob graz’d his uncle Laban’s 
sheep — 

This Jacob from our holy Abram was, 

As his wise mother wrought in his behalf, 

The third possessor; ay, he was the third — 75 
Ant. And what of him ? Did he take interest ? 
Shy. No, not take interest, not, as you would 
say, 

Directly interest. Mark what Jacob did. 

When Laban and himself were compromis’d 
That all the eanlings which were streak’d and 
pied 8 ® 

Should fall as Jacob’s hire, the ewes, being rank, 






102 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


ii. i. 


In the end of autumn turned to the rams, 

And, when the work of generation was 
Between these woolly breeders in the act, 

The skilful shepherd pill’d me certain wands so 
And, in the doing of the deed of kind, 

He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes, 
Who then conceiving did in eaning time 
Fall parti-colour’d lambs, and those were Ja¬ 
cob’s. 

This was a way to thrive, and he was blest; so 
And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not. 

Ant. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob 
serv’d for; 

A thing not in his power to bring to pass, 

But sway’d and fashion’d by the hand of 
Heaven. 

Was this inserted to make interest good ? »o 
Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams ? 

Shy. I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast. 
But note me, signior. 

Ant. Mark you this, Bassanio, 

v'The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. 

An evil soul producing holy witness 100 

Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, 

A goodly apple rotten at the heart. 

0 , what a goodly outside falsehood hath ! 

Shy. Three thousand ducats; ’tis a good 
round sum. 

Three months from twelve; then, let me see; 
the rate — nw 

Ant. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding 
to you ? 

Shy. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft 
In the Rialto you have rated me 
About my moneys and my usances. 

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, no 
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe. 

You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, 

And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, 

And all for use of that which is mine own. 

Well then, it now appears you need my help, us 
Go to, then ! You come to me, and you say, 

“ Shylock, we would have moneys; ” you say 
so — 

You, that did void your rheum upon my beard 
And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur 
Over your threshold ; moneys is your suit. 120 
What should I say to you ? Should I not say, 

“ Hath a dog money ? Is it possible 
A cur can lend three thousand ducats ? ” Or 
Shall I bend low and in a bondman’s key, 124 
With bated breath and whispering humbleness, 
Say this: 

“ Fair sir, you spat on me on Wednesday last; 
You spurn’d me such a day ; another time 
You call’d me dog ; and for these courtesies 
I ’ll lend you thus much moneys ” ? 130 

Ant. I am as like to call thee so again, 

To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. 

If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not 
As to thy friends ; for when did friendship take 
A breed for barren metal of his friend ? 135 

But lend it rather to thine enemy, 

Who, if he break, thou mayst with better face 
Exact the penalty. 

Shy. Why, look you, how you storm ! 

I would be friends with you and have your love, 


Forget the shames that you have stain’d me 
with, 140 

Supply your present wants, and take no doit 
Of usance for my moneys, and you ’ll not hear 
me. 

This is kind I offer. 

Bass. This were kindness. 

Shy. This kindness will I show. 

Go with me to a notary, seal me there 1*5 

Your single bond ; and, in a merry sport, 

If you repay me not on such a day, 

In such a place, such sum or sums as are 
Express’d in the condition, let the forfeit 
Be nominated for an equal pound wo 

Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken 
In what part of your body pleaseth me. 

Ant. Content, i’ faith, I ’ll seal to such a bond, 
And say there is much kindness in the Jew. 
Bass. You shall not seal to such a bond for 
me; wo 

I ’ll rather dwell in my necessity. 

Ant. Why, fear not, man ; I will not forfeit 
it. 

Within these two months, that’s a month be¬ 
fore 

This bond expires, I do expect return 
Of thrice three times the value of this bond. ioo 
Shy. 0 father Abram, what these Christians 
are, 

Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect 
The thoughts of others ! Pray you, tell me this: 
If he should break his day, what should I gain 
By the exaction of the forfeiture ? use 

A pound of man’s flesh taken from a man 
Is not so estimable, profitable neither, 

As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, 

To buy his favour, I extend this friendship. 

If he will take it, so ; if not, adieu ; 120 

And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not. 
Ant. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. 
Shy. Then meet me forthwith at the no¬ 
tary’s ; 

Give him direction for this merry bond, 

And I will go and purse the ducats straight, 176 
See to my house, left in the fearful guard 
Of an unthrifty knave, and presently 
I will be with you. [Exit [Shylock], 

Ant. Hie thee, gentle Jew. 

The Hebrew will turn Christian ; he grows kind. 
Bass. < I like not fair terms and a villain’s 
mind. 1*0 

Ant. Come on; in this there can be no dis¬ 
may ; 

My ships come home a month before the day. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT II 

[Scene I. Belmont. A room in Portia's house.] 

Enter [the Prince of] Morocco, a tawny Moor, 
all in white , and three or four followers accord¬ 
ingly, with Portia, Nerissa, and their train 
Flourish of cornets. 

Mor. Mislike me not for my complexion, 

The shadowed livery of the burnish’d sun, 

To whom I am a neighbour and nea bred. 




II. 11. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


103 


Bring me the fairest creature northward born, 
Where Phoebus’ fire scarce thaws the icicles, « 
And let us make incision for your love, 

To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine. 

I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine 
Hath fear’d the valiant. By my love, I swear 
The best-regarded virgins of our clime 10 

Have lov’d it too. I would not change this hue, 
Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen. 

.For. In terms of choice I am not solely led 
By nice direction of a maiden’s eyes; 

Besides, the lottery of my destiny 15 

Bars me the right of voluntary choosing. 

But if my father had not scanted me 
And hedg’d me by his wit, to yield myself 
His wife who wins me by that means I told 
you, 

Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair 
As any comer I have look’d on yet 21 

For my affection. 

Mor. Even for that I thank you ; 

Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets 
To try my fortune. By this scimitar 
That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince 25 
That won three fields of Sultan Solyman, 

I would outstare the sternest eyes that look, 
Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, 
Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she- 
bear, 

Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey, 30 
To win thee, lady. But, alas the while ! 

If Hercules and Lichas play at dice 
Which is the better man, the greater throw 
May turn by fortune from the weaker hand. 

So is Alcides beaten by his page ; so 

And so may I, blind fortune leading me, 

Miss that which one unworthier may attain, 
And die with grieving. 

Por. You must take your chance, 

And either not attempt to choose at all, 

Or swear before you choose, if you choose 
wrong 40 

Never to speak to lady afterward 
In way of marriage ; therefore be advis’d. 

Mor. Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my 
chance. 

Por. First, forward to the temple. After 
dinner 

Your hazard shall be made. 

Mor. Good fortune then ! « 

To make me blest or cursed’st among men. 

[ Cornets , and exeunt . 

[Scene II. Venice. A street.] 

Enter the Clown [Launcelot] alone. 

Laun. Certainly my conscience will serve me 
to run from this Jew my master. The fiend is 
at mine elbow and tempts me, saying to me, 
“Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot,” 
or “good Gobbo,” or “good Launcelot Gobbo, 
use your legs, take the start, run away.” My [5 
conscience says, “ No; take heed, honest 
Launcelot; take heed, honest Gobbo,” or, as 
aforesaid, “ honest Launcelot Gobbo ; do not 
run ; scorn running with thy heels.” Well, the 
auo&t courageous fiend bids me pack. Via! [10 


says the fiend ; “ away ! ” says the fiend ; “for 
the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,” says the 
fiend, “and run.” Well, my conscience, hang¬ 
ing about the neck of my heart, says very wisely 
to me, “ My honest friend Launcelot, being [is 
an honest man’s son,” or rather an honest 
woman’s son ; for, indeed, my father did some¬ 
thing smack, something grow to, he had a kind 
of taste, —well, my conscience says, “ Launce¬ 
lot, budge not.” “Budge,” says the fiend. [20 
“Budge not,” says my conscience. “Con¬ 
science,” say I, “ you counsel well; ” “ Fiend,” 
say I, “ you counsel well.” To be rul’d by my 
conscience, I should stay with the Jew my 
master, who, God bless the mark, is a kind of 
devil ; and, to run away from the Jew, I [25 
should be rul’d by the fiend, who, saving your 
reverence, is the devil himself. Certainly the 
Jew is the very devil incarnation ; and, in my 
conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard 
conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with 
the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly [31 
counsel. I will run, fiend ; my heels are at your 
commandment; I will run. 

Enter Old Gobbo, with a basket. 

Gob. Master young man, you, I pray you, 
which is the way to master Jew’s ? 35 

Laun. [Aside.] O heavens! this is my true- 
begotten father, who, being more than sand- 
blind, liigh-gravel blind, knows me not. I will 
try confusions with him. 

Gob. Master young gentleman, I pray you, 
which is the way to master Jew’s ? « 

Laun. Turn up on your right hand at the 
next turning, but at the next turning of all, on 
your left; marry at the very next turning, turn 
of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the 
Jew’s house. > 46 

Gob. By God’s sonties, ’t will be a hard way 
to hit. Can you tell me whether one Launce¬ 
lot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no ? 

Laun. Talk you of young Master Launce¬ 
lot ? [ Aside.] Mark me now ; now will I raise [so 
the waters. Talk you of young Master Launce¬ 
lot ? 

Gob. No master, sir, but a poor man’s son. 
His father, though I say’t, is an honest exceed¬ 
ing poor man and, God be thanked, well to 
live. . 65 

Laun. Well, let his father be what ’a will, 
we talk of young Master Launcelot. 

Gob. Your worship’s friend and Launcelot, 
sir. 

Laun. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, 
I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launce¬ 
lot. , w 

Gob. Of Launcelot, an’t please your master- 

Laun. Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of 
Master Launcelot, father ; for the young gen¬ 
tleman, according to Fates and Destinies and 
such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such [« 
branches of learning, is indeed deceased, or, as 
you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven. 

Gob. Marry, God forbid 1 The boy was the 
very staff of my age, my very prop. 7# 






104 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


ii. ii. 


Laun. [Aside.] Do I look like a cudgel or a 
hovel-post, a staff or a prop ? Do you know 
me, father ? 

Gob. Alack the day, I know you not, young 
gentleman ; but I pray you, tell me, is my boy, 
God rest his soul, alive or dead ? w 

Laun. Do you not know me, father ? 

Gob. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know 
you not. 

Laun. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, 
you might fail of the knowing me; it is a 
wise father that knows his own child. Well, [so 
old man, I will tell you news of your son. Give 
me your blessing; truth will come to light; 
murder cannot be hid long; a man’s son may, 
but in the end truth will out. ss 

Gob. Pray you, sir, stand up. I am sure you 
are not Launcelot, my boy. 

Laun. Pray you, let’s have no more fooling 
about it, but give me your blessing. I am 
Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, 
your child that shall be. 91 

Gob. I cannot think you are my son. 

Laun. I know not what I shall think of that; 
but I am Launcelot, the Jew’s man, and I am 
sure Margery your wife is my mother. 95 

Gob. Her name is Margery, indeed. I ’ll be 
sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own 
flesh and blood. Lord worshipp’d might he 
be ! what a beard hast thou got! Thou hast got 
more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my fill- 
horse has on his tail. 101 

Laun. It should seem, then, that Dobbin’s 
tail grows backward. I am sure he had more 
hair of his tail than I have of my face when I 
last saw him. 105 

Gob. Lord, how art thou chang’d ! How dost 
thou and thy master agree ? I have brought 
him a present. How ’gree you now ? 

Laun. Well, well: but, for mine own part, as I 
have set up my rest to run away, so I will [no 
not rest till I have run some ground. My mas¬ 
ter ’s a very Jew. Give him a present! give him 
a halter. I am famish’d in his service ; you may 
tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, 
I am glad you are come ; give me your present 
to one Master Bassanio, who, indeed, gives [ns 
rare new liveries. If I serve not him, I will run 
as far as God has any ground. O rare fortune ! 
here comes the man. To him, father; for I am 
a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer. 120 

Enter Bassanio, with [Leonardo and other] 
followers. 

Bass. You may do so ; but let it be so hasted 
that supper be ready at the farthest by five of 
the clock. See these letters delivered ; put the 
liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come 
anon to my lodging. [Exit one of his men. m 

Laun. To him, father. 

Gob. God bless your worship! 

Bass. Gramercy! wouldst thou aught with 
me ? 

Gob. Here’s my son, sir, a poor boy, — 129 

Laun. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich 
Jew’s man; that would, sir, as my father 
shall specify — 


Gob. He hath a great infection, sir, as one 
would say, to serve — 134 

Laun. Indeed, the short and the long is, I 
serve the Jew, and have a desire, as my father 
shall specify — 

Gob. His master and he, saving your wor¬ 
ship’s reverence, are scarce cater-cousins — 139 

Laun. To be brief, .the very truth is that the 
Jew, having done me wrong, doth cause me, as 
my father, being, I hope, an old man, shall 
frutify unto you — 

Gob. I have here a dish of doves that I would 
bestow upon your worship, and my suit is — ue 

Laun. In very brief, the suit is impertinent 
to myself, as your worship shall know by this 
honest old man ; and, though I say it, though 
old man, yet poor man, my father. 

Bass. One speak for both. What would 
you ? iso 

Laun. Serve you, sir. 

Gob. That is the very defect of the matter, 
sir. 

Bass. I know thee well; thou hast obtain’d 
thy suit. 

Shylock thy master spoke with me this day, 
And hath preferr’d thee, if it be preferment 
To leave a rich Jew’s service, to become 168 
The follower of so poor a gentleman. 

Laun. The old proverb is very well parted 
between my master Shylock and you, sir : you 
have the grace of God, sir, and he hath enough. 

Bass. Thou speak’st it well. Go, father, with 
thy son. 161 

Take leave of thy old master, and inquire 
My lodging out. Give him a livery 
More guarded than his fellows’ ; see it done. m 

Laun. Father, in. I cannot get a service, no ; 
I have ne’er a tongue in my head. [Looks 
on his palm.] Well, if any man in Italy have a 
fairer table, which doth offer to swear upon a 
book, I shall have good fortune. Go to, here’s 
a simple line of life ! Here’s a small trifle of 
wives! Alas, fifteen wives is nothing! [no 
Eleven widows and nine maids is a simple com¬ 
ing-in for one man. And then to escape drown¬ 
ing thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the 
edge of a feather-bed ; here are simple scapes. 
Well, if Fortune be a woman, she’s a good 
wench for this gear. Father, come ; I ’ll take [175 
my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an eye. 

[Exeunt Launcelot [and old Gobbo]. 

Bass. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on 
this: 

These things being bought and orderly bestow’d, 
Return in haste, for I do feast to-night iso 
My best esteem’d acquaintance. Hie thee. go. 

Leon. My best endeavours shall be done here¬ 
in. 

Enter Gratiano. 

Gra. Where is your master ? 

Leon. Yonder, sir, he walks. 

Gra. Signior Bassanio ! 

Bass. Gratiano ! iss 

Gra. I have a suit to you. 

Bass. You have obtain’d it. 





II. V. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


Gra. You must not deny me ; I must go with 
you to Belmont. 

Bass. Why, then you must. But hear thee, 
Gratiano ; 

Thou art too wild, too rude and bold of voice ; 
Parts that become thee happily enough m 
And in such eyes as ours appear not faults ; 

But where thou art not known, why, there they 
show 

Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain 
To allay with some cold drops of modesty ws 
Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild be¬ 
haviour 

I be misconstru’d in the place I go to, 

And lose my hopes. 

Gra. Signior Bassanio, hear me : 

If I do not put on a sober habit, 

Talk with respect and swear but now and 
then, 200 

Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look de¬ 
murely, 

Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine 
eyes 

Thus with my hat, and sigh and say Amen, 

Use all the observance of civility, 

Like one well studied in a sad ostent 205 

To please his grandam, never trust me more. 
Bass. Well, we shall see your bearing. 

Gra. Nay, but I bar to-night ; you shall not 
gauge me 

By what we do to-night. 

Bass. No, that were pity. 

I would entreat you rather to put on 210 

Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends 
That purpose merriment. But fare you well 1 
I have some business. 

Gra. And I must to Lorenzo and the 
rest; # 214 

But we will visit you at supper-time. [Exeunt. 

[Scene III. The same. A room in Shylock's 
house .] 

Enter Jessica and the Clown [Launcelot]. 

Jes. I am sorry thou wilt leave my father 
so. 

Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil, 
Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness. 

But fare thee well, there is a ducat for thee ; 
And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou 

see 6 

Lorenzo, who is thy new master’s guest. 

Give him this letter ; do it secretly ; 

And so farewell. I would not have my father 
See me in talk with thee. 9 

Laun. Adieu ! tears exhibit my tongue. Most 
beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew ! if a Christian 
do not play the knave and get thee, I am much 
deceived. But, adieu! these foolish drops do 
something drown my manly spirit. Adieu! [Exit. 

Jes. Farewell, good Launcelot. 18 

Alack, what heinous sin is it in me 
To be asham’d to be my father’s child ! 

But though I am a daughter to his blood, 

I am not to his manners. 0 Lorenzo, 

If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, 20 
Become a Christian and thy loving wife. [Exit. 


105 


[Scene IV. The same. A street .] 

Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, and 
Salanio. 

Lor. Nay, we will slink away in supper-time, 
Disguise us at my lodging and return, 

All in an hour. 

Gra. We have not made good preparation. 
Salar. We have not spoke us yet of torch.. 

bearers. b 

Solan. ’T is vile, unless it maybe quaintly 
order’d, 

And better in my mind not undertook. 

Lor. ’T is now but four o’clock; we have two 
hours 

To furnish us. 

Enter Launcelot, with a letter. 

Friend Launcelot, what’s the news ? 
Laun. An it shall please you to break up 
this, it shall seem to signify. 11 

Lor. I know the hand ; in faith, ’t is a fair 
hand, 

And whiter than the paper it writ on 
Is the fair hand that writ. 

Gra. Love-news, in faith. 

Laun. By your leave, sir. ib 

Lor. Whither goest thou ? 

Laun. Marry, sir, to bid my old master the 
Jew to sup to-night with my new master the 
Christian. 

Lor. Hold, here, take this. Tell gentle 

Jessica 20 

I will not fail her; speak it privately; go. 

[Exit Launcelot. 

Gentlemen, 

Will you prepare you for this masque to-night ? 
I am provided of a torch-bearer. 

Salar. Ay, marry, I ’ll be gone about it 

straight. 2s 

Salan. And so will I. 

Lor. Meet me and Gratiano 

At Gratiano’s lodging some hour hence. 

Salar. ’T is good we do so. 

[Exeunt [Salar. and Salan.]. 
Gra. Was not that letter from fair Jessica ? 
Lor. I must needs tell thee all. She hath 
directed 89 

How I shall take her from her father’s house, 
What gold and jewels she is furnish’d with, 
What page’s suit she hath in readiness. 

If e’er the Jew her father come to heaven, 

It will be for his gentle daughter’s sake ; sb 
A nd never dare misfortune cross her foot, 
Unless she do it under this excuse, 

That she is issue to a faithless Jew. 

Come, go with me ; peruse this as thou goest. 
Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer. ■»« 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene V. The same. Before Shylock's house.] 
Enter the Jew [Shylock] and Launcelot. 

Shy. Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be 
thy judge, 

The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio. — 
What, Jessica 1 — Thou shalt not gormandise, 






io6 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


II. VI. 


As thou hast done with me, — What, Jessica! — 
And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out; — 3 
Why, Jessica, I say ! 

Laun. Why, Jessica! 

Shy. Who bids thee call ? I do not bid thee 
call. 

Laun. Your worship was wont to tell me 
that I could do nothing without bidding. 

Enter Jessica. 

Jes. Call you ? What is your will ? 10 

Shy. I am bid forth to supper, Jessica. 

There are my keys. But wherefore should I go ? 
I am not bid for love ; they flatter me ; 

But yet I ’ll go in hate, to feed upon 
The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl, is 
Look to my house. I am right loath to go. 
There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest, 
For I did dream of money-bags to-night. 

Laun. I beseech you, sir, go. My young 
master doth expect your reproach. 20 

Shy. So do I his. 

Laun. And they have conspired together. I 
will not say you shall see a masque ; but if 
you do, then it was not for nothing that my 
nose fell a-bleedingon Black Monday last at six 
o’clock i’ the morning, falling out that year on [25 
Ash Wednesday was four year, in the after¬ 
noon. 

Shy. What, are there masques? Hear you 
me, Jessica. 

Lock up my doors; and when you hear the 
drum 

And the vile squealing of the wry-neck’d fife, 30 
Clamber not you up to the casements then, 

Nor thrust your head into the public street 
To gaze on Christian fools with varnish’d faces, 
But stop my house’s ears, I mean my case¬ 
ments. 

Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter 35 
My sober house. By Jacob’s staff I swear 
I have no mind of feasting forth to-night; 

But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah ; 

Say I will come. 

Laun. I will go before, sir. Mistress, look 
out at a window, for all this ; 41 

There will come a Christian by, 

Will be worth a Jewess’ eye. [Exit.] 
Shy. What says that fool of Hagar’s offspring, 
ha ? 

Jes. His words were “ Farewell, mistress ! ” 
nothing else. 45 

Shy. The patch is kind enough, but a huge 
feeder; 

Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day 
More than the wild-cat. Drones hive not with 
me; 

Therefore I part with him, and part with him 
To one that I would have him help to waste eo 
His borrowed purse. Well, Jessica, go in. 
Perhaps I will return immediately. 

Do as I bid you, shut doors after you ; 

Fast bind, fast find ; 

A proverb never stale in thrifty mind. [Exit. 55 
Jes. Farewell ; and if my fortune be not 
cross’d, 

I have a father, you a daughter, lost. [Exit. 


[Scene VI. The same.] 

Enter Gratiano and Salarino, masked. 

Gra. This is the pent-house under which 
Lorenzo 

Desir’d us to make stand. 

Salar. His hour is almost past. 

Gra. And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour, 
For lovers ever run before the clock. 

Salar. O, ten times faster Venus’ pigeons fly 
To seal love’s bonds new-made than they are 
wont e 

To keep obliged faith unforfeited ! 

Gra. That ever holds. Who riseth from a 
feast 

With that keen appetite that he sits down ? 
Where is the horse that doth untread again i* 
His tedious measures with the unbated fire 
That he did pace them first ? All things that 
are, 

Are with more spirit chased than enjoy’d. 

How like a younker or a prodigal 
The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, is 
Hugg’d and embraced by the strumpet wind ! 
How like the prodigal doth she return, 

With over-weather’d ribs and ragged sails, 
Lean, rent and beggar’d by the strumpet wind ! 
Salar. Here comes Lorenzo ; more of this 
hereafter. 20 

Enter Lorenzo. 

Lor. Sweet friends, your patience for my 
long abode ; 

Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait. 
When you shall please to play the thieves for 
wives, 

I ’ll watch as long for you then. Approach ; 
Here dwells my father Jew. Ho ! who’s 
within ? 25 

Enter Jessica, above [in boy's clothes], 

Jes. Who are you ? Tell me, for more cer¬ 
tainty, 

Albeit I ’ll swear that I do know your tongue. 
Lor. Lorenzo, and thy love. 

Jes. Lorenzo, certain, and my love indeed, 
For who love I so much ? And now who knows 
But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours ? 31 

Lor. Heaven and thy thoughts are witness 
that thou art. 

Jes. Here, catch this casket; it is worth the 
pains. 

I am glad ’tis night, you do not look on me, 
For I am much asham’d of my exchange. 35 

But love is blind and lovers cannot see 
The pretty follies that themselves commit; 

For if they could, Cupid himself would blush 
To see me thus transformed to a boy. 

Lor. Descend, for you must be my torch- 
bearer. 40 

Jes. What, must I hold a candle to my 
shames ? 

They in themselves, good sooth, are too too 
light. 

Why, ’tis an office of discovery, love ; 

And I should be obscur’d. 

Lor. So are you, sweet, 





II. VII. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


107 


Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. 45 

But come at once ; 

For the close night doth play the runaway, 

And we are stay’d for at Bassanio’s feast. 

Jes. I will make fast the doors, and gild my¬ 
self 49 

With some moe ducats, and be with you 
straight. [Exit above.] 

Gra. Now, by my hood, a Gentile and no 
Jew. 

Lor. Beshrew me but I love her heartily ; 
For she is wise, if I can judge of her, 

And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true, 

And true she is, as she hath prov’d herself, so 
And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true, 
Shall she be placed in my constant soul. 

Enter Jessica [below]. 

What, art thou come ? On, gentlemen ; away ! 
Our masquing mates by this time for 11s stay. 

[Exit [with Jessica and Salarino ]. 

Enter Antonio. 

Ant. Who’s there ? so 

Gra. Signior Antonio ! 

Ant. Fie, fie, Gratiano ! where are all the 
rest ? 

’T is nine o’clock; our friends all stay for 
you. 

No masque to-night; the wind is come about, 
Bassanio presently will go aboard. sg 

I have sent twenty out to seek for you. 

Gra. I am glad on’t. I desire no more de¬ 
light 

Than to be under sail and gone to-night. 

[Exeunt. 


[Scene VII. Belmont. A room in Portia's 
house.] 


[Flourish of cornets.] Enter Portia with [the 
Prince of] Morocco, and their trains. 

For. Go draw aside the curtains and discover 

The several caskets to this noble prince. 

Now make your choice. 

Mar. The first, of gold, who this inscription 
bears, 

“ Who chooseth me shall gain what many men 
desire ; ” 6 

The second, silver, which this promise carries, 

“ Who chooseth me shall get as much as he 
deserves ; ” 

This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt, 

“ Who chooseth me must give and hazard all 
he hath.” 

How shall I know if I do choose the right ? 10 

Por. The one of them contains my picture, 
Prince : 

If you choose that, then I am yours withal. 

Mar. Some god direct my judgement! Let 


me see ; 

I will survey the inscriptions back again. 

What says this leaden casket ? J® 

“ Who chooseth me must give and hazard all 
he hath.” 

Must give : for what ? For lead ? Hazard for 
lead? 


This casket threatens. Men that hazard all 
Do it in hope of fair advantages ; 

A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross. *> 
I ’ll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead. 
What says the silver with her virgin hue ? 

“ Who chooseth me shall get as much as he 
deserves.” 

As much as he deserves! Pause there, Mo¬ 
rocco, 

And weigh thy value with an even hand. 25 
If thou be’st rated by thy estimation, 

Thou dost deserve enough ; and yet enough 
May not extend so far as to the lady ; 

And yet to be afeard of my deserving 
Were but a weak disabling of myself. 30 

As much as I deserve ! Why, that’s the lady. 

I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, 

In graces, and in qualities of breeding ; 

But more than these, in love I do deserve. 
What if I stray’d no farther, but chose here ? 36 
Let’s see once more this saying grav’d in gold: 
“ Who chooseth me shall gain what many men 
desire.” 

Why, that’s the lady; all the world desires 
her. 

From the four corners of the earth they come 
To kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint. 
The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds 41 
Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now 
For princes to come view fair Portia. 

The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head 
Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar 45 

To stop the foreign spirits, but they come 
As o’er a brook to see fair Portia. 

One of these three contains her heavenly pic¬ 
ture. 

Is’t like that lead contains her ? ’T were dam¬ 
nation 

To think so base a thought. It were too gross so 
To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave. 

Or shall I think in silver she’s immur’d, 

Being ten times undervalu’d to tri’d gold? 

0 sinful thought! Never so rich a gem 
Was set in worse than gold. They have in 
England sg 

A coin that bears the figure of an angel 
Stamped in gold, but that’s insculp’d upon ; 
But here an angel in a golden bed 
Lies all within. Deliver me the key. 

Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may! 60 

Por. There, take it, Prince ; and if my form 
lie there, 

Then I am yours. 

[He unlocks the golden casket.] 
Mar. 0 hell! what have we here ? 

A carrion Death within whose empty eye 
There is a written scroll! I ’ll read the writ¬ 
ing. 

[Reads.] “ All that glisters is not gold ; ss 
Often have you heard that told. 

Many a man his life hath sold 
But my outside to behold. 

Gilded tombs do worms infold. 

Had you been as wise as bold, to 
Y oung in limbs, in judgement old, 
Your answer had not been inscroll’d. 
Fare you well; your suit is cold.” 






io8 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


II. ix 


Cold, indeed ; and labour lost: 

Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost! re 
Portia, adieu. I have too griev’d a heart 
To take a tedious leave ; thus losers part. 

[Exit. Flourish of cornets. 
Par. A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, 
go. 

Let all of his complexion choose me so. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene VIII. Venice. A street .] 

Enter Salarino and Salanio. 

Solar. Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail. 
With him is Gratiano gone along, 

And in their ship I ’m sure Lorenzo is not. 
Salan. The villain Jew with outcries rais’d 
the Duke, 

Who went with him to search Bassanio’s ship. 5 
Salar. He came too late, the ship was under 
sail; 

But there the Duke was given to understand 
That in a gondola were seen together 
Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica. 

Besides, Antonio certified the Duke . re 

They were not with Bassanio in his ship. 

Salan. I never heard a passion so confus’d, 
So strange, outrageous, and so variable, 

As the dog Jew did utter in the streets. 

“My daughter! 0 my ducats! 0 my daugh¬ 
ter ! > re 

Fled with a Christian ! O my Christian ducats ! 
Justice ! the law ! my ducats, and my daughter ! 
A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, 

Of double ducats, stolen from me by my daugh¬ 
ter ! 

And jewels, two stones, two rich and precious 
stones, _ . re 

Stolen by my daughter! Justice ! find the girl; 
She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats.’’ 
Salar. Why, all the boys in Venice follow 
him, 

Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats. 
Salan. Let good Antonio look he keep his 
day, 25 

Or he shall pay for this. 

Salar. Marry, well rememb’red. 

I reason’d with a Frenchman yesterday, 

Who told me, in the narrow seas that part 
The French and English, there miscarried 
A vessel of our country richly fraught. 30 

I thought upon Antonio when he told me ; 

And wish’d in silence that it were not his. 
Salan. You were best to tell Antonio what 
you hear ; 

Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. 
Salar. A kinder gentleman treads not the 
earth. 35 

I saw Bassanio and Antonio part; 

Bassanio told him he would make some speed 
Of his return ; he answer’d, “ Do not so ; 
Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio, 
But stay the very riping of the time ; 40 

And for the Jew’s bond which he hath of me, 
Let it not enter in your mind of love. 

Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts 
To courtship and such fair ostents of love 


As shall conveniently become you there.” « 
And even there, his eye being big with tears, 
Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, 
And with affection wondrous sensible 
He wrung Bassanio’s hand ; and so they parted. 
Salan. I think he only loves the world for 
him. fi0 

I pray thee, let us go and find him out 
And quicken his embraced heaviness 
With some delight or other. 

Salar. Do we so. [Exeunt. 

[Scene IX. Belmont. A room in Portia's 
house.] 

Enter Nerissa with a Servitor. 

Ner. Quick, quick, I pray thee; draw the 
curtain straight. 

The Prince of Arragon hath ta’en his oath, 

And comes to his election presently. 

Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Arra¬ 
gon, Portia, and their trains. 

Por. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble 
Prince. 

If you choose that wherein I am contain’d, 5 
Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz’d ; 
But if you fail, without more speech, my lord, 
You must be gone from hence immediately. 

Ar. I am enjoin’d by oath to observe three 
things: 

First, never to unfold to any one 10 

Which casket’t was I chose ; next, if I fail 
Of the right casket, never in my life 
To woo a maid in way of marriage ; 

Lastly, 

If I do fail in fortune of my choice, is 

Immediately to leave you and be gone. 

Por. To these injunctions every one doth 
swear 

That comes to hazard for my worthless self. 

Ar. And so have I address’d me. Fortune 
now 

To my heart’s hope ! Gold ; silver ; and base 
lead. 20 

“Who chooseth me must give and hazard all 
he hath.” 

You shall look fairer, ere I give or hazard. 
What says the golden chest ? Ha ! let me see: 

“ Who chooseth me shall gain what many men 
desire.” 

What many men desire! That many may be 
meant 25 

By the fool multitude, that choose by show, 
Not learning more than the fond eye doth 
teach; 

Which pries not to the interior, but, like the 
martlet, 

Builds in the weather on the outward wall, 
Even in the force and road of casualty. 3 « 

I will not choose what many men desire, 
Because I will not jump with common spirits 
And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. 
Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house ; 
Tell me once more what title thou dost bear : 35 
“ Who chooseth me shall get as much as he de¬ 
serves 






IIL 1. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


109 


And well said too; for who shall go about 
To cozen fortune and be honourable 
Without the stamp of merit? Let none pre¬ 
sume 

To wear an undeserved dignity. 40 

O, that estates, degrees, and offices 
Were not deriv’d corruptly, and that clear 
honour 

Were purchas’d by the merit of the wearer ! 
How many then should cover that stand 
bare I 

How many be commanded that command ! 45 

How much low peasantry would then be glean’d 
From the true seed of honour ! and how much 
honour 

Pick’d from the chaff and ruin of the times 
To be new-varnish’d ! Well, but to my choice : 
“ Who chooseth me shall get as much as he de¬ 
serves.” 

I will assume desert. Give me a key for this, si 
And instantly unlock my fortunes here. 

[He opens the silver casket. 1 
Por. Too long a pause for that which you find 
there. 

Ar. What’s here ? The portrait of a blinking 
idiot, 

Presenting me a schedule I I will read it. 65 
How much unlike art thou to Portia! 

How much unlike my hopes and my deservings ! 
” Who chooseth me shall have as much as he 
deserves.” 

Did I deserve no more than a fool’s head ? 

Is that my prize ? Are my deserts no better ? eo 
Por. To offend and judge are distinct offices 
And of opposed natures. 

Ar. What is here ? 

[Reads.] “ The fire seven times tried this ; 

Seven times tried that judgement is, 
That did never choose amiss. eo 
Some there be that shadows kiss , 
Such have but a shadow’s bliss. 
There be fools alive, I wis, 

Silver’d o’er ; and so was this. 

Take what wife you will to bed, to 
I will ever be your head. 

So be gone ; you are sped.” 

Still more fool I shall appear 
By the time I linger here. 

With one fool’s head I came to woo, to 
B ut I go away with two. 

Sweet, adieu. I ’ll keep my oath, 
Patiently to bear my wroth. 

[Exeunt Arragon and train.] 
Por. Thus hath the candle sing’d the moth. 
O, these deliberate fools ! When they do 
choose, # 80 

They have the wisdom by their wit to lose. 

Ner. The ancient saying is no heresy, 
Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.. 

Por. Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. Where is my lady ? 

Por. Here ; what would my lord ? »5 

Mess. Madam, there is alighted at your gate 
A. young Venetian, one that comes before 


To signify the approaching of his lord; 

From whom he bringeth sensible regreets, 

To wit, besides commends and courteous breath, 
Gifts of rich value. Yet I have not seen »i 
So likely an ambassador of love. 

A day in April never came so sweet, 

To show how costly summer was at hand. 

As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord. »s 
Por. No more, I pray thee. I am half afeard 
Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee, 

Thou spend’st such high-day wit in praising 
him. 

Come, come, Nerissa, for I long to see 
Quick Cupid’s post that, comes so mannerly. 100 
Ner. Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be! 

[Exeunt. 

ACT III 

[Scene I. Venice. A street.] 

Enter Salanio and Salarino. 

Salan. Now, what news on the Rialto ? 
Salar. Why, yet it lives there uncheck’d that 
Antonio hath a ship of rich lading wreck’d 
on the narrow seas; the Goodwins, I think 
they call the place ; a very dangerous flat, and 
fatal, where the carcases of many a tall ship lie [s 
buried, as they say, if my gossip Report be an 
honest woman of her word. 

Salan. I would she were as lying a gossip in 
that as ever knapp’d ginger or made her [10 
neighbours believe she wept for the death of 
a third husband. But it is true, without any 
slips of prolixity or crossing the plain highway 
of talk, that the good Antonio, the honest An¬ 
tonio, — O that I had a title good enough to 
keep his name company ! — 16 

Salar. Come, the full stop. 

Salan. Ha! what sayest thou ? Why, the 
end is, he hath lost a ship. 

Salar. I would it might prove the end of his 
losses. 21 

Salan. Let me say Amen betimes, lest the 

devil cross my prayer, for here he comes in the 
likeness of a Jew. 

Enter Shylock. 

How now, Shylock! what news among the 

merchants ? 20 

Shy. You knew, none so well, none so well as 
you, of my daughter’s flight. 

Salar. That’s certain. I, for my part, 
knew the tailor that made the wings she flew 
withal. 80 

Salan. And Shylock, for his own part, knew 
the bird was fledg’d; and then it is the com¬ 
plexion of them all to leave the dam. 

Shy. She is damn’d for it. 

Salar. That’s certain, if the devil may be 
her judge. 36 

Shy. My own flesh and blood to rebel! 

Salan. Out upon it, old carrion ! Rebels it 
at these years ? 

Shy. I say, my daughter is my flesh and 
blood. 40 

Salar. There is more difference between thy 




no 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


hi. n. 


flesh and hers than between jet and ivory ; more 
between your bloods than there is between red 
wine and rhenish. But tell us, do you hear 
whether Antonio have had any loss at sea or 
no ? 46 

Shy. There I have another bad match. A 
bankrupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce show his 
head on the Rialto ; a beggar, that was us’d to 
come so smug upon the mart; let him look to 
his bond. He was wont to call me usurer; let 
him look to his bond. He was wont to lend [so 
money for a Christian courtesy; let him look to 
his bond. 

Salar. Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou 
wilt not take his flesh. What’s that good for ? 

Shy. To bait fish withal. If it will feed no¬ 
thing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath [55 
disgrac’d me, and hind’red me half a million ; 
laugh’d at my losses, mock’d at my gains, 
scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains,cooled 
my friends, heated mine enemies ; and what’s 
his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? [«> 
Hath not a Jew hands, organs, _ dimensions, 
senses, affections, passions ; fed with the same 
food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to 
the same diseases, healed by the same means, 
warmed and cooled by the same winter and [es 
summer, as a Christian is ? If you prick us, do 
we not bleed ? If you tickle us, do we not 
laugh ? If you poison us, do we not die ? And 
if you wrong us, shall we not revenge ? If we 
are like you in the rest, we will resemble you [to 
in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is 
his humility ? Revenge. If a Christian wrong 
a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Chris¬ 
tian example ? Why, revenge. The villainy you 
teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard 
but I will better the instruction. 76 

Enter a [Servant]. 

Serv. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at 
his house and desires to speak with you both. 

Salar. We have been up and down to seek 
him. 

Enter Tubal. 

Salan. Here comes another of the tribe ; a [so 
third cannot be match’d, unless the devil him¬ 
self turn Jew. 

[Exeunt [Salan., Salar., and Ser¬ 
vant1 . 

Shy. How now, Tubal! what news from 
Genoa ? Hast thou found my daughter ? 

Tub. I often came where I did hear of her, 
but cannot find her. 86 

Shy. Why, there, there, there, there! A 
diamond gone, cost me two thousand ducats in 
Frankfort ! The curse never fell upon our 
nation till now. I never felt it till now. Two 
thousand ducats in that; and other precious, [oo 
precious jewels. I would my daughter were 
dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear! 
Would she were hears’d at my foot, and the 
ducats in her coffin ! No news of them ? Why 
so ? And I know not what’s spent in the [95 
search. Why, thou loss upon loss! the thief 
gone with so much, and so much to find the 


thief ; and no satisfaction, no revenge, nor no 
ill luck stirring but what lights on my shoul¬ 
ders, no sighs but of my breathing, no tears 
but of my shedding. 101 

Tub. Yes, other men have ill luck too. An¬ 
tonio, as I heard in Genoa, — 

Shy. What, what, what ? Ill luck, ill luck ? 
Tub. Hath an argosy cast away, coming from 
Tripolis. 106 

Shy. I thank God, I thank God. Is’t true, 
is’t true ? 

Tub. I spoke with some of the sailors that 
escaped the wreck. no 

Shy. I thank thee, good Tubal; good news, 
good news! Ha, ha ! Here in Genoa! 

Tub. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I 
heard, in one night fourscore ducats. 

Shy. Thou stick’st a dagger in me. I shall [n* 
never see my gold again. Fourscore ducats at a 
sitting ! Fourscore ducats ! 

Tub. There came divers of Antonio’s cred¬ 
itors in my company to Venice, that swear he 
cannot choose but break. 120 

Shy. I am very glad of it. I ’ll plague him ; 
I ’ll torture him. I am glad of it. 

Tub. One of them showed me a ring that he 
had of your daughter for a monkey. 

Shy. Out upon her ! Thou torturest me, [125 
Tubal. It was my turquoise ; I had it of Leah 
when I was a bachelor. I would not have given 
it for a wilderness of monkeys. 

Tub. But Antonio is certainly undone. 

Shy. Nay, that’s true, that’s very true. [130 
Go, Tubal, fee me an officer; bespeak him a 
fortnight before. I will have the heart of him, 
if he forfeit; for, were he out of Venice, I can 
make what merchandise I will. Go, go, Tubal, 
and meet me at our synagogue ; go, good Tubal; 
at our synagogue, Tubal. [Exeunt. 136 

[Scene II. Belmont. A room in Portia's 
house.] 

Enter Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, [Ne- 
rissa,] and all their train. 

Por. I pray you, tarry. Pause a day or two 
Before you hazard ; for, in choosing wrong, 

I lose your company ; therefore forbear awhile. 
There’s something tells me, but it is not love, 

I would not lose you ; and you know yourself s 
Hate counsels not in such a quality. 

But lest you should not understand me well,— 
And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,— 
I would detain you here some month or two 
Before you venture for me. I could teach you 
How to choose right, but then I am forsworn; 
So will I never be ; so may you miss me ; 

But if you do, you ’ll make me wish a sin, 

That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes, 
They have o’erlook’d me and divided me ; is 
One half of me is yours, the other half yours, 
Mine own, I would say ; but if mine, then 
yours, 

And so all yours. 0 , these naughty times 
Puts bars between the owners and their rights! 
And so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so, 
Let fortune go to hell for it, not I. 21 






III. 11. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


hi 


I speak too long-; but’t is to peize the time, 

To eke it and to draw it out in length, 

To stay you from election. 

Bass. Let me choose ; 

For as I am, I live upon the rack. 25 

-Por. Upon the rack, Bassanio ! Then confess 
What treason there is mingled with your love. 

Bass. None but that ugly treason of mistrust, 
Which makes me fear the enjoying of my love. 
There may as well be amity and life 30 

’Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love. 

Par. Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack, 
Where men enforced do speak anything. 

Bass. Promise me life, and I ’ll confess the 
truth. 

Par. Well then, confess and live. 

Bass. “ Confess and love ” 

Had been the very sum of my confession. 38 
0 happy torment, when my torturer 
Doth teach me answers for deliverance ! 

But let me to my fortune and the caskets. 

Por. Away, then ! I am lock’d in one of 
them; 40 

If you do love me, you will find me out. 

Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof. 

Let music sound while he doth make his choice ; 
Then, if he lose, he makes a SAvan-like end, 
Fading in music. That the comparison 45 

May stand more proper, my eye shall be the 
stream 

And watery death-bed for him. He may win ; 
And what is music then ? Then music is 
Even as the flourish when true subjects bow 
To a new-crowned monarch ; such it is so 

As are those dulcet sounds in break of day 
That creep into the dreaming bridegroom’s ear 
And summon him to marriage. Now he goes, 
With no less presence, but with much more 
love, 

Than young Alcides, when he did redeem 65 
The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy 
To the sea-monster. I stand for sacrifice ; 

The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives, 

With bleared visages, come forth to view 
The issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules ! so 
Live thou, I live. With much, much more 
dismay 

I view the fight than thou that mak’st the fray. 

A song , the whilst Bassanio comments on the 
caskets to himself. 

Tell me where is fancy bred, 

Or in the heart or in the head ? 

How begot, how nourished ? sb 

Reply, reply. 

It is engend’red in the eyes, • 

With gazing fed ; and fancy dies 
In the cradle where it lies. 

Let us all ring fancy’s knell; 70 

I ’ll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell. 

All. Ding, dong, bell. 

Bass. So may the outward shows be least 
th gtdsbIvgs * 

The world is still deceiv’d with ornament. 

In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt 75 
But, being season’d with a gracious voice, 


Obscures the show of evil ? In religion, 

What damned error but some sober brow 
Will bless it and approve it with a text. 

Hiding the grossness with fair ornament ? so 
There is no vice so simple but assumes 
Some mark of virtue on his outward parts. 

How many cowards, whose hearts are all as 
false 

As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins 
The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, ss 
Who, inward search’d, have livers white as 
milk ; 

And these assume but valour’s excrement 
To render them redoubted 1 Look on beauty, 
And you shall see’t is purchas’d by the weight; 
Which therein works a miracle in nature, 00 
Making them lightest that wear most of it. 

So are those crisped snaky golden locks, 

Which make such wanton gambols with the 
wind 

Upon supposed fairness, often known 

To be the dowry of a second head, es 

The skull that bred them in the sepulchre. 

Thus ornament is but the guiled shore 

To a most dangerous sea ; the beauteous scarf 

Veiling an Indian beauty ; in a word, 

The seeming truth which cunning times put on 
To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy 
gold, . 101 

Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee ; 

Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge 
’Tween man and man ; but thou, thou meagre 
lead, 

Which rather threat’nest than dost promise 
aught, 106 

Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence ; 
And here choose I. Joy be the consequence! 
Por. [Aside.] How all the other passions 
fleet to air, 

As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac’d de¬ 
spair, 

And shuddering fear, and green-ey’d jealousy ! 
Olove, in 

Be moderate ; allay thy ecstasy ; 

In measure rein thy joy ; scant this excess ! 

I feel too much thy blessing ; make it less, 

For fear I surfeit. 

Bass. What find I here ? us 

[Openinq the leaden casket.] 
Fair Portia’s counterfeit! What demi-god 
Hath come so near creation ? Move these eyes ? 
Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, 

Seem they in motion ? Here are sever’d lips, 
Parted with sugar breath ; so sweet a bar 120 
Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her 
hairs 

The painter plays the spider, and hath woven 
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men 
Faster than gnats in cobwebs. But her eyes, — 
How could he see to do them ? Having made 
one, V' 

Met.hinks it should have power to steal both his 
And leave itself unfurnish’d. Yet look, how 
far 

The substance of my praise doth wrong this 
shadow 

In underprizing it, so far this shadow 







11 2 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


hi. 11. 


Doth limp behind the substance. Here ’s the 
scroll, iso 

The continent and summary of my fortune. 
[Reads.] “ You that choose not by the view, 
Chance as fair and choose as true ! 
Since this fortune falls to you, 

Be content and seek no new. 136 
If you be well pleas’d with this 
And hold your fortune for your bliss, 
Turn you where your lady is 
And claim her with a loving- kiss.” 

A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave ; no 
I come by note, to give and to receive. 

Like one of two contending in a prize, 

That thinks he hath done well in people’s 
# eyes, 

Hearing applause and universal shout, 

Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt ns 

Whether those peals of praise be his or no ; 

So, thrice-fair lady, stand I, even so, 

As doubtful whether what I see be true, 

Until confirm’d, sign’d, ratified by you. 

Por. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I 
stand, iso 

Such as I am. Though for myself alone 
I would not be ambitious in my wish, 

To wish myself much better ; yet, for you 
I would be trebled twenty times myself, 

A thousand times more fair, ten thousand 
times ns 

More rich; 

That only to stand high in your account, 

I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, 
Exceed account. But the full sum of me iso 
Is sum of — something, which, to term in gross, 
Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d ; 
Happy in this, she is not yet so old 
But she may learn ; happier than this, 

She is not bred so dull but she can learn ; 
Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit i 65 

Commits itself to yours to be directed, 

As from her lord, her governor, her king. 
Myself and what is mine to you and yours 
Is now converted. But now I was the lord 
Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, no 
Queen o’er myself ; and even now, but now, 
This house, these servants, and this same my¬ 
self 

Are yours, my lord; I give them with this 
ring; 

Which when you part from, lose, or give away, 
Let it presage the ruin of your love ns 

And be my vantage to exclaim on you. 

Bass. Madam, you have bereft me of all 
words, 

Only my blood speaks to you in my veins ; 

And there is such confusion in my powers, 

As, after some oration fairly spoke iso 

By a beloved prince, there doth appear 
Among the buzzing pleased multitude ; 

Where every.something, being blent together, 
Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy 
Express’d and not express’d. But when this 
ring iso 

Parts from this finger, then parts life from 
hence; 

O, then be bold to say Bassanio’s dead! 


Ner. My lord and lady, it is now our time, 
That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper, 
To cry good joy. Good joy, my lord and 
lady 1 . i»« 

Gra. My Lord Bassanio and my gentle lady, 
I wish you all the joy that you can wish, 

For I am sure you can wish none from me ; 

And when your honours mean to solemnize 
The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you, W 5 
Even at that time I may be married too. 

Bass. With all my heart, so thou canst get a 
wife. 

Gra. I thank your lordship, you have got me 
one. 

My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours. 
You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid ; 200 

You lov’d, I lov’d ; for intermission 
No more pertains to me, my lord, than you. 
Your fortune stood upon the casket there, 

And so did mine too, as the matter falls ; 

For, wooing here until I sweat again, 206 

And swearing till my very roof was dry 
With oaths of love, at last, if promise last, 

I got a promise of this fair one here 
To have her love, provided that your for¬ 
tune 

Achiev’d her mistress. 

Por. . Is this true, Nerissa? 210 

Ner. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas’d 
withal. 

Bass. And do you, Gratiano, mean good 
faith ? 

Gra. Yes, faith, my lord. 

Bass. Our feast shall be much honour’d in 
your marriage. 215 

Gra. We ’ll play with them the first boy for 
a thousand ducats. 

Ner. What, and stake down? 

Gra. No; we shall ne’er win at that sport 
and stake down. 220 

But who comes here ? Lorenzo and his infidel ? 
What, and my old Venetian friend Salerio? 

Enter Lorenzo, Jessica, and .Salerio, a mes¬ 
senger from Venice. 

Bass. Lorenzo and Salerio, welcome hither, 
If that the youth of my new interest here 
Have power to bid you welcome. By your 
leave, 226 

I bid my very friends and countrymen, 

Sweet Portia, welcome. 

Por. So do I, my lord : 

They are entirely welcome. 

Lor. I thank your honour. For my part, my 
lord, 

My purpose was not to have seen you here ; 230 
But meeting with Salerio by the way, 

He did intreat me, past all saying nay, 

To come with him along. 
a . I. dH, my lord ; 

And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio 
Commends him to you. 

[Gives Bassanio a letter.'] 
Bass. Ere I ope his letter, 235 

I Pray you, tell me how my good friend doth. 
Saler. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in 
mind, 





THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


III. iii. 


11 3 


Nor well, unless in mind. His letter there 
Will show you his estate. 

[Bass, opens the letter. 
Gra. Nerissa, cheer yon stranger; bid her 
welcome. 240 

Your hand, Salerio. What’s the news from 
Venice ? 

How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio ? 
I know he will be glad of our success; 

We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece. 
Saler. I would you had won the fleece that 
he hath lost. 245 

Bor. There are some shrewd contents in yon 
same paper, 

That steals the colour from Bassanio’s cheek. 
Some dear friend dead; else nothing in the 
world 

Could turn so much the constitution 
Of any constant man. What, worse and worse ! 
With leave, Bassanio ; I am half yourself ? 251 

And I must freely have the half of anything 
That this same paper brings you. 

Bass. 0 sweet Portia, 

Here are a few of the unpleasant’st words 
Than ever blotted paper ! Gentle lady, 255 
When I did first impart my love to you, 

I freely told you, all the wealth I had 
Ran in my veins ; I was a gentleman. 

And then I told you true ; and yet, dear lady, 
Rating myself at nothing, you shall see 200 
How much I was a braggart. When I told you 
My state was nothing, I should then have told 


you 

That I was worse than nothing ; for, indeed, 

I have engag’d myself to a dear friend, 
Engag’d my friend to his mere enemy, 205 
To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady ; 

The paper as the body of my friend, 

And every word in it a gaping wound, 

Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio? 
Hath all his ventures fail’d ? What ? not one 
hit ? 270 

From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England, 
From Lisbon, Barbary, and India ? 

And not one vessel scape the dreadful touch 
Of merchant-marring rocks ? 

Saler. Not one, my lord. 

Besides, it should appear, that if he had 275 
The present money to discharge the Jew, 

He would not take it. Never did I know 
A creature, that did bear the shape of man, 

So keen and greedy to confound a man. 

He plies the Duke at morning and at night, 200 
! And doth impeach the freedom of the state, 

If they deny him justice. Twenty merchants, 
The Duke himself, and the magnificoes 
Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him ; 
But none can drive him from the envious plea 
Of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond. 200 

Jes. When I was with him I have heard him 
swear 

To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen. 

That he would rather have Antonio’s flesh 
1 Than twenty times the value of the sum 290 
! That he did owe him ; and I know, my lord, 

If law, authority, and power deny not, 

It will go hard with poor Antonio. 


Por. Is it your dear friend that is thus in 
trouble ? 

Bass. The dearest friend to me, the kindest 
man, . 295 

The best-condition’d and unwearied spirit 
In doing courtesies, and one in whom 
The ancient Roman honour more appears 
Than any that draws breath in Italy. 

Por. What sum owes he the Jew ? 300 

Bass. For me, three thousand ducats. 

Por. What, no more ? 

Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond ; 
Double six thousand, and then treble that, 
Before a friend of this description 
Shall lose a hair through Bassanio’s fault, sos 
First go with me to church and call me wife, 
And then away to Venice to your friend ; 

For never shall you lie by Portia’s side 
With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold 
.To pay the petty debt twenty times over. sio 
When it is paid, bring your true friend along. 
My maid Nerissa and myself meantime 
Will live as maids and widows. Come, away ! 
For you shall hence upon your wedding-day. 

Bid your friends welcome, show a merry 
cheer; sib 

Since you are dear bought, I will love you 
dear. 

But let me hear the letter of your friend. 

[Bass. Reads.] “Sweet Bassanio, my ships 
have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, 
my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is 
forfeit; and since in paying it, it isimpos- [320 
sible I should live, all debts are cleared be¬ 
tween you and I, if I might but see you at my 
death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure ; if 
your love do not persuade you to come, let not 
my letter.” 825 

Por. O love, dispatch all business, and be 
gone! 

Bass. Since I have your good leave to go 
away, 

I will make haste ; but, till I come again, 

No bed shall e’er be guilty of my stay, 

No rest be interposer ’twixt us twain. 330 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III. Venice. A street .] 

Enter the Jew [Shylock], Salarino, Antonio, 
and Gaoler. 

Shy. Gaoler, look to him ; tell not me of 
mercy. 

This is the fool that lent out money gratis ! 
Gaoler, look to him. 

Ant. Hear me yet, good Shylock. 

Shy. I ’ll have my bond ; speak not against 
my bond. 

I have sworn an oath that I will have my 
bond. 8 

Thou call’dst me dog before thou hadst a 
cause; 

But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs. 

The Duke shall grant me justice. I do won¬ 
der, 

Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond 
To come abroad with him at his request. 10 





THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


III. lv. 


114 


Ant. I pray thee, hear me speak. 

Shy. I ’ll have my bond; I will not hear 
thee speak. 

I ’ll have my bond; and therefore speak no 
more. 

I ’ll not be made a soft and dull-ey’d fool, 

To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield 
To Christian intercessors. Follow not; is 

I ’ll have no speaking : I will have my bond. 

[Exit. 

Solar. It is the most impenetrable cur 
That ever kept with men. 

Ant. Let him alone ; 

I ’ll follow him no more with bootless prayers. 
He seeks my life ; his reason well I know: 21 

I oft deliver’d from his forfeitures 
Many that have at times made moan to me ; 
Therefore hq hates me. 

Solar. I am sure the Duke 

Will never grant this forfeiture to hold. 25 , 
Ant. The Duke cannot deny the course of 
law; 

For the commodity that strangers have 
With us in Venice, if it be denied, 

Will much impeach the justice of the state, 
Since that the trade and profit of the city so 
Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go. 

These griefs and losses have so bated me, 

That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh 
To-morrow to my bloody creditor. 

Well, gaoler, on. Pray God, Bassanio come 35 
To see me pay his debt, and then I care not! 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene IV. Belmont. A room in Portia’s 
house.] 

Enter Portia, Nerissa, Lorenzo, Jessica, 
and [Balthasar,] a man of Portia’s. 

Lor. Madam, although I speak it in your 
presence, 

You have a noble and a true conceit 
Of god-like amity, which appears most strongly 
In bearing thus the absence of your lord. 

But if you knew to whom you show this hon- 
our, _ s 

How true a gentleman you send relief, 

How dear a lover of my lord your husband, 

I know you would be prouder of the work 
Than customary bounty can enforce you. 

Por. I never did repent for doing good, 10 
Nor shall not now : for in companions 
That do converse and waste the time together, 
Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, 
There must be needs a like proportion 
Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit; is 
Which makes me think that this Antonio, 
Being the bosom lover of my lord, 

Must needs be like my lord. If it be so, 

How little is the cost-I have bestowed 
In purchasing the semblance of my soul 20 
From out the state of hellish misery ! 

This comes too near the praising of myself, 
Therefore no more of it. Hear other things. 
Lorenzo, I commit into your hands 
The husbandry and manage of my house 26 
Until my lord’s return. For mine own part, 


I have toward heaven breath’d a secret vow 
To live in prayer and contemplation, 

Only attended by Nerissa here, 

Until her husband and my lord’s return. 30 
There is a monastery two miles off; 

And there will we abide. I do desire you 
Not to deny this imposition, 

The which my love and some necessity 
Now lays upon you. 

Lor. Madam, with all my heart 

I shall obey you in all fair commands. _ 36 

I*or. My people do already know my mind, 
And will acknowledge you and Jessica 
In place of Lord Bassanio and myself. 

And so farewell till we shall meet again. 40 
Lor. Fair thoughts and happy hours attend 
on you! 

Jes. I wish your ladyship all heart’s content. 
Por. I thank you for your wish, and am well 

pleas’d 

To wish it back on you. Fare you well, Jessica. 

[Exeunt [Jessica and Lorenzo]. 
Now, Balthasar, 

As I have ever found thee honest-true, 

So let me find thee still. Take this same letter, 
And use thou all the endeavour of a man 
In speed to [Padua]. See thou render this 
Into my cousin’s hands, Doctor Bellario ; so 

And, look, what notes and garments he doth 
give thee, 

Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin’d speed 
Unto the traject, to the common ferry 
Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in 
words, 

But get thee gone. I shall be there before 

thee. 66 

Balth. Madam, I go with all convenient 
speed. [Exit. 

Por. Come on, Nerissa ; I have work in hand 
That you yet know not of. We ’ll see our hus¬ 
bands 

Before they think of us. 

Ner. Shall they see us ? 

Por. They shall, Nerissa; but in such a 
habit, 60 

That they shall think we are accomplished 
With that we lack. I ’ll hold thee any wager, 
When we are both accoutred like young men, 

I ’ll prove the prettier fellow of the two, 

And wear my dagger with the braver grace, 66 
And speak between the change of man and boy 
With a reed voice, and turn two mincing steps 
Into a manly stride, and speak of frays 
Like a fine bragging youth, and tell quaint lies, 
How honourable ladies sought my love, 70 

Which I denying, they fell sick and died. 

I could not do withal. Then I ’ll repent, 

And wish, for all that, that I had not kill’d 
them; 

And twenty of these puny lies I ’ll tell, 74 
That men shall swear I have discontinued school 
Above a twelvemonth. I have within my mind 
A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, 
Which I will practise. 

Ner. Why, shall we turn to men? 

Por. Fie, what a question’s that, 

If thou wert near a lewd interpreter! so 






IV. i. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


But come, I ’ll tell thee all my whole device 
When I am in my coach, which stays for us 
At the park gate ; and therefore haste away, 
For we must measure twenty miles to-day. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene V. The same. A garden .] 

Enter Clown [Launcelot] and Jessica. 

Laun. Yes, truly ; for, look you, the sins of 
the father are to he laid upon the children; 
therefore, I promise ye, I fear you. I was 
always plain with you, and so now I speak my 
agitation of the matter ; therefore be o’ good [s 
cheer, for truly I think you are damn’d. There 
is but one hope in it that can do you any good ; 
and that is but a kind of bastard hope neither. 

Jes. And what hope is that, I pray thee ? 10 

Laun. Marry, you may partly hope that your 
father got you not, that you are not the Jew’s 
daughter. 

Jes. That were a kind of bastard hope, in¬ 
deed. So the sins of my mother should be 
visited upon me. 

Laun. Truly then I fear you are damn’d both 
by father and mother ; thus when I shun Scylla, 
your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mo¬ 
ther. Well, you are gone both ways. 20 

Jes. I shall be sav’d by my husband. He 
hath made me a Christian. 

Laun. Truly, the more to blame he ; we were 
Christians enow before ; e’en as many as could 
well live, one by another. This making of [25 
Christians will raise the price of hogs. If we 
grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly 
have a rasher on the coals for money. 

Enter Lorenzo. 

Jes. I ’ll tell my husband, Launcelot, what 
you say. Here he comes. 30 

Lor. I shall grow jealous of you shortly, 
Launcelot, if you thus get my wife into cor¬ 
ners. 

Jes. Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo; 
Launcelot and I are out. He tells me flatly 
there is no mercy for me in heaven because I [36 
am a Jew’s daughter; and he says, you are 
no good member of the commonwealth, for in 
converting Jews to Christians, you raise the 
price of pork. 39 

Lor. I shall answer that better to the com¬ 
monwealth than you can the getting up of the 
negro’s belly. The Moor is with child by you, 
Launcelot. 

Laun. It is much that the Moor should be 
more than reason; but if she be less than 
an honest woman, she is indeed more thanl[« 
took her for. 

Lor. How every fool can play upon the 
word! I think the best grace of wit will 
shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow 
commendable in none only but parrots. Go [so 
in, sirrah ; bid them prepare for dinner. 

Laun. That is done, sir; they have all 
stomachs. ^ 

Lor. Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are 
you ! Then bid them prepare dinner. 


ri 5 


Laun. That is done too, sir; only cover is 
the word. 

Lor. Will you cover then, sir? 

Laun. Not so, sir, neither ; I know my duty. 
Lor. Yet more quarrelling with occasion ! [60 
Wilt thou show the whole wealth of thy wit in 
an instant ? I pray thee, understand a plain 
man in his plain meaning : go to thy fellows ; 
bid them cover the table, serve in the meat, 
and we will come in to dinner. es 

Laun. For the table, sir, it shall be serv’d 
in; for the meat, sir, it shall be cover’d ; for 
your coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as 
humours and conceits shall govern. [Exit. 

Lor. O dear discretion, how his words are 
suited! ™ 

The fool hath planted in his memory 
An army of good words ; and I do know 
A many fools, that stand in better place, 
Garnish’d like him, that for a tricksy word 
Defy the matter. How far’st thou, Jessica? is 
And now, good sweet, say thy opinion, 

How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio’s wife ? 

Jes. Past all expressing. It is very meet 
The Lord Bassanio live an upright life ; 

For, having such a blessing in his lady, so 
He finds the joys of heaven here on earth ; 

And if on earth he do not mean it, then 
In reason he should never come to heaven. 
Why, if two gods should play some heavenly 
match 

And on the wager lay two earthly women, so 
And Portia one, there must be something else 
Pawn’d with the other, for the poor rude 
world 

Hath not her fellow. 

Lor. Even such a husband 

Hast thou of me as she is for a wife. 

Jes. Nay, but ask my opinion too of that, so 
Lor. I will anon ; first, let us go to dinner. 
Jes. Nay, let me praise you while I have a 
stomach. 

Lor. No, pray thee, let it serve for table- 
talk ; 

Then, howsoe’er thou speak’st, ’mong other 
things 

I shall digest it. 

Jes. Well, I ’ll set you forth. es 

[Exeunt. 

ACT IV 

[Scene I. Venice. A court of justice.] 

Enter the Duke, the Magnificoes, Antonio, 
Bassanio, Gratiano [Salerio, and others ]. 

Duke. What, is Antonio here ? 

Ant. Ready, so please your Grace. 

Duke. 1 am sorry for thee. Thou art come 
to answer 

A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch 
Uncapable of pity, void and empty s 

From any dram of mercy. 

Ant. I have heard 

Your Grace hath ta’en great pains to qualify 
His rigorous course ; but since he stands obdu¬ 
rate 




n6 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


IV. 1. 


And that no lawful means can carry me 
Out of his envy’s reach, I do oppose i® 

My patience to his fury, and am arm’d 
To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, 

The very tyranny and rage of his. 

Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into the 
court. 

Saler. He is ready at the door. He comes, 
my lord. 16 

Enter Shylock. 

Duke. Make room, and let him stand before 
our face. 

Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too, 
That thou but lead’st this fashion of thy mal¬ 
ice 

To the last hour of act; and then’t is thought 
Thou ’It show thy mercy and remorse more 
strange 20 

Than is thy strange apparent cruelty; 

And where thou now exact’st the penalty, 
Which is a pound of this poor merchant’s flesh, 
Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture, 

But, touch’d with humane gentleness and love, 
Forgive a moiety of the principal; 26 

Glancing an eye of pity on his losses, 

That have of late so huddled on his back, 

Enow to press a royal merchant down 
And pluck commiseration of his state 30 

From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint, 
From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never 
train’d 

To offices of tender courtesy. 

We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. 

Shy. I have possess’d your Grace of what I 
purpose; ss 

And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn 
To have the due and forfeit of my bond. 

If you deny it, let the danger light 
Upon your charter and your city’s freedom. 
You ’ll ask me why I rather choose to have 40 
A weight of carrion flesh than to receive 
Three thousand ducats. I ’ll not answer that; 
But say it is my humour. Is it answer’d ? 
What if my house be troubled with a rat 
And I be pleas’d to give ten thousand ducats 45 
To have it ban’d? What, are you answer’d 
yet? 

Some men there are love not a gaping pig ; 
Some, that are mad if they behold a cat; 

And others, when the bagpipe sings i’ the nose, 
Cannot contain their urine : for affection, go 
Master of passion, sways it to the mood 
Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your 
answer: 

As there is no firm reason to be rend’red 
Why he cannot abide a gaping pig; 

Why he, a harmless necessary cat; 55 

Why he, a woollen bagpipe ; but of force 
Must yield to such inevitable shame 
As to offend, himself being offended ; 

So can I give no reason, nor I will not, 

More than a lodg’d hate and a certain loathing 
I bear Antonio, that I follow thus 6 i 

A losing suit against him. Are you answer’d ? 

Bass. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, 
To excuse the current of thy cruelty. 


Shy. I am not bound to please thee with my 
answer. . 65 

Bass. Do all men kill the things they do not 
love ? 

Shy. Hates any man the thing he would not 
kill? 

Bass. Every offence is not a hate at first. 

Shy. What, wouldst thou have a serpent 
sting thee twice ? 

Ant. I pray you, think, you question with 
the Jew. 20 

You may as well go stand upon the beach 
And bid the main flood bate his usual height; 
You may as well use question with the wolf 
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb ; 
You may as well forbid the mountain pines 75 
To wag their high tops and to make no noise 
Wken they are f retten with the gusts of heaven; 
You may as well do any thing most hard, 

As seek to soften that — than which what’s 
harder ? — 

His Jewish heart. Therefore, I do beseech you, 
Make no moe offers, use no farther means, si 
But with all brief and plain conveniency 
Let me have judgement and the Jew his will. 

Bass. For thy three thousand ducats here is 
six. 

Shy. If every ducat in six thousand ducats 
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, so 
I would not draw them ; I would have my bond. 

Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, ren¬ 
dering none ? 

Shy. What judgement shall I dread, doing no 
wrong ? 

You have among you many a purchas’d slave, so 
Which, like your asses and your dogs and 
mules, 

You use in abject and in slavish parts, 

Because you bought them. Shall I say to you, 
u Let them be free ! Marry them to your heirs ! 
Why sweat they under burdens? Let their 
beds ns 

Be made as soft as yours and let their palates 
Be season’d with such viands ” ? You will 
answer, 

“ The slaves are ours.” So do I answer you. 
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him, 

Is dearly bought: ’t is mine and I will have it. 
If you deny me, fie upon your law ! 101 

There is no force in the decrees of Venice. 

I stand for judgement! Answer : shall I have 
it? 

Duke. Upon my power I may dismiss this 
court, 

Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, 105 

Whom I have sent for to determine this, 

Come here to-day. 

Saler. My lord, here stays without 

A messenger with letters from the doctor, 

New come from Padua. 

Duke. Bring us the letters; call the messen¬ 
ger. no 

Bass. Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, 
courage yet! 

The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and 
all, 

Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. 




IV. 1. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


117 


Ant. I am a tainted wether of the flock, 
Meetest for death. The weakest kind of fruit 
Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me. ne 
You cannot better be employ’d, Bassanio, 
Than to live still and write mine epitaph. 

Enter Nerissa [dressed like a lawyer's clerk]. 

Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bella- 
rio ? 

Ner. From both, my lord. Bellario greets 
your Grace. [Presenting a letter.] 

Bass. Why dost thou whet thy knife so 
earnestly ? 121 

Shy. To cut the forfeiture from that bank¬ 
rupt there. 

Gra. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh 
Jew, 

Thou mak’st thy knife keen ; but no metal can, 
No, not the hangman’s axe, bear half the keen¬ 
ness 125 

Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee ? 
Shy. No, none that thou hast wit enough to 
make. 

Gra. O, be thou damn’d, inexecrable dog! 
And for thy life let justice be accus’d. 

Thou almost mak’st me waver in my faith 130 
To hold opinion with Pythagoras, 

That souls of animals infuse themselves 
Into the trunks of men. Thy currish spirit 
Govern’d a wolf, who, hang’d for human 
slaughter, 

Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, 135 
And, whilst thou lay’st in thy unhallowed 
dam, 

Infus’d itself in thee ; for thy desires 
Are wolvisli, bloody, starv’d, and ravenous. 
Shy. Till thou canst rail the seal from off my 
bond, 

Thou but offend’st thy lungs to speak so loud. 
Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall «i 
To cureless ruin. I stand here for law. 

Duke. This letter from Bellario doth com¬ 
mend 

A young 1 and learned doctor to our court. 
Where is he ? 

Ner. He attendeth here hard by, 145 

To know your answer, whether you ’ll admit 
him. 

Duke. With all my heart. Some three or 
four of you 

Go give him courteous conduct to this place. 
Meantime the court shall hear Bellario’s let¬ 
ter. 149 

[Clerk. Reads.] “Your Grace shall under¬ 
stand that at the receipt of your letter I am 
very sick ; but in the instant that your mes¬ 
senger came, in loving visitation was with me a 

f oung doctor of Rome. His name is Balthazar. 

acquainted him with the cause in controversy 
between the Jew and Antonio the merchant, [ibs 
W e turned o’er many books together. He is 
furnished with my opinion ; which, bett’red 
with his own learning, the greatness whereof I 
cannot enough commend, comes with him, at 
my importunity, to fill up your Grace’s re- [i«o 
quest in my stead. I beseech you, let his lack 
of years be no impediment to let him lack a 


reverend estimation ; for I never knew so young 
a body with so old a head. I leave him to your 
gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better [i« 
publish his commendation.” 

Enter Portia for Balthazar. 

Duke. You hear the learn’d Bellario, what 
he writes; 

And here, I take it, is the doctor come. 

Give me your hand. Come you from old Bel' 
lario ? 

Por. I did, my lord. 

Duke. You are welcome ; take your place. 
Are you acquainted with the difference 171 

That holds this present question in the court ? 

Por. I am informed throughly of the cause. 
Which is the merchant here, and which the 
Jew ? 

Duke • Antonio and old Shylock, both stand 
forth. 175 

Por. Is your name Shylock ? 

Shy. Shylock is my name. 

Por. Of a strange nature is the suit you 
follow ; 

Yet in such rule that the Venetian law 
Cannot impugn you as you do proceed. 

You stand within his danger, do you not ? iso 
Ant. Ay, so he says. 

Por. Do you confess the bond ? 

Ant. I do. 

Por. Then must the Jew be merciful. 

Shy. On what compulsion must I ? Tell me 
that. 

Por. The quality of mercy is not strain’d. \ 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven m 
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: 

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. 

’T is mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown. 

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty, m 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; 
But mercy is above the sceptred sway; 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings ; 

It is an attribute to God himself; 195 

And earthly power doth then show likest God’s 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this, 

That, in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy, 200 
And that same prayer doth teach us all to ren¬ 
der 

The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much 
To mitigate the justice of thy plea, 

Which if thou follow, this strict court of Ven¬ 
ice 

Must needs give sentence ’gainst the merchant 
there. 205 

Sfy. My deeds upon my head! I crave the 1 
law, 

The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 

Por. Is he not able to discharge the money ? 
Bass. Yes, here I tender it for him in the 
court; 

Yea, twice the sum. If that will not suffice, 21# 

I will be bound to pay it ten times o’er, 

On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart. 







n8 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


iv. i. 


If this will not suffice, it must appear 
That malice bears down truth. And I beseech 
you, 

Wrest once the law to your authority ; 21s 

To do a gTeat right, do a little wrong, 

And curb this cruel devil of his will. 

Pot*. It must not be; there is no power in 
Venice 

Can alter a decree established. 

’T will be recorded for a precedent, 220 

And many an error by the same example 
Will rush into the state. It cannot be. 

Shy. A Daniel come to judgement! yea, a 
Daniel! 

0 wise young judge, how I do honour thee ! 
Por. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. 
Shy. Here ’t is, most reverend doctor, here 
it iS. 226 

Por. Shylock, there ’s thrice thy money of- 
f’rea thee. 

Shy. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in 
heaven! 

Shall I lay perjury upon my soul ? 

No, not for Venice. 

Por. Why, this bond is forfeit; 

And lawfully by this the Jew may claim 231 
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 
Nearest the merchant’s heart. Be merciful; 
Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond. 
Shy. When it is paid according to the ten- 

OUr. 235 

It doth appear you are a worthy judge ; 

You know the law, your exposition 
Hath been most sound. I charge you by the 
law, 

Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, 
Proceed to judgement. By my soul I swear 240 
There is no power in the tongue of man 
To alter me. I stay here on my bond. 

Ant. Most heartily I do beseech the court 
To give the judgement. 

Por. Why then, thus it is : 

You must prepare your bosom for his knife,— 245 
Shy. O noble judge 1 0 excellent young 
man! 

Por. For the intent and purpose of the law 
Hath full relation to the penalty, 

Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 

Shy. ’T is very true. 0 wise and upright 
judge! 250 

How much more elder art thou than thy looks ! 
Por. Therefore lay bare your bosom. 

Shy. ' Ay, his breast; 

So says the bond ; doth it not, noble judge ? 

“ Nearest his heart; ” those are the very 
words. 

Por. It is so. Are there balance here to 
weigh 255 

The flesh? 

Shy. I have them ready. 

Por. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on 
your charge. 

To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death'. 
Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond ? 

Por. It is not so express’d; but what of 
that ? 260 

’T were good you do so much for charity. 


Shy. I cannot find it; ’tis not in the bond. 
Por. You, merchant, have you anything to 
say? 

Ant. But little; I am arm’d and well pre¬ 
par’d. 

Give me your hand, Bassanio ; fare you well! 
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ; 206 
For herein Fortune shows herself more kind 
Than is her custom. It is still her use 
To let the wretched man outlive his wealth, 

To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow 270 
An age of poverty; from which lingering pen¬ 
ance 

Of such a misery doth she cut me off. 
Commend me to your honourable wife. 

Tell her the process of Antonio’s end ; 274 

Say how I lov’d you, speak me fair in death, 
And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge 
Whether Bassanio had not once a love. 

Repent but you that you shall lose your friend, 
And he repents not that he pays your debt; 

For if the Jew do cut but deep enough, 280 
I ’ll pay it instantly with all ray heart. 

Bass. Antonio, I am married to a wife 
Which is as dear to me as life itself ; 

But life, itself, my wife, and all the world, 

Are not"with me esteem’d above thy life. 285 
I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all 
Here to this devil, to deliver you. 

Por. Your wife would give you little thanks 
for that, 

If she were by, to hear you make the offer. 

Gra. I have a wife, who, I protest, I love ; 

I would she were in heaven, so she could 291 
Entreat some power to change this currish 
Jew. 

Wer. ’T is well you offer it behind her back. 
The wish would make else an unquiet house. 
Shy. These be the Christian husbands. I 
have a daughter; 295 

Would any of the stock of Barrabas 
Had been her husband rather than a Christian ! 

[Aside.] 

We trifle time. I pray thee, pursue sentence. 
Por. A pound of that sarpe merchant’s flesh 
is thine. 

The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 
Shy. Most rightful judge ! soi 

Por. And you must cut this flesh from off 
his breast. 

The law allows it, and the court awards it. 

Shy. Most learned judge! A sentence! 
Come, prepare! 

Por. Tarry a little; there is something 
else. 305 

This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ; 
The words expressly are “ a pound of flesh.” 
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of 
flesh; 

But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 311 

Unto the state of Venice. 

Gra. 0 upright judge ! Mark, Jew: 0 learned 
judge! 

Shy. Is that the law ? 

T or • Thyself shall see the act; 




iv. i. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


For, as thou urgest justice, be assur’d 315 

Thou shalt have justice, more than thou de- 
sir’st. 

Gra. O learned judge! Mark, Jew : a learned 
judge! 

Shy. I take this offer, then; pay the bond 
thrice 

And let the Christian go. 

Bass. Here is the money. 

Bor. Soft! 320 

The Jew shall have all justice. Soft! no haste. 
He shall have nothing but the penalty. 

Gra. O Jew! an upright judge, a learned 
judge! 

Bor. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the 
flesh. . 324 

Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less nor more 
But just a pound-of flesh, - If thou tak’st more 
Oi* less-than a just pound, be it but so much - 
As makes it light or heavy in the substance 
Or the division of the twentieth part 
Of one poor scruple, hay, if the scale do turn 
But in the- estimation of a hair, 331 

Thou diest and all thy goods are confiscate. 

Gra. A second Daniel I A Daniel, Jew! 
Now, infidel, I have you on the hip. 

Bor. Why doth the Jew pause? Take thy 
forfeiture. 335 

Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go. 
Bass. I have it ready for thee ; here it is. 
Bor. He hath refus’d it in the open court. 
He shall have merely justice and his bond. 339 
Gra. A Daniel, still say I, a second Daniel! 

I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 
Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal ? 
Bor. Thou shalt have nothing but the for¬ 
feiture, 

To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 

Shy. Why, then the devil give him good of 

it ! 845 

I ’ll stay no longer question. 

Bor. Tarry, Jew: 

The law hath yet another hold on you. 

It is enacted in the laws of Venice, 

If it be prov’d against an alien 

That by direct or indirect attempts 350 

He seek the life of any citizen, 

The party ’gainst the which he doth contrive 
Shall seize one half his goods ; the other half 
Comes to the privy coffer of the state ; 

And the offender’s life lies in the mercy 355 
Of the Duke only, ’gainst all other voice : 

In which predicament, I say, thou stand’st; 
For it appears, by manifest proceeding, 

That indirectly, and directly too, 

Thou hast contriv’d against the very life S60 
Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr’d 
The danger formerly by me rehears’d. 

Down therefore and beg mercy of the Duke. 
Gra. Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang 
thyself; 

And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, 
Thou hast not left the value of a cord ; 366 

Therefore thou must be hang’d at the state’s 
charge. 

Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of 
our spirits. 


n 9 


I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it. 

For half thy wealth, it is Antonio’s ; 37* 

The other half comes to the general state, 
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. 

Bor. Ay, for the state, not for Antonio. 

Shy. Nay, take my life and all; pardon not 
that. 3T4 

You take my house when you do take the prop f 
That doth sustain my house ; you take my life 
When you do take the means whereby I live. 

Bor. What mercy can you render him, An¬ 
tonio? 

Gra. A halter gratis; nothing else, for God’s 
sake. 

Ant. So please my lord the Duke and all the 
COUrt 380 

To quit the fine for one half of his goods, 

I am content; so he will let me have 
The other half in use, to render it, 

Upon his death, unto the gentleman 
That lately stole his daughter : sss 

Two things provided more, that, for this fa¬ 
vour, 

He presently become a Christian ; 

The other, that he do record a gift, 

Here in the court, of all he dies possess’d, 

Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter. s»o 
Duke. He shall do this, or else I do recant 
The pardon that I late pronounced here. 

Bor. Art thou contented, Jew ? What dost 
thou say ? 

Shy. I am content. 

Bor. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. 

Shy. I pray you, give me leave to go from 
hence. 395 

I am not well. Send the deed after me, 

And I will sign it. 

Duke. Get thee gone, but do it. 

Gra. In christening shalt thou have two god¬ 
fathers : 

Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten 
more, 

To bring thee to the gallows, not the font. 400 

[Exit [Shylock]. 
Duke. Sir, I entreat you home with me to 
dinner. 

Bor. I humbly do desire your Grace of par¬ 
don. 

I must away this night toward Padua, 

And it is meet I presently set forth. 

Duke. I am sorry that your leisure serves 
you not. 465 

Antonio, gratify this gentleman ; 

For, in my mind, you are much bound to him. 

[Exeunt Duke and his train. 
Bass. Most worthy gentleman, I and my 
friend 

Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted 
Of grievous penalties ; in lieu whereof 410 
Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew, 

We freely cope your courteous pains withal. 

Ant. And stand indebted, over and above, 

In love and service to you evermore. 

Bor. He is well paid that is well satisfied ; 415 
And I, delivering you, am satisfied 
And therein do account myself well paid. 

My mind was never yet more mercenary. 





120 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


v. I. 


I pray you, know me when we meet again. 

I wish you well, and so I take my leave. 420 
Bass. Dear sir, of force I must attempt you 
further. 

Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute, 
Not as a fee. Grant me two things, I pray 
you, 

Not to deny me, and to pardon me. 

Por. You press me far, and therefore I will 
yield. 425 

[To Ant .] Give me your gloves, I ’ll wear them 
for your sake; 

[To Bass.] And, for your love, I ’ll take this 
ring from you. 

Do not draw back your hand; I ’ll take no 
more; 

And you in love shall not deny me this. 

Bass. This ring, good sir, alas, it is a trifle ! 
I will not shame myself to give you this. 431 
Por. I will have nothing else but only this ; 
And now methinks I have a mind to it. 

Bass. There’s more depends on this than on 
the value. 

The dearest ring in Venice will I give you, 435 
And find it out by proclamation ; 

Only for this, I pray you, pardon me. 

Por. I see, sir, you are liberal in offers. 

You taught me first to beg; and now me¬ 
thinks 

You teach me how a beggar should be an¬ 
swer’d. 440 

Bass. Good sir, this ring was given me by 
my wife; 

And when she put it on, she made me vow 
That I should neither sell nor give nor lose it. 
Por. That ’scuse serves many men to save 
their gifts. 

An if your wife be not a mad-womau, 445 

And know how well I have deserv’d the ring, 
She would not hold out enemy for ever, 
Forgiving it to me. Well, peace be with you ! 

[Exeunt [Portia and Nenssa ]. 
Ant. My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring. 
Let his deservings and my love withal 450 
Be valued against your wife’s commandment. 

Bass. Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him ; 
Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou 
canst, 

Unto Antonio’s house. Away! make haste. 

[Exit Gratiano. 

Come, you and I will thither presently ; 405 

And in the morning early will we both 
Fly toward Belmont. Come, Antonio. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. The same. A street .] 

Enter Portia and Nerissa. 

Por. Inquire the Jew’s house out, give him 
this deed 

And let him sign it. We ’ll away to-night, 

And be a day before our husbands home. 

This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo. 

Enter Gratiano. 

Gra. Fair sir, you are well o’erta’en. 5 

My Lord Bassanio upon more advice 


Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat 
Your company at dinner. 

Por. That cannot be. 

His ring I do accept most thankfully, 

And so, I pray you, tell him ; furthermore, 10 
I pray you, show my youth old Shylock’s house. 
Gra. That will I do. 

Ner. Sir, I would speak with you. 

[Aside to Por.] I ’ll see if I can get my hus¬ 
band’s ring, 

Which I did make him swear to keep for 
ever. 

Por. [Aside to Ner.] Thou mayst, I warrant. 
We shall have old swearing ie 

That they did give the rings away to men ; 

But we’ll outface them, and outswear them 
too. 

[Aloud.] Away! make haste. Thou know’st 
where I will tarry. 

Ner. Come, good sir, will you show me to 
this house ? [Exeunt. 

ACT V 

[Scene I. Belmont. Avenue to Portia's house.] 

Enter Lorenzo and Jessica. 

Lor. The moon shines bright. In such a 
night as this, 

When the sweet wind did gently kiss the 
trees 

And they did make no noise, in such a night 
Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls, 
And sigh’d his soul toward the Grecian tents, 5 
Where Cressid lay that night. 

Jes. ' In such a night 

Did Thisbe fearfully o’ertrip the dew, 

And saw the lion’s shadow ere himself 
And ran dismay’d away. 

Lor. In such a night 

Stood Dido with a willow in her hand 10 

Upon the wild sea banks, and waft her love 
To come again to Carthage. 

Jes. In such a night 

Medea gathered the enchanted herbs 
That did renew old .Eson. 

Lor. ' In such a night 

Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew, is 
And with an unthrift love did run from Venice 
As far as Belmont. 

Jes. In such a night 

Did young Lorenzo swear he lov’d her well, 
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith 
And ne’er a true one. 

Lor. In such a night 20 

Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, 

Slander her love, and he forgave it her. 

Jes. I would out-night you, did no body 
come: 

But, hark, I hear the footing of a man. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Lor. Who comes so fast in silence of the 
night? 26 

Mess. A friend. 

Lor. A friend ! what friend ? Your name, I 
pray you, friend ? 




V. 1. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


12 I 


Mess. Stephano is my name; and I bring 
word 

My mistress will before the break of day 
Be here at Belmont. She doth stray about 30 
By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays 
For happy wedlock hours. 

Lor. Who comes with her ? 

Mess. None but a holy hermit and her maid. 
I pray you, is my master yet return’d ? 

Lor. He is not, nor we have not heard from 
him. 85 

But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica, 

And ceremoniously let us prepare 

Some welcome for the mistress of the house. 

Enter Clown [Launcelot]. 

Laun. Sola, sola ! wo ha, ho ! sola, sola! 

Lor. Who calls ? 40 

Laun. Sola! did you see Master Lorenzo? 
Master Lorenzo, sola, sola ! 

Lor. Leave hollaing, man ; here. 

Laun. Sola ! where ? where ? 

Lor. Here. « 

Laun. Tell him there’s a post come from 
my master, with his horn full of good news. 

My master will be here ere morning. [Exit.] 

Lor. Sweet soul, let’s in, and there expect 
their coming. 

And yet no matter ; why should we go in ? so 
My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you, 
Within the house, your mistress is at hand ; 
And bring your music forth into the air. 

[Exit Mess.] 

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this 
bank! 

Here will we sit and let the sounds of music m 
C reep in our ears. Soft stillness and the night 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 

Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold. 
There ’s not the smallest orb which thou be- 
hold’st 60 

But in his motion like an angel sings, 

Still quiring to the young-ey’d cherubins ; 

Such harmony is in immortal souls : 

But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. es 

[Enter Musicians.] 

Come, ho ! and wake Diana with a hymn ; 
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress’ ear 
And draw her home with music. [Music. 

Jes. I am never merry when I hear sweet 
music. 

Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive ; 
For do but note a wild and wanton herd, 71 
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts. 
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and. neighing 
loud, 

Which is the hot condition of their blood, 

If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, 75 
Or any air of music touch their ears, 

You snail perceive them make a mutual stand, 
Their savage eyes turn’d to a modest gaze 
By the sweet power of music ; therefore the poet 
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and 
floods; 80 


Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, 
But music for the time doth change his nature. 

/' The man that hath no music in himself, 

Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds, 
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils. w 
The motions of his spirit are dull as night 
And his affections dark as Erebus. 

Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music. 

Enter Portia and Nerissa. —— 

Por. That light we see is burning in my hall. 
How far that little candle throws his beams ! 90 
So shines a good deed in a naughty world. 

Ner. When the moon shone, we did not see 
the candle. 

Por. So doth the greater glory dim the less. 

A substitute shines brightly as a king 
Until a king be by ; and then his state 95 

Empties itself, as doth an inland brook 

Into the main of waters. Music ! H ark !_ * 

Ner. It is your music, madam, of fTTenouse. 
Por. Nothing is good, I see, without respect; 
Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by 
day. 100 

Ner. Silence bestows that virtue on it, 
madam. 

Por. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the 
lark 

When neither is attended, and I think 
The nightingale, if she should sing by day, 
When every goose is cackling, would be thought 
No better a musician than the wren. m 

How many things by season season’d are 
To their right praise and true perfection ! 

Peace, ho ! the moon sleeps with Endymion 
And would not be awak’d. [Music ceases. 

Lor. That is the voice, 

Or I am much deceiv’d, of Portia. ni 

Por. He knows me as the blind man knows 
the cuckoo, 

By the bad voice. 

Lor. Dear lady, welcome home! 

Por. We have been praying for our hus¬ 
bands’ welfare, u* 

Which speed, we hope, the better for our words. 
Are they return’d ? 

Lor. Madam, they are not yet; 

But there is come a messenger before, 

To signify their coming. 

Por. Go in, Nerissa ; 

Give order to my servants that they take 
No note at all of our being absent hence; 120 

Nor you, Lorenzo ; Jessica, nor you. 

[A tucket sounds. 
Lor. Your husband is at hand; I hear his 
trumpet. 

We are no tell-tales, madam ; fear you not. 

Por. This night methinks is but the day¬ 
light sick; 

It looks a little paler. ’T is a dajr, 12s 

Such as the day is when the sun is hid. 

Enter Bassanio, Antonio, Gratlano, and 
tneir followers. 

Bass. We should hold day with the Anti¬ 
podes, 

If you would walk in absence of the sun. 






122 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


v. i. 


Por. Let me give light, but let me not be 
light; 

For a light wife doth make a heavy husband, 
And never be Bassanio so for me. 131 

But God sort all! You ’re welcome home, my 


lord. 

Bass. I thank you, madam. Give welcome 
to my friend. 

This is the man, this is Antonio, 

To whom I am so infinitely bound. 136 

Por. You should in all sense be much bound 
to him, 

For, as I hear, he was much bound for you. 

Ant. No more than I am well acquitted of. 

Por. Sir, you are very welcome to our 
house. 


It must appear in other ways than words, 140 
Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy. 

Gra. [To Ner .] By yonder moon I swear you 
do me wrong; 

In faith, I gave it to the judge’s clerk. 

Would he were gelt that had it, for my part, 
Since you do take it, love, so much at heart. 145 
Por. A quarrel, ho, already! What’s the 
matter ? 

Gra. About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring 
That she did give me, whose posy was 
For all the world like cutler’s poetry 
Upon a knife, “ Love me, and leave me not.” 
Ner. What talk you of the posy or the 
value ? . . 161 

You swore to me, when I did give it you, 

That you would wear it till your hour of 
death, 

And that it should lie with you in your grave. 
Though not for me, yet for your vehement 
oaths, # 

You should have been respective and have 
kept it. 

Gave it a judge’s clerk ! No, God’s my judge, 
The clerk will ne’er wear hair on’s face that 
had it. 

Gra. He will, an if he live to be a man. 

Ner. Ay, if a woman live to be a man. iso 
Gra. Now, by this hand, I gave it to a 
youth, 

A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy, 

No higher than thyself, the judge’s clerk, 

A prating boy, that begg’d it as a fee. 

I could not for my heart deny it him. iss 

Por. You were to blame, I must be plain 
with you, 

To part so slightly with your wife’s first gift; 
A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger 
And so riveted with faith unto your flesh. 

I gave my love a ring, and made him swear no 
Never to part with it; and here he stands. 

I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it 
Nor pluck it from his finger, for the wealth 
That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gra- 
tiano, 

You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief. 
An’t were to me, I should be mad at it. ns 
Bass. [Aside.] Why, I were best to cut my 
left hand off 

And swear I lost the ring defending it. 

Gra. My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away 


Unto the judge that begg’d it, and indeed iso 
Deserv’d it too ; and then the boy, his clerk, 
That took some pains in writing, he begg’d 
mine; 

And neither man nor master would take aught 
But the two rings. 

Por. What ring gave you, my lord ? 

Not that, I hope, which you receiv’d of me. iss 
Bass. If I could add a lie unto a fault, 

I would deny it; but you see my finger 
Hath not the ring upon it; it is gone. 

Por. Even so void is your false heart of 
truth. 

By heaven, I will ne’er come in your bed 
Until I see the ring. 

Ner. Nor I in yours 

Till I again see mine. 

Bass. Sweet Portia, 

If you did know to whom I gave the ring, 

If you did know for whom I gave the ring, i «4 
And would conceive for what I gave the ring, 
And how unwillingly I left the ring, 

When nought would be accepted but the ring, 
You would abate the strength of your dis¬ 
pleasure. 

Por. If you had known the virtue of the 
ring, 

Or half her worthiness that gave the ring, 200 
Or your own honour to contain the ring, 

You would not then have parted with the ring. 
What man is there so much unreasonable, 

If you had pleas’d to have defended it 
With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty 
To urge the thing held as a ceremony ? 206 

Nerissa teaches me what to believe: 

I ’ll die for’t but some woman had the ring. 

Bass. No, by my honour, madam, by my soul, 
No woman had it, but a civil doctor, 210 

Which did refuse three thousand ducats of 
me 

And begg’d the ring; the which I did deny 
him 

And suffer’d him to go displeas’d away; 

Even he that did uphold the very life 
Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet 
lady ? 216 

I was enforc’d to send it after him; 

I was beset with shame and courtesy; 

My honour would not let ingratitude 
So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady ; 
For, by these blessed candles of the night, 22# 
Had you been there, I think you would have 
begg’d 

The ring of me to give the worthy doctor. 

Por. Let not that doctor e’er come near my 
house. 

Since he hath got the jewel that I lov’d, 

And that which you did swear to keep for me, 
I will become as liberal as you. 226 

I ’ll not deny him any thing I have, 

No, not my body nor my husband’s bed. 

Know him I shall, I am well sure of it. 

Lie not a night from home. Watch me like 
Argus. 230 

If you do not, if I be left alone, 

Now, by mine honour, which is yet mine own, 
I ’ll have that doctor for my bedfellow. 





V. 1. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 


12 X 


Ner. And I his clerk; therefore be well 
advis’d 

How you do leave me to mine own protection. 

Gra. Well, do you so; let not me take him 
then; 236 

For if I do, I ’ll mar the young- clerk’s pen. 

Ant. I am the unhappy subject of these 
quarrels. 

Por. Sir, grieve not you ; you are welcome 
notwithstanding. 

Bass. Portia, forgive me this enforced 
wrong; _ 240 

And in the hearing of these many friends 
I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes, 
Wherein I see myself — 

Por. Mark you but that! 

In both my eyes he doubly sees himself, 

In each eye, one. Swear by your double self, 245 
And there’s an oath of credit. 

Bass. Nay, but hear me. 

Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear 
I never more will break an oath with thee. 

Ant. I once did lend my body for his wealth, 
Which, but for him that had your husband’s 
ring, 250 

Had quite miscarried. I dare be bound again, 
My soul upon the forfeit, that vour lord 
Will never more break faith advisedly. 

Por. Then you shall be his surety. Give him 
this 

And bid him keep it better than the other. 255 

Ant. Here, Lord Bassanio; swear to keep 
this ring. 

Bass. By heaven, it is the same I gave the 
doctor! 

Por. I had it of him. Pardon me, Bassanio ; 
For, by this ring, the doctor lay with me. 

Ner. And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano; 260 
For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor’s clerk, 
In lieu of this last night did lie with me. 

Gra. Why, this is like the mending of high¬ 
ways 

In summer, where the ways are fair enough. 
Wkat, are we cuckolds ere we have deserv’d 

it ? 265 

Por. Speak not so grossly. You are all 
amaz’d. 

Here is a letter: read it at your leisure. 

It comes from Padua, from Bellario. 


There you shall find that Portia was the doctor, 
Nerissa there her clerk. Lorenzo here 270 
Shall witness I set forth as soon as you 
And even but now return’d ; I have not yet 
Ent’red my house. Antonio, you are welcome ; 
And I have better news in store for you 
Than you expect. Unseal this letter soon ; 275 
There you shall find three of your argosies 
Are richly come to harbour suddenly. 

You shall not know by what strange accident 
I chanced on this letter. 

Ant. I am dumb. 

Bass. Were you the doctor and I knew you 
not ? 280 

Gra. Were you the clerk that is to make me 
cuckold ? 

Ner. Ay, but the clerk that never means to 
do it, 

Unless he live until he be a man. 

Bass. Sweet doctor, you shall be my bed¬ 
fellow. 

When I am absent, then lie with my wife. 285 
Ant. Sweet lady, you have given me life and 
living; 

For here I read for certain that my ships 
Are safely come to road. 

Por. How now, Lorenzo ! 

My clerk hath some good comforts too for you. 
Ner. Ay, and I ’ll give them him without a 
fee. 200 

There do I give to you and Jessica, 

From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift, 
After his death, of all he dies possess’d of. 

Lor. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way 
Of starved people. 

Por. It is almost morning, 295 

And yet I am sure you are not satisfied 
Of these events at full. Let us go in ; 

And charge us there upon inter’gatories, 

And we will answer all things faithfully. 

Gra. Let it be so. The first inter’gatory soo 
That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is, 

Whether till the next night she had rather stay, 
Or go to bed now, being two hours to day. 

But were the day come, I should wish it dark, 
That I were couching with the doctor’s clerk. 
Well, while I live I ’ll fear no other thing so6 
So sore as keeping safe Nerissa’s ring. 

[Exeunt. 




THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


The Taming of the Shrew was first printed, so far as is known, in the First Folio. On this all 
subsequent texts have been based. 

Evidence for the date of composition is purely internal; and this is exceptionally weak on 
account of the doubt as to the extent of Shakespeare's part in the authorship. Metrical tests are 
inconclusive. Similarities to other plays, such as The Comedy of Errors in the treatment of the 
servants, and to Hamlet in the prince’s reception of the players, suggest any date from 1590 to 
1602 . The wit-contest between Katherine and Petruchio in n. i. associates it with plays like 
Much Ado and As You Like It; while the occurrence of lines in the dancing measure of the 
speeches of the Dromios would lead us to place it before these plays. Perhaps 1596-97 is a fair 
guess. 

The immediate source was an earlier play of unknown authorship called The Taming of A 
Shrew , published in 1594 . The story of the taming of a wife is found in German, Spanish, Italian, 
and, in a version considerably closer to that in the play, in Danish. In English it appears in the 
old verse tale of A Shrewd and Curst Wife Lapped in Morel’s Skin. But no direct connection can 
be shown between any of these and the play. In the transforming of the earlier into the present 
play, phrases and occasionally whole lines are retained, and the incidents in the Katherine- 
Petruchio plot are essentially the same ; but the dialogue is greatly polished and invigorated, 
and the details of the stage-craft bettered throughout. Greater changes are made in the Bianca 
plot. The older play gives Katherine two sisters, each of whom has a lover; and their wooing, 
hindered only by the necessity of getting Katherine married first, and lacking the interest of 
rival suitors, is flat and stupid. The device of inducing a casual stranger to personate a suitor’s 
father had been borrowed by the author of A Shrew from George Gascoigne’s Supposes, a trans¬ 
lation of Ariosto’s I Suppositi. This source was used in the revision also for most of the incident 
in the Bianca plot. In Supposes we have no shrew, but a plot turning on the wooing of a lady by 
two lovers ; and from it were taken direct the aged suitor and the device by which Lucentio and 
his servant exchange characters. Hortensio and his widow occur in neither of the earlier plays. 
The trick of the feigned instructors is elaborated from a scene in A Shrew in which Tranio’s 
prototype attempts to give Kate a music lesson in order to afford his master and his friend an 
opportunity to court her sisters. The Latin lesson may have been suggested by a somewhat simi¬ 
lar scene in Robert Wilson’s Three Lords and Three Ladies of London, printed in 1590 . 

The Induction is taken from A Shrew. A story similar to that of the tinker is found in The 
Arabian Nights, and the trick played on him by the lord is said byHeuterus (Be Rebus Burgun- 
dicis, ca. 1580 ) to have been actually perpetrated by Philip the Good about, 1440 . But none of the 
several English versions of the narrative of Heuterus appeared before 1598 . Warton mentions a 
similar tale as told by Richard Edwardes in 1570 , and some have thought that this version has 
survived in The Waking Man's Bream, an undated fragment of a lost book. A ballad in Percy’s 
Reliques is based on a version later than the play. 

In A Shrew the characters of the Induction appear from time to time throughout the play, 
and at the close Sly again falls asleep and is restored to his former state. A reason for dropping 
the Induction at the end of I. i. of the Shakespearean play may perhaps be found in the neces¬ 
sity of clearing the gallery, from which Sly is viewing the play, for the appearance of the Pedant 
from a window in y. i. 

It is generally agreed that in the working over of A Shrew into the present play another 
hand than Shakespeare’s is evident. The revised Induction and the scenes between Kate and 
Petruchio are usually assigned to Shakespeare, while the lines in the Bianca plot are thought 
not to show his style. This points either to an intermediate play, or to revision in collaboration. 
It has been tacitly assumed that the part of each author was confined to the scenes in which his 
style appears in the verse and diction. But it is clearly possible that a joint author might have a 
large share in planning the action of scenes which his partner wrote, and vice versa. Thus no 
one knows, or is ever likely to know, that Shakespeare is not entitled to credit for the remarkable 
ingenuity exhibited in the remodelling of the minor plot. 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


[DRAMATIS 

A Lord. 'i 

Christopher Sly, a tinker. I Persons in the Induc- 
Hostess, Page, Players, Hunts- | tion. 
men, and Servants. 

Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua. 

Vincentio, an old gentleman of Pisa. 

Lucentio, son to Vincentio, in love with Bianca. 
Petruchio, a gentleman of Verona, a suitor to Katherina. 

Hortensio, } suitors t0 Bianca - 

Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants 


PERSONAE 

B^ondello, } servants to Lucentio. 

Curtis°’ } Bervants to Petruchio. 

A Pedant. 

Katherina, the shrew, ) , , . , i. 

Bianca, ) daughters to Baptista. 

Widow.’ ’ 

attending on Baptista and Petruchio. 


Scene : Padua , and Petruchio's country house.] 


[INDUCTION 

Scene I. Before an alehouse on a heath.] 

Enter Hostess, and beggar , Christophero 
Sly. 

Sly. I ’ll pheese you, in faith. 

Host. A pair of stocks, you rogue! 

Sly. Y’ are a baggage; the Slys are no 
rogues. Look in the chrcnicles; we came in 
with Richard Conqueror. Therefore paucas 
pallabris: let the world slide ; sessa ! e 

Host. You will not pay for the glasses you 
have burst ? 

Sly. No, not a denier. Go by, Jeronimy! 
Go to thy cold bed, and warm thee. 10 

Host. I know my remedy; I must go fetch 
the thirdborough. [Exit.] 

Sly. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough^ I ’ll 
answer him by law. I’ll not budge an inch, 
boy; let him come, and kindly. is 

[Falls asleep. 

Wind horns. Enter a Lord from hunting , with 
his train. 

Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well 
my hounds, 

Brach Merriman, the poor cur, Is emboss’d ; 
And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth’d 
brach. 

Saw’st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good 
At the hedge-corner, in the coldest fault ? 20 

I would not lose the dog for twenty pound. 

1 . Hun. Why, Belrnan is as good as he, my 
lord; 

He cried upon it at the merest loss, 

And twice to-day pick’d out the dullest scent. 
Trust me? I take him for the better dog. 25 
Lord. Thou art a fool; if Echo were as fleet, 

I would esteem him worth a dozen such. 

But sup them well and look unto them all; 
To-morrow I intend to hunt again. 


1 Hun. I will, my lord. 30 

Lord. What’s here ? One dead, or drunk ? 
See, doth he breathe ? 

2 . Hun. He breathes, my lord. Were he not 
warm’d with ale, 

This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly. 
Lord. 0 monstrous beast 1 how like a swine 
he lies! 

Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine 
image! sc 

Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man. 
What think you, if he were convey’d to bed, 
Wrapp’d in sweet clothes, rings put upon his 
fingers^ 

A most delicious banquet by his bed, 

And brave attendants near him when he 
wakes, 40 

Would not the beggar then forget himself ? 

1 . Hun. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot 

choose. 

2 . Hun. It would seem strange unto him 

when he wak’d. 

Lord. Even as a flattering dream or worth¬ 
less fancy. 

Then take him up and manage well the jest. 45 
Carry him gently to my fairest chamber, 

And hang it round with all my wanton pic¬ 
tures. 

Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters, 
And burn sweet wood to make the lodging 
sweet. 

Procure me music ready when he wakes, bo 
To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound ; 

And if he chance to speak, be ready straight 
And with a low submissive reverence 
Say, “ What is it your honour will command ? ” 
Let one attend him with a silver basin bb 

Full of rose-water and bestrew’d with flowers ; 
Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper, 

And say, “Will ’t please your lordship cool 
your hands ? ” 

Some one be ready with a costly suit 






126 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


Ind. ii. 


And ask him what apparel he will wear. 60 
Another tell him of his hounds and horse, 

And that his lady mourns at his disease. 
Persuade him that he hath been lunatic; 

And when he says he is, say that he dreams, 
For he is nothing hut a mighty lord. 65 

This do and do it kindly, gentle sirs. 

It will he pastime passing excellent, 

If it he husbanded with modesty. 

1 . Hun. My lord, I warrant you we will 
play our part 

As he shall think by our true diligence 70 

He is no less than what we say he is. 

Lord. Take him up gently and to bed with 
him; 

And each one to his office when he wakes. 

[Some bear out Sly.] Sound trump¬ 
ets. 

Sirrah, go see what trumpet ’tis that sounds, 

[Exit Servingman .] 
Belike, some noble gentleman that means, 75 
Travelling some journey, to repose him here. 

Re-enter Servingman. 

How now ! who is it ? 

Serv. An ’t please your honour, players 
That offer service to your lordship. 

Enter Players. 

Lord. Bid them come near. Now, fellows, 
you are welcome. 

Players. We thank your honour. so 

Lord. Do you intend to stay with me to¬ 
night ? 

A Player. So please your lordship to accept 
our duty. 

Lord. With all my heart. This fellow I re¬ 
member 

Since once he play’d a farmer’s eldest son. 

’T was where you woo’d the gentlewoman so 

Well. 85 

I have forgot your name ; but, sure, that part 
Was aptly fitted and naturally perform’d. 

A Player. I think ’t was Soto that your 
honour means. 

Lord. ’T is very true ; thou didst it excellent. 
Well, you are come to me in happy time, so 
The rather for I have some sport in hand 
Wherein your coming can assist me much. 
There is a lord will hear you play to-night; 

But I am doubtful of your modesties, 

Lest, over-eyeing of his odd behaviour, — 95 

For yet his honour never heard a play, — 

You break into some merry passion 
And so offend him ; for I tell you, sirs, 

If you should smile he grows impatient. 

A Player. Fear not, my lord; we can con¬ 
tain ourselves, 100 

Were he the veriest antic in the world. 

Lord. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery, 
And give them friendly welcome every one. 

Let them want nothing that my house affords. 

[Exit one with the Players. 
Sirrah, go you to Barthol’mew my page, 105 

And see him dress’d in all suits like a lady. 
That done, conduct him to the drunkard’s 
chamber; 


An d call him madam, do him obeisance. 

Tell him from me, as he will win my love, 

He bear himself with honourable action, no 
Such as he hath observ’d in noble ladies 
Unto their lords, by them accomplished ; 

Such duty to the drunkard let him do 
With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy, 

And say, “What is’t your honour will com¬ 
mand, 115 

Wherein your lady and your humble wife 
May show her duty and make known her 
love?” 

And then with kind embracements, tempting 

kisses, 

And with declining head into his bosom, 

Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy’d 120 
To see her noble lord restor’d to health. 

Who for this seven years hath esteemed him 
No better than a poor and loathsome beggar. 
And if the boy have not a woman’s gift 
To rain a shower of commanded tears, 

An onion will do well for such a shift, 

Which in a napkin being close convey’d 
Shall in despite enforce a watery eye. 

See this dispatch’d with all the haste thou 
canst; 

Anon I ’ll give thee more instructions. ^ 139 

[Exit a Servingman. 

I know the boy will well usurp the grace, 
Voice, gait, and action of a gentlewoman. 

I long to hear him call the clrunkard husband ; 
And how my men will stay themselves from 
laughter 

When they do homage to this simple peasant. 

I ’ll in to counsel them ; haply my presence is« 
May well abate the over-merry spleen 
Which otherwise would grow into extremes. 

[Exeunt.] 

[Scene II. A bedchamber in the Lord’s house.] 

Enter aloft the drunkard [Sly, richly dressed ,] 
with Attendants ; some with apparel , basin 
and ewer , and other appurtenances; and Lord 
[like a servant]. 

Sly. For God’s sake, a pot of small ale. 

1 . Serv. Will’t please your lordship drink a 

cup of sack ? 

2 . Serv. Will’t please your honour taste of 

these conserves ? 

3 . Serv. What raiment will your honour wear 

to-day ? 

Sly. I am Christophero Sly; call not me [s 
honour nor lordship. I ne’er drank sack in my 
life ; and if you give me any conserves, give me 
conserves of beef. Ne’er ask me what raiment 
I’ll wear; for I have no more doublets than 
backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more 
shoes than feet; nay, sometime more feet [10 
than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look 
through the overleather. 

Lord. Heaven cease this idle humour in 
your honour! 

O, that a mighty man of such descent, is 

Of such possessions, and so high esteem. 
Should be infused with so foul a spirit 1 

Sly. What, would you make me mad ? Aik 




Ind. ii. 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


127 


not I Christopher Sly, old Sly’s son of Burton 
heath, by birth a pedlar, by education a [20 
card-maker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and 
now by present profession a tinker? Ask 
Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if 
she know me not. If she say I am not fourteen 
pence on the score for sheer ale, score me 
up for the lying’st knave in Christendom. [25 
What! I am not bestraught. Here’s — 

3 . Serv. O, this it is that makes your lady 
mourn! 

2 . Serv. O, this is it that makes your ser¬ 
vants droop! 

Lord. Hence comes it that your kindred 
shuns your house, 30 

As beaten hence by your strange lunacy. 

0 noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth, 

Call home thy ancient thoughts from banish¬ 
ment 

And banish hence these abject lowly dreams. 
Look how thy servants do attend on thee, 35 
Each in his office ready at thy beck. 

Wilt thou have music ? Hark ! Apollo plays, 

[Music. 

And twenty caged nightingales do sing. 

Or wilt thou sleep? We’ll have thee to a 
couch 

Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed 40 
On purpose trimm’d up for Semiramis. 

Say thou wilt walk; we will bestrew the 
ground. 

Or wfit thou ride ? Thy horses shall be 
trapp’d, 

Their harness studded all with gold and 
pearl. 

Dost thou love hawking? Thou hast hawks 
will soar . 45 

Above the morning lark. Or wilt thou hunt ? 
Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer 
them 

And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth. 

1 . Serv. Say thou wilt course; thy grey¬ 

hounds are as swift 

As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe. eo 

2 . Serv. Dost thou love pictures? We will 

fetch thee straight 
Adonis painted by a running brook, 

And Cytherea all in sedges hid, 

Which seem to move and wanton with her 
breath 64 

Even as the waving sedges play with wind. 

Lord. We ’ll show thee Io as she was a maid, 
And how she was beguiled and surpris’d, 

As lively painted as the deed was done. 

3 . Serv. Or Daphne roaming through a 

thorny wood, 

Scratching her legs that one shall swear she 
bleeds 

And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep, 

So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn. 
Lord. Thou art a lord and nothing but a 
lord. 

Thou hast a lady far more beautiful 
Than any woman in this waning age. 65 

1 . Serv. And till the tears that she hath 
shed for thee 

Like envious floods o’er-run her lovely face, 


She was the fairest creature in the world ; 

And yet she is inferior to none. eo 

Sly. Am 1 a lord ? And have I such a lady ? 
Or do I dream ? Or have I dream’d till now ? 

I do not sleep ; I see, I hear, I speak, 

I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things. 
Upon my life, I am a lord indeed 
And not a tinker nor Christophero Sly. 75 

Well, bring our lady hither to our sight; 

And once again, a pot o’ the smallest ale. 

2. Serv. Will ’t please your mightiness to 

wash your hands ? 

0 , how we joy to see your wit restor’d ! 

0 , that once more you knew but what you 
are 1 *« 

These fifteen years you have been in a dream ; 
Or when you wak’d, so wak’d as if you slept. 

Sly. These fifteen years! by my fay, a 
goodly nap. 

But did I never speak of all that time ? 

1 . Serv. 0 , yes, my lord, but very idle 
words. 85 

For though you lay here in this goodly cham¬ 
ber, 

Yet would you say ye were beaten out of 
door, 

And rail upon the hostess of the house, 

And say you would present her at the leet 
Because she brought stone jugs and no seal’d 
quarts. so 

Sometimes you would call out for Cicely 
Hacket. 

Sly. Ay, the woman’s maid of the house. 

3. Serv. Why, sir, you know no house nor 

no such maid, 

Nor no such men as you have reckon’d up, 

As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece, 
And Peter Turph, and Henry Pimpernell, »o 
And twenty more such names and men as these 
Which never were, nor no man ever saw. 

Sly. Now Lord be thanked for my good 
amends! 

All. Amen. 100 

Enter [the Page as a] lady , with attendants. 

Sly. I thank thee ; thou shalt not lose by it. 

Page. How fares my noble lord ? 

Sly. Marry, I fare well, for here is cheer 
enough. 

Where is my wife ? 

Page. Here, noble lord ; what is thy will 
with her ? 106 

Sly. Are you my wife and will not call me 
husband ? 

My men should call me “lord” ; I am your 
goodman. 

Page. My husband and my lord, my lord and 
husband, 

I am your wife in all obedience. 

Sly. I know it well. What must I call her ? 

Lord. Madam. 111 

Sly. Al’ce madam, or Joan madam ? 

Lord. Madam, and nothing else: so lords 
call ladies. 

Sly. Madam wife, they say that I have 
dream’d 

And slept above some fifteen year or more. 




128 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


I. L 


Page. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto 
me, 

Being all this time abandon’d from your bed. 
Sly. ’T is much. Servants, leave me and her 
alone. 

Madam, undress you and come now to bed. 
Page. Thrice-noble lord, let me entreat of 
you 120 

To pardon me yet for a night or two, 

Or, if not so, until the sun be set; 

For your physicians have expressly charg’d, 

In peril to incur your former malady, 

That I should yet absent me from your bed. 125 
I hope this reason stands for my excuse. 

Sly. Ay, it stands so that I may hardly tarry 
so long. But I would be loath to fall into my 
dreams again. I will therefore tarry in despite 
of the flesh and the blood. 130 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. Your honour’s players, hearing your 
amendment, 

Are come to play a pleasant comedy; 

For so your doctors hold it very meet, 

Seeing too much sadness hath congeal’d your 
blood, 

And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy. 135 
Therefore they thought it good you hear a play 
And frame your mind to mirth and merriment, 
Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens 
life. 

Sly. Marry, I will; let them play it. Is not a 
comonty a Christmas gambold, or a turn- [uo 
bling-trick ? 

Page. No, my good lord ; it is more pleasing 
stuff. 

Sly. What, household stuff ? 

Page. It is a kind of history. 144 

Sly. Well, we ’ll see ’t. Come, madam 
wife, sit by my side and let the world slip. 
We shall ne’er be younger. 

[They all sif.] Flourish. 


[ACT I 

Scene I. Padua. A public place.] 

Enter Lucentio and his man Tranio. 

Luc. Tranio, since for the great desire I had 
To see fair Padua, nursery of arts, 

I am arriv’d for fruitful Lombardy, 

The pleasant garden of great Italy; 

And by my father’s love and leave am arm’d «s 
With his good will and thy good company, 

My trusty servant, well approv’d in all, 

Here let us breathe and haply institute 
A course of learning and ingenious studies. 
Pisa, renowned for grave citizens, 10 

Gave me my being and my father first, 

A merchant of great traffic through the world, 
Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii. 

Vincentio’s son, brought tip in Florence, 

It shall become to serve all hopes conceiv’d, is 
To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds ; 
And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study, 
Virtue and that part of philosophy 


Will I apply that treats of happiness 
By virtue specially to be achiev’d. 2* 

Tell me thy mind ; for I have Pisa left 
And am to Padua come, as he that leaves 
A shallow plash to plunge him in the deep 
And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst. 

Tra. Mi perdonato , gentle master mine, 25 
I am in all affected as yourself ; 

Glad that you thus continue your resolve 
To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy. 

Only, good master, while we do admire 
This virtue and this moral discipline, so 

Let’s be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray, 

Or so devote to Aristotle’s checks 
As Ovid be an outcast quite abjur’d. 

Balk logic with acquaintance that you have, 
And practise rhetoric in your common talk. 30 
Music and poesy use to quicken you. 

The mathematics and the metaphysics. 

Fall to them as you find your stomacn serves 
you; 

No profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en. 

In brief, sir, study what you most affect. 40 
Luc. Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou ad¬ 
vise. 

If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore, 

We could at once put us in readiness, 

And take a lodging fit to entertain 

Such friends as time in Padua shall beget. 45 

But stay a while, what company is this ? 

Tra. Master, some show to welcome us to 
town. 

Enter Baptista, Katherina, Bianca, Gre- 
mio, a pantaloon, and Hortensio. Lucentio 
and Tranio stand by. 

Bap. Gentlemen, importune me no farther, 
For how I firmly am resolv’d you know ; 

That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter eo 
Before I have a husband for the elder. 

If either of you both love Katherina, 

Because I know you well and love you well, 
Leave shall you have to court her at your 
pleasure. 

Gre. [Aside.] To cart her rather; she’s too 
rough for me. 55 

There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife ? 

Kath. I pray you, sir, is it your will 
To make a stale of me amongst these mates ? 
Hot. Mates, maid! how mean you that ? 
No mates for you, 

Unless you were of gentler, milder mould. so 
Kath. I’ faith, sir, you shall never need to 
fear. 

I-wis it is not half way to her heart; 

But if it were, doubt not her care should be 
To comb your noddle with a three-legg’d 
stool 

And paint your face and use you like a fool. «* 
Hor. From all such devils, good Lord deliver 
us! 

Gre. And me too, good Lord ! 

Tra. Hush, master! here’s some good pas¬ 
time toward. 

That wench is stark mad or wonderful fro- 
ward. 

Luc. But in the other’s silence do I see 70 






THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


129 


1. i. 


Maid’s mild behaviour and sobriety. 

Peace, Tranio! 

Tra. Well said, master; mum! and gaze 
your fill. 

Bap. Gentlemen, that I may soon make good 
What I have said, Bianca, get you in; ts 

And let it not displease thee, good Bianca, 

For I will love thee ne’er the less, my girl. 

Kath. A pretty peat 1 it is best 
Put finger in the eye, an she knew why. 

Bian. Sister, content you in my discontent. 
Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe. si 

My books and instruments shall be my com- 
pany, 

On them to look and practise by myself. 

Luc. Hark, Tranio ! thou may’st hear Min¬ 
erva speak. 

Hor. Signior Baptista, will you be so 
strange ? ss 

Sorry am I that our good will effects 
Bianca’s grief. 

Gre. Why will you mew her up, 

Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell, 

And make her bear the penance of her tongue ? 

Bap. Gentlemen, content ye ; I am resolv’d. 
Go in, Bianca; [Exit Bianca .] 01 

And for I know she taketh most delight 
In music, instruments, and poetry. 
Schoolmasters will I keep within my house, 

Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio, 
Or Signior Gremio, you, know any such, a« 
Prefer them hither ; for to cunning men 
I will be very kind, and liberal 
To mine own children in good bringing up ; 
And so farewell. Katherina, you may stay ; 100 
For I have more to commune with Bianca. 

[Exit. 

Kath. Why, and I trust I may go too, may I 
not ? 

What, shall I be appointed hours, as though, 
belike, 

I knew not what to take, and what to leave ? 
Ha! [Exit. u* 

Gre. You may go to the devil’s dam ; your 
gifts are so good, here’s none will hold you. 
Their love is not so great, Hortensio, but we 
may blow our nails together, and fast it fairly 
out. Our cake’s dough on both sides. Fare¬ 
well ; yet, for the love I bear my sweet Bi- [no 
anca, if I can by any means light on a fit man 
to teach her that wherein she delights, I will 
wish him to her father. 114 

Hor. So will I, Signior Gremio. But a 
word, I pray. Though the nature of our quar¬ 
rel yet never brook’d parle, know now, upon 
advice, it toucheth us both, that we may yet 
again have access to our fair mistress and be 
happy rivals in Bianca’s love, to labour and 
effect one thing specially. 121 

Gre. What’s that, 1 pray ? 

Hor. Marry, sir, to get a husband for her 
sister. 

Gre. A husband ! a devil. 126 

Hor. I say, a husband. 

Gre. I say, a devil. Think’st thou, Horten¬ 
sio, though her father be very rich, any man is 
so very a fool to be married to hell ? 229 


Hor. Tush, Gremio, though it pass your pa¬ 
tience and mine to endure her loud alarums, 
why, man, there be good fellows in the world, 
an a man could light on them, would take her 
with all faults, and money enough. 134 

Gre. 1 cannot tell; but I had as lief take her 
dowry with this condition, to be whipp’d at the 
high cross every morning. 

Hor. Faith, as you say, there’s small choice 
in rotten apples. But come; since this bar in 
law makes us friends, it shall be so far forth [uo 
friendly maintain’d till by helping Baptista’s 
eldest daughter to a husband we set his young¬ 
est free for a husband, and then have to’t 
afresh. Sweet Bianca! Happy man be his 
dole ! He that runs fastest gets the ring. How 
say you, Signior Gremio ? u* 

Gre. I am agreed; and would I had given 
him the best horse in Padua to begin his woo¬ 
ing that would thoroughly woo her, wed her 
and bed her, and rid the house of her ! Come 
on. [Exeunt Gremio and Hortensio. iso 

Tra. I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible 
That love should of a sudden take such hold ? 

Luc. O Tranio, till I found it to be true, 

I never thought it possible or likely ; 

But see, while idly I stood looking on, ibis 

I found the effect of love in idleness ; 

And now in plainness do confess to thee, 

That art to me as secret and as dear 
As Anna to the Queen of Carthage was, 

Tranio, I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio, ien 
If I achieve not this young modest girl. 

Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst; 
Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt. 

Tra. Master, it is no time to chide you now ; 
Affection is not rated from the heart. ies 

If love have touch’d you, naught remains but 
so, 

“ Redime te captum quam queas minimo .” 

Luc. Gramercies, lad, go forward ; this con¬ 
tents. 

The rest will comfort, for thy counsel’s sound. 
Tra. Master, you look’d so longly on the 
maid, 

Perhaps you mark’d not what’s the pith of all. 

Luc. 0 yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face, 
Such as the daughter of Agenor had, 

That made great Jove to humble him to her 
hand, 

When with his knees he kiss’d the Cretan 
strand. 175 

Tra. Saw you no more? Mark’d you no* 
how her sister 

Began to scold and raise up such a storm 
That mortal ears might hardly endure the din ? 

Luc. Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move 
And with her breath she did perfume the air. 
Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her. m 

Tra. Nay, then, ’t is time to stir him from 
his trance. 

I pray, awake, sir. If you love the maid, 

Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus 
it stands: 

Her elder sister is so curst and shrewd ibb 

That till the father rid his hands of her, 
Master, your love must live a maid at home; 





130 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


I. 1L 


And therefore has he closely mew’d her up, 
Because she will not be annoy’d with suitors. 

Luc. Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father’s he ! 
But art thou not advis’d, he took some care m 
To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct 
her? 

Tra. Ay, marry, am I, sir; and now ’t is 
plotted. 

Luc. I have it, Tranio. 

Tra. Master, for my hand, 

Both our inventions meet and jump in one. wb 
Luc. Tell me thine first. 

Tra. You will be schoolmaster 

And undertake the teaching of the maid: 

That’s your device. 

Luc. It is ; may it he done ? 

Tra. Not possible ; for who shall bear your 
part, 

And he in Padua here Vincentio’s son, 200 
Keep house and ply his book, welcome his 
friends, 

Visit his countrymen and banquet them ? 

Luc. Basta , content thee, for I have it full. 
We have not yet been seen in any house, 

Nor can we be distinguish’d by our faces 205 
For man or master. Then it follows thus : 
Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead, 
Keep house and port and servants, as I should. 
I will some other be, some Florentine, 

Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa. 210 
’T is hatch’d and shall be so. Tranio, at once 
Uncase thee ; take my colour’d hat and cloak. 
When Biondello comes, he waits on thee ; 

But I will charm him first to keep his tongue. 

Tra. So had you need. 216 

In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is, 

And I am tied to be obedient, — 

For so your father charg’d me at our parting, 
“Be serviceable to my son,” quoth he, 
Although I think’t was in another sense, — 220 
I am content to be Lucentio, 

Because so well I love Lucentio. 

Luc. Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves ; 
And let me be a slave, to achieve that maid 
Whose sudden sight hath thrall’d my wounded 
eye. 225 

Enter Biondello. 

Here comes the rogue. Sirrah where have you 
been ? 

Bion. Where have I been ! Nay, how now ! 
where are you ? Master, has my fellow Tranio 
stolen your clothes ? or you stolen his ? or both ? 
Pray, what’s the news ? 230 

Luc. Sirrah, come hither; ’t is no time to 
jest, 

And therefore frame your manners to the time. 
Your fellow Tranio here, to save my life, 

Puts my apparel and my countenance on, 

And I for my escape have put on his ; 236 

For in a quarrel since I came ashore 
I kill’d a man and fear I was descried. 

Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes, 
While I make way from hence to save my 
life. 

You understand me? 

Bion. I, sir! ne’er a whit. 240 


Luc. And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth. 
Tranio is chang’d into Lucentio. 

Bion. The better for him ; would I were so 
too ! 

Tra. So could I, faith, boy, to have the next 
wish after, 

That Lucentio indeed had Baptista’s youngest 
daughter. 245 

But, sirrah, not for my sake, but your master’s, 
I advise 

You use your manners discreetly in all kind of 
companies. 

When I am alone, why, then I am Tranio ; 

But in all places else your master Lucentio. w 
Luc. Tranio, let’s go. One thing more 
rests, that thyself execute, to make one among 
these wooers. If thou ask me why, sufficeth. 
my reasons are both good and weighty. 

[Exeunt. 

The presenters above speak. 

1 . Serv. My lord, you nod ; you do not mind 
the play. sm 

Sly. Yes, by Saint Anne, do I. A good mat¬ 
ter, surely ; comes there any more of it ? 

Page. My lord, ’t is but begun. 

Sly. ’T is a very excellent piece of work, 
madam lady; would ’t were done ! 259 

[They sit and mark. 

[Scene II. Padua. Before Hortensio's house.] 
Enter Petruchio and his man Grumio. 

Pet. Verona, for a while I take my leave, 

To see my friends in Padua, but of ail 
My best beloved and approved friend, 
Hortensio ; and I trow this is his house. 

Here, sirrah Grumio ; knock, I say. 5 

Gru. Knock, sir ! whom should I knock ? Is 
there any man has rebus’d your worship ? 

Pet. Villain, I say, knock me here soundly. 
Gru.' Knock you here, sir ! Why, sir, what 
am I, sir, that I should knock you here, sir ? 10 
Pet. Villain, I say, knock me at this gate 
Andrapmewell,orl ’ll knockyourknave’spate. 
Gru. My master is grown quarrelsome. I 
should knock you first, 

And then I know after who comes by the worst. 

Pet. Will it not be ? is 

Faith, sirrah, an you ’ll not knock, I ’ll ring it. 
I ’ll try how you can sol , /a, and sing it. 

[He wrings him by the ears. 
Gru. Help, masters, help ! my master is mad. 
Pet. Now, knock when I bid you, sirrah 
villain! 19 

Enter Hortensio. 

Hor. How now ! what’s the matter ? My old 
friend Grumio ! and my good friend Petruchio ! 
How do you all at Verona ? 

Pet. Signior Hortensio, come you to part 
the fray? 

Con tutto il cuore , ben trovato , may I say. 24 
Hor. Alla nostra casa ben venuto, molto hono- 
rato signor mio Petruchio. 

Rise, Grumio, rise; we will compound this 
quarrel. 





rf. u. 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


Gru. Nay, ’t is no matter, sir, what he ’leges 
in Latin. If this be not a lawful cause for me 
to leave his service, look you, sir. He bid me 
knock him and rap him soundly, sir. Well, [so 
was it fit for a servant to use his master so, be¬ 
ing perhaps, for aught I see, two and thirty, a 
pip out ? 

Whom would to God I had well knock’d at first, 
Then had not Grumio come by the worst. 35 
Pet. A senseless villain ! Good Hortensio, 

I bade the rascal knock upon your gate 
And could not get him for my heart to do it. 

Gru. Knock at the gate ! 0 heavens ! Spake 
you not these words plain, “Sirrah, knock 
me here, rap me here, knock me well, and [40 
knock me soundly”? And come you now 
with, “ knocking at the gate ” ? 

Pet. Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise 
you. 

Hor. Petruchio, patience; I am Grumio’s 
pledge. 45 

Why, this ’s a heavy chance ’twixt him and 

yol b 

Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio. 
And tell me now, sweet friend, what happy 
gale 

Blows you to Padua here from old Verona? 
Pet. Such wind as scatters young men 
through the world so 

To seek their fortunes farther than at home 
Where small experience grows. But in a few, 
Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me : 
Antonio, my father, is deceas’d; 

And I have thrust myself into this maze, ss 

Haply to wive and thrive as best I may. 
Crowns in my purse I have and goods at home, 
And so am come abroad to see the world. 

Hor. Petruchio, shall I then come roundly 
to thee 

And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour’d wife ? 
Thou ’dst thank me but a little for my coun¬ 
sel ; si 

And yet I ’ll promise thee she shall be rich 
And very rich. But thou ’rt too much my 
friend, 

And I ’ll not wish thee to her. 

Pet. Signior Hortensio, ’twixt such friends 
as we _ es 

Few words suffice; and therefore, if thou 
know 

One rich enough to be Petruchio’s wife, 

As wealth is burden of my wooing dance, 

Be she as foul as was Florentius’ love, 

As old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrewd 70 
As Socrates’ Xanthippe, or a worse, 

She moves me not, or not removes, at least, 
Affection’s edge in me, were she as rough 
As are the swelling Adriatic seas. 

I come to wive it wealthily in Padua ; 76 

If wealthily, then happily in Padua. 

Gru. Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly 
what his mind is. Why, give him gold enough, 
and marry him to a puppet or an aglet-baby, 
or an old trot with ne’er a tooth in her head, 
though she have as many diseases as two [so 
and fifty horses. Why, nothing comes amiss, 
so money comes withal. 


*3* 


Hor. Petruchio, since we are stepp’d thus 
far in, 

I will continue that I broach’d in jest. 

I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife 85 

With wealth enough and young and beauteous, 
Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman. 
Her only fault, and that is faults enough, 

Is that she is intolerable curst 
And shrewd and froward, so beyond all mea^ 
sure 9# 

That, were my state far worser than it is, 

I would not wed her for a mine of gold. 

Pet. Hortensio, peace! thou know’st not 
gold’s effect. 

Tell me her father’s name and’t is enough ; 94 
For I will board her, though she chide as loud 
As thunder when the clouds in autumn crack. 

Hor. Her father is Baptista Minola, 

An affable and courteous gentleman. 

Her name is Katherina Minola, 

Renown’d in Padua for her scolding tongue, iw 
Pet. Iknowherfather, though I know not her; 
And he knew my deceased father well. 

I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her; 

And therefore let me be thus bold with you 
To give you over at this first encounter, 106 
Unless you will accompany me thither. 

Gru. I pray you, sir, let him go while the 
humour lasts. O’ my word, an she knew him 
as well as I do, she would think scolding 
would do little good upon him. She may per¬ 
haps call him half a score knaves or so, why, [no 
that’s nothing. An he begin once, he ’ll rail 
in his rope-tricks. I ’ll tell you what, sir, an 
she stand him but a little, he will throw a 
figure in her face and so disfigure her with it 
that she shall have no more eyes to see [us 
withal than a cat. You know him not, sir. 

Hor. Tarry, Petruchio, I must go with thee, 
For in Baptista’s keep my treasure is. 

He hath the jewel of my life in hold, 

His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca, 120 
And her withholds from me and other more, 
Suitors to her and rivals in my love, 

Supposing it a thing impossible, 

For those defects I have before rehears’d, 

That ever Katherina will be woo’d. 126 

Therefore this order hath Baptista ta’en, 

That none shall have access unto Bianca 
Till Katherine the curst have got a husband. 

Gru. Katherine the curst! 

A title for a maid of all titles the worst. iso 
Hor. Now shall my friend Petruchio do me 
grace, 

And offer me disguis’d in sober robes 
To old Baptista as a schoolmaster 
Well seen in music, to instruct Bianca ; 

That so I may, by this device, at least 135 
Have leave and leisure to make love to her 
And unsuspected court her by herself. 

Enter Gremio, and Lucentio disguised. 

Gru. Here’s no knavery! See, to beguile 
the old folks, how the young folks lay their 
heads together! i 4 « 

Master, master, look about you! Who goes 
there, ha ? 





*3 2 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


I. ii. 


Hor. Peace, Grumio! it is the rival of my 
love. 

Petruchio, stand by a while. 

Gru. A proper stripling and an amorous! 
Gre. 0 , very well; I have perus’d the note. 
Hark you, sir; I ’ll have them very fairly 
bound; 146 

All books of love, see that at any hand ; 

And see you read no other lectures to her. 

You understand me ? Over and beside 
Signior Baptista’s liberality, iso 

I ’ll mend it with a largess. Take your paper 
too, 

And let me have them very well perfum’d, 

For she is sweeter than perfume itself 
To whom they go to. What will you read to 
her ? 

Luc. Whate’er I read to her, I ’ll plead for 
yOU 156 

As for my patron, stand you so assur’d, 

As firmly as yourself were still in place ; 

Yea, and perhaps with more successful words 
Than you, unless you were a scholar, sir. 

Gre. 0 this learning, what a thing it 13 ! i60 

Gru. 0 this woodcock, what an ass it is ! 

Pet. Peace, sirrah! 

Hot. Grumio, mum! God save you, Signior 
Gremio. 

Gre. And you are well met, Signior Horten- 
Bio. 

Trow you whither I am going ? To Baptista 
Minola. 165 

I promis’d to inquire carefully 
About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca ; 

And by good fortune I have lighted well 
On this young man, for learning and behaviour 
Fit for her turn, well read in poetry no 

And other books, good ones, I warrant ye. 

Hot. ’T is well; and I have met a gentleman 
Hath promis’d me to help me to another, 

A fine musician to instruct our mistress ; 

So shall I no whit be behind in duty ns 

To fair Bianca, so belov’d of me. 

Gre. Belov’d of me ; and that my deeds shall 
prove. 

Gru. And that his bags shall prove. 

Hot. Gremio, ’tis now no time to vent our 
love. 

Listen to me, and if you speak me fair, iso 
I ’ll tell you news indifferent good for either. 
Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met, 
Upon agreement from us to his liking, x 
Will undertake to woo curst Katherine, 

Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please, iss 
Gre. So said, so done, is well. 

Hortensio, have you told him all her faults ? 
Pet. I know she is an irksome brawling 
scold. 

If that be all, masters, I hear no harm. 

Gre. No, say’st me so, friend ? What country¬ 
man ? 190 

Pet. Born in Verona, old Antonio’s son. 

My father dead, my fortune lives for me ; 

And I do hope good days and long to see. 

Gre. O sir, such a life with such a wife, were 
strange! 

But if you have a stomach, to ’t i’ God’s name; 


You shall have me assisting you in all. 

But will you woo this wild-cat ? 

Pet. WillTlive? 

Gru. Will he woo her? Ay, or I’ll hang 
her. 

Pet. Why came I hither but to that intent ? 
Think you a little din can daunt mine ears ? 200 
Have I not in my time heard lions roar ? 

Have I not heard the sea, puff’d up with winds, 
Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat ? 
Have I not heard great ordnance in the field, 
And heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies ? aoe 
Have I not in a pitched battle heard 
Loud ’larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets’ 
clang ? 

And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue, 

That gives not half so great a blow to hear 
As will a chestnut in a farmer’s fire ? 210 

Tush, tush I fear boys with bugs. 

Gru. For he fears none. 

Gre. Hortensio, hark. 

This gentleman is happily arriv’d, 

My mind presumes, for his own good and ours. 

Hor. I promis’d we would be contributors 215 
And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe’er. 
Gre. And so we will, provided that he win 
her. 

Gru. I would I were as sure of a good dinner. 

Enter Tranio brave , and Biondello. 

Tra. Gentlemen, God save you. If I may be 
bold, 

Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest 
way 220 

To the house of Signior Baptista Minola ? 

Bion. He that has the two fair daughters ? 

Is’t he you mean ? 

Tra. Even he, Biondello. 

Gre. Hark you, sir ; you mean not her to — 
Tra. Perhaps, him and her, sir; what have 
you to do ? 226 

Pet. Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, 
I pray. 

Tra. I love no chiders, sir. Biondello, let’s 
away. 

Luc. Well begun, Tranio. 

Hor. Sir, a word ere you go; 

Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea 
or no ? 230 

Tra. And if I be, sir, is it any offence ? 

Gre. No ; if without more words you will get 
you hence. 

Tra. Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as 
free 

For me as for you ? 

Gre. But so is not she. 234 

Tra. For what reason, I beseech you ? 

Gre. For this reason, if you ’ll know, 

I hat she’s the choice love of Signior Gremio. 
Hor. That ^ she’s the chosen of Signior 
Hortensio. 

Tra. Softly, my masters! If you be gentle¬ 
men, 

Do me this right: hear me with patience. 
Baptista is a noble gentleman, ut 

To whom my father is not all unknown ; 

And were his daughter fairer than she is, 




II. 1. 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


i33 


She may more suitors have, and me for one. 
Fair Leda’s daughter had a thousand wooers ; 
Then well one more may fair Bianca have ; 245 
And so she shall. Lucentio shall make one, 
Though Paris came in hope to speed alone. 

Gre. What! this gentleman will out-talk us 
all. 

Luc. Sir, give him head ; I know he ’ll prove 
a jade. 

Pet. Hortensio, to what end are all these 
words ? 250 

Hor. Sir, let me he so bold as ask you, 

Did you yet ever see Baptista’s daughter ? 

Tra. No, sir; but hear I do that he hath 
two, 

The one as famous for a scolding tongue 
As is the other for beauteous modesty. 256 
Pet. Sir, sir, the first’s for me ; let her go by. 
Gre. Yea, leave that labour to great Her¬ 
cules ; 

And let it be more than Alcides’ twelve. 

Pet. Sir, understand you this of me in sooth: 
The youngest daughter, whom you hearken 
for, 260 

Her father keeps from all access of suitors, 
And will not promise her to any man 
Until the elder sister first be wed. 

The younger then is free and not before. 

Tra. If it be so, sir, that you are the man 266 
Must stead us all, and me amongst the rest, 
And if you break the ice and do this feat, 
Achieve the elder, set the younger free 
For our access, whose hap shall be to have her 
Will not so graceless be to be ingrate. 270 

Hor. Sir, you say well, and well you do con¬ 
ceive ; 

And since you do profess to be a suitor, 

You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman, 

To whom we all rest generally beholding. 

Tra. Sir, I shall not be slack ; in sign where- 

Of, ^ ®75 

Please ye we may contrive this afternoon 
And quaff carouses to our mistress’ health; 
And do as adversaries do in law, 

Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends. 
Gru. Bion. O excellent motion! Fellows, 
let’s be gone. < 280 

Hor. The motion’s good indeed, and be it so. 
Petruchio, I shall be your ben venuto. 

[Exeunt. 


[ACT II 

Scene I. Padua. A room in Baptista’s house.] 

Enter Katherina and Bianca. 

Bian. Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong 
yourself, 

To make a bondmaid and a slave of me. 

That I disdain ; but for these other gawds, 
Unbind my hands, I ’ll pull them off myself, 
Yea, all my raiment, to mv petticoat; 6 

Or what you will command me will I do, 

So well I know my duty to my elders. 

Kath. Of all thy suitors, here I charge thee, 
teU 

Whom thou lov’st best; see thou dissemble not. 


Bian. Believe me, sister, of aU the men 
alive 10 

I never yet beheld that special face 
Which I could fancy more than any other. 
Kath. Minion, thou liest. Is’t not Hortensio ? 
Bian. If you affect him, sister, here I swear 
I ’U plead for you myself, but you shaU have 
him. is 

Kath. 0 then, belike, you fancy riches more. 
You wifi have Gremio to keep you fair. 

Bian. Is it for him you do envv me so ? 

Nay then you jest, and now I well perceive 
You have but jested with me aU this while. 20 
I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands. 

Kath. If that be jest, then all the rest was so. 

[Sin'&es her. 

Enter Baptista. 

Bap. Why, how now, dame ! whence grows 
this insolence ? 

Bianca, stand aside. Poor girl! she weeps. 

Go ply thy needle ; meddle not with her. 25 
For shame, thou hilding of a devilish spirit, 
Why dost thou wrong her that did ne’er wrong 
thee ? 

When did she cross thee with a bitter word ? 
Kath. Her silence flouts me, and I ’ll be re¬ 
veng’d. _ [Flies after Bianca. 

Bap. What, in my sight ? Bianca, get thee 
in. [Exit Bianca, so 

Kath. What, wiU you not suffer me ? Nay, 
now I see 

She is your treasure, she must have a husband. 
I must dance bare-foot on her wedding-day 
And for your love to her lead apes in hell. 

Talk not to me ; I will go sit and weep 3 n 

Till I can find occasion of revenge. [Exit.) 

Bap. Was ever gentleman thus griev’d as I r 
But who comes here ? 

Enter Gremio, Lucentio in the habit of a mean 
man ; Petruchio with [Hortensio as a mu¬ 
sician ; and) Tranio, with his boy [Bion- 
dello] bearing a lute and books. 

Gre. Good morrow, neighbour Baptista. a* 
Bap. Good morrow, neighbour Gremio. God 
save you, gentlemen! 

Pet. And you, good sir ! Pray, have you not 
a daughter 

Call’d Katherina, fair and virtuous ? 

Bap. I have a daughter, sir, call’d Katherina. 
Gre. You are too blunt, go to it orderly. « 
Pet. You wrong me, Signior Gremio; give 
me leave. 

I am a gentleman of Verona, sir, 

That, hearing of her beauty and her wit, 

Her affability and bashful modesty, 

Her wondrous qualities and mild behaviour, so 
Am bold to show myself a forward guest 
Within your house, to make mine eye the wit¬ 
ness 

Of that report which I so oft have heard. 

And, for an entrance to my entertainment, 

I do present you with a man of mine, 55 

[Presenting Hortensio .1 
Cunning in music and the mathematics, 

To instruct her fully in those sciences, 




134 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


ii. t 


Whereof I know she is not ignorant. 

Accept of him, or else you do me wrong: 

His name is Licio, horn in Mantua. eo 

Bap. You ’re welcome, sir ; and he, for your 
good sake. 

But for my daughter Katherine, this I know, 
She is not for your turn, the more my grief. 

Pet. I see you do not mean to part with her, 
Or else you like not of my company. 65 

Bap. Mistake me not; I speak hut as I find. 
Whence are you, sir ? What may I call your 
name ? 

Pet. Petruehio is my name ; Antonio’s son, 
A man well known throughout all Italy. 

Bap. I know him well; you are welcome for 
his sake. to 

Gre. Saying your tale, Petruehio, I pray, 
Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too. 
Baccare ! you are marvellous forward. 

Pet. 0 , pardon me, Signior Gremio ; I would 
fain be doing. 

Gre. I doubt it not, sir ; hut you will curse 
your wooing. 76 

Neighbour, this is a gift very grateful, I am 
sure of it. To express the like kindness, my¬ 
self, that have been more kindly beholding to 
you than any, freely give unto you this young 
scholar [ presenting Lucentio ], that hath been 
long studying at Rkeims; as cunning in [so 
Greek, Latin, and other languages, as the other 
in music and mathematics. His name is Cam¬ 
bio ; pray, accept his service. 

Bap. A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio. [ss 
Welcome, good. Cambio. [To Tranio .] But, 
gentle sir, methinks you walk like a stranger. 
May I be so bold to know the cause of your 
coming ? 

Tra. Pardonme, sir, the boldness is mineown, 
That, being a stranger in this city here, so 
Do make myself a suitor to your daughter, 
Unto Bianca, fair and virtuous. 

Nor is your firm resolve unknown to me, 

In the preferment of the eldest sister. 

This liberty is all that I request, 95 

That, upon knowledge of my parentage, 

I may have welcome ’mongst the rest that woo, 
And free access and favour as the rest; 

And, toward the education of your daughters, 
I here bestow a simple instrument, 100 

And this small packet of Greek and Latin 
books. 

If you accept them, then their worth is great. 
Bap. Lucentio is your name; of whence, I 
pray? 

Tra. Of Pisa, sir ; son to Vincentio. 

Bap. A mighty man of Pisa ; by report 105 
I know him well. You are very welcome, sir. 
Take you the lute, and you the set of books. 
You shall go see your pupils presently. 

Holla, within! 

Enter a Servant. 

Sirrah, lead these gentlemen 
To my daughters; and tell them both, no 
These are their tutors. Bid them use them well. 

[Exit Servant , with Lucentio and 
Hortensio , Biondello following .] 


We will go walk a little in the orchard, 

And then to dinner. You are passing welcome, 
And so I pray you all to think yourselves. 

Pet. Signior Baptista, my business asketh 
haste, us 

And every day I cannot come to woo. 

You knew my father well, and in him me, 

Left solely heir to all his lands and goods, 
Which I have bettered rather than decreas’d. 
Then tell me, if I get your daughter’s love, 12c 
What dowry shall 1 have with her to wife ? 
Bap. After my death the one half of my 
lands, 

And in possession twenty thousand crowns. 

Pet. And, for that dowry, I ’ll assure her of 
Her widowhood, be it that she survive me, 126 
In all my lands and leases whatsoever. 

Let specialties be therefore drawn between us, 
That covenants may be kept on either hand. 
Bap. Ay, when the special thing is well 
obtain’d, 

That is, her love ; for that is all in all. ise 
Pet. Why, that is nothing; for I tell you, 
father, 

I am as peremptory as she proud minded ; 

And where two raging fires meet together 
They do consume the thing that feeds their 
fury. 

Though little fire grows great with little wind, 
Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all; ise 
So I to her, and so she yields to me ; 

For I am rough and woo not like a babe. 

Bap. Well mayst thou woo, and happy be 
thy speed! 

But be thou arm’d for some unhappy words. 14c 
Pet. Ay, to the proof; as mountains are for 
winds, 

That shake not, though they blow perpetually. 

Re-enter Hortensio, with his head broke. 

Bap. How now, my friend ! why dost thou 
look so pale ? 

Hor. For fear, I promise you, if I look pale. 
Bap. What, will my daughter prove a good 
musician ? 145 

Hor. I think she ’ll sooner prove a soldier. 
Iron may hold with her, but never lutes. 

Bap. Why, then thou canst not break her to 
the lute ? 

Hor. Why, no; for she hath broke the lute 
to me. 

I did but tell her she mistook her frets, iec 
And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering; 
When, with a most impatient devilish spirit, 
“Frets, call you these?” quoth she; “I’ll 
fume with them ; ” 

And, with that word, she struck me on the 
head, 

And through the instrument my pate made 
way; 155 

And there I stood amazed for a while, 

As on a pillory, looking through the lute ; 
While she did call me rascal fiddler 
And twangling Jack, with twenty such vile 
terms, 

As had she studied to misuse me so. 160 

Pet. Now, by the world, it Is a lusty wench; 




THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


*35 


II. L 

V 


I love her ten times more than e’er I did. 

O, how I long to have some chat with her! 
Bap. Well, go with me and be not so discom¬ 
fited. 

Proceed in practice with my younger daughter ; 
She ’8 apt to learn and thankful for good 
turns. i 6 « 

Signior Petruchio, will you go with us, 

Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you ? 

Pet. I pray you do. [Exeunt all but Petru¬ 
chio .] I will attend her here, 

And woo her with some spirit when she 
comes. 170 

Say that she rail, why then I ’ll tell her plain 
She sings as sweetly as a nightingale. 

Say that she frown, I ’ll say she looks as clear 
As morning roses newly wash’d with dew. 

Say she be mute and will not speak a word, 175 
Then I ’ll commend her volubility, 

And say she uttereth piercing eloquence. 

If she do bid me pack, I ’ll give her thanks, 

As though she bid me stay by her a week. 

If she deny to wed, I ’ll crave the day wo 

When I shall ask the banns and when be mar¬ 
ried. 

But here she comes; and now, Petruchio, speak. 
Enter Katherina. 

Good morrow, Kate ; for that’s your name, I 
hear. 

Kath. Well have you heard, but something 
hard of hearing. 

They call me Katherine that do talk of me. iss 
Pet. You lie, in faith ; for you are call’d 
plain Kate, 

And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the 
curst; 

But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom, 
Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate, 

For dainties are all cates, and therefore, Kate, 
Take this of me, Kate of my consolation ; m 
Hearing thy mildness praised in every town, 
Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded, 
Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs, 

Myself am mov’d to woo thee for my wife, we 
Kath. Mov’d ! in good time. Let him that 
mov’d you hither 

Remove you hence. I knew you at the first 
You were a moveable. 

Pet. Why, what’s a moveable ? 

Kath. A join’d-stool. 

Pet. Thou hast hit it; come, sit on me. 
Kath. Asses are made to bear, and so are 
you. 200 

Pet. Women are made to bear, and so are 
you. 

Kath. No such jade as you, if me you mean. 
Pet. Alas! good Kate, I will not burden 
thee; 

Fon knowing thee to be but young and light — 
Kath. Too light for such a swain as you to 
catch; 205 

And yet as heavy as my weight should be. 

Pet. Should be ! should — buzz! 

Kath. Well ta’en, and like a buzzard. 

Pet. O slow-wing’d turtle I shall a buzzard 
take thee ? 


Kath. Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard. 
Pet. Come, come, you wasp ; i’ faith, you are 
too angry. no 

Kath. If I be waspish, best beware my sting. 
Pet. My remedy is then, to pluck it out. 
Kath. Ay, if the fool could find it where it 
lies. 

Pet. Who knows not where a wasp does wear 
his sting? 

In his tail. sis 

Kath. In his tongue. 

Pet. Whose tongue ? 

Kath. Yours, if you talk of tales: and so 
farewell. 

Pet. What, with my tongue in your tail? 

Nay, come again, 

Good Kate ; I am a gentleman — 

Kath. That I ’ll try. 

[She strikes him. 
Pet. I swear I ’ll cuff you, if you strike 
again. S21 

Kath. So may you lose your arms. 

If you strike me, you are no gentleman; 

And if no gentleman, why then no arms. 

Pet. A herald, Kate ? 0 , put me in thy 
books! 225 

Kath. What is your crest ? A coxcomb ? 
Pet. A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen. 
Kath. No cock of mine ; you crow too like a 
craven. 

Pet. Nay, come, Kate, come ; you must not 
look so sour. 

Kath. It is my fashion, when I see a crab. 230 
Pet. Why, here’s no crab; and therefore 
look not sour. 

Kath. There is, there is. 

Pet. Then show it me. 

Kath. Had I a glass, I would. 

Pet. What, you mean my face f 235 

Kath. Well aim’d of such a young one. 

Pet. Now, by Saint George, I am too young 
for you. 

Kath. Yet you are wither’d. 

Pet. ’T is with cares. 24# 

Kath. I care not. 

Pet. Nay, hear you, Kate. In sooth vou scape 
not so. 

Kath. I chafe you, if I tarry. Let me go. 
Pet. No, not a whit; I nnd you passing 
gentle. 

’T was told me you were rough and coy and 
sullen, _ 2 « 

And now I find report a very liar; 

For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing 
courteous, 

But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time 
flowers. 

Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look 
askance, 

Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will, 250 

Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk, 

But thou with mildness entertain’st thy wooers, 

With gentle conference, soft and affable. 

Why does the world report that Kate doth 
limp ? 

0 slanderous world ! Kate like the hazel-twig 

Is straight and slender, and as brown in hue 





136 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


II. i. 


As hazel nuts and sweeter than the kernels. 

0 , let me see thee walk. Thou dost not halt. 
Kath. Go, fool, and whom thou keep’st 
command. 

Pet. Did ever Dian so become a grove 2 «° 
As Kate this chamber with her princely gait ? 
0 , be thou Dian, and let her be Kate ; 

And then let Kate be chaste and Dian sportful! 
Kath. Where did you study all this goodly 
speech ? 

Pet. It is extempore, from my mother-wit. 265 
Kath. A witty mother! witless else her son. 
Pet. Am I not wise ? 

Kath. Yes; keep you warm. 

Pet. Marry, so I mean, sweet Katherine, in 
thy bed; 

And therefore, setting all this chat aside, 270 
Thus in plain terms. Your father hath con¬ 
sented 

That you shall be my wife ; your dowry ’greed 
on; 

And, will you, nill you, I will marry you. 

Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn; 

For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty, 275 
Thy beauty, that doth make me like thee well, 
Thou must be married to no man but me ; 

Re-enter Baptista, Gremio, and Tranio. 

For I am he am born to tame you Kate, 

And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate 
Conformable as other household Kates. . 280 
Here comes your father. Never make denial; 

I must and will have Katherine to my wife. 
Bap. Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed 
you with my daughter ? 

Pet. How but well, sir ? How but well ? 

It were impossible I should speed amiss. . 285 
Bap. Why, how now, daughter Katherine ! 
In your dumps ? 

Kath. Call you me daughter ? Now I pro¬ 
mise you 

You have snow’d a tender fatherly regard, 

To wish me wed to one half lunatic ; 

A mad-cap ruffian and a swearing Jack, 290 
That thinks with oaths to face the matter out. 
Pet. Father, ’t is thus. Yourself and all the 
world, 

That talk’d of her, have talk’d amiss of her. 

If she be curst, it is for policy, 

For she’s not froward, but modest as the dove ; 
She is not hot, but temperate as the morn; 295 
For patience she will prove a second Grissel, 
And Roman Lucrece for her chastity; 

And to conclude, we have ’greed so well to¬ 
gether 

That upon Sunday is the wedding-day. 300 
Kath. I ’ll see thee hang’d on Sunday first. 
Gre. Hark, Petruchio; she says she ’ll see 
thee hang’d first. 

Tra. Is this your speeding? Nay, then, 
good night our part 1 

Pet. Be patient, gentlemen; I choose her for 
myself. 

If she and I be pleas’d, what’s tha,t to you ? 30c 
’T is bargain’d ’twixt us twain, being alone, 
That she shall still be curst in company. 

I tell you, ’t is incredible to believe 


How much she loves me. 0 , the kindest Kate ! 
She hung about my neck ; and kiss on kiss 310 
She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath, 

That in a twink she won me to her love. 

0 , you are novices ! ’T is a world to see, 

How tame, when men and women are alone, 

A meacock wretch can make the curstest 
shrew. . 315 

Give me thy hand, Kate. I will unto Venice, 
To buy apparel ’gainst the wedding-day. 
Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests; 

I will be sure my Katherine shall be fine. 

Bap. I know not what to say ; but give me 
your hands. # 320 

God send you joy, Petruchio ! ’T is a match. 
Gre. Tra. Amen, say we. We will be wit¬ 
nesses. 

Pet. Father, and wife, and gentlemen, 
adieu. 

I will to Venice ; Sunday comes apace. 

We will have rings and things and fine array ; 32s 
And kiss me, Kate, “we will be married o’ 
Sunday.” , 

[Exeunt Petruchio and Kathenna 
[severally ]. 

Gre. Was ever match clapp’d up so suddenly ? 
Bap. Faith, gentlemen, now I play a mer¬ 
chant’s part, 

And venture madly on a desperate mart. 

Tra. ’T was a commodity lay fretting by 
you. 330 

’Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas. 
Bap. The gain I seek is, quiet in the match. 
Gre. No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch. 
But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter. 
Now is the day we long have looked for. 335 
I am your neighbour, and was suitor first. 

Tra. And I am one that love Bianca more 
Than words can witness, or your thoughts can 
guess. 

Gre. Youngling, thou canst not love so dear 
as I. 

Tra. Greybeard, thy love doth freeze. 

Gre. But thine doth fry. 

Skipper, stand back! ’T is age that nourish- 
eth. _ 341 

Tra. But youth in ladies’ eyes that flourish- 
eth. 

Bap. Content you, gentlemen; I will com¬ 
pound this strife. 

’T is deeds must win the prize ; and he of both 
That can assure my daughter greatest dower 
Shall have my Bianca’s love. »46 

Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her ? 
Gre. First, as you know, my house within 
the city 

Is richly furnished with plate and gold ; 

Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands; sso 
My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry; 

In ivory coffers I have stuff’d my crowns, 

In cypress chests my arras counterpoints, 
Costly apparel, tents, and canopies, 

Fine linen. Turkey cushions boss’d with pearl, 
Valance ox Venice gold in needle-work, 330 
Pewter and brass and all things that belongs 
To house or housekeeping. Then, at my farm 
I have a hundred mileh-kine to the pail, 







hi. i. 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


J 37 


Six score fat oxen standing in my stalls, 3eo 
And all things answerable to this portion. 
Myself am struck in years, I must confess ; 
And if I die to-morrow, this is hers, 

If whilst I live she will he only mine. 

Tra. That “ only ” came well in. Sir, list to 
me. see 

I am my father’s heir and only son. 

If I may have your daughter to my wife, 

I ’ll leave her houses three or four as good, 
Within rich Pisa walls, as any one 
Old Signior Gremio has in Padua ; 370 

Besides two thousand ducats by the year 
Of fruitful land, all which shall be her join¬ 
ture. 

What, have I pinch’d you, Signior Gremio ? 

Gre. Two thousand ducats by the year of 
land! 

(My land amounts not to so much in all,) 375 
. [Aside.] 

That she shall have ; besides an argosy 
That now is lying in Marseilles’ road. 

What, have I chok’d you with an argosy? 

Tra. Gremio, ’t is known my father hath no 
less 

Than three great argosies, besides two gal- 
liases 880 

And twelve tight galleys. These I will assure 
her, 

And twice as much, whate’er thou off Test 
next. 


Gre. Nay, I have off’red all, I have no 
more; 

And she can have no more than all I have. 

If you like me, she shall have me and mine. 385 
Tra. Why, then the maid is mine from all 
the world, 

By your firm promise ; Gremio is out-vied. 

Bap. I must confess your offer is the best; 
And, let your father make her the assurance, 
She is your own ; else, you must pardon me, 390 
If you should die before him, where’s her 
dower ? 

Tra. That’s but a cavil. He is old, I 
young. 

Gre. And may not young men die, as well 
as old ? 

Bap. Well, gentlemen, 

I am thus resolv’d: on Sunday next you know 
My daughter Katherine is to be married. soe 
Now, on the Sunday following, shall Bianca 
Be bride to you, if you make this assurance ; 

If not, to Signior Gremio. 

And so, I take my leave, and thank you both. 

[Exit. 

Gre. Adieu, good neighbour. Now I fear 
thee not. 401 

Sirrah young gamester ; your father were a fool 
To give thee all, and in his waning age 
Set foot under thy table. Tut, a toy I 
An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy. 405 

# [Exit. 

Tra. A vengeance on your crafty withered 
hide! 

Yet I have fac’d it with a card of ten. 

’T is in my head to do my master good. 

I see no reason but suppos’d Lucentio 


Must get a father, call’d “suppos’d Vin- 
centio ” ; « 0 

And that’s a wonder. Fathers commonly 
Do get their children; but in this case of woo- 
.ing, 

A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my 
cunning. [Exit. 


ACT III 

[Scene I. Padua. Baptista's house.] 

Enter Lucentio, Hortensio, and Bianca. 

Luc. Fiddler, forbear; you grow too for¬ 
ward, sir. 

Have you so soon forgot the entertainment 
Her sister Katherine welcom’d you withal ? 

Hot. But, wrangling pedant, this is 
The patroness of heavenly harmony. b 

Then give me leave to have prerogative ; 

And when in music we have spent an hour, 
Your lecture shall have leisure for as much. 
Luc. Preposterous ass, that never read so 
far 

To know the cause why music was ordain’d ! 10 
Was it not to refresh the mind of man 
After his studies or his usual pain ? 

Then give me leave to read philosophy, 

And while I pause, serve in your harmony. 
Hot. Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of 
thine. 15 

Bian. Why, gentlemen, you do me double 
wrong, 

To strive for that which resteth in my choice. 

I am no breeching scholar in the schools. 

I ’ll not be tied to hours nor ’pointed times, 
But learn my lessons as I please myself. so 

And, to cut off all strife, here sit we down; 
Take you your instrument, play you the 
whiles; 

His lecture will be done ere you have tun’d. 
Hot. You ’ll leave his lecture when I am in 
tune ? 

Luc. That will be never ; tune your instru¬ 
ment. 25 

Bian. Where left we last ? 

Luc. Here, madam: 

“ Hie ibat Simois; hie est Sigeia tellus; 

Hie steterat Priami regia celsa senis.” 
Bian. Construe them. 30 

Luc. “ Hie ibat,” as I told you before, 
“ Simois ,” I am Lucentio, “ hie est,” son unto 
Vincentio of Pisa, “ Sigeia tellus ,” disguised 
thus to get your love; “ Hie steterat, ’ and 
that Lucentio that comes a-wooing, “ Priami,” 
is my man Tranio, “regia” bearing my port, [35 
“ celsa senis,” that we might beguile the old 
pantaloon. 

Hor. Madam, my instrument’s in tune. 

Bian. Let’s hear. 0 fie ! the treble jars. 
Luc. Spit in the hole, man, and tune again. 
Bian. Now let me see if I can construe 
it: 41 

“Hie ibat Simois ,” I know you not, “ hie est 
Sigeia tellus ,” I txaist you not; “Hie steterat 
Priami ,” take heed he hear us not, “regia,” 
presume not, “ celsa senis,” despair not. 45 







*38 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


hi. 11. 


Hor. Madam, ’t is now in tune. 

Luc. All but the base. 

Hor. The base is right; ’t is the base 
knave that jars. 

[Aside.] How fiery and forward our pedant is ! 
Now, for my life, the knave doth court my 
love: 

Pedascule, I ’ll watch you better yet. so 

Bian. In time I may believe, yet I mis¬ 
trust. 

Luc. Mistrust it not; for, sure, iEacides 
Was Ajax, call’d so from his grandfather. 
Bian. I must believe my master; else, I 
promise you, 

I should be arguing still upon that doubt. ss 
But let it rest. Now, Licio, to you. 

Good master, take it not unkindly, pray, 

That I have been thus pleasant with you both. 
Hor. You may go walk, and give me leave a 
while. 

My lessons make no music in three parts. eo 
Luc. Are you so formal, sir? Well, I must 
wait, 

[Aside.] And watch withal; for, but I be de¬ 
ceiv’d, 

Our fine musician groweth amorous. 

Hor. Madam, before you touch the instru¬ 
ment, 

To learn the order of my fingering, 66 

I must begin with rudiments of art; 

To teach you gamut in a briefer sort, 

More pleasant, pithy, and effectual, 

Than hath been taught by any of my trade ; 
And there it is in writing, fairly drawn. 70 
Bian. Why, I am past my gamut long ago. 
Hor. Yet read the gamut of Hortensio. 

Bian. [Beads.] 

“ Gamut I am, the ground of all accord, 

A re, to plead Hortensio’s passion. 

B mi , Bianca, take him for thy lord, 76 
Cfa ut , that loves with all affection. 

D sol re, one clef, two notes have I. 

E la mi, show pity, or I die.” 

Call you this gamut ? Tut, I like it not: 

Old fashions please me best; I am not so 
nice, so 

To change true rules for odd inventions. 

Enter a Messenger. 


[Scene II. Padua. Before Baptista's house.] 

Enter Baptist a, Gremio, Tranio, Kath- 
erina, Blanca, [Lucentio,] and others , at¬ 
tendants. 

Bap. [To Tranio.] Signior Lucentio, this is 
the ’pointed day, 

That Katherine and Petruchio should be mar¬ 
ried, 

And yet we hear not of our son-in-law. 

What will be said ? What mockery will it be, 
To want the bridegroom when the priest at¬ 
tends 6 

To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage ! 
What says Lucentio to this shame of ours ? 
Hath. No shame but mine. I must, forsooth, 
be forc’d 

To give my hand oppos’d against my heart 
Unto a mad-brain rudesby full of spleen, 10 
Who woo’d in haste and means to wed at 
leisure. 

I told you, I, he was a frantic fool, 

Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour; 

And, to be noted for a merry man, 

He ’ll woo a thousand, ’point the day of mar¬ 
riage, _ 16 

Make friends, invite, yes, and proclaim the 
banns, 

Yet never means to wed where he hath woo’d. 
Now must the world point at poor Katherine, 
And say, “ Lo, there is mad Petruchio’s wife, 
If it would please him come and marry her ! ” 
Tra. Patience, good Katherine, and Bap- 
tista too. 21 

Upon my life, Petruchio means but well, 
Whatever fortune stays him from his word. 
Though he be blunt, I know him passing 
wise; 

Though he be merry, yet withal he’s honest. 26 
Hath. Would Katherine had never seen him 
though! 

[Exit weeping [followed by Bianca 
and others ]. 

Bap. Go, girl, I cannot blame thee now to 
weep; 

For such an injury would vex a very saint, 
Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour. 

Enter Biondello. 


Mess. Mistress, your father prays you leave 
your books 

And help to dress your sister’s chamber up. 

You know to-morrow is the wedding-day. 
Bian. Farewell, sweet masters both ; I must 
be gone. 85 

[Exeunt Bianca and Messenger.] 
Luc. Faith, mistress, then I have no cause 
to stay. [Exit.] 

Hor. But I have cause to pry into this 
pedant. 

Methinks he looks as though he were in love; 

Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble 

To cast thy wandering eyes on every stale, so 

Seize thee that list. If once I find thee rang¬ 
ing 1 * 

Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing. 

[Exit. 


Bion. Master, master! news, [old news,] 
and such news as you never heard of ! 31 

Bap. Is it new and old too ? How may that 
be? 

Bion. Why, is it not news to hear of Pe¬ 
truchio’s coming ? 

Bap. Is he come ? 3s 

Bion. Why, no, sir. 

Bap. What then? 

Bion. He is coming. 

Bap. When will he be here ? 

Bion. When he stands where I am and sees 
you there. 41 

Tra. But say, what to thine old news ? 

Bion. Why, Petruchio is coming in a new 
hat and an old jerkin ; a pair of old breeches 
thrice turn’d; a pair of boots that have 
been candle-cases, one buckled, another [45 





III. 11. 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


i 39 


lac’d; an old rusty sword ta’en out of the 
town-armoury, with a broken hilt, and chape- 
less ; with two broken points ; his horse hipp’d 
with an old motliy saddle and stirrups of no 
kindred, besides, possess’d with the glanders [so 
and like to mose in the chine, troubled with 
the lampass, infected with the fashions, full of 
windgalls, sped with spavins, rayed with the 
yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoil’d 
with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, [ss 
sway’d in the back and shoulder-sliotten, near- 
legg’d before, and with a half-check’d bit and 
a head-stall of sheep’s leather which, being 
restrain’d to keep him from stumbling, hath 
been often burst and now repaired with knots ; 
one girth six times piec’d, and a woman’s [60 
crupper of velure, which hath two letters for 
her name fairly set down in studs, and here 
and there piec’d with packthread. 

Bap. Who comes with him ? os 

Bion. O, sir, his lackey, for all the world 
caparison’d like the horse ; with a linen stock 
on one leg and a kersey boot-hose on the other, 
gart’red with a red and blue list; an old hat 
and the humour of forty fancies prick’d 
in’t for a feather: a monster, a very monster [to 
in apparel, and not like a Christian footboy or 
a gentleman’s lackey. 

Tra. ’T is some odd humour pricks him to 
this fashion; 

Yet oftentimes he goes butmean-apparell’d. 75 

Bap. I am glad he’s come, howsoe’er he 
comes. 

Bion. Why, sir, he comes not. 

Bap. Didst thou not say he comes ? 

Bion. Who? That Petruchio came? 

Bap. Ay, that Petruchio came. so 

Bion. No, sir; I say his horse comes, with 
him on his back. 

Bap. Why, that’s all one. 

Bion. Nay, by Saint Jamy, 

I hold you a penny, 88 

A horse and a man 
Is more than one, 

And yet not many. 

Enter Petruchio and Grumio. 

Pet. Come, where be these gallants ? Who’s 
at home ? 89 

Bap. You are welcome, sir. 

Pet. And yet I come not well. 

Bap. And yet you halt not. 

Tra. Not so well apparell’d 

As I wish you were. 

Pet. Were it better, I should rush in thus. 
But where is Kate ? Where is my lovely bride ? 
How does my father ? Gentles, methinks you 
frown; 95 

And wherefore gaze this goodly company, 

As if they saw some wondrous monument, 
Some comet or unusual prodigy ? 

Bap. Why, sir, you know this is your wed¬ 
ding-day. 

First were we sad, fearing you would not come ; 
Now sadder, that you come so unprovided. 101 
Fie, doff this habit, shame to your estate, 

An eye-sore to our solemn festival! 


Tra. And tell us, what occasion of import 
Hath all so long detain’d you from your wife, 
And sent you hither so unlike yourself ? io« 
Pet. Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to 
hear. 

Sufficeth, I am come to keep my word, 

Though in some part enforced to digress ; 
Which, at more leisure, I will so excuse 110 
As you shall well be satisfied withal. 

But where is Kate ? I stay too long from her. 
The morning wears, ’t is time we were at 
church. 

Tra. See not your bride in these unreverent 
robes. 

Go to my chamber ; put on clothes of mine, us 
Pet. Not I, believe me ; thus I ’ll visit her. 
Bap. But thus, I trust, you will not marry 
her. 

Pet. Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha’ 
done with words. 

To me she’s married, not unto my clothes. 
Could I repair what she will wear in me, 120 
As I can change these poor accoutrements, 

’T were well for Kate and better for myself. 
But what a fool am I to chat with you, 

When I should bid good morrow to my bride, 
And seal the title with a lovely kiss ! 125 

[Exeunt [Petruchio and Grumio]. 
Tra. He hath some meaning in his mad 
attire. 

We will persuade him, be it possible, 

To put on better ere he go to church. 

Bap. I ’ll after him, and see the event of this. 

[Exeunt [Baptista, Gremio , and at¬ 
tendants ]. 

Tra. But to her love concerneth us to add 130 
Her father’s liking ; which to bring to pass, 

As I before imparted to your worship, 

I am to get a man, —whate’er he be, 

It skills not much, we ’ll fit him to our turn, — 
And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa; 13s 

And make assurance here in Padua 
Of greater sums than I have promised. 

So shall you quietly enjoy your hope, 

And marry sweet Bianca with consent. 

Luc. W ere it not that my fellow-schoolmaster 
Doth watch Bianca’s steps so narrowly, 1*1 
’T were good, methinks, to steal our marriage; 
Which once perform’d, let all the world say no, 
I ’ll keep mine own, despite of all the world. 

Tra. That by degrees we mean to look into, 
And watch our vantage in this business. we 
We ’ll over-reach the greybeard, Gremio, 

The narrow prying father, Minola, 

The quaint musician, amorous Licio, 

All for my master’s sake, Lucentio. is# 

Re-enter Gremio. 

Signior Gremio, came you from the church ? 
Gre. As willingly as e’er I came from school. 
Tra. And is the bride and bridegroom coming 
home ? 

Gre. A bridegroom say you ? ’T is a groom 
indeed, # 164 

A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find. 
Tra. Curster than she? Why, ’t is impos¬ 
sible. 




I 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


140 


hi. 11. 


Gre. Why, he’s a devil, a devil, a very fiend. 
Tra. Why, she’s a devil, a devil, the devil’s 
dam. 

Gre. Tut, she’s a lamb, a dove, a fool to him! 
I ’ll tell you, Sir Lucentio : when the priest ieo 
Should ask, if Katherine should be his wife, 

“ Ay, by gogs-wouns,” quoth he; and swore so 
loud, 

That, all-amaz’d, the priest let fall the book ; 
And, as he stoop’d again to take it up, 

The mad-brain’d bridegroom took him such a 
Cuff 165 

That down fell priest and book, and book and 
priest. 

“ Now take them up,” quoth he, “ if any list.” 
Tra. What said the wench when he rose 
again ? 

Gre. Trembled and shook; for why, he 
stamp’d and swore, 

As if the vicar meant to cozen him. ivo 

But after many ceremonies done, 

He calls for wine. “ A health ! ” quoth he, as if 
He had been aboard, carousing to his mates 
After a storm ; quaff’d off the muscadel, 

And threw the sops all in the sexton’s face, 175 
Having no other reason 
But that his beard grew thin and hungerly, 
And seem’d to ask him sops as he was drink¬ 
ing. 

This done, he took the bride about the neck 
And kiss’d her lips with such a clamorous 
smack iso 

That at the parting all the church did echo. 
And I seeing this, came thence for very 
shame, 

And after me, I know, the rout is coming. 

Such a mad marriage never was before. 

Hark, hark! I hear the minstrels play. iss 

[Music plays. 

Re-enter Petruchio, Katherina, Bianca, 
Baptista, Hortensio [Grumio, and 
Train]. 

Pet. Gentlemen and friends, I thank you 
for your pains. 

I know you think to dine with me to-day, 

And have prepar’d great store of wedding 
cheer; 

But so it is, my haste doth call me hence, isa 
And therefore here I mean to take my leave. 
Bap. Is’t possible you will away to-night ? 
Pet. I must away to-day, before night come. 
Make it no wonder ; if you knew my business, 
You would entreat me rather go than stay. 
And, honest company, I thank you all 195 

That have beheld me give away myself 
To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife. 
Dine with my father, drink a health to me, 

For I must hence ; and farewell to you all. 

Tra. Let us entreat you stay till after din¬ 
ner. 200 

Pet. It may not be. 

Gre. Let me entreat you. 

Pet. It cannot be. 

Kath. Let me entreat you. 

Pet. I am content. 

Kath. Are you content to stay ? 


Pet. I am content you shall entreat me stay; 
But yet not stay, entreat me how you can. 205 
Kath. Now, if you love me, stay. 

Pet. Grumio, my horse. 

Gru. Ay, sir, they be ready; the oats have 
eaten the horses. 

Kath. Nay, then, 

Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day ; 219 

No, nor to-morrow, not till I please myself. 
The door is open, sir ; there lies your way; 
You may be jogging whiles your boots are 
green. 

For me, I ’ll not be gone till I please myself. 

’T is like you ’ll prove a jolly surly groom, 216 
That take it on you at the first so roundly. 

Pet. O Kate, content thee; prithee, be not 
angry. 

Kath. I will be angry. What hast thou to 
do? 

Father, be quiet; he shall stay my leisure. 

Gre. Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work. 
Kath. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal 

dinner. 221 

I see a woman may be made a fool, 

If she had not a spirit to resist. 

Pet. They shall go forward, Kate, at thy 
command. 

Obey the bride, you that attend on her. 225 

Go to the feast, revel and domineer. 

Carouse full measure to her maidenhead, 

Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves ; 

But for my bonny Kate, she must with me. 
Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor 
fret; 230 

I will be master of what is mine own. 

She is my goods, my chattels ; she is my house, 
My household stuff, my field, my barn, 

My horse, my ox, my ass, my any thing; 

And here she stands, touch her w r hoever dare, 

I ’ll bring mine action on the proudest he 236 
That stops my way in Padua. Grumio, 

Draw forth thy weapon, we are beset with 
thieves; 

Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man. 

Fear not, sweet wench, they shall not touch 
thee, Kate; 240 

I ’ll buckler thee against a million. 

[Exeunt Petruchio , Katherina [and 
Grumio]. 

Bap. Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet 
ones. 

Gre. Went they not quickly, I should die 
with laughing. 

Tra. Of all mad matches never was the 
like. 

Luc. Mistress, what’s your opinion of your 
sister ? 245 

Bian. That, being mad herself, she’s madly 
mated. 

Gre. I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated. 
Bap. Neighbours and friends, though bride 
and bridegroom wants 
For to supply the places at the table, 

You know there wants no junkets at the feast. 
Lucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom’s 
place; 251 

And let Bianca take her sister’s room. 






IV. 1. 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


Tra. Shall sweet Bianca practise how to 
bride it ? 

Bap. She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentle¬ 
men, let’s go. [Exeunt. 

[ACT IV 

Scene I. Petruchio's country house.] 
Enter Grumio. 

Gru. Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad 
masters, and all foul ways ! Was ever man so 
beaten ? Was ever man so ray’d ? Was ever 
man so weary? I am sent before to make a 
fire, and they are coming after to warm them. 
Now, were not I a little pot and soon hot, my [b 
very lips might freeze to my teeth, my tongue 
to the roof of my mouth, my heart in my belly, 
ere I should come by a fire to thaw me ; but I, 
with blowing the fire, shall warm myself ; for, 
considering the weather, a taller man than I [10 
will take cold. Holla, ho ! Curtis. 

Enter Curtis. 

Curt. Who is that calls so coldly ? 

Gru. A piece of ice. If thou doubt it, thou 
mayst slide from my shoulder to my heel with 
no greater a run but my head and my neck, [is 
A fire, good Curtis. 

Curt. Is my master and his wife coming, 
Grumio ? 

Gru. 0 , ay, Curtis, ay; and therefore fire, [20 
fire ; cast on no water. 

Curt. Is she so hot a shrew as she’s re¬ 
ported ? 

Gru. She was, good Curtis, before this 
frost; but, thou know’st, winter tames man, 
woman, and beast; for it hath tam’d my old 
master and my new mistress and myself, fel- [26 
low Curtis. 

Curt. Away, you three-inch fool! I am no 
beast. 

Gru. Am I but three inches? Why, thy 
horn is a foot; and so long am I at the least. 
But wilt thou make a fire, or shall I com- [30 
plain on thee to our mistress, whose hand, she 
being now at hand, thou shalt soon feel, to 
thy cold comfort, for being slow in thy hot 
office ? 

Curt. I prithee, good Grumio, tell me, 
how goes the world ? 36 

Gru. A cold world, Curtis, in every office 
but thine; and therefore fire. Do thy duty 
and have thy duty, for my master and mis¬ 
tress are almost frozen to death. 40 

Curt. There’s fire ready; and therefore, 
good Grumio, the news. 

Gru. Why, “Jack, boy! ho! boy!” and as 
much news as thou wilt. 

Curt. Come, you are so full of cony-catch- 
ing! 45 

Gru. Why, therefore fire ; for I have caught 
extreme cold. Where’s the cook ? Is supper 
ready, the house trimm’d, rushes strew’d, cob¬ 
webs swept: the servingmen in their new fus¬ 
tian, the white stockings, and every officer 
his wedding garment on ? Be the jacks fair [bo 


141 


within, the gills fair without, the carpets laid, 
and every thing in order ? 

Curt. All ready; and therefore, I pray thee, 
news. 55 

Gru. First, know, my horse is tired; my 
master and mistress fallen out. 

Curt. How ? 

Gru. Out of their saddles into the dirt; and 
thereby hangs a tale. eo 

Curt. Let’s ha’t, good Grumio. 

Gru. Lend thine ear. 

Curt. Here. 

Gru. There. [Strikes him.] 

Curt. This is to feel a tale, not to hear a 
tale. 66 

Gru. And therefore ’t is call’d a sensible 

tale; and this cuff was but to knock at your 
ear, and beseech listening. Now I begin : Im¬ 
primis, we came down a ford hill, my master 
riding behind my mistress, — to 

Curt. Both of one horse ? 

Gru. What’s that to thee ? 

Curt. Why, a horse. 

Gru. Tell thou the tale. But hadst thou not 
cross’d me, thou shouldst have heard how 
her horse fell and she under her horse ; thou [7s 
shouldst have heard in how miry a place, how 
she was bemoil’d, how he left her with the 
horse upon her, how he beat me because her 
horse stumbled, how she waded through the 
dirt to pluck him off me, how he swore, how [so 
she pray’d that never pray’d before, how I 
cried, how the horses ran away, how her bridle 
was burst, how I lost my crupper, with many 
things of worthy memory, which now shall die 
in oblivion and thou return unexperienc’d to 
thy grave. se 

Curt. By this reckoning he is more shrew 
than she. 

Gru. Ay ; and that thou and the proudest of 
you all shall find when he comes home. But 
what talk I of this? Call forth Nathaniel, [90 
Joseph, Nicholas, Philip, Walter, Sugarsop 
and the rest; let their heads be slickly comb’d, 
their blue coats brush’d and their garters of an 
indifferent knit; let them curtsy with their 
left legs and not presume to touch a hair [«b 
of my master’s horse-tail till they kiss their 
hands. Are they all ready ? 

Curt. They are. 

Gru. Call them forth. 99 

Curt. Do you hear, ho ? You must meet my 
master to countenance my mistress. 

Gru. Why, she hath a face of her own. 

Curt. Who knows not that ? 

Gru. Thou, it seems, that calls for company 
to countenance her. ioa 

Curt. I call them forth to credit her. 

Enter four or five Servingmen. 

Gru. Why, she comes to borrow nothing of 
them. 

Nath. Welcome home, Grumio ! 

Phil. How now, Grumio ! no 

Jos. What, Grumio ! 

Nich. Fellow Grumio. 

Nath. How now, old lad? 





142 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


iv. i. 


Gru. Welcome, you ; how now, you ; what, 
you; fellow, you; — and thus much for 
greeting. Now, my spruce companions, is [us 
all ready, and all things neat ? 

Nath. All things is ready. How near is our 
master ? * 19 

Gru. E’en at hand, alighted by this; and 
therefore he not — Cock’s passion, silence! I 
hear my master. 

Enter Petruchio and Katherina. 

Pet. Where he these knaves? What, no 
man at door 

To hold my stirrup nor to take my horse ! 
Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip ? 125 

All Serv. Here, here, sir ; here, sir. 

Pet. Here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! here, 
sir 1 

You logger-headed and unpolish’d grooms ! 
What, no attendance ? No regard ? No duty ? 
Where is the foolish knave I sent before ? 130 

Gru. Here, sir ; as foolish as I was before. 

Pet. You peasant swain! You whoreson 
malt-horse drudge! 

Did I not bid thee meet me in the park, 

And bring along these rascal knaves with 
thee ? 

Gru. Nathaniel’s coat, sir, was not fully 
made, _ 135 

And Gabriel’s pumps were all unpink’d i’ the 
heel; 

There was no link to colour Peter’s hat, 

And Walter’s dagger was not come from 
sheathing; 

There were none fine hut Adam, Ralph, and 
Gregory ; 

The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly ; 140 

Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet 
you. 

Pet. Go, rascals, go, and fetch my supper 
in. [Exeunt Servants. 

[Sinking.] “Where is the life that late I 

Where are those ? — Sit down, Kate, and wel¬ 
come. — 


Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily. 
You whoreson villain ! Will you let it fall ? 

[Strikes him .] 

Kath. Patience, I pray you; ’twas a fault 
unwilling. 

Pet. A whoreson beetle-headed, flap-ear’d 
knave! 160 

Come, Kate, sit down; I know you have a 
stomach. 

Will you give thanks, sweet Kate; or else 
shall I? 

What’s this ? Mutton ? 

1 . Serv. Ay. 

Pet. Who brought it ? 

Peter. I. 

Pet. ’T is burnt; and so is all the meat. 
What dogs are these! Where is the rascal 
COok ? 166 

How durst you, villains, bring it from the 
dresser, 

And serve it thus to me that love it not ? 
There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all. 

[Throws the meat , etc., about the 
stage.] 

You heedless joltheads and unmanner’d slaves! 
What, do you grumble ? I ’ll be with you 
straight. 170 

Kath. I pray you, husband, be not so dis¬ 
quiet. 

The meat was well, if you were so contented. 
Pet. I tell thee, Kate, ’t was burnt and dried 
away, 

And I expressly am forbid to touch it, 

For it engenders choler, planteth anger; ns 

A.nd better ’t were that both of us did fast, 
Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric, 
Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh. 

Be patient; to-morrow’t shall be mended, 
And, for this night, we ’ll fast for company. 180 
Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber. 

[Exeunt. 

Re-enter Servants severally. 

Nath. Peter, didst ever see the like ? 

Peter. He kills her in her own humour. 


Soud, soud, soud, soud ! 145 

Re-enter Servants, with supper. 

Why, when, I say ? Nay, good sweet Kate, be 
merry. 

Off with my boots, you rogues! You villains, 
when? 

[Sfngrs.] “ It was the friar of orders grey, 

As he forth walked on his way : ” — 

Out, you rogue ! you pluck my foot awry. iso 

Take that, and mend the plucking off the 
other. [Strikes him.) 

Be merry, Kate. Some water, here ; what, ho ! 

Enter one with water. 

Where’s my spaniel Troilus ? Sirrah, get you 
hence, 

And hid my cousin Ferdinand come hither ; 

One, Kate, that you must kiss, and be ac¬ 
quainted with. 155 

Where are my slippers? Shall I have some 
water ? 


Re-enter Curtis, a servant. 

Gru. Where is he ? 

Curt. In her chamber, making a sermon of 
continency to her ; i 8 « 

And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor 
soul, 

Knows not which way to stand, to look, to 
speak, 

And sits as one new-risen from a dream. 

Away, away ! for he is coming hither. m 

[Exeunt.] 

Re-enter Petruchio. 


Pet. Thus have I politicly begun my reign, 
And’t is my hope to end successfully. 

My falcon now is sharp and passing empty ; 
And till she stoop she must not be full-gorg’d, 
For then she never looks upon her lure. m 
Another way I have to man my haggard, 

To make her come and know her keeper’s call, 
That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites 




IV. ii. 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


*43 


That bate and beat and will not be obedient. 
She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat; 200 
Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall 
not; 

As with the meat, some undeserved fault 
I ’ll find about the making of the bed ; 

And here I ’ll fling the pillow, there the holster, 
This way the coverlet, another way the sheets. 
Ay, and amid this hurly I intend 206 

That all is done in reverend care of her ; 

And in conclusion she shall watch all night; 
And if she chance to nod I ’ll rail and brawl 
And with the clamour keep her still awake. 
This is a way to kill a wife with kindness, 211 
And thus I ’ll curb her mad and headstrong 
humour. 

He that knows better how to tame a shrew, 
Now let him speak ; ’t is charity to show. 

[Exit. 

[Scene II. Padua. Before Baptista's house.] 
Enter Tranio and Hortensio. 

Tra. Is’t possible, friend Licio, that Mistress 
Bianca 

Doth fancy any other hut Lucentio ? 

I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand. 

[Hot. ] Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said, 
Stand by and mark the manner of his teaching. 

Enter Bianca [and Lucentio]. 

[Luc.] Now, mistress, profit you in what you 
read ? e 

Bian. What, master, read you ? First resolve 
me that. 

[Luc.] I read that I profess, the Art to Love. 
Bian. And may you prove, sir, master of 
your art! 

Luc. While you, sweet dear, prove mistress 
of my heart! 10 

If or. Quick proceeders, marry! Now, tell 
me, I pray, 

You that durst swear that your mistress Bianca 
Lov’d none in the world so well as Lucentio. 
Tra. O despiteful love ! Unconstant woman¬ 
kind ! 

I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful. 

Hot. Mistake no more ; I am not Licio, 

Nor a musician, as I seem to be ; 

But one that scorn to live in this disguise, 

For such a one as leaves a gentleman, 

And makes a god of such a cullion. 20 

Know, sir, that I am call’d Hortensio. 

Tra. Signior Hortensio, I have often heard 
Of your entire affection to Bianca; 

And since mine eyes are witness of her light¬ 
ness, 

I will with you, if you be so contented, 25 
Forswear Bianca and her love for ever. 

Hot. See, how they kiss and court! Signior 
Lucentio, 

Here is my hand, and here I firmly vow 
Never to woo her more, but do forswear her, 
As one unworthy all the former favours so 
That I have fondly flatter’d her withal. 

Tra. And here I take the like unfeigned 
oath, 


Never to marry with her though she would 
entreat. 

Fie on her! see, how beastly she doth court 
him! 

Hor. Would all the world but he had quite 
forsworn! 35 

For me, that I may surely keep mine oath, 

I will be married to a wealthy widow, 

Ere three days pass, which hath as long lov’d 
me 

As I have lov’d this proud disdainful haggard. 
And so farewell, Signior Lucentio. *o 

Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks, 
Shall win my love ; and so I take my leave, 

In resolution as I swore before. [Exit.] 

Tra. Mistress Bianca, bless you with such 
grace 

As ’longeth to a lover’s blessed case ! 45 

Nay, I have ta’en you napping, gentle love, 
And have forsworn you with Hortensio. 

Bian. Tranio, you jest; but have you both 
forsworn me ? 

Tra. Mistress, we have. 

Luc. Then we are rid of Licio. 

Tra. I’ faith, he’ll have a lusty widow 
now, 50 

That shall he woo’d and wedded in a day. 

Bian. God give him joy! 

Tra. Ay, and he ’ll tame her. 

Bian He says so, Tranio. 

Tra. Faith, he is gone unto the taming- 
school. 

Bian. The taming-school! What, is there 
such a place ? 55 

Tra. Ay, mistress, and Petruchio is the 
master; 

That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long, 
To tame a shrew and charm her chattering 
tongue. 

Enter Biondello. 

Bion. 0 master, master, I have watch’d so 
long 

That I am dog-weary ; but at last I spied eo 
An ancient angel coming down the hill, 

Will serve the turn. 

Tra. What is he, Biondello ? 

Bion. Master, a mercatante, or a pedant, 

I know not what; but formal in apparel, 

In gait and countenance surely like a father, es 
% Luc. And what of him, Tranio? 

Tra. If he he credulous and trust my tale, 

I ’ll make him glad to seem Vincentio, 

And give assurance to Baptista Minola, 

As if he were the right Vincentio. to 

Take in your love, and then let me alone. 

[Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca.] 

Enter a Pedant. 

Ped. God save you, sir ! 

Tra. And you, sir ! you are welcome. 

Travel you far on, or are you at the farthest ? 

Ped. Sir, at the farthest for a week or two ; 
But then up farther, and as far as Rome ; to 
A nd so to Tripoli, if God lend me life. 

Tra. What countryman, I pray ? 

Ped. Of Mantua. 




144 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


iv. iii. 


Tra. Of Mantua, sir ? Marry, God forbid ! 
And come to Padua, careless of your life ? 
Ped. My life, sir! How, I pray ? for that 
goes hard. so 

Tra. ’T is death for any one in Mantua 
To come to Padua. Know you not the cause ? 
Your ships are stay’d at Venice, and the 
Duke, 

For private quarrel ’twixt your Duke and him, 
Hath publish’d and proclaim’d it openly. sc 
’T is marvel, but that you are but newly 
come, 

You might have heard it else proclaim’d 
about. 

Ped. Alas ! sir, it is worse for me than so ; 
For I have bills for money by exchange 
From Florence, and must here deliver them, so 
Tra. Well, sir, to do you courtesy, 

This will I do, and this I will advise you. 

First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa ? 

Ped. Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been, 

Pisa renowned for grave citizens. os 

Tra. Among them know you one Vin- 
centio ? 

Ped. I know him not, but I have heard of 
him; 

A merchant of incomparable wealth. 

Tra. He is my father, sir; and, sooth to 
say, 

In countenance somewhat doth resemble you. 
Bion. [Aside.] As much as an apple doth an 
oyster, and all one. 101 

Tra. To save your life in this extremity, 
This favour will I do you for his sake ; 

And think it not the worst of all your fortunes 
That you are like to Sir Vincentio. ios 

His name and credit shall you undertake, 

And in my house you shall be friendly lodg’d. 
Look that you take upon you as you should ; 
You understand me, sir ? So shall you stay 
Till you have done your business in the city, no 
If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it. 

Ped. 0 sir, I do ; and will repute you ever 
The patron of my life and liberty. 

Tra. Then go with me to make the matter 
good. 

This, by the way, I let you understand ; ns 
My father is here look’d for every day, 

To pass assurance of a dower in marriage 
’Twixt me and one Baptista’s daughter here. 
In all these circumstances I ’ll instruct you. 

Go with me to clothe you as becomes you. 120 

[Exeunt. 

Scene [HI. A room in Petruchio's house]. 

Enter Katherina and Grumio. 

Gru. No, no, forsooth; I dare not for my 
life. 

Eath.' The more my wrong, the more his 
spite appears. 

What, did he marry me to famish me ? 
Beggars, that come unto my father’s door, 
Upon entreaty have a present alms ; 5 

If not, elsewhere they meet with charity; 

But I, who never knew how to entreat, 

Nor never needed that I should entreat, 


Am starv’d for meat, giddy for lack of sleep, 
With oaths kept waking, and with brawling 
fed ; i« 

And that which spites me more than all these 
wants, 

He does it under name of perfect love, 

As who should say, if I should sleep or eat, 

’T were deadly sickness or else present death. 
I prithee go and get me some repast: is 

I care not what, so it be wholesome food. 

Gru. What say you to a neat’s foot ? 

Eath. ’T is passing good; I prithee let me 
have it. 

Gru. I fear it is too choleric a meat. 

How say you to a fat tripe finely broil’d ? 20 

Eath. 1 like it well; good Grumio, fetch it 
me. 

Gru. I cannot tell; I fear’t is choleric. 
What say you to a piece of beef and mustard ? 

Eath. A dish that I do love to feed upon. 

Gru. Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little. 

Eath. Why then, the beef, and let the mus¬ 
tard rest. 26 

Gru. Nay then, I will not; you shall have 
the mustard, 

Or else you get no beef of Grumio. 

Eath. Then both, or one, or any thing thou 
wilt. 

Gru. Why then, the mustard without the 
beef. 30 

Eath. Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding 
slave, [Beats him. 

That feed’st me with the very name of meat. 
Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you, 

That triumph thus upon my misery ! 

Go, get thee gone, I say. 36 

Enter Petruchio and Hortensio, with meat. 

Pet. How fares my Kate ? What, sweeting, 
all amort! 

Hot. Mistress, what cheer ? 

Eath. Faith, as cold as can be. 

Pet. Pluck up thy spirits; look cheerfully 
upon me. 

Here, love, thou see’st how diligent I am 
To dress thy meat myself and bring it thee. « 
I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits 
thanks. 

What, not a word ? Nay, then thou lov’st it 
not; 

And all my pains is sorted to no proof. 

Here, take away this dish. 

Eath. I pray you, let it stand. 

Pet. The poorest service is repaid with 
thanks, 45 

And so shall mine, before you touch the meat. 

Eath. I thank you, sir. 

Hot. Signior Petruchio, fie! you are to 
blame. 

Come, Mistress Kate ? I ’ll bear you company. 

Pet. [Aside.] Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou 
lovest me. 6 « 

Much good do it unto thy gentle heart! 

Kate, eat apace. And now, my honey love, 
Will we return unto thy father’s house 
And revel it as bravely as the best, 

With silken coats and caps and golden rings, «> 




IV. iii. 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


*45 


With ruffs and cuffs and farthingales and 
things, 

With scarfs and fans and double change of 
bravery, 

With amber bracelets, beads, and all this 
knavery. 

What, hast thou din’d ? The tailor stays thy 
leisure, 

To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure. 60 
Enter Tallor. 

Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments; 

Enter Haberdasher. 

Lay forth the gown. What news with you, sir ? 
[Hab .] Here is the cap your worship did 
bespeak. 

Pet. Why, this was moulded on a porringer ; 
A velvet dish. Fie, fie ! ’t is lewd and filthy. 
Why, ’t is a cockle or a walnut-shell, 66 

A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby’s cap. 

Away with it! come, let me have a bigger. 
Kath. I ’ll have no bigger; this doth fit the 
time, 

And gentlewomen wear such caps as these, to 
Pet. When you are gentle, you shall have one 
too, 

And not till then. 

Hot. [Aside.] That will not be in haste. 
Kath. Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to 
speak; 

And speak I will. I am no child, no babe. 
Your betters have endur’d me say my mind, 76 
And if you cannot, best you stop your ears. 

My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, 

Or else my heart concealing it will break, 

And rather than it shall, I will be free 
Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words, so 
Pet. Why, thou say’st true; it is a paltry 
cap, 

A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie. 

I love thee well, in that thou lik’st it not. 

Kath. Love me or love me not, I like the cap ; 
And it I will have, or I will have none. «s 

[Exit Haberdasher.] 
Pet. Thy gown ? Why, ay. Come, tailor, let 
us see’t. 

O mercy, God ! what masquing stuff is here ? 
What’s this? A sleeve? ’Tis like a demi- 
cannon. 

What, up and down, carv’d like an apple-tart ? 
Here’s snip and nip and cut and slish and 
slash, so 

Like to a censer in a barber’s shop. 

Why, what, i’ devil’s name, tailor, call’st thou 
this ? 

Hor. [Aside.] I see she’s like to have neither 
cap nor gown. 

Tai. You bid me make it orderly and well, 
According to the fashion and the time. 95 
Pet. Marry, and did; but if you be remem- 
b’red, 

I did not bid you mar it to the time. 

Go, hop me over every kennel home, 

For you shall hop without my custom, sir. »o 
I ’ll none of it. Hence ! make your best of it. 
Kath. I never saw a better-fashion’d gown, 


More quaint, more pleasing, nor more com' 
mendable. 

Belike you mean to make a puppet of me. 

Pet. Why, true ; he means to make a puppet 
of thee. 

Tai. She says your worship means to make 
a puppet of her. io« 

Pet. O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, 
thou thread, thou thimble, 

Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, 
nail! 

Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou ! 
Brav’d in mine own house with a skein of 
thread? m 

Away, thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant, 
Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard 
As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou 
liv’st! 

I tell thee, 1 , that thou hast marr’d her gown. 
Tai. Your worship is deceiv’d ; the gown is 
made ne 

Just as my master had direction. 

Grumio gave order how it should be done. 

Gru. I gave him no order; I gave him the 
stuff. 

Tai. But how did you desire it should be 
made ? 120 

Gru. Marry, sir, with needle and thread. 
Tai. But did you not request to have it cut ? 
Gru. Thou hast fac’d many things. 

Tai. I have. 124 

Gru. Face not me ; thou hast brav’d many 
men, brave not me ; I will neither be fac’d nor 
brav’d. I say unto thee, I bid thy master cut 
out the gown ; but I did not bid him cut it to 
pieces ; ergo, thou liest. 129 

Tai. Why, here is the note of the fashion to 
testify. 

Pet. Read it. 

Gru. The note lies in’s throat, if he say I 
said so. 

Tai. [Reads.] “ Imprimis, a loose-bodied 
gown ” — i 36 

Gru. Masterj if ever I said loose-bodied 
gown, sew me in the skirts of it, and beat me 
to death with a bottom of brown thread. I 
said a gown. 

Pet. Proceed. 

Tai. [Reads.] “With a small compass’d 
cape ” — 140 

Gru. I confess the cape. 

Tai. I Reads.] “ With a trunk sleeve ” — 
Gru. I confess two sleeves. 

Tai. [Reads.] “ The sleeves curiously cut.” 
Pet. Ay, there’s the villainy. 145 

Gru. Error i’ the bill, sir : error i’ the bill. 
I commanded the sleeves should be cut out 
and sew’d up again j and that I ’ll prove upon 
thee, though thy little finger be aimed in a 
thimble. 

Tai. This is true that I say; an I had thee 
in place where, thou shouldst know it. 161 

Gru. I am for thee straight. Take thou the 
bill, give me thy mete-yard, and spare not me. 

Hor. God-a-mercy, Grumio! then he shall 
have no odds. we 

Pet. Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me. 





146 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


IV. IV. 


Gru. You are i’ the right, sir; ’tis for my 
mistress. 

Pet. Go, take it up unto thy master’s use. 
Gru. Villain, not for thy life ! Take up my 
mistress’ gown for thy master’s use ! _ iei 

Pet. Why, sir, what’s your conceit in that ? 
Gru. 0 , sir, the conceit is deeper than you 
think for. 

Take up my mistress’ gown to his master’s 
use! 

0 , fie, fie, fie I 165 

Pet. [Aside.] Hortensio, say thou wilt see 
the tailor paid. — 

Go take it hence ; he gone, and say no more. 
Hor. Tailor, I ’ll pay thee for thy gown to¬ 
morrow ; 

Take no unkindness of his hasty words. 

Away ! I say: commend me to thy master. 170 

[Exit Tailor. 

Pet. Well, come, my Kate ; we will unto 
your father’s 

Even in these honest mean habiliments. 

Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor , 
For ’tis the mind that makes the body rich ; 
And as the sun breaks through the darkest 
clouds, 175 

So honour peereth in the meanest habit. 

What, is the jay more precious than the lark, 
Because his feathers are more beautiful ? 

Or is the adder better than the eel, 

Because his painted skin contents the eye ? iso 
0 , no, good Kate ; neither art thou the worse 
For this poor furniture and mean array. 

If thou account’st it shame, lay it on me ; 

And therefore frolic. We will hence forth¬ 
with, 

To feast and sport us at thy father’s house, iss 
Go, call my men, and let us straight to him, 
And bring our horses unto Long-lane end. 
There will we mount, and thither walk on 
foot. 

Let’s see; I think ’t is now some seven 
o’clock, 

And well we may come there by dinner-time. 
Kath. I dare assure you, sir, ’t is almost 
two; _ i 9 i 

And ’t will be supper-time ere you come 
there. 

Pet. It shall be seven ere I go to horse. 
Look, what I speak, or do, or think to do, 

You are still crossing it. Sirs, let’t alone, 195 
I will not go to-day, and ere I do, 

It shall be what o’clock I say it is. 

Hor. [Aside.] Why, so this gallant will 
command the sun. [Exeunt.] 

[Scene IV. Padua. Before Baptista's house.] 

Enter Tranio, and the Pedant dressed like 
Vincentio. 

Tra. Sir, this is the house; please it you 
that I call ? 

Ped. Ay, what else? And, but I be de¬ 
ceived, 

Signior Baptista may remember me, 

Near twenty years ago, in Genoa, 

Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus. s 


Tra. ’T is well; and hold your own, in any 

case, 

With such austerity as ’longeth to a father. 
Enter Biondello. 

Ped. I warrant you. But, sir, here comes 
your boy; 

’T were good he were school’d. 

Tra. Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello, i« 
Now do your duty throughly, I advise you. 
Imagine’t were the right Vincentio. 

Bion. Tut, fear not me. 

Tra. But hast thou done thy errand to 
Baptista ? 

Bion. I told him that your father was at 
V enice, 

And that you look’d for him this day in 
Padua. 

Tra. Thou ’rt a tall fellow ; hold thee that 
to drink. 

Here comes Baptista; set your countenance, 
sir. 

Enter Baptista and Lucentio : Pedant 
hooted and hare-headed. 

Signior Baptista, you are happily met. 

[To the Pedant.] Sir, this is the gentleman I 
told you of. 20 

I pray you, stand good father to me now, 

Give me Bianca for my patrimony. 

Ped. Soft, son! 

Sir, by your leave. Having come to Padua 
To gather in some debts, my son Lucentio 25 
Made me acquainted with a weighty cause 
Of love between your daughter and himself; 
And, for the good report I hear of you, 

And for the love he beareth to your daughter 
And she to him, to stay him not too long, 30 
I am content, in a good father’s care, 

To have him match’d ; and if you please to 
like 

No worse than I, upon some agreement 
Me shall you find ready and willing 
With one consent to have her so bestowed; 3s 

For curious I cannot be with you, 

Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well. 

Bap. Sir, pardon me in what I have to say. 
Your plainness and your shortness please me 
well. 

Right true it is, your son Lucentio here 4# 
Doth love my daughter and she loveth him, 

Or both dissemble deeply their affections ; 

And therefore, if you say no more than this, 
That like a father you will deal with him 
And pass my daughter a sufficient dower, 45 
The match is made, and all is done. 

Your son shall have my daughter with con¬ 
sent. 

Tra. I thank you, sir. Where, then, do you 
know best 

We be affied and such assurance ta’en 
As shall with either part’s agreement stand ? co 
Bap. Not in my house, Lucentio; for, you 
know, 

Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants 
Besides, old Gremio is hearkening still, 

And happily we might be interrupted. 





IV. V. 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


*47 


Tra. Then at my lodging, an it like you. ss 
There doth my father lie; and there, this 
night, 

We ’ll pass the business privately and well. 
Send for your daughter by your servant here; 
My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently. 

The worst is this, that, at so slender warn- 

You are like to have a thin and slender pit¬ 
tance. 

Bap. It likes me well. Cambio, hie you 
home, 

And bid Bianca make her ready straight; 

And, if you will, tell what hath happened, 
Lucentio’s father is arriv’d in Padua, es 

And how she’s like to be Lucentio’s wife. 
Bion. I pray the gods she may with all my 
heart! [Exit. 

Tra. Dally not with the gods, but get thee 
gone. 

Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way ? 
Welcome ! one mess is like to be your cheer ; 70 
Come, sir ; we will better it in Pisa. 

Bap. I follow you. [ Exeunt [< omnes ]. 

Re-enter Lucentio and Biondello. 
Bion. Cambio ! 

Luc. What say’st thou, Biondello ? 

Bion. You saw my master wink and laugh 
upon you ? 76 

Luc. Biondello, what of that ? 

Bion. Faith, nothing; but has left me here 
behind, to expound the meaning or moral of 
his signs and tokens. so 

Luc. I pray thee, moralize them. 

Bion. Then thus. Baptista is safe, talking 
with the deceiving father of a deceitful son. 
Luc. And what of him ? 

Bion. His daughter is to be brought by you 
to the supper. so 

Luc. And then ? 

Bion. The old priest of Saint Luke’s church 
is at your command at all hours. 

Luc. And what of all this ? 90 

Bion. I cannot tell. Expect they are busied 
about a counterfeit assurance ; take you assur¬ 
ance of her, “ cum privileaio ad imprimendum 
solum.' 1 '' To the church ! Take the priest, clerk, 
and some sufficient honest witnesses. 95 

If this be not that you look for, I have no more 
to say, 

But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day. 
Luc. Hear’st thou, Biondello ? 

Bion. I cannot tarry. I knew a wench mar¬ 
ried in an afternoon as she went to the gar¬ 
den for parsley to stuff a rabbit, and so may [100 
you, sir; and so, adieu, sir. My master hath 
appointed me to go to Saint Luke’s, to bid the 
priest be ready to come against you come with 
your appendix. [Exit. 104 

Luc. I may, and will, if she be so contented. 
She will be pleased; then wherefore should I 
doubt ? 

Hap what hap may, I ’ll roundly go about 
her; 

It shall go hard if Cambio go without her. 

[Exit. 


[Scene V. A public road.] 

Enter Petruchio, Katherina, IIortensio 
[and Servants]. 

Pet. Come on, i’ God’s name; once more 
toward our father’s. 

Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the 
moon I 

Kath. The moon! the sun. It is not moon¬ 
light now. 

Pet. I say it is the moon that shines so bright. 
Kath. I know it is the sun that shines so 
bright. 5 

Pet. Now, by my mother’s son, and that’s 
myself, 

It shall be moon, or star, or what I list, 

Or ere I journey to your father’s house. 

Go on, and fetch our horses back again. 
Evermore cross’d and cross’d; nothing but 

cross’d! i« 

Hot. Say as he says, or we shall never go. 
Kath. Forward, I pray, since we have come 
so far, 

And be it moon, or sun, or what you please. 

An if you please to call it a rush-candle, 
Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me. is 

Pet. I say it is the moon. 

Kath. I know it is the moon. 

Pet. Nay, then you lie ; it is the blessed sun. 
Kath. Then, God be bless’d, it is the blessed 
sun ; 

But sun it is not, when you say it is not; 

And the moon changes even as your mind. 20 
What you will have it nam’d, even that it is ; 
And so it shall be so for Katherine. 

Hot. Petruchio, go thy ways; the field is 
won. 

Pet. Well, forward, forward ! thus the bowl 
should run, 

And not unluckily against the bias. 25 

But, soft! company is coming here. 

Enter Vincentio. 

[To Vincentio.] Good morrow, gentle mistress ; 
where away ? 

Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too, 
Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman ? 

Such war of white and red within her cheeks ! so 
What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty, 
As those two eyes become that heavenly face ? 
Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee. 
Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty’s 
sake. 

Hot. ’A will make the man mad, to make a 
woman of him. 3 « 

Kath. Young budding virgin, fair and fresh 
and sweet, 

Whither away, or where is thy abode ? 

Happy the parents of so fair a child! 

Happier the man, whom favourable stars 40 

Allots thee for his lovely bed-fellow ! 

Pet. Why, how now, Kate! I hope thou art 
not mad. 

This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, withered, 
And not a maiden, as thou say’st he is. 

Kath. Pardon, old father, my mistaking 
eyes, « 







148 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


v. 1. 


That have been so bedazzled with the sun 
That every thing I look on seemeth green. 
Now I perceive thou art a reverend father. 
Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking. 
Pet. Do, good old grandsire; and withal 
make known so 

Which way thou travellest. If along with us, 
We shall be joyful of thy company. 

Vin. Fair sir, and you my merry mistress, 
That with your strange encounter much amaz’d 
me, 

My name is call’d Vineentio ; my dwelling Pisa ; 
And hound I am to Padua, there to visit 66 
A son of mine, which long I have not seen. 

Pet. What is his name ? 

Vin. Lucentio, gentle sir. 

Pet. Happily met; the happier for thy son. 
And now by law, as well as reverend age, eo 
I may entitle thee my loving father. 

The sister to my wife, this gentlewoman, 

Thy son by this hath married. Wonder not, 
Nor be not grieved ; she is of good esteem, 

Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth ; 65 

Beside, so qualified as may beseem 
The spouse of any noble gentleman. 

Let me embrace with old Vineentio, 

And wander we to see thy honest son, 

Who will of thy arrival be full joyous. 70 

Vin. But is this true, or is it else your 
pleasure, 

Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest 
Upon the company you overtake ? 

Hor. I do assure thee, father, so it is. 

Pet. Come, go along, and see the truth 
hereof; 75 

For our first merriment hath made thee jealous. 

[.Exeunt [all but Hortensio ]. 
Hor. Well, Petruchio, this has put me in 
heart. 

Have to my widow ! and if she be froward, 
Then hast thou taught Hortensio to be unto¬ 
ward. [Exit. 

[ACT V 

Scene I. Padua. Before Lucentio's house .] 

Enter Biondello, Lucentio, and Bianca. 
Gremio is out before. 

Bion. Softly and swiftly, sir ; for the priest 
is ready. 

Luc. I fly, Biondello ; but they may chance 
to need thee at home, therefore leave us. 

[Exeunt [Lucentio and Bianca ]. 
Bion. Nay, faith, I’ll see the church o’ 
your back ; and then come back to my mas- [6 
ter’s as soon as I can. [Exit-] 

Gre. I marvel Cambio comes not all this 
while. 

Enter Petruchio, Katherina, Vincentio, 
Grumio, with Attendants. 

Pet. Sir, here’s the door, this is Lucentio’s 
house. 

My father’s bears more toward the market¬ 
place ; 10 

Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir. 


Vin. You shall not choose but drink before 
you go. 

I think I shall command your welcome here. 
And, by all likelihood, some cheer is toward.. 

[Knocks. 

Gre. They ’re busy within; you were best 
knock louder. i« 

Pedant looks out of the window. 

Ped. What’s he that knocks as he would 
beat down the gate ? 

Vin. Is Signior Lucentio within, sir? 

Ped. He’s within, sir, but not to be spoken 
withal. 21 

Vin. What if a man bring him a hundred 
pound or two, to make merry withal ? 

Ped. Keep your hundred pounds to yourself ; 
he shall need none, so long as I live. 25 

Pet. Nay, I told you your son was well be¬ 
loved in Padua. Do you hear, sir ? To leave 
frivolous circumstances, I pray you, tell Signior 
Lucentio that his father is come from Pisa and 
is here at the door to speak with him. 30 

Ped. Thou liest. His father is come from 

Padua and is here looking out at the win¬ 
dow. 

Vin. Art thou his father ? 

Ped. Ay, sir; so his mother says, if I may 
believe her. sb 

Pet. [To Vincentio .] Why, how now, gentle¬ 
man ! Why, this is flat knavery, to take upon 
you another man’s name. 

Ped. Lay hands on the villain. I believe ’a 
means to cozen somebody in this city under my 
countenance. 41 

Be-enter Biondello. 

Bion. I have seen them in the church to¬ 
gether ; God send ’em good shipping! But who 
is here ? Mine old master Vincentio ! Now we 
are undone and brought to nothing. 45 

Vin. [Seeing Biondello.} Come hither, crack- 
hemp. 

Bion. I hope I may choose, sir. 

Vin. Come hither, you rogue. What, have 
you forgot me ? so 

Bion. Forgot you ? No, sir ; I could not for¬ 
get you, for I never saw you before in all my 
life. 

Vin. What, you notorious villain, didst thou 
never see thy master’s father, Vincentio ? 55 

Bion. What, my old worshipful old master ? 
Yes, marry, sir ; see where he looks out of the 
window. 

Vin. Is’t so, indeed ? [Beats Biondello. 
Bion. Help, help, help! here’s a madman 
will murder me. [ 2 £ri*.] ei 

Ped. Help, son ! help, Signior Baptista! 

Pet. Prithee, Kate, let’s ^Sjnd^d^ancl 
see the end of this controversy. [They retire .] 

Re-enter Pedant [below], Tranio, Baptista, 
and Servants. 

Tra. Sir, what are you that offer to beat my 
servant ? ^ 

Vin. What am I, sir! Nay, what are you, 





V. li. 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


149 


sir ? 0 immortal gods ! O fine villain ! A silken 
doublet! a velvet hose ! a scarlet cloak ! and 
a copatain hat! O, I am undone ! I am undone ! 
While I play the good husband at home, [to 
my son and my servant spend all at the uni¬ 
versity. 

Tra ■ How now ! what’s the matter ? 

Bap. What, is the man lunatic ? 74 

Tra. Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentle¬ 
man by your habit, but your words show 
you a madman. Why, sir, what ’cerns it you 
if I wear pearl and gold ? I thank my good 
father, I am able to maintain it. 79 

Vin. Thy father! O villain! he is a sail- 
maker in Bergamo. 

Bap. You mistake, sir, you mistake, sir. 
Pray, what do you think is his name ? 

Vin. His name ! as if I knew not his name ! 
I have brought him up ever since he was 
three years old, and his name is Tranio. so 
Pea. Away, away, mad ass ! his name is Lu- 
centio; and he is mine only son, and heir to 
the lands of me, Signior Vineentio. so 

Vin. Lucentio! O, he hath murd’red his 
master ! Lay hold on him, I charge you, in the 
Duke’s name. 0 , my son, my son! Tell me, 
thou villain, where is my son Lucentio ? 

Tra. Call forth an officer. 

[Enter one with an officer.] 

Carry this mad knave to the gaol. Father [95 
Baptista, I charge you see that he be forth¬ 
coming. 

Vin. Carry me to the gaol ! 

Gre. Stay, officer ; he shall not go to prison. 
Bap. Talk not, Signior Gremio; I say he 
shall go to prison. > 100 

Gre. Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you 
be cony-catch’d in this business. I dare swear 
this is the right Vineentio. 

Ped. Swear, if thou dar’st. . 

Gre. Nay, I dare not swear it. 105 

Tra. Then thou wert best say that I am not 
Lucentio. 

Gre. Yes, I know thee to be Signior Lucen¬ 
tio. 

Bap. Away with the dotard! To the gaol 
with him! 110 

Re-enter Biondello, with Lucentio and 
Bianca. 

Vin. Thus strangers may be hal’d and 
abus’d. 0 monstrous villain ! 

Bion. 0 ! we are spoil’d and — yonder he is. 
Deny him, forswear him, or else we are all un¬ 
done. [Exeunt Biondello , Tranio , and Pe¬ 

dant, as fast as may be. 

Luc. (Kneeling.) Pardon, sweet father. 

Vin. Lives my sweet son ? us 

Bian. Pardon, dear father. 

Bap. How hast thou offended i 

Where is Lucentio ? 

Luc. Here’s Lucentio, 

Right son to the right Vineentio, 

That have by marriage made thy daughter 
mine, 119 

While counterfeit supposes blear’d thine eyne, 


Gre. Here’s packing, with a witness, to de¬ 
ceive us all! 

Vin. Where is that damned villain Tra- 
nio, 

That fac’d and brav’d me in this matter so ? 
Bap. W T hy, tell me, is not this my Cam¬ 
bio ? 125 

Bian. Cambio is chang’d into Lucentio. 

Luc. Love wrought these miracles. Bianca’s 
love 

Made me exchange my state with Tranio, 
While he did bear my countenance in the 
town ; 

And happily I have arrived at the last 130 
Unto the wished haven of my bliss. 

What Tranio did, myself enforc’d him to ; 
Then pardon him, sweet father, for my 
sake. 

Vin. I’ll slit the villain’s nose, that would 
have sent me to the gaol. 135 

Bap. But do you hear, sir ? Have you mar¬ 
ried my daughter without asking my good 
will ? 

Vin. Fear not, Baptista; we will content 
you, go to; but I will in, to be reveng’d for this 
villainy. [Exit. i« 

Bap. And I, to sound the depth of this 
knavery. [Exit. 

Luc. Look not pale, Bianca ; thy father will 
not frown. [Exeunt [Lucentio and Bianca ]. 
Gre. My cake is dough ; but I ’ll in among 
the rest, 145 

Out of hope of all but my share of the feast. 

[Exit. 1 

Kath. Husband, let’s follow, to see the end 
of this ado. 

Pet. First kiss me, Kate, and we will. 

Kath. What, in the midst of the street ? 

Pet. What, art thou asham’d of me ? 100 

Kath. No, sir, God forbid; but asham’d to 
kiss. 

Pet. Why, then let’s home again. Come, 
sirrah, let’s away. 

Kath. Nay, I will give thee a kiss ; now pray 
thee, love, stay. 

Pet. Is not this well? Come, my sweet 
Kate: 

Better once than never, for never too late.. 100 

[Exeunt. 

Scene [H. Padua. Lucentio's house]. 

Enter Baptista, Vincentio, Gremio, the 
Pedant, Lucentio, Bianca [Petruchio, 
Katherina, Hortensio], and Widow, Tra¬ 
nio, Biondello, and Grumio : the Serving- 
men with Tranio bringing in a banquet. 

Luc. At last, though long, our jarring notes 
agree; . . , 

And time it is, when raging war is done, 

To smile at scapes and perils overblown. 

My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome, 

While I with self-same kindness welcome 
thine. . 6 

Brother Petruchio, sister Katherina, 

And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow, 
Feast with the best, and welcome to my house. 




*5° 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


V. 1L 


My banquet is to close our stomachs up, 

After our great good cheer. Pray you, sit 
down; 10 

For now we sit to chat as well as eat. 

Pet. Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and 
eat! 

Bap. Padua affords this kindness, son Pe¬ 
tr uchio. 

Pet. Padua affords nothing but what is kind. 

Hor. For both our sakes, I would that word 
were true. is 

Pet. Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his 
widow. 

. Wid. Then never trust me, if I be af eard. 

Pet. You are very sensible, and yet you miss 
my sense. 

I mean, Hortensio is afeard of you. 

Wid. He that is giddy thinks the world 
turns round. 20 

Pet. Roundly replied. 

Bath. Mistress, how mean you that ? 

Wid . Thus I conceive by him. 

Pet. Conceives by me 1 How likes Hortensio 
that ? 

Hor. My widow says, thus she conceives her 
tale. 

Pet. Yery well mended. Kiss him for that, 
good widow. 25 

Kath. “ He that is giddy thinks the world 
turns round: ” 

I pray you, tell me what you meant by that. 

Wid. Your husband, being troubled with a 
shrew, 

Measures my husband’s sorrow by his woe : 

And now you know my meaning. so 

Kath. A very mean meaning. 

Wid. Right, I mean you. 

Kath. And I am mean indeed, respecting 
you. 

Pet. To her, Kate ! 

Hor. To her, widow ! 

Pet. A hundred marks, my Kate does put 
her down. 35 

Hor. That’s my office. 

Pet. Spoke like an officer. Ha’ to thee, lad ! 

[Drinks to Hortensio. 

Bap. How likes Gremio these quick-witted 
. folks? 

Gre. Believe me, sir, they butt together 
well. 

Bian. Head, and butt! An hasty-witted 

body 40 

Would say your head and butt were head and 
horn. 

Vin. Ay, mistress bride, hath that awakened 
you ? 

Bian. Ay, but not frighted me ; therefore 
I ’ll sleep again. 

Pet. Nay, that you shall not; since you have 
begun, 

Have at you for a bitter jest or two ! 45 

Bian. Am I your bird ? I mean to shift my 
bush; 

And then pursue me as you draw your bow. 

You are welcome all. 

[Exeunt Bianca [ Katherina , and 
Widow]. 


Pet. She hath prevented me. Here, Signior 
Tranio, 49 

This bird you aim’d at, though you hit her not; 
Therefore a health to all that shot and miss’d. 
Tra. 0 , sir, Lucentio slipp’d me like his 
greyhound, 

Which runs himself and catches for his master. 
Pet. A good swift simile, but something 
currish. 

Tra. ’T is well, sir, that you hunted for 
yourself; 55 

’T is thought your deer does hold you at a bay. 
Bap. 0 ho, Petruchio ! Tranio hits you now. 
Luc. I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio. 
Hor. Confess, confess, hath he not hit you 
here ? 

Pet. ’A has a little gall’d me, I confess ; eo 
And, as the jest did glance away from me, 

’T is ten to one it maim’d you two outright. 

Bap. Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, 

I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all. 

Pet. Well, I say no ; and therefore for as¬ 
surance 6* 

Let’s each one send unto his wife, 

And he whose wife is most obedient 
To come at first when he doth send for her, 
Shall win the wager which we will propose. 
Hor. Content. What is the wager ? 

Luc. Twenty crowns. 

Pet. Twenty crowns ! n 

I ’ll venture so much of my hawk or hound, 
But twenty times so much upon my wife. 

Luc. A hundred then. 

Hor. Content. 

Pet. A match!’t is done. 

Hor. Who shall begin ? 

Luc. That will I. 75 

Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me. 
Bion. I go. [Exit. 

Bap. Son, I ’ll be your half, Bianca comes. 
Luc. 1 ’ll have no halves; I ’ll bear it all 
myself. 

Re-enter Biondello. 

How now ! what news ? 

Bion. Sir, my mistress sends you word 

That she is busy and she cannot come. si 

Pet. How ! she is busy and she cannot come ! 
Is that an answer ? 

Gre. Ay, and a kind one too. 

Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse. 
Pet. I hope, better. ss 

Hor. Sirrah Biondello, go and entreat my 
wife 

To come to me forthwith. [Exit Bion. 

Pet. O, ho ! entreat her! 

Nay, then she must needs come. 

Hor. I am afraid, sir, 

Do what you can, yours will not be entreated. 

Re-enter Biondello. 

Now, where’s my wife ? ut 

Bion. She says you have some goodly jest in 
hand. 

She will not come ; she bids you come to her. 
Pet. Worse and worse ; she will not come! 
0 vile, 





v. li. 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 


151 


Intolerable, not to be endur’d ! 

Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress ; 95 

Say, I command her come to me. 

[Exit Grumio. 

Hor. I know her answer. 

Pet. What ? 

Hor. She will not. 

Pet. The fouler fortune mine, and there an 
end. 

Re-enter Katherina. 

Bap. Now, by my holidame, here comes 
Katherina! 

Rath. What is your will, sir, that you send 
for me ? 100 

Pet. Where is your sister, and Hortensio’s 
wife ? 

Kath. They sit conferring by the parlour fire. 
Pet. Go, fetch them hither. If they deny to 
come, 

Swinge me them soundly forth unto their hus¬ 
bands. 

Away, I say, and bring them hither straight. 

[Exit Katherina .] 
Luc. Here is a wonder, if you talk of a won¬ 
der. 106 

Hor. And so it is ; I wonder what it bodes. 
Pet. Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and 
quiet life, 

And awful rule, and right supremacy; 

And, to be short, what not, that’s sweet and 
happy. no 

Bap. Now, fair befall thee, good Petruchio! 
The wager thou hast won ; and I will add 
Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns, 
Another dowry to another daughter, 

For she is chang’d, as she had never been, ns 
Pet. Nay, I will win my wager better yet 
And show more sign of her obedience, 

Her new-built virtue and obedience. 

Re-enter Katherina, with Bianca and 
Widow. 

See where she comes and brings your froward 
wives 

As prisoners to her womanly persuasion. 120 
Katherine, that cap of yours becomes you not; 
Off with that bauble, throw it under-foot. 

[Kate throws down her cap.] 
Wid. Lord, let me never have cause to sigh, 
Till I be brought to such a silly pass ! 124 

Bian. Fie ! what a foolish duty call you this ? 
Luc. I would your duty were as foolish too. 
The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, 

Hath cost me an hundred crowns since supper- 
time. 

Bian. The more fool you, for laying on my 
duty. 

Pet. Katherine, I charge thee, tell these 
headstrong women . iso 

Wh at duty they ao owe theirlords and husbands. 
Wid. Come, come, you ’re mocking ; we will 
have no telling. 

Pet. Come on, I say; and first begin with 
her. 

Wid. She shall not. 

Pit. I say she shall; and first begin with her. 


Kath. Fie, fie ! unknit that threatening un¬ 
kind brow, i 36 

And dart not scornful glances from those eyes, 
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor. 

It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads. 
Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair 
buds, _ 140 

And in no sense is meet or amiable. 

A woman mov’d is like a fountain troubled, 
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty; 
And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty 
Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it. us 
Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, 
Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for 
thee, 

And for tliy maintenance commits his body 
To painful labour both by sea and land, 149 
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, 
Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe; 
And craves no other tribute at thy hands 
But love, fair looks, and true obedience ; 

Too little payment for so great a debt. . 

Such duty as the subject owes the prince iss 
Even such a woman oweth to her husband ; 
And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour, 
And not obedient to his honest will, 

What is she but a foul contending rebel 
And graceless traitor to her loving lord ? ieo 
I am asham’d that women are so simple 
To offer war where they should kneel for peace, 
Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway, 

When they are bound to serve, love, and obey. 
Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth, 
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world, 166 
But that our soft conditions and our hearts 
Should well agree with our external parts ? 
Come, come, you froward and unable worms ! 
My mind hath been as big as one of yours, no 
My heart as great, my reason haply more, 

To bandy word for word and frown for frown; 
But now I see our lances are but straws, 

Our strength as weak, our weakness past com- 
pare, 

That seeming to be most which we indeed least 
are. 175 

Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot, 

And place your hands below your husband’s foot; 
In token of which duty, if he please, 

My hand is ready ; may it do him ease. 

Pet. Why, there’s a wench ! Come on, and 
kiss me, Kate. iso 

Luc. Well, go thy ways, old lad; for thou 
shalt ha’t. 

Vin. ’T is a good hearing when children are 
toward. 

Luc. But a harsh hearing when women are 
froward. 

Pet. Come, Kate, we ’ll to bed. 

We three are married, but you two are sped, iss 
[To Luc.) ’T was I won the wager, though you 
hit the white ;’ 

And, being a winner, God give you good night! 

[Exeunt Petruchio [and Katherina ]. 
Hor. Now, go thy ways ; thou hast tam’d a 
curst shrew. 

Luc. ’T is a wonder, by your leave, she will 
be tam’d so. [Exeunt.] 




THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


The earliest known mention of The Merry Wives of Windsor is an entry in the books of the 
Stationers’ Company for January 18 , 160 Vz- Later in the same year appeared a much garbled 
and abbreviated edition, now known as the First Quarto, and this was reprinted with a new title- 
page in 1619 . The version in the First Folio is much longer and immeasurably more accurate, 
and forms the basis of all modern texts. 

The relation of these two versions is still a matter of debate. The theory, however, that the 
First Quarto represents an earlier sketch is being abandoned by an increasing number of modern 
critic* in favor of the belief that it is derived from the same version of the play as we have in 
the First Folio, but shortened for acting purposes, and corrupted by the short-hand writer who 
reported it for a piratical publisher. But the uninterrupted bungling of the lines leaves room for 
all the possible methods of debasing a text, and it may be suggested that the report was made 
from a performance in which the actors had a very imperfect knowledge of their parts. The Folio 
text itself shows signs of having been tampered with, notably in the omission of the working 
out of the plot of Caius and Evans against the Host (a device whose culmination may be pre¬ 
served in the episode of the loss of the horses), and in the loss of a few passages which can be 
restored with a fair amount of certainty from the Quarto. It has been suggested that some of 
the flaws may be accounted for by supposing that passages omitted for acting purposes have 
been unskilfully restored. 

A tradition, first recorded by John Dennis in 1702 , says that the comedy was written in a fort¬ 
night to the order of Queen Elizabeth, who wished to see Falstaff in love. There is nothing 
improbable in this, and the suggestion of haste receives corroboration from the fact that so much 
of the dialogue is in prose. It implies, moreover, what would be inferred on other grounds, that 
Henry IV had already been performed, and so fixes 1598 as the earliest possible date. The only 
objection to this as an earlier limit has arisen from the desire of some older editors to bring it 
nearer to 1592 , the date of the visit of Count Mompelgard, alluded to in iv. v. ; but these allu¬ 
sions would still have point six or seven years later. The question as to whether it preceded or 
followed Henry V is more difficult. That Falstaff dies in that play does not, of course, affect 
the question, since it is plainly indicated that the future Henry V is still “ the mad Prince of 
Wales ” (Quarto, Sc. 18 ), so that the period in which the plot is laid cannot come after 2 Henry 
IV, in the fifth act of which the Prince becomes King. If Nym be regarded, like the rest of 
Falstaff’s followers, as a revival, the play must be later than Henry F, the only other play in 
which he appears. But the evidence is not conclusive, and the variation in date between the two 
theories is merely from 1598 to the latter part of 1599 . 

The main plot of the Merry Wives is thought to have been suggested by The Tale of the Two 
Lovers of Pisa in Tarlton’s Newes out of Purgatorie ( 1590 ). This is an adaptation of the story of 
Nerisioof Portugal from Straparola’s Tredici Piacevoli Notte ( 1569 ). The resemblance is only 
general, and the few similarities of phrase that have been pointed out are insignificant. In the 
Italian story, which is of a common type, a lover is repeatedly surprised in the house of his 
lady by her husband, of whom he has unwittingly made a confidant; and on one occasion he 
is hidden in a vat of feathers, on another carried out in a chest of papers. In the play, the initial 
betrayal of Falstaff by Pistol and Nym, the disguise as Mother Prat, the pinching by the fairies, 
the underplot of the triple wooing of Anne Page, and all the characters save the commonplace 
of the jealous husband, seem to be original. A story similar to Straparola’s is found in Ser 
Giovanni Fiorentino’s II Pecorone , second tale, first day, but this was not translated till after 
Shakespeare’s death. The fourth tale of the second night of Straparola tells of the concerted 
vengeance of three ladies on a would-be lover who made advances to all of them on the same 
evening. But the resemblance goes no farther. The Fishwife's Tale of Brainfard in Westward 
for Smelts was suggested by Malone as a source, but has no claim to be so considered. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


[DRAMATIS PERSONAE 


Sir John Falstaff. 

Fenton, a gentleman. 

Shallow, a country justice. 

Abraham Slender, cousin to Shallow. 

Page' j & ent ^ emen °* Windsor. 
William Page, a boy, son to Page. 

Sir Hugh Evans, a Welsh parson. 
Doctor Caius, a French physician. 
Host of the Garter Inn. 


Bardolph, ) 

Pistol, > followers of Falstaff. 

Nym, ) 

Robin, page to Falstaff. 

Peter Simple, servant to Slender. 

John Rugby, servant to Doctor Caius. 

Mistress Ford. 

Mistress Page. 

Mistress Anne Page, her daughter. 
Mistress Quickly, servant to Doctor Caius. 


Servants to Page, Ford, etc. 


Scene : Windsor , and the neighbourhood .] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [ Windsor. Before Page's house.] 

Enter Justice Shallow, Slender, and Sir 
Hugh Evans. 

Shal. Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will 
make a Star-chamber matter of it. If he were 
twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse 
Robert Shallow, esquire. 

Slen. In the county of Gloucester, justice of 
peace and “ Coram.” e 

Shal. Ay, cousin Slender, and “ Custa- 
lorum.” 

Slen. Ay, and “Rato-lorum” too; and a 
entleman born, master parson ; who writes 
imself “ Armigero,” in any bill, warrant, 
quittance, or obligation, “Armigero.” u 

Shal. Ay, that I do; and have done any 
time these three hundred years. 

Slen. All his successors gone before him hath 
done’t; and all his ancestors that come after 
him may. They may give the dozen white [is 
luces in their coat. 

Shal. It is an old coat. 

Evans. The dozen white louses do become an 
old coat well; it agrees well, passant. It is a 
familiar beast to man, and signifies love. 21 
Shal. The luce is the fresh fish; the salt fish 
is an old coat. 

Slen. I may quarter, coz. 

Shal. You may, by marrying. 20 

Evans. It is marring indeed, if he quarter it. 
Shal. Not a whit. 

Evans. Yes, py ’r lady. If he has a quarter 
of your coat, there is but three skirts for your¬ 
self, in my simple conjectures. But that is all 
one. If Sir John Falstaff have committed [so 
disparagements unto you, I am of the church, 
and will be glad to do my benevolence to make 
atonements and compremises between you. 34 
Shal. The council shall hear it; it is a riot. 


Evans. It is not meet the council hear a riot; 
there is no fear of Got in a riot. The council, 
look you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, 
and not to hear a riot. Take your vizaments in 
that. 

Shal. Ha ! O’ my life, if I were young again, 
the sword should end it. 41 

Evans. It is petter that friends is the sword, 
and end it; and there is also another device in 
my prain, which peradventure prings goot [44 
discretions with it: there is Anne Page, which 
is daughter to Master George Page, which is 
pretty virginity. 

Slen. Mistress Anne Page ? She has brown 
hair, and speaks small like a woman. 

Evans. It is that fery person for all the 
or Id, as just as you will desire ; and seven [so 
hundred pounds of moneys, and gold and silver, 
is her grandsire upon his death’s-bed— Got 
deliver to a joyful resurrections! —give, when 
she is able to overtake seventeen years old. It 
were a goot motion if we leave our pribbles [s* 
and prabbles, and desire a marriage between 
Master Abraham and Mistress Anne Page. 

Shal. Did her grandsire leave her seven hun¬ 
dred pound ? # w 

Evans. Ay, and her father is make her a 
petter penny. 

Shal. I know the young gentlewoman; she 
has good gifts. 

Evans. Seven hundred pounds and possibil¬ 
ities is goot gifts. 66 

Shal. Well, let us see honest Master Page. 
Is Falstaff there ? 

Evans. Shall I tell you a lie ? I do despise 
a liar as I do despise one that is false, or as I 
despise one that is not true. The knight, Sir [to 
J ohn, is there ; and, I beseech you, be ruled 
by your well-willers. I will peat the door for 
Master Page. [Knocks.] What, hoa! Got pless 
your house here! 

Page. [Within.] Who’s there? w 




I 54 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


[Enter Page.] 

Evans. Here is Got’s plessing, and your 
friend, and Justice Shallow ; and here young 
Master Slender, that peradventures shall tell 
you another tale, if matters grow to your lik¬ 
ings. 

Page. I am glad to see your worships well. 
I thank you for my venison, Master Shallow, si 
Shal. Master Page, I am glad to see you. 
Much good do it your good heart ! I wish’d 
your venison better: it was ill kill’d. How 
doth good Mistress Page ? — and I thank you 
always with my heart, la ! with my heart, se 
Page. Sir, I thank you. 

Shal. Sir, I thank you; by yea and no, I 
do. 

Page. I am glad to see you, good Master 
Slender. > so 

Slen. How does your fallow greyhound, sir ? 
I heard say he was outrun on Cotsall. 

Page. It could not he judg’d, sir. 

Slen. You ’ll not confess, you ’ll not con¬ 
fess. 

Shal. That he will not. ’T is your fault, ’t is 
your fault; ’t is a good dog. so 

Page. A cur, sir. 

Shal. Sir, he’s a good dog, and a fair dog; 
can there be more said ? He is good and fair. 
Is Sir John Falstaff here ? 100 

Page. Sir, he is within ; and I would I could 
do a good office between you. 

Evans. It is spoke as a Christians ought to 
speak. 

Shal. He hath wrong’d me, Master Page. ios 
Page. Sir, he doth in some sort confess it. 
Shal. If it be confessed, it is not redressed. 
Is not that so, Master Page ? He hath wrong’d 
me ; indeed he hath ; at a word, he hath. Be¬ 
lieve me, Robert Shallow, esquire, saith he is 
wrong’d. _ no 

Page. Here comes Sir John. 

[Enter Sir John Falstaff, Bardolph, Nym, 
and Pistol.] 

Fal. Now, Master Shallow, you ’ll complain 
of me to the King ? 

Shal. Knight, you have beaten my men, 
kill’d my deer, and broke open my lodge. 115 
Fal. But not kiss’dyour keeper’s daughter ? 
Shal. Tut, a pin ! This shall be answer’d. 
Fal. I will answer it straight; I have done 
all this. 

That is now answer’d. 

Shal. The council shall know this. 120 

Fal. ’T were better for you if it were known 
in counsel. You ’ll be laugh’d at. 

Evans. Pauca verba , Sir John ; goot worts. 
Fal. Good worts ! good cabbage. Slender, I 
broke your head ; what matter have you against 
me ? 126 

Slen. Marry, sir, I have matter in my head 
against you; and against your cony-catching 
rascals, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. [They 
carried me to the tavern and made me drunk, 
and afterward picked my pocket.] 

Bard. You Banbury cheese! iso 


1. i. 


Slen. Ay, it is no matter. 

Pist. How now, Mephostophilus ! 

Slen. Ay, it is no matter. 

Nym. Slice, I say! pauca, pauca. Slice ! 
that’s my humour. 135 

Slen. Where’s Simple, my man ? Can you 
tell, cousin? 

Evans. Peace, I pray you. Now let us under¬ 
stand. There is three umpires in this matter, 
as I understand; that is, Master Page, fide- 
licet Master Page ; and there is myself, fide- [wo 
licet myself; and the three party is, lastly and 
finally, mine host of the Garter. 

Page. We three to hear it and end it between 
them. we 

Evans. Fery goot. I will make a prief of it 
in my note-book, and we will afterwards ork 
upon the cause with as great discreetly as we 
can. 

Fal. Pistol! 

Pist. He hears with ears. 160 

Evans. The tevil and his tarn ! what phrase 
is this, “ He hears with ear ” ? Why, it is affec¬ 
tations. 

Fal. Pistol, did you pick Master Slender’s 
purse ? 166 

Slen. Ay, by these gloves, did he, or I 
would I might never come in mine own great 
chamber again else, of seven groats in mill-six¬ 
pences, and two Edward shovel-boards, that 
cost me two shilling and two pence a-piece of 
Yead Miller, by these gloves. 161 

Fal. Is this true, Pistol ? 

Evans. No ; it is false, if it is a pick-purse. 
Pist. Ha, thou mountain-foreigner ! Sir 

John and master mine, 

I combat challenge of this latten bilbo. 166 
Word of denial in thy labras here ! 

Word of denial! Froth and scum, thou liest! 
Slen. By these gloves, then, ’t was he. 

Nym. Be avis’d, sir, and pass good hu¬ 
mours. I will say “marry trap” with you, if 
you run the nuthook’s humour on me. That [no 
is the very note of it. 

Slen. By this hat, then, he in the red face 
had it; for though I cannot remember what I 
did when you made me drunk, yet I am not al¬ 
together an ass. i ?6 

Fal. What say you, Scarlet and John ? 

Bard. Why, sir, for my part, I say the gen¬ 
tleman had drunk himself out of his five sen¬ 
tences. • 180 

Evans. It is his five senses. Fie, what the 
ignorance is! 

Bard. And being fap, sir, was, as they say, 
cashier’d; and so conclusions pass’d the ca¬ 
reers. 184 

Slen. Ay, you spake in Latin then too. But 
’tis no matter; I’ll ne’er be drunk whilst I 
live again, but in honest, civil, godly company, 
for this trick. If I be drunk, I’ll be drunk 
with those that have the fear of God, and not 
with drunken knaves. 100 

Evans. So Got udge me, that is a virtuous 
mind. 

Fal. You hear all these matters deni’d, gem 
tlemen ; you hear it. 






THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


I. i. 


[Enter Anne Page, with wine; Mistress Ford 
and Mistress Page, following .] 

Page. Nay, daughter, carry the wine in ; 
we ’ll drink within. [ Exit Anne Page.] wo 
Slen. O heaven ! this is Mistress Anne Page. 
Paae. How now, Mistress Ford ! 

Fat. Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very 
well met. By your leave, good mistress. 200 

[Hisses her. 

Page. Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome. 
Come, we have a hot venison pasty to dinner. 
Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down 
all unkindness. 

[.Exeunt all except Shal ., Slen., and 
Evans.] 

Slen. I had rather than forty shillings I [20s 
had my Book of Songs and Sonnets here. 

[Enter Simple.] 

How now, Simple ! where have you been ? I 
must wait on myself, must I ? You have not 
the Book of Riddles about you, have you ? 209 
Sim. Book of Riddles! Why. did you not 
lend it to Alice Shortcake upon All-hallowmas 
last, a fortnight afore Michaelmas ? 

Shal. Come, coz ; come, coz ; we stay for you. 
A word with you, coz ; marry, this, coz : there 
is, as ’t were, a tender, a kind of tender, 
made afar off by Sir Hugh here. Do you un¬ 
derstand me ? • 216 

Slen. Ay, sir, you shall find me reasonable. 
If it be so, I shall do that that is reason. 

Shal. Nay, but understand me. 

Slen. So 1 do, sir. 220 

Evans. Give ear to his motions, Master Slen¬ 
der. I will description the matter to you, if 
you be capacity of it. 

Slen. Nay, I will do as my cousin Shallow 
says. I pray you, pardon me ; he’s a justice 
of peace in his country, simple though I stand 
here. 226 

Evans. But that is not the question: the 
question is concerning your marriage. 

Shal. Ay, there’s the point, sir. 

Evans. Marry, is it; the very point of it; to 
Mistress Anne Page. 231 

Slen. Why, if it be so, I will marry her upon 
any reasonable demands. 

Evans. But can you affection the ’oman? 
Let us command to know that of your mouth 
or of your lips ; for divers philosophers hold [236 
that the lips is parcel of the mouth. There¬ 
fore, precisely, can you carry your good will to 
the maid ? 

Shal. Cousin Abraham Slender, can you love 
her ? . 240 

Slen. I hope, sir, I will do as it shall become 
one that would do reason. 

Evans. Nay, Got’s lords and his ladies I You 
must speak possitable, if you can carry her 
your desires towards her. 243 

Shal. That you must. Will you, upon good 
dowry, marry her ? . 

Slen. I will do a greater thing than that, 
upon your request, cousin, in any reason. 249 
Shal. Nay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet 


*55 


coz ; what I do is to pleasure you, coz. Can you 
love the maid ? 

Slen. I will marry her, sir, at your request; 
but if there be no great love in the beginning, 
yet heaven may decrease it upon better ac¬ 
quaintance, when we are married and have [255 
more occasion to know one another. I hope, 
upon familiarity will grow more content. But 
if you say, “Marry her,” I will marry her; 
that I am freely dissolved, and dissolutely. 200 
Evans. It is a fery discretion answer, save 
the fall is in the ort “dissolutely.” The ort 
is, according to our meaning, “ resolutely.” His 
meaning is good. 

Shal. Ay, I think my cousin meant well. 205 
Slen. Ay, or else I would I might be hang’d, 
la! 

Shal. Here comes fair Mistress Anne. 

[Re-enter Anne Page.] 

Would I were young for your sake, Mistress 
Anne! 

Anne. The dinner is on the table. My father 
desires your worships’ company. 271 

Shal. I will wait on him, fair Mistress Anne. 
Evans. Od’s plessed will, I will not be ab¬ 
sence at the grace. 

[Exeunt Shallow and Evans.] 
Anne. Will’t please your worship to come 
in, sir ? 276 

Slen. No, I thank you, forsooth, heartily ; I 
am very well. 

Anne. The dinner attends you, sir. 

Slen. I am not a-hungry; I thank you, [280 
forsooth. Go, sirrah, for all you are my man, 
go wait upon my cousin Shallow. [Exit Simple.] 
A iustice of peace sometime may be beholding 
to his friend for a man. I keep but three men 
and a boy yet, till my mother be dead. But [285 
what though? Yet I live like a poor gentle¬ 
man born. 

Anne. I may not go in without your worship. 
They will not sit till you come. 

Slen. I’ faith, I ’ll eat nothing. I thank you 
as much as though I did. 291 

Anne. I pray you, sir, walk in. 

Slen. I had rather walk here, I thank you. 
I bruis’d my shin the other day with playing 
at sword and dagger with a master of fence; 
three veneys for a dish of stew’d prunes; [29c 
and, by my troth, I cannot abide the smell of 
hot meat since. Why do your dogs bark so? 
Be there bears i’ the town ? 

Anne. I think there are, sir; I heard them 
talk’d of. 30 * 

Slen. I love the sport well ; but I shall as 
soon quarrel at it as any man in England. You 
are afraid, if you see the bear loose, are you 
not ? 

Anne. Ay, indeed, sir. . 333 

Slen. That’s meat and drink to me, now. I 
have seen Sackerson loose twenty times, and 
have taken him by the chain; but, I warrant 
you, the women have so cri’d and shriek’d at it, 
that it pass’d. But women, indeed, cannot [sm 
abide ’em; they are very ill-favour’d rough 
things. 




THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


! 5 6 


i. iiL 


[Re-enter Page.] 

Page. Come, gentle Master Slender, come; 
we stay for you. 

Slen. I ’ll eat nothing, I thank you, sir. sic 
Page. By cock and pie, you shall not choose, 
sir! Come, come. 

Slen. Nay, pray you, lead the way. 

Page. Come on, sir. 

Slen. Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first. 
Anne. Not I, sir; pray you, keep on. 321 
Slen. Truly, I will not go first; truly, la ! I 
will not do you that wrong. 

Anne. I pray you, sir. 

Slen. 1 ’ll rather he unmannerly than trouble¬ 
some. You do yourself wrong, indeed, la! 326 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [The same. 1 
Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple. 

Evans. Go your ways, and ask of Doctor 
Caius’ house which is the way; and there dwells 
one Mistress Quickly, which is in the manner 
of his nurse, or his dry nurse, or his cook, or his 
laundry, his washer, and his wringer. s 

Sim. Well, sir. 

Evans. Nay, it is petter yet. Give her this 
letter; for it is a ’oman that altogether ’s ac¬ 
quaintance with Mistress Anne Page ; and the 
letter is, to desire and require her to solicit 
our master’s desires to Mistress Anne Page. [10 
pray you, pegone. I will make an end of my 
dinner; there’s pippins and cheese to come. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. [A room in the Garter Inn.] 

Enter Falstaff, Host, Bardolph, Nym, 
Pistol, and page [Robin]. 

Fal. Mine host of the Garter! 

Host. What says my bully-rook ? Speak 
scholarly and wisely. 

Fal. Truly, mine host, I must turn away 
some of my followers. s 

Host. Discard, bully Hercules; cashier. Let 
them wag. Trot, trot. 

Fal. I sit at ten pounds a week. 

Host. Thou ’rt an emperor, Caesar, Keisar, 
and Pheezar. I will entertain Bardolph ; he [10 
shall draw, he shall tap. Said I well, bully 
Hector ? 

Fal. Do so, good mine host. 

Host. I have spoke; let him follow. [To 
Bard.] Let me see thee froth and lime. I am 
at a word ; follow. [Exit.] is 

Fal. Bardolph, follow him. A tapster is a 
good trade. An old cloak makes a new jerkin; 
a wither’d serving-man a fresh tapster. Go; 
adieu. 20 

Bard. It is a life that I have desir’d. I will 
thrive. . [Exit Bardolph.] 

Pist. Ohase Hungarian wight 1 wilt thou the 
spigot wield ? 

Nym. He was gotten in drink. Ls not the 
humour conceited ? 26 

Fal. I am glad I am so acquit of this tinder- 


box ; his thefts were too open. His filching 
was like an unskilful singer; he kept not 
time. 

Nym. The good humour is to steal at a mm- 
liters rest ^ 

Pist. “ Convey,” the wise it call. “ Steal! ” 
foh ! A fico for the phrase! 

Fal. Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels. 
Pist. Why, then, let kibes ensue. 36 

Fal. There is no remedy; I must cony-catch; 
I must shift. 

Pist. Young ravens must have food. 

Fal. Which of you know Ford of this town ? 
Pist. I ken the wight; he is of substance 

good. 4 1 

Fal. My honest lads, I will tell you what I 
am about. 

Pist. Two yards, and more. 

Fal. No quips now, Pistol! Indeed, I am in [45 
the waist two yards about; hut I am now about 
no waste, I am about thrift. Briefly, I do mean 
to make love to Ford’s wife. I spy entertain¬ 
ment in her. She discourses, she carves, she 
gives the leer of invitation. I can construe the 
action of her familiar style ; and the hardest [so 
voice of her behaviour, to be English’d rightly, 
is, “ I am Sir John Falstaff’s.” 

Pist. He hath studied her well, and trans¬ 
lated her will out of honesty into English. ss 
Nym. The anchor is deep. Will that humour 
pass ? 

Fal. Now, the report goes she has all the 
rifle of her husband’s purse. He hath a legion 
of angels. «> 

Pist. As many devils entertain; and “ To 
her, boy,” say I. 

Nym. The humour rises; it is good. Hu¬ 
mour me the angels. w 

Fal. I have writ me here a letter to her; 
and here another to Page’s wife, who even 
now gave me good eyes too, examin’d my parts 
with most judicious ceillades; sometimes the 
beam of her view gilded my foot, sometimes 
my portly belly. 

Pist. Then did the sun on dunghill shine, to 
Nym. I thank thee for that humour. 

Fal. 0 , she did so course o’er my exteriors 
with such a greedy intention, that the appetite 
of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a 
burning-glass! Here’s another letter to her. 
She bears the purse too; she is a region in [75 
Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be cheaters 
to them both, and they shall be exchequers to 
me. They shall be my East and West Indies, 
and I will trade to them both. Go bear thou 
this letter to Mistress Page ; and thou this [s« 
to. Mistress Ford. We will thrive, lads, we 
will thrive. 

Pist. Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become, 
And by my side wear steel? Then, Lucifer 
take all! 84 

Nym. I will run no base humour. Here, 
take the humour-letter; I will keep the ha- 
viour of reputation. 

Fal. [To Robin.] Hold, sirrah, bear you 
. these letters tightly ; 

Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores. 








I. IV. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


*57 


Rogues, hence, avaunt! Vanish like hailstones, 
go! »0 

Trudge 1 Plod away o’ the hoof ! Seek shelter I 
Pack! 

Falstaff will learn the humour of the age, 
French thrift, you rogues ; myself and skirted 
page. [Exeunt Falstaff and Robin. 

Pist. Let vultures gripe thy guts ! for gourd 
and fullam holds, 

And high and low beguiles the rich and poor. 95 
Tester I’ll have in pouch when thou shalt 
lack, 

Base Phrygian Turk! 

Nym. I have operations which he humours 
of revenge. 

Pist. Wilt thou revenge ? 100 

Nym. By welkin and her star! 

Pist. With wit or steel ? 

Nym. With both the humours, I. 

I will discuss the humour of this love to Page. 

Pist. And I to Ford shall eke unfold 105 
How Falstaff, varlet vile, 

His dove will prove, his gold will hold, 
And his soft couch defile. 

Nym. My humour shall not cool. I will in¬ 
cense Page to deal with poison; I will possess [no 
him with yellowness, for the revolt of mine is 
dangerous. That is my true humour. 

Pist. Thou art the Mars of malcontents. I 
second thee; troop on. [ Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [A room in Doctor Cams ' 1 s house.] 

Enter Mistress Quickly, Simple, and John 
Rugby. 

Quick. What, John Rugby I I pray thee, go 
to the casement, and see if you can see my 
master, Master Doctor Caius, coming. If he 
do, i’ faith, and find any body in the house, 
here will be an old abusmg of God’s patience 
and the King’s English. e 

Rug. I ’ll go watch. 

Quick. Go; and we ’ll have a posset for ’t 
soon at night, in faith, at the latter end of a 
sea-coal fire. [ Exit Rugby.] An honest, willing, 
kind fellow, as ever servant shall come in mlo 
house withal, and, I warrant you, no tell-tale 
nor no breed-bate. His worst fault is, that he 
is given to prayer. He is something peevish 
that way; but nobody but has his fault. But 
let that pass. Peter Simple, you say your name 
is? is 

Sim. Ay, for fault of a better. 

Quick. And Master Slender’s your master ? 

Sim. Ay, forsooth. 

Quick. Does he not wear a great round beard, 
like a glover’s paring-knife ? 21 

Sim. No, forsooth ; he hath but a little wee 
face, with a little yellow beard, a Cain-colour’d 
beard. 

Quick. A softly-sprighted man, is he not ? 25 

Sim. Ay, forsooth; but he is as tall a man 
of his hands as any is between this and his 
head. He hath fought with a warrener. 

Quick. How say you ? O, I should remember 
him. Does he not hold up his head, as it were, 
and strut in his gait ? *1 


Sim. Yes, indeed, does he. 

Quick. Well, Heaven send Anne Page no 
worse fortune ! Tell Master Parson Evans I 
will do what I can for your master. Anne is a 
good girl, and I wish — se 

[. Re-enter Rugby.] 

Rug. Out, alas ! here comes my master. 
Quick. We shall all be shent. Run in here, 
good young man ; go into this closet. He will 
not stay long. [Shuts Simple in the closet.] 
What, John Rugby! John! what, John, I [40 
say ! Go, John, go inquire for my master ; I 
doubt he be not well, that he comes not 
home. 

[Singing.] And down, down, adown-a, etc. 
[Enter Doctor Caius.] 

Caius. Vat is you sing ? I do not like dese [45 
toys. Pray you, go and vetch me in my closet 
une boite en verae , a box, a green-a box. Do in¬ 
tend vat I speak ? A green-a box. 

Quick. Ay, forsooth ; I ’ll fetch it vou. 
[Aside.] I am glad he went not in himself ; if 
he had found the young man, he would have [go 
been horn-mad. 

Caius. Fe, fe, fe ; fe ! ma foi , il fait fort 
chaud. Je m'en vais d, la cour , — la grande 
cffaire. 

Quick. Is it this, sir ? gs 

Caius. Oui; mette le au mon pocket; d^peche, 
quickly. Vere is dat knave Rugbv ? 

Quick. What, John Rugby! John ! 

Rug. Here, sir I go 

Cams. You are John Rugby, and you are 
Jack Rugby. Come, take-a your rapier, and 
come after my heel to the court. 

Rug. ’T is ready, sir, here in the porch. 
Cams. By my trot, I tarry too long. Od’s 
me ! Qu*ai-f oublti ? Dere is some simples in 
my closet, dat I vill not for the varld I shall [«b 
leave behind. 

Quick. Ay me, he ’ll find the young man 
there, and be mad ! eo 

Caius. O diable , diable ! vat is in my closet ? 
Villainy! Laron! [Pulling Simple out.] Rugby, 
my rapier ! 

Quick. Good master, be content. 

Caius. Wherefore shall I be content-a ? 
Quick. The young man is an honest man. 75 
Caius. What shall de honest man do in my 
closet ? Dere is no honest man dat shall come 
in my; closet. 

Quick. I beseech you, be not so phlegmatic. 
Hear the truth of it: he came of an errand to 
me from Parson Hugh. *1 

Caius. Veil? 

Sim. Ay, forsooth ; to desire her to — 

Quick. Peace, I pray you. 

Caius. Peace-a your tongue. Speak-a your 
tale. «6 

Sim. To desire this honest gentlewoman, 
your maid, to speak a good word to Mistress 
Anne Page for my master in the way of mar¬ 
riage .. 

Quick. This is all, indeed, la ! but I ’ll ne’er 
put my finger in the fire, and need not. »» 






THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


158 


II. L 


Cains. Sir Hugh send-a you ? Rugby, baillez 
me some paper. Tarry you a little-a while. 

[ Writes. ] 

Quick. [ Aside to Simple.] I am glad he is so 
quiet. If he had been thoroughly moved, you [95 
should have heard him so loud and so melan¬ 
choly. But notwithstanding, man, I ’ll do you 
your master what good I can; and the very 
yea and the no is, the French doctor, my mas¬ 
ter, — I may call nim my master, look you, for 
I keep his house ; and I wash, wring, brew, [100 
bake, scour, dress meat and drink, make the 
beds, and do all myself,— 

Sim. [Aside to Quickly.] ’T is a great charge 
to come under one body’s hand. ios 

Quick. [Aside to Simple.] Are you avis’d o’ 
that ? You shall find it a great charge; and to 
be up early and down late ; but notwithstand¬ 
ing, — to tell you in your ear; I would have no 
words of it, — my master himself is in love with 
Mistress Anne Page; but notwithstanding [no 
that, I know Anne’s mind, — that’s neither 
here nor there. 

Caius. You jack’nape, give-a this letter to 
Sir Hugh. By gar, it is a shallenge. I will cut 
his troat in de park; and I will teach a 
scurvy jack-a-nape priest to meddle or [us 
make. You may be gone ; it is not good you 
tarry here. By gar, I will cut all his two stones ; 
by gar, he shall not have a stone to throw at his 
dog. _ [Exit Simple.] 

Quick. Alas, he speaks but for his friend. 120 
Caius. It is no matter-a ver dat. Do not you 
tell-a me dat I shall have Anne Page for myself ? 
By gar, I vill kill de Jack priest; and I have ap¬ 
pointed mine host of de Jarteer to measure our 
weapon. By gar, I will myself have Anne 
Page. i ?6 

Quick. Sir, the maid loves you, and all shall 
be well. We must give folks leave to prate; 
what, the good-year! 

Caius. Rugby, come to the court with me. [130 
By gar, if I have not Anne Page, I shall turn 
your head out of my door. Follow my heels, 
Rugby. [Exeunt Caius and Rugby.] 

Quick. You shall have An-fool’s-nead of 

your own. No, I know Anne’s mind for that. 
Never a woman in Windsor knows more of [135 
Anne’s mind than I do ; nor can do more than 
I do with her, I thank Heaven. 

Fent. [ Within.] Who’s within there ? ho ! 
Quick. Who’s there, I trow ! Come near the 
house, I pray you. 141 

[jEhfer Fenton.] 


Fent. How now, good woman! how dost 
thou ? 

Quick. The better that it pleases your good 
worship to ask. 145 

Fent. What news ? How does pretty Mistress 
Anne ? 

Quick. In truth, sir, and she is pretty, and 
honest, and gentle ; and one that is your friend, 
I can tell you that by the way; I praise Heaven 
for it. i 6 i 

Fent. Shall I do any good, think’st thou? 
Shall I not lose my suit ? 


Quick. Troth, sir, all is in His hands above. 
But notwithstanding, Master Fenton, I ’ll be 
sworn on a book, she loves you. Have not 
your worship a wart above your eye ? i 67 

Fent. Yes, marry, have I; what of that ? 
Quick. Well, thereby hangs a tale. Good 
faith, it is such another Nan; but, I detest, 
an honest maid as ever broke bread. We [160 
had an hour’s talk of that wart. I shall never 
laugh but in that maid’s company ! But indeed 
she is given too much to allicholy and musing; 
but for you — well, go to. 166 

Fent. Well, I shall see her to-day. Hold, 
there’s money for thee ; let me have thy voice 
in my behalf. If thou seest her before me, 
commend me — isa 

Quick. Will I ? I’ faith, that we will; and I 
will tell your worship more of the wart the 
next time we have confidence; and of other 
wooers. 

Fent. Well, farewell; I am in great haste 
now. its 

Quick. Farewell to your worship. [Exit 
Fenton.] Truly, an honest gentleman; but 
Anne loves him not; for I know Anne’s mind 
as well as another does. Out upon’t! what 
have I forgot ? [Exit, iso 


ACT II 

Scene I. [Before Page's house.] 

Enter Mistress Page [with a letter]. 

Mrs. Page. What, have I scap’d love-letters 
in the holiday-time of my beauty, and am I now 
a subject for them ? Let me see. [Reads.] 

1 ‘ Ask me no reason why I love you ; for though 
Love use Reason for his precisian, he admits [3 
him not for his counsellor. You are not young, 
no more am I; go to then, there’s sympathy. 
You are merry, so am I; ha, ha ! then there’s 
more sympathy. You love sack, and so do I ; 
would you desire better sympathy ? Let it [10 
suffice thee, Mistress Page, — at the least, if 
the love of a soldier can suffice, — that I love 
thee. I will not say, pity me ; ’tis not a sol¬ 
dier-like phrase; but I say, love me. By 
me, 

Thine own true knight, 15 

By day or night, 

Or any kind of light, 

With all his might 
For thee to fight, 

John Falstaff.” 

What a Herod of Jewry is this ! 0 wicked, [20 
wicked world! One that is well-nigh worn to 
pieces with age to show himself a young gal¬ 
lant !. What an unweigh’d behaviour hath this 
Flemish drunkard pick’d — with the devil’s 
name ! — out of my conversation, that he dares 
in this manner assay me ? Why, he hath not [26 
been thrice in my company ! What should I say 
to him ? I was then frugal of my mirth. Hea¬ 
ven forgive me l Why, I ’ll exhibit a bill in the 
parliament for the putting down of men. How 
shall I be reveng’d on him? for reveng'd I [»« 
will be, as sure as his guts are made of puddings. 





II. i. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


*59 


[ Enter Mistress Ford.] 

Mrs. Ford. Mistress Page! trust me, I was 
going to your house. 34 

Mrs. Page. And, trust me, I was coming to 
you. You look very ill. 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, I ’ll ne’er believe that; I 
have to show to the contrary. 

Mrs. Page. Faith, but you do, in my mind. 39 
Mrs. Ford. Well, I do then ; yet I say I could 
show you to the contrary. 0 Mistress Page, 
give me some counsel! 

Mrs. Page. What’s the matter, woman ? 
Mrs. Ford. O woman, if it were not for one 
trifling respect, I could come to such honour ! 45 
Mrs. Page. Hang the trifle, woman! take 
the honour. What is it ? Dispense with trifles. 
What is it ? 

Mrs. Ford. If I would hut go to hell for an 
eternal moment or so, I could be knighted. 60 
Mrs. Page. What ? Thou liest! Sir Alice 
Ford! These knights will hack; and so thou 
shouldst not alter the article of thy gentry. 

Mrs. Ford. We burn daylight. Here, read, 
read; perceive how I might be knighted. I 
shall think the worse of fat men, as long as [55 
I have an eye to make difference of men’s lik¬ 
ing ; and yet he would not swear; praised 
women’s modesty ; and gave such orderly and 
well-behaved reproof to all uncomeliness, that 
I would have sworn his disposition would [eo 
have gone to the truth of his words ; hut they 
do no more adhere and keep place together than 
the Hundredth Psalm to the tune of “ Green 
Sleeves.” What tempest, I trow, threw this 
whale, with so many tuns of oil in his belly, [65 
ashore at Windsor ? How shall I be revenged 
on him ? I think the best way were to entertain 
him with hope, till the wicked fire of lust have 
melted him in his own grease. Did you ever 
hear the like ? 70 

Mrs. Page. Letter for letter, but that the 
name of Page and Ford differs ! To thy great 
comfort in this mystery of ill opinions, here’s 
the twin-brother of thy letter ; but let thine in¬ 
herit first; for, I protest, mine never shall. [75 
I warrant he hath a thousand of these letters 
writ with blank space for different names, 
— sure, more, — and these are of the second 
edition. He will print them, out of doubt; for 
he cares not what he puts into the press, when 
he would put us two. I had rather be a [80 
giantess, and lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I 
will find you twenty lascivious turtles ere one 
chaste man. 

Mrs. Ford. Why, this is the very same : the 
very hand, the very words. What doth he 
think of us ? 86 

Mrs. Page. Nay, I know not. It makes me 
almost ready to wrangle with mine own hon¬ 
esty. I ’ll entertain myself like one that I am 
not acquainted withal; for, sure, unless he 
know some strain in me that I know not [»o 
myself, he would never have boarded me in 
this fury. 

Mrs. Ford. “Boarding,” call you it? I’ll 
he sure to keep him above deck. w 


Mrs. Page. So will I. If he come under my 
hatches, I ’ll never to sea again. Let’s be re¬ 
veng’d on him. Let’s appoint him a meeting, 
give him a show of comfort in his suit, ana 
lead him on with a fine-baited delay, till he 
hath pawn’d his horses to mine host of the 
Garter. 100 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, I will consent to act any 
villainy against him, that may not sully the 
chariness of our honesty. 0 , that my husband 
saw this letter ! It would give eternal food to 
his jealousy. 105 

Mrs. Page. Why, look where he comes : and 
my good man too. He’s as far from jealousy 
as I am from giving him cause; and that I 
hope is an unmeasurable distance. 

Mrs. Ford. You are the happier woman, no 
Mrs. Page. Let’s consult together against 
this greasy knight. Come hither. 

[They retire .] 

[Enter Ford with Pistol, and Page with Nym.] 

Ford. Well, I hope it be not so. 

Pist. Hope is a curtal dog in some affairs. 
Sir John affects thy wife. 116 

Ford. Why, sir, my wife is not young. 

Pist. He woos both high and low, both rich 
and poor, 

Both young and old, one with another, Ford. 
He loves the gallimaufry. Ford, perpend. 
Ford. Love my wife! 120 

Pist. With liver burning hot. Prevent, or 
go thou, 

Like Sir Actseon he, with Ringwood at thy 
heels. 

0 , odious is the name ! 

Ford. What name, sir ? 

Pist. The horn, I say. Farewell. 125 

Take heed, have open eye, for thieves do foot 
by night. 

Take heed, ere summer comes or cuckoo-birds 
do sing. 

Away, Sir Corporal Nym ! 

Believe it, Page ; he speaks sense. [Exit.] 
Ford. [Aside.] I wiU be patient; I will find 
out this. 131 

Nym. [To Page.] And this is true; I like 
not the humour of lying. He hath wronged me 
in some humours. I should have borne the 
humour’d letter to her; but I have a sword 
and it shaU bite upon my necessity. He [133 
loves your wife; there’s the short and the 
long. My name is Corporal Nym ; I speak and 
I avouch; ’t is true; my name is Nym and 
Falstaff loves your wife. Adieu. I love not 
the humour of bread and cheese [and there’s 
the humour of it]. Adieu. [Exit.] 141 

Page. “The humour of it,” quoth ’a! 
Here’s a feUow frights English out of his 
wits. 

Ford. I will seek out Falstaff. 

Page. I never heard such a drawling, af 
fecting rogue. i 46 

Fora. If I do find it! Well. 

Page. I will not believe such a Cataian, 
though the priest o’ the town commended him 
for a true man. iso 





i6o 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


II. ii. 


Ford. ’T was a good sensible fellow. Well. 

Page. How now, Meg! 

[Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford come 
forward .] 

Mrs. Page. Whither go you, George ? Hark 
you. 

Mrs. Ford. How now, sweet Frank! Why 
art thou melancholy ? 156 

Ford. I melancholy! I am not melancholy. 
Get you home, go. 

Mrs. Ford. Faith, thou hast some crotchets 
in thy head now. Will you go, Mistress 
Page ? t 160 

Mrs. Page. Have with you. You ’ll come to 
dinner, George. [ Aside to Mrs. Ford.] Look 
who comes yonder. She shall be our messenger 
to this paltry knight. 

Mrs. Ford. [Aside to Mrs. Page.] Trust me, 
I thought on her. She ’ll fit it. ise 

[Enter Mistress Quickly.] 


Mrs. Page. You are come to see my daughter 
Anne ? 

Quick. Ay, forsooth ; and, I pray, how does 
good Mistress Anne ? ito 

Mrs. Page. Go in with us and see. We have 
an hour’s talk with you. 

[Exeunt Mrs. Page , Mrs. Ford , and 
Mrs. Quickly. 

Page. How now. Master Ford ! 

Ford. You heard what this knave told me, 
did you not ? m 

Page. Yes; and you heard what the other 
told me ? 

Ford. Do you think there is truth in them ? 

Page. Hang ’em, slaves ! I do not think the 
knight would offer it; but these that accuse 
him in his intent towards our wives are a [wo 
yoke of his discarded men; very rogues, now 
they be out of service. 

Ford. Were they his men ? 

Page. Marry, were they. iss 

Ford. I like it never the better for that. 
Does he lie at the Garter ? 

Page. Ay, marry, does he. If he should in¬ 
tend this voyage towards my wife, I would turn 
her loose to him ; and what he gets more of her 
than sharp words, let it lie on my head. i»i 

Ford. I do not misdoubt my wife; but I 
would be loath to turn them together. A man 
may be too confident. I would have nothing 
lie on my head. I cannot be thus satisfied, 195 


Enter Host. 


Page. Look where my ranting host of the 
Garter comes. There is either liquor in his 
pate or money in his purse when he looks so 
merrily. 

How now, mine host 1 

Host. How now, bully-rook ! thou ’rt a gen¬ 
tleman. Cavaleiro-justice, I say! 201 

[Enter Shallow.] 

Shal. I follow, mine host, I follow. Good 
even and twenty, good Master Page! Master 
Page, will you go with us? We have sport in 
hand. 


Host. Tell him, cavaleiro-justice; tell him, 
bully-rook. 

Shal. Sir, there is a fray to be fought between 
Sir Hugh the Welsh priest and Caius the French 
doctor. 210 

Ford. Good mine host o’ the Garter, a word 
with you. [Drawing him aside.] 

Host. What say’st thou, my bully-rook ? 
Shal. [To Page.] Will you go with us to be¬ 
hold it ? My merry host hath had the mea- [215 
suring of their weapons, and, I think, hath 
appointed them contrary places; for, believe 
me, I hear the parson is no jester. Hark, I will 
tell you what our sport shall be. 

[They draw aside.] 
Host. Hast thou no suit against my knight, 
my guest-cavaleiro ? 221 

[Ford.] None, I protest; but I ’ll give you a 
pottle of burnt sack to give me recourse to him 
and tell him my name is Brook ; only for a jest. 

Host. My hand, bully; thou shalt have 
egress and regress ; — said I well ? — and [225 
thy name shall be Brook. It is a merry knight. 
Will you go, Mynheers ? 

Shal. Have with you, mine host. 

Page. I have heard the Frenchman hath good 
skill in his rapier. 231 

Shal. Tut, sir, I could have told you more. 
In these times you stand on distance, your 
passes, stoccadoes, and I know not what. ’T is 
the heart, Master Page; ’t is here, ’t is here. 
I have seen the time, with my long sword [235 
I would have made you four tall fellows skip 
like rats. 

Host. Here, boys, here, here ! shall we wag ? 
Page. Have with you. I had rather hear 
them scold than fight. 240 

[Exeunt Host , Shal. [and Page.] 
Ford. Though Page be a secure fooh ana 
stands so firmly on his wife’s frailty, yet I can¬ 
not put off my opinion so easily. She was in 
his company at Page’s house; and what they 
made there, I know not. Well, I will look 
further into’t; and I have a disguise to [245 
sound Falstaff. If I find her honest, I lose not 
my labour; if she be otherwise, ’tis labour well 
bestowed. [Exit. 


Scene II. [A room in the Garter Inn.] 
Enter Falstaff and Pistol. 

Fed. I will not lend thee a penny. 

Pist. Why, then the world’s mine oyster, 
Which I with sword will open. 

Fal. Not a penny. I have been content, sir, 
you should lay my countenance to pawn. I 
have grated upon my good friends for three [5 
reprieves for you and your coach-fellow Nym ; 
or else you had look’d through the grate, like 
a geminy of baboons. I am damn’d in hell for 
swearing to gentlemen my friends, you were 
good soldiers and tall fellows; and when [10 
Mistress Bridget lost the handle of her fan, I 
took ’t upon mine honour thou hadst it not. 

Pist. Didst not thou share ? Hadst thou not 
fifteen pence ? 14 

Fal. Keason, you rogue, reason. Think’st 




II. 11. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


161 


thou I ’ll endanger my soul gratis ? At a word, 
hang no more about me ; I am no gibbet for you. 
Go. A short knife and a throng J'To your manor 
of Pickt-hateh ! Go. You ’ll not bear a letter 
for me, you rogue! You stand upon your [20 
honour ! Why, thou unconfinable baseness, it 
is as much as I can do to keep the terms of my 
honour precise. Ay, I myself sometimes, leav¬ 
ing the fear of God on the left hand and hiding 
mine honour in my necessity, am fain to shuffle, 
to hedge, and to lurch ; and yet you, rogue, [2c 
will ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain 
looks, your red-lattice phrases, and your bold¬ 
beating oaths, under the shelter of your hon¬ 
our ! You will not do it! You ! 30 

Pist. I do relent. What would thou more of 
man? 

[Enter Robin.] 

Rob. Sir, here’s a woman would speak with 
you. 

Fal. Let her approach. 

Enter Mistress Quickly. 

Quick. Give your worship good morrow. 

Fal. Good morrow, good wife. 35 

Quick. Not so, an’t please your worship. 
Fal. Good maid, then. 

Quick. I ’ll be sworn, 

As mv mother was, the first hour I was born. 

Fal. I do believe the swearer. What with 
me ? 40 

Quick. Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word 
or two ? 

Fal. Two thousand, fair woman; and I’ll 

vouchsafe thee the hearing. 44 

Quick. There is one Mistress Ford, sir; — 
I pray, come a little nearer this ways; — I 
myself dwell with Master Doctor Caius, — 

Fed. Well, on. Mistress Ford, you say, — 
Quick. Your worship says very true. I pray 
your worship, come a little nearer this ways, eo 
Fal. I warrant thee, nobody hears; mine 
own people, mine own people. 

Quick. Are they sor God bless them and 
make them his servants ! 

Fal. Well, Mistress Ford ; what of her ? 55 
Quick. Why, sir, she’s a good creature. 
Lord, Lord ! your worship’s a wanton ! Well, 
Heaven forgive you, and all of us, I pray ! 

Fal. Mistress Ford ; come, Mistress lord,— 
Quick. Marry, this is the short and the 
long of it: you have brought her into such [eo 
a canaries as ’t is wonderful. The best courtier 
of them all, when the court lay at Windsor, 
could never have brought her to such a canary. 
Yet there has been knights, and lords, and gen¬ 
tlemen, with their coaches, I warrant you, [es 
coach after coach, letter after letter, gift after 
gift; smelling so sweetly, all musk, and so 
rushling, I warrant you, in silk and gold ; and 
in such alligant terms; and in such wine and 
sugar of the best and the fairest, that would [70 
have won any woman’s heart; andj I warrant 
you, they could never get an eye-wink of her. 
I had myself twenty angels given me this morn¬ 
ing ; but I defy all angels, in any such sort, as 


they say, but in the way of honesty; and, I [75 
warrant you, they eoula never get her so much 
as sip on a cup with the proudest of them all; 
and yet there has been earls, nay, which is more, 
pensioners ; but, I warrant you, all is one with 
her. so 

Fal. But what says she to me ? Be brief, my 
good she-Mercury. 

Quick. Marry, she hath receiv’d your letter, 
for the which she thanks you a thousand times ; 
and she gives you to notify that her hus- [ss 
band will be absence from his house between 
ten and eleven. 

Fal. Ten and eleven ? 

Quick. Ay, forsooth ; and then you may come 
and see the picture, she says, that you wot [no 
of. Master Ford, her husband, will be from 
home. Alas ! the sweet woman leads an ill life 
with him. He’s a very jealousy man. She 
leads a very frampold life with him, good 
heart. 

Fal. Ten and eleven. Woman, commend me 
to her ; I will not fail her. ne 

Quick. Why, you say well. But I have an¬ 
other messenger to your worship. Mistress 
Page hath her hearty commendations to you 
too ; and let me tell you in your ear, she’s as 
fartuous a civil modest wife, and one, I tell [100 
you, that will not miss you morning nor even¬ 
ing prayer, as any is in Windsor, whoe’er be 
the other • and she bade me tell your worship 
that her husband is seldom from home ; but 
she hopes there will come a time. I never [105 
knew a woman so dote upon a man. Surely I 
think you have charms, la ; yes, in truth. 

Fal. Not I, I assure thee. Setting the attrac¬ 
tion of my good parts aside I have no other 
charms. 111 

Quick. Blessing on your heart for ’t! 

Fal. But, I pray thee, tell me this: has 
Ford’s wife and Page’s wife acquainted each 
other how they love me ? ns 

Quick. That were a jest indeed ! They have 
not so little grace, I hope. That were a trick 
indeed! But Mistress Page would desire you 
to send her your little page, of all loves. Her 
husband has a marvellous infection to the 
little page ; and truly Master Page is an hon- [120 
est man. Never a wife in Windsor leads a better 
life than she does: do what she will, say what 
she will, take all, pay all, go to bed when she 
list, rise when she list, all is as she will; and 
truly she deserves it, for if there be a kind [12s 
woman in Windsor, she is one. You must send 
her yourpage ; no remedy. 

Fal. Why, I will. 

Quick. Nay, but do so, then; and, look you, 
he may come and go between you both ; and in 
any case have a nay-word, that you may [131 
know one another’s mind, and the boy never 
need to understand any thing; for ’t is not 
good that children should know any wicked¬ 
ness. Old folks, you know, have discretion, as 
they say, and know the world. isc 

Fal. Fare thee well. Commend me to them 
both. There’s my purse ; I am yet thy debtor. 
Boy, go along with this woman. [Exeunt Mia* 





162 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


ii. ii. 


tress Quickly and Bobin .] This news distracts 
me! . < 140 

Pist. This punk is one of Cupid’s carriers. 
Clap on more sails; pursue; up with your 
fights; 

Give fire ! She is my prize, or ocean whelm 
them all! [Exit.] 

Fal. Say’st thou so, old Jack ? Go thy ways. 
I ’ll make more of thy old body than I have 
done. Will they yet look after thee ? Wilt [us 
thou, after the expense of so much money, he 
now a gainer ? Good body, I thank thee. Let 
them say’t is grossly done ; so it be f airly done, 
no matter. U 9 

Enter Bardolph. 

Bard. Sir John, there’s one Master Brook 
below would fain speak with you, and he ac¬ 
quainted with you ; and hath sent your worship 
a morning’s draught of sack. 

Fal. Brook is his name ? 

Bard. Ay, sir. iss 

Fal. Call him in. [Exit Bardolph .] Such 
Brooks are welcome to me, that o’erflows such 
liquor. Ah, ha ! Mistress Ford and Mistress 
Page, have I encompass’d you ? Go to ; via ! 

Be-enter [Bardolph, with] Ford disguised like 
Brook . 

Ford. Bless you, sir ! 160 

Fal. And you, sir ! Would you speak with 
me ? 

Ford. I make bold to press with so little 
preparation upon you. 

Fal. You ’re welcome. What’s your will ? 
Give us leave, drawer. [Exit Bardolph.] i 65 
Ford. Sir, I am a gentleman that have spent 
much. My name is Brook. 

Fal. Good Master Brook, I desire more ac¬ 
quaintance of you. i 69 

Ford. Good Sir John, I sue for yours ; — not 
to charge you ; for I must let you understand 
I think myself in better plight for a lender 
than you are; the which hath something em- 
bold’ned me to this unseason’d intrusion; for 
they say, if money go before, all ways do lie 
open. ns 

Fal. Money is a good soldier, sir, and will 
on. 

Ford. Troth, and I have a hag of money 
here troubles me. If you will help to bear it, 
Sir John, take all, or half, for easing me of the 
carriage. 

Fal. Sir, I know not how I may deserve to 
be your porter. isi 

Ford. I will tell you, sir, if you will give 
me the hearing. 

Fal. Speak, good Master Brook ; I shall be 
glad to be your servant. iss 

Ford. Sir, I hear you are a scholar, — I will 
be brief with you, — and you have been a man 
long known to me, though I had never so good 
means as desire to make myself acquainted 
with you. I shall discover a thing to you, 
wherein I must very much lay open mine [wo 
own imperfection; but, good Sir John, as you 
have one eye upon my follies, as you hear them 


unfolded, turn another into the register of your 
own, that I may pass with a reproof the easier, 
sith you yourself know how easy it is to be such 
an offender. 196 

Fal. Very well, sir ; proceed. 

Ford. There is a gentlewoman in this town ; 
her husband’s name is Ford. 

Fal. Well, sir. 200 

Ford. I have long lov’d her, and, 1 protest 
to you, bestowed much on her; followed her 
with a doting observance ; engross’d opportuni¬ 
ties to meet her; fee’d every slight occasion 
that could but niggardly give me sight of her ; 
not only bought many presents to give her, [205 
but have given largely to many to know what 
she would have given ; briefly, I have pursu’d 
her as love hath pursued me ; which hath been 
on the wing of all occasions. But whatsoever I 
have merited, either in my mind or in my [210 
means, meed, I am sure, I have received none ; 
unless experience be a jewel that I have pur¬ 
chased at an infinite rate, and that hath taught 
me to say this: 

“ Love like a shadow flies when substance love 
pursues; 215 

Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pur¬ 
sues.” 

Fal. Have you receiv’d no promise of satis¬ 
faction at her hands ? 

Ford. Never. 

Fal. Have you importun’d her to such a pur¬ 
pose ? 221 

Ford. Never. 

Fal. Of what quality was your love, then ? 
Ford. Like a fair house built on another 
man’s ground; so that I have lost my edifice 
by mistaking the place where I erected it. 226 
Fal. To what purpose have you unfolded 
this to me ? 

Ford. When I have told you that, I have 
told you all. Some say, that though she appear 
honest to me, yet in other places she en- [230 
largeth her mirth so far that there is shrewd 
construction made of her. Now, Sir John, here 
is the heart of my purpose: you are a gentleman 
of excellent breeding, admirable discourse, of 
great admittance, authentic in your place [235 
and person, generally allow’d for your many 
war-like, court-like, and learned preparations. 
Fal. 0 , sir! 230 

Ford. Believe it, for you know it. There is 
money ; spend it, spend it; spend more ; spend 
all I have ; only give me so much of your time 
in exchange of it, as to lay an amiable siege to 
the honesty of this Ford’s wife. Use your art 
of wooing; win her to consent to you; if any 
man may, you may as soon as any. 240 

Fal. Would it apply well to the vehemency 
of your affection, that I should win what you 
would enjoy ? Methinks you prescribe to your¬ 
self very preposterously. 25# 

Ford. 0 , understand my drift. She dwells 
so securely on the excellency of her honour, 
that the folly of my- soul dares not present it¬ 
self. She is too bright to be look’d against. 
Now, could I come to her with any detection 
in my hand, my desires had instance and [256 





THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


163 


II. iii. 


argument to commend themselves. I could 
drive her then from the ward of her purity, 
her reputation, her marriage vow, and a thou¬ 
sand other her defences, which now are too too 
strongly embattled against me. Wliat say you 
to’t, Sir John ? 261 

Fal. Master Brook, I will first make bold 
with your money; next, give me your hand; 
and last, as I am a gentleman, you shall, if you 
will, enjoy Ford’s wife. 205 

Ford. O good sir I 
Fal. I say you shall. 

Ford. Want no money, Sir John ; you shall 
want none. 269 

Fal. Want no Mistress Ford, Master Brook ; 
you shall want none. I shall be with her, I may 
tell you, by her own appointment; even as you 
came in to me, her assistant or go-between 
parted from me. I say I shall be with her be¬ 
tween ten and eleven ; for at that time the [275 
jealous rascally knave her husband will be 
forth. Come you to me at night; you shall 
know how I speed. 

Ford. I am blest in your acquaintance. Do 
you know Ford, sir? 280 

Fal. Hang him, poor cuckoldly knave! I 
know him not. Yet I wrong him to call him 
poor. They say the jealous wittolly knave hath 
masses of money ; for the which his wife seems 
to me well-favour’d. I will use her as the 
key of the cuckoldly rogue’s coffer; and [285 
there’s my harvest-home. 

Ford. I would you knew Ford, sir, that you 
might, avoid him if you saw him. 289 

Fal. Hang him, mechanical salt-butter 
rogue ! I will stare him out of his wits; I will 
awe him with my cudgel; it shall hang like 
a meteor o’er the cuckold’s horns. Master 
Brook, thou shalt know I will predominate 
over the peasant, and thou shalt lie with his 
wife. Come to me soon at night. Ford’s a [295 
knave, and I will aggravate his style; thou, 
Master Brook, shalt know him for knave and 
cuckold. Come to me soon at night. [Exit. 299 
Ford. What a damn’d Epicurean rascal is 
this ! My heart is ready to crack with impa¬ 
tience. Who says this is improvident jealousy ? 
My wife hath sent to him ; the hour is fix’d ; 
the match is made. Would any man have 
thought this? See the hell of having a false 
woman ! My bed shall be abus’d, my cof- [305 
fers ransack’d, my reputation gnawn at; and I 
shall not only receive this villanous wrong, but 
stand under the adoption of abominable terms, 
and by him that does me this wrong. Terms i 
Names ! Amaimon sounds well ; Lucifer, [310 
well; Barbason, well; yet they are devils’ ad¬ 
ditions, the names of fiends; but Cuckold! 
Wittol! — Cuckold! The devil himself hath 
not such a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass. 
He will trust his wife ; he will not be jealous. [315 
I will rather trust a Fleming with my butter, 
Parson Hugh the Welshman with my cheese, an 
Irishman with my aqua-vitae bottle, or a thief to 
walk my ambling gelding, than my wife with 
herself. Then she plots, then she rumi- J>o 
nates, then she devises; and what they think 


in their hearts they may effect, they will break 
their hearts but they will effect. God be prais’d 
for my jealousy! Eleven o’clock the hour. I 
will prevent this, detect my wife, be re- [325 
veng’d on Falstaff, and laugh at Page. I will 
about it; better three hours too soon than a 
minute too late. Fie, fie, fie! cuckold! cuck¬ 
old ! cuckold! [Exit. 

Scene III. [A field near Windsor .] 

Enter Caius and Rugby. 

Caius. Jack Rugby! 

Rug. Sir ? 

Caius. Vat is the clock, Jack ? 

Rug. ’T is past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh 
promis’d to meet. 5 

Caius. By gar, he has save his soul, dat he 
is no come ; he has pray his Pible well, dat he 
is no come. By gar, Jack Rugby, he is dead al¬ 
ready, if he be come. 

Rug. He is wise, sir ; he knew your worship 
would kill him, if he came. 11 

Caius. By gar, de herring is no dead so as I 
vill kill him. Take your rapier, Jack; I vill 
tell you how I vill kill him. 

Rug. Alas, sir, I cannot fence. 15 

Caius. Villainy, take your rapier. 

Rug. Forbear ; here’s company. 

Enter Host, Shallow, Slender, and Page. 

Host. God bless thee, bully doctor ! 

Shal. God save you. Master Doctor Caius! 
Page. Now, good Master Doctor! 20 

Slen. Give you good morrow, sir. 

Qaius. Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, 
come for ? 

Host. To see thee fight, to see thee foin, to 
see thee traverse ; to see thee here, to see thee [25 
there; to see thee pass thy punto, thy stock, 
thy reverse, thy distance, thy montant. Is he 
dead, my Ethiopian ? Is he dead, my Fran¬ 
cisco ? Ha, bully ! What says my iEsculapius ? 
my Galen ? my heart of elder ? Ha! is he dead, 
bully stale ? Is he dead ? 31 

Caius. By gar, he is de coward Jack priest 
of de vorld ; he is not show his face. 

Host. Thou art a Castalion- King -Urinal. 
Hector of Greece, my boy! 36 

Caius. I pray you, bear witness that me have 
stay six or seven, two, tree hours for him, and 
he is no come. 

Shal. He is the wiser man, Master Doctor. 
He is a curer of souls, and you a curer of 
bodies. If you should fight, you go against [40 
the hair of your professions. Is it not true, 
Master Page ? 

Page. Master Shallow, you have yourself 
been a great fighter, though now a man of 
peace. « 

Shal. Bodykins, Master Page, though I now 
be old and of the peace, if I see a sword out, 
my finger itches to make one. Though we are 
justices and doctors and churchmen, Master 
Page, we have some salt of our youth in us; we 
are the sons of women, Master Page. 

Page. ’T is true, Master Shallow. 





164 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


hi. 1. 


Shal. It will be found so, Master Page. 
Master Doctor Caius, I am come to fetch you 
home. I am sworn of the peace. You have [55 
show’d yourself a wise physician, and Sir Hugh 
hath shown himself a wise and patient church¬ 
man. You must go with me, Master Doctor. 

Host. Pardon, guest-justice. A word, Moun- 
seur Mockwater. eo 

Caius. Mock-vater ! Vatisdat? 

Host. Mock-water, in our English tongue, is 
valour, bully. 

Caius. By gar, den, I have as much mock- 
vater as de Englishman. Scurvy jack-dog 
priest! By gar, me vill cut his ears. 66 

Host. He will clapper-claw thee tightly, 
bully. 

Caius. Clapper-de-claw! Vatisdat? 

Host. That is, he will make thee amends. 70 
Caius. By gar, me do look he shall clapper- 
de-claw me ; for, by gar, me vill have it. 

Host. And I will provoke him to ’t, or let 
him wag. 

Caius. Me tank you for dat. 75 

Host. And, moreover, bully, — but first, mas¬ 
ter guest, and Master Page, and eke Cavaleiro 
Slender, go you through the town to Frogmore. 

[Aside to them.] 
Page. Sir Hugh is there, is he ? 79 

Host. He is there. See what humour he is 
in; and I will bring the doctor about by the 
fields. Will it do well?. 

Shal. W e will do it. 

Page , Shal., and Slen. Adieu, good Master 
Doctor. [Exeunt Page , Shal., and Slen. 85 

Caius. By gar, me vill kill de priest; for he 
speak for a jack-an-ape to Anne Page. 

Host. Let him die; [but first] sheathe my 
impatience, throw cold water on thy choler, go 
about the fields with me through Frogmore. 
I will bring thee where Mistress Anne Page [so 
is, at a farm-house a-feasting; and thou shalt 
woo her. Cried game, said I well ? 

Caius. By gar, me dank you vor dat. By 
gar, I love you ; and I shall procure-a you de 
good guest, de earlj de knight, de lords, de [as 
gentlemen, my patients. 

Host. For the which I will be thy adversary 
toward Anne Page. Said I well ? 

Caius. By gar,’t is good ; veil said. 100 
Host. Let us wag, then. 

Caius. Come at my heels, Jack Rugby. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT III 

Scene I. [A field near Frogmore.] 

Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple. 

Evans. I pray you now, good Master Slen¬ 
der’s serving-man, and friend Simple by your 
name, which way have you look’d for Master 
Caius, that calls himself doctor of physic ? 

Sim. Marry, sir, the pittie-ward, the [5 
park-ward, every way ; Old Windsor way, and 
every way but tne town way. 

Evans. I most fehemently desire you you 
will also look that way. 


Sim. I will, sir. [Exit.] i« 

Evans. Pless my soul, how full of chollors 
I am, and trempling of mind ! I shall be glad 
if he have deceived me. How melancholies I 
am ! I will knog his urinals about his knave’s 
costard when I have good opportunities for the 
ork. Pless my soul! [Sin^.] is 

“ To shallow-rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sings madrigals ; 

There will we make our peds of roses, 
And a thousand fragrant posies. 20 

To shallow” — 

Mercy on me ! I have a great dispositions to 
cry. ... . [fiinfl*.] 

“ Melodious birds sing madrigals ” — 

“ When as I sat in Pabylon ” — 

“ And a thousand vagram posies. 25 

To shallow,” etc. 

[Re-enter Simple.] 

Sim. Yonder he is coming : this way, Sir 
Hugh. 

Evans. He’s welcome. [Sw^.] 

“ To shallow rivers, to whose falls ” — 
Heaven prosper the right! What weapons is 
he ? so 

Sim. No weapons, sir. There comes my mas¬ 
ter, Master Shallow, and another gentleman, 
from Frogmore, over the stile, this way. 

Evans. Pray you, give me my gown ; or else 
keep it in your arms. 35 

Enter Page, Shallow, and Slender. 

Shal. How now, Master Parson ! Good mor¬ 
row, good Sir Hugh. Keep a gamester from the 
dice, and a good student from his book, and it 
is wonderful. 

Slen. [Aside.] Ah, sweet Anne Page ! 40 

Page. God save you, good Sir Hugh ! 

Evans. God pless you from his mercy sake, 
all of you ! 

Shal. What, the sword and the word ! Do 
you study them both, Master Parson ? 45 

Page. And youthful still! In your doublet 
and hose this raw rheumatic day ! 

Evans. There is reasons and causes for it. 
Page. We are come to you to do a good of¬ 
fice, Master Parson. 50 

Evans. Ferywell; what is it ? 

Page. Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, 
who, belike having received wrong by some 
person, is at most odds with his own gravity 
and patience that ever you saw. 55 

Shal. I have lived fourscore years and 
upward ; I never heard a man of his place, 
gravity, and learning, so wide of his own re¬ 
spect. 

Evans. What is he ? 

Page. I think you know him; Master 
Doctor Caius, the renowned French physi¬ 
cian. 61 

Evans. Got’s will, and his passion! Of my 
heart, I had as lief you would tell me of a 
mess of porridge. 

Page. Why? os 

Evans. He has no more Knowledge in Hibo- 
crates and Galen — and he is a knave besides ; 




hi. ii. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


i6 5 


a cowardly knave as you would desires to be 
acquainted withal. 

Page. I warrant you, he’s the man should 
fight with him. n 

Slen. [.Aside .] 0 sweet Anne Page ! 

Enter Host, Caius [and Rugby]. 

Shal. It appears so by his weapons. Keep 
them asunder ; here comes Doctor Caius. 

Page. Nay, good Master Parson, keep in 
your weapon. 76 

Shal. So do you, good Master Doctor. 

Host. Disarm them, and let them question. 
Let them keep their limbs whole and hack our 
English. so 

Caius. I pray you, let-a me speak a word with 
your ear. Vherefore vill you not meet-a me ? 

Evans. [Aside to Caius.] Pray you, use your 
patience. In good time. 

Caius. By gar, you are de coward, de Jack 
dog, John ape. 86 

Evans. [Aside to Caius.] Pray you, let us 
not be laughing-stocks to other men’s humours. 
I desire you in friendship, and I will one way 
or other make you amends. [Aloud.] I will 
knog your urinal about your knave’s cogs- [so 
comb [for missing your meetings and appoint¬ 
ments]. 

Caius. Diable ! Jack Rugby, — mine host de 
Jarteer, — have I not stay for him to kill him ? 
Have I not. at de place I did appoint ? 95 

Evans. As I am a Christians soul, now look 
you, this is the place appointed. I ’ll be judge¬ 
ment by mine host of tne Garter. 

Host. Peace, I say, Gallia and Gaul, French 
and Welsh, soul-curer and body-curer ! 100 

Caius. Ay, dat is very good ; excellent. 
Host. Peace, I sayl hear mine host of the 
Garter. Am I politic ? Am I subtle ? Am I a 
Machiavel ? Shall I lose my doctor ? No; he 

f ives me the potions and tne motions. Shall 
lose my parson, my priest, my Sir Hugh ? [ioc 
No; he gives me the proverbs and the no¬ 
verbs. [Give me thy hand, terrestrial; so.] 
Give me thy hand, celestial; so. Boys of art, 
I have deceiv’d you both ; I have directed you 
to wrong places. Your hearts are mighty, [no 
your skins are whole, and let burnt sack be 
the issue. Come, lay their swords to pawn. 
Follow me, lad of peace ; follow, follow, fol¬ 
low. [Exit Host. 

Shal. Trust me, a mad host. Follow, gentle¬ 
men, follow. no 

Slen. [Aside.] 0 sweet Anne Page ! 

[Exeunt Shal., Slen., and Page.] 
Caius. Ha, do I perceive dat? Have you 
make-a de sot of us, ha, ha ? 

Evans. This is well; he has made us his [120 
vlouting-stog. I desire you that we may be 
friends ; ana let us knog our prains together to 
be revenge on this same scall, scurvy, cogging 
companion, the host of the Garter. 124 

Caius. By gar, with all my heart. He pro¬ 
mise to bring me where is Anne Page; by gar, 
he deceive me too. 

Evans. Well, I will smite his noddles. Pray 
you, follow. [Exeunt. 


Scene II. [A street.] 

Enter Mistress Page and Robin. 

Mrs. Page. Nay, keep your way, little gal¬ 
lant ; you were wont to be a follower, but now 
you are a leader. Whether had you rather lead 
mine eyes, or eye your master’s heels ? 

Rob. I had rather, forsooth, go before you 
like a man than follow him like a dwarf. 0 
Mrs. Page. O, you are a flattering boy. Now 
I see you ’ll be a courtier. 

[Enter Ford.] 

Ford. Well met, Mistress Page. Whither go 
you ? 10 

Mrs. Page. Truly, sir, to see your wife. Is 
she at home ? 

Ford. Ay ; and as idle as she may hang to¬ 
gether, for want of company. I think, if your 
husbands were dead, you two would marry, is 
Mrs. Page. Be sure of that, — two other hus¬ 
bands. 

Ford. Where had you this pretty weather¬ 
cock ? 

Mrs. Page. I cannot tell what the dickens 
his name is my husband had him of. What do 
you call your knight’s name, sirrah 1 21 

Rob. Sir John Falstaff. 

Ford. Sir John Falstaff ! 

Mrs. Page. He, he; I can never hit on ’s 
name. There is such a league between my good 
man and he ! Is your wife at home indeed ? 28 
Ford. Indeed she is. 

Mrs. Page. Byyour leave, sir. I am sick till 
I see her. [Exeunt Mrs. Page and Robin.] 
Ford. Has Page any brains ? Hath he any [so 
eyes ? Hath he any thinking ? Sure, they sleep ; 
he hath no use of them. Why, this boy will carry 
a letter twenty mile, as easy as a cannon will 
shoot point-blank twelve score. He pieces out 
his wife’s inclination; he gives her folly mo¬ 
tion and advantage ; and now she’s going to [sc 
my wife, and Falstaff’s boy with her. A man 
may hear this shower sing in the wind. And 
Falstaff’s boy with her ! Good plots, they are 
laid ; and our revolted wives share damnation 
together. Well; I will take him. then tor- [40 
ture my wife, pluck the borrowed veil of mod¬ 
esty from the so seeming Mistress Page, divulge 
Page himself for a secure and wilful Actaeon ; 
and to these violent proceedings all my neigh¬ 
bours shall cry aim. [Clock heard.] The clock [4.7 
gives me my cue, and my assurance bids me 
search. There I shall find Falstaff. I shall be 
rather prais’d for this than mock’d, for it is as 
positive as the earth is firm that Falstaff is 
there. I will go. co 

[Enter Page, Shallow, Slender, Host, Sir 
Hugh Evans, Caius, and Rugby.] 

Shal., Page, etc. Well met, Master Ford. 
Ford. Trust me, a good knot. I have good 
cheer at home, and I pray you all go with me. 
Shal. I must excuse myself. Master Ford. 64 
Slen. And so must I, sir. We have appointed 
to dine with Mistress Anne, and I would not 
break with her for more money than I ’ll speak of. 





i66 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


hi. iii. 


Shal. We have linger’d about a match be¬ 
tween Anne Page and my cousin Slender, and 
this day we shall have our answer. 60 

Slen. I hope I have your good will, father 
Page. 

Page. You have, Master Slender; I stand 
wholly for you: but my wife, Master Doctor, 
is for you altogether. 

Caius. Ay, be-gar ; and de maid is love-ame. 
My nursh-a Quickly tell me so mush. 66 

Host. What say you to young Master Fenton ? 
He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he 
writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April 
and May. He will carry ’t, he will carry ’t; 
’t is in his buttons ; he will carry’t. n 

Page. Not by my consent, I promise you. 
The gentleman is of no having. He kept com¬ 
pany with the wild Prince and Poins ; he is of 
too high a region; he knows too much. No, 
he shall not knit a knot in his fortunes with [75 
the finger of my substance. If he take her, let 
him take her simply. The wealth I have waits 
on my consent, and my consent goes not that 
way. 79 

Ford. I beseech you heartily, some of you 
go home with me to dinner. Besides your 
cheer, you shall have sport; I will show you 
a monster. Master Doctor, you shall go; so 
shall you, Master Page ; and you, Sir Hugh. 84 
Shal. Well, fare you well. We shall have 
the freer wooing at Master Page’s. 

[Exeunt Shal. and Slen. 
Caius. Go home, John Rugby ; I come anon. 

[Exit Rugby.'] 

Host. Farewell, my hearts. I will to my 
honest knight Falstaff, and drink canary with 
him. [Exit. 89 

Ford. [Aside.] I think I shall drink in pipe- 
wine first with him; I ’ll make him dance. 
Will you go, gentles ? 

All. Have with you to see this monster. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. [A room in Ford's house.] 
Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page. 

Mrs. Ford. What, John ! What, Robert! 
Mrs. Page. Quickly, quickly ! Is the buck- 
basket — 

Mrs. Ford. I warrant. What, Robin, I say! 

[Enter Servants with a basket.] 

Mrs. Page. Come, come, come. b 

Mrs. Ford. Here, set it down. 

Mrs. Page. Give your men the charge; we 
must be brief. 

Mrs. Ford. Marry, as I told you before, 
John and Robert, be ready here hard by in 
the brew-house; and when I suddenly call [10 
you, come forth, and without any pause or 
staggering take this basket on your shoulders. 
That done, trudge with it in all haste, and 
carry it among the whitsters in Datchet-mead, 
and there empty it in the muddy ditch close 
by the Thames side. 16 

Mrs. Page. You will do it ? 

Mrs. Ford. I ha’ told them over and over; 


they lack no direction. Be gone, and come 
when you are call’d. [Exeunt Servants. 20 

Mrs. Page. Here comes little Robin. 

[Enter Robin.] 

Mrs. Ford. How now, my eyas-musket! 
what news with you ? 

Rob. My master, Sir John, is come in at your 
back-door, Mistress Ford, and requests your 
company. 2s 

Mrs. Page. You little Jack-a-Lent, have 
you been true to us ? 

Rob. Ay, I ’ll be sworn. My master knows 
not of your being here and hath threat’ned 
to put me into everlasting liberty if I tell [31 
you of it; for he swears he ’ll turn me away. 

Mrs. Page. Thou ’rt a good boy. This se¬ 
crecy of thine shall be a tailor to thee and 
shall make thee a new doublet and hose. I ’ll 
go hide me. a« 

Mrs. Ford. Do so. Go tell thy master I am 
alone. [Exit Robin.] Mistress Page, remember 
you your cue. • 

Mrs. Page. I warrant thee; if I do not act 
it, hiss me. [Exit.] 41 

Mrs. Ford. Go to, then. We’ll use this un¬ 
wholesome humidity, this gross watery pum- 
pion. We’ll teach him to know turtles from 
jays. 

Enter Falstaff. 

Fal. “ Have I caught ” thee, “ my heavenly 
jewel? ” Why, now let me die, for I have [46 
liv’d long enough. This is the period of my 
ambition. 0 this blessed hour ! 

Mrs. Ford. 0 sweet Sir John ! 

Fal. Mistress Ford, I cannot cog, I can- [eo 
not prate, Mistress Ford. Now shall I sin in 
my wish: I would thy husband were dead. 
I ’ll speak it before the best lord; I would 
make thee my lady. 

Mrs. Ford. I your lady, Sir John! Alas, I 
should be a pitiful lady! 66 

Fal. Let the court of France show me such 
another. I see how thine eye would emulate 
the diamond. Thou hast the right arched 
beauty of the brow that becomes the ship-tire, 
the tire-valiant, or any tire of Venetian admit¬ 
tance. 61 

Mrs. Ford. A plain kerchief, Sir John. My 

brows become nothing else; nor that well 
neither. 64 

Fal. [By the Lord,] thou art a tyrant to 
say so. Thou wouldst make an absolute cour¬ 
tier ; and the firm fixture of thy foot would 
give an excellent motion to thy gait in a semi- 
circled farthingale. I see what thou wert, if 
Fortune thy foe were not, Nature thy friend. 
Come, thou eanst not hide it. 71 

Mrs. Ford. Believe me, there’s no such 

thing in me. 

Fal. What made me love thee ? Let that 
persuade thee there’s something extraordinary 
in thee. Come, I cannot cog and say thou [75 
art this and that, like a many of these lisping 
hawthorn-buds, that come like women in men’s 
apparel, and smell like Bucklersbury in simple 




III. iii. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


167 


time; I cannot; but I love thee, none but 
thee, and thou deserv’st it. si 

Mrs. Fend. Do not betray me, sir. I fear you 
love Mistress Page. 

Fal. Thou mightst as well say I love to walk 
by the Counter-gate, which is as hateful to me 
as the reek of a lime-kiln. s« 

Mrs. Ford. Well, heaven knows how I love 
you ; and you shall one day find it. 

Fal. Keep in that mind ; I ’ll deserve it. 
Mrs. Fora. Nay, I must tell you, so you do ; 
or else I could not be in that mind. »i 

Fob. [ Within.] Mistress Ford, Mistress Ford! 
here’s Mistress Page at the door, sweating, and 
blowing, and looking wildly, and would needs 
speak with you presently. oc 

Fal. She shall not see me. I will ensconce me 
behind the arras. 

Mrs. Ford. Pray you, do so; she’s a very 
tattling woman. 

[Falstaff stands behind the arras. 

[Re-enter Mistress Page and Robin.] 

What’s the matter ? How now ! 100 

Mrs. Page. 0 Mistress Ford, what have you 
done? You’re sham’d, you’re overthrown, 
you ’re undone for ever ! 

Mrs. Ford. What’s the matter, good Mis¬ 
tress Page ? 105 

Mrs. Page. O well-a-day, Mistress Ford ! 
having an honest man to your husband, to give 
him such cause of suspicion ! 

Mrs. Ford. What cause of suspicion ? 

Mrs. Page. What cause of suspicion! Out 
upon you ! How am I mistook in you ! m 
Mrs. Ford. Why, alas, what’s the matter ? 
Mrs. Page. Your husband’s coming hither, 
woman, with all the officers in Windsor, to 
search for a gentleman that he says is here 
now in the house by your consent, to take [us 
an ill advantage of his absence. You are un¬ 
done. 

Mrs. Ford. ’T is not so, I hope. 

Mrs. Page. Pray heaven it be not so, that 
you have such a man here, but’t is most cer¬ 
tain your husband’s coming, with half [120 
Windsor at his heels, to search for such a one. 
I come before to tell you. If you know your¬ 
self clear, why, I am glad of it; but if you 
have a friend here, convey, convey him out. 
Be not amaz’d, call all your senses to you, [125 
defend your reputation, or bid farewell to your 
good life forever. 

Mrs. Ford. What shall I do ? There is a gen¬ 
tleman my dear friend ; and I fear not mine 
own shame so much as his peril. I had rather [130 
than a thousand pound he were out of the house. 

Mrs. Page. For shame! never stand “you 
had rather ” and “you had rather.” Your hus¬ 
band ’s here at hand. Bethink you of some con¬ 
veyance. In the house you cannot hide him. [135 
O, how have you deceiv’d me ! Look, here is a 
basket. If he be of any reasonable stature, he 
may creep in here ; and throw foul linen upon 
him, as if it were going to bucking, or —it is 
whiting-time — send him by your two men to 
Datchet-mead. 141 


Mrs. Ford. He’s too big to go in there. 
What shall I do ? 

Fal. [Coming forward.] Let me see’t, let me 
see’t, O, let me see ’t! I’ll in, I ’ll in. Follow 
your friend’s counsel. I ’ll in. i 46 

Mrs. Page. What, Sir John Falstaff! Are 
these your letters, knight ? 

Fal. I love thee. Help me away. Let me 
creep in here. I ’ll never — iso 

[Gets into the basket; they put clothes 
over him. 

Mrs. Page. Help to cover your master, boy. 
Call vour men, Mistress Ford. You dissembling 
knight! 

Mrs. Ford. What, John! Robert! John ! 154 

[Exit Robin.] 

[Re-enter Servants.] 

Go take up these clothes here quickly. 
Where’s the cowl-staff ? Look, how you drum- 
ble ! Carry them to the laundress in Datchet- 
mead ; quickly, come. iss 

[Enter Ford, Page, Caius, and Sir Hugh 
Evans.] 

Ford. Pray you, come near. If I suspect 
without cause, why then make sport at me; then 
let me be your jest; I deserve it. How now ! 
whither bear you this ? i«2 

Serv. To the laundress, forsooth. 

Mrs. Ford. Why, what have you to do whi¬ 
ther they bear it ? You were best meddle with 
buck-washing. ioc 

Ford. Buck ! I would I could wash myself 
of the buck! Buck, buck, buck! Ay, buck; 
I warrant you, buck, and of the season too, 
it shall appear. [Exeunt Servants with the [no 
basket. ] Gentlemen, I have dream’d to-night; 
I ’ll tell you my dream. Here, here, here be 
my keys. Ascend my chambers, search, seek, 
find out. I ’ll warrant we ’ll unkennel the fox. 
Let me stop this way first. [Locking the door.] 
So, now uncape. 120 

Page. Good Master Ford, be contented. You 
wrong yourself too much. 

Ford. True, Master Page. Up, gentlemen; 
you shall see sport anon. Follow me, gentle¬ 
men. _ [Exit.] iso 

Evans. This is fery fantastical humours and 
jealousies. 

Caius. By gar, ’t is no the fashion of France ; 
it is not jealous in France. 

Page. Nay, follow him, gentlemen ; see the 
issue of his search. 186 

[Exeunt Page , Caius , and Evans.] 
Mrs. Page. Is there not a double excellency 
in this ? 

Mrs. Ford. I know not which pleases me 
better, that my husband is deceived, or Sir 
John. wo 

Mrs. Page. What a taking was he in when 
your husband ask’d who was in the bas¬ 
ket ! 

Mrs. Ford. I am half afraid he will have 
need of washing, so throwing him into the 
water will do him a benefit. i»s 

Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest rascal! I 





i68 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


III. IV. 


would all of the same strain were in the same 
distress. 

Mrs. Ford. I think my husband hath some 
special suspicion of Falstaff’s being here; 
for I never saw him so gross in his jealousy [200 
till now. 

Mrs. Page. I will lay a plot to try that; and 
we will yet have more tricks with Falstaff. 
His dissolute disease will scarce obey this medi¬ 
cine. t 204 

Mrs. Ford. Shall we send that foolish car¬ 
rion, Mistress Quickly, to him, and excuse his 
throwing into the water; and give him an¬ 
other hope, to betray him to another punish¬ 
ment ? 

Mrs. Page. We will do it. Let him be 
sent for to-morrow, eight o’clock, to have 
amends. 210 

[Re-enter Ford, Page, Caius, and Sir Hugh 
Evans.] 

Ford. I cannot find him. May be the knave 
bragg’d of that he could not compass. 

Mrs. Page. [Aside to Mrs. Ford.] Heard 
you that ? 

Mrs. Ford. You use me well, Master Ford, 
do you ? 216 

Ford. Ay, I do so. 

Mrs. Ford. Heaven make you better than 
your thoughts! 

Ford. Amen! 220 

Mrs. Page. You do yourself mighty wrong, 
Master Ford. 

Ford. Ay, ay; I must bear it. 

Evans. If there be any pody in the house, 
and in the chambers, and in the coffers, and 
in the presses, heaven forgive my sins at the 
day of judgement! 227 

Caius. By gar, nor I too ; thgre is no bodies. 

Page. Fie, fie, Master Ford! are you not 
asham’d ? What spirit, what devil suggests 
this imagination ? I would not ha’ your [230 
distemper in this kind for the wealth of Wind¬ 
sor Castle. 

Ford. ’T is my fault, Master Page. I suffer 
for it. 234 

Evans. You suffer for a pad conscience. 
Your wife is as honest a ’omans as I will desires 
among five thousand, and five hundred too. 

Caius. By gar, I see’t is an honest woman. 

Ford. Well, I promis’d you a dinner. Come, 
come, walk in the Park. I pray you, pardon 
me. I will hereafter make known to you [240 
why I have done this. Come, wife; come, 
Mistress Page. I pray you, pardon me; pray 
heartily, pardon me. 

Page. Let’s go in, gentlemen ; but, trust me, 
we ’ll mock him. I do invite you to-morrow [245 
morning to my house to breakfast; after, we ’ll 
a-birding together. I have a fine hawk for the 
bush. Shall it be so ? 

Ford. Anything. 

Evans. If there is one, I shall jnake two in 
the company. 251 

Caius. If dere be one or two, I shall make-a 
the turd. 

Ford. Pray you, go, Master Page. 


Evans. I pray you now, remembrance to¬ 
morrow on the lousy knave, mine host. 256 
Caius. Dat is good; by gar, with all my 
li 6 Rrt f 

Evans. A lousy knave, to have his gibes and 
his mockeries! [Exeunt. 2 «> 


Scene IV. [A room in Page's house.] 

Enter Fenton and Anne Page. 

Pent. I see I cannot get thy father’s love, 
Therefore no more turn me to him, sweet Nan. 
Anne. Alas, how then ? 

Fent. Why, thou must be thyself. 

He doth object I am too great of birth ; 

And that, my state being gall’d with my ex¬ 
pense, 4 6 

I seek to heal it only by his wealth. 

Besides these, other bars he lays before me, 

My riots past, my wild societies ; 

And tells me’t is a thing impossible 
I should love thee but as a property. 10 

Anne. May be he tells you true. 

Fent. No, heaven so speed me in my time to 
come! 

Albeit I will confess thy father’s wealth 
Was the first motive that I woo’d thee, Anne ; 
Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value is 
Than stamps in gold or sums in sealed bags ; 
And’t is the very riches of thyself 
That now I aim at. 

Anne. Gentle Master Fenton, 

Yet seek my father’s love ; still seek it, sir. 

If opportunity and humblest suit 20 

Cannot attain it, why, then, — hark you hither ! 

[They converse apart.] 

[Enter Shallow, Slender, and Mistress 
Quickly.] 

Shal. Break their talk, Mistress Quickly. 
My kinsman shall speak for himself. 

Slen. I ’ll make a shaft or a bolt on’t. ’Slid, 
’t is but venturing. 25 

Shal. Be not dismay’d. 

Slen. No, she shall not dismay me. I care 
not for that, but that I am afeard. 

Quick. Hark ye ; Master Slender would speak 
a word with you. so 

Anne. I come to him. [Aside.] This is my 
father’s choice. 

0 , what a world of vile ill-favour’d faults 
Looks handsome in three hundred pounds 
a-year! 

Quick. And how does good Master Fenton ? 
Pray you, a word with you. 35 

Snal. She’s coming; to her, coz. O boy, 
thou hadst a father ! 

Slen. I had a father, Mistress Anne; my 
uncle can tell you good jests of him. Pray you, 
uncle, tell Mistress Anne the jest, how my 
father stole two geese out of a pen, good un¬ 
cle. 41 

Shal. Mistress Anne, my cousin loves you. 
Slen. Ay, that I do; as well as I love any 
woman in Gloucestershire. 

Shal. He will maintain you like a gentle¬ 
woman. it 






m. v. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


169 


Slen. Ay, that I will, come cut and long- 
tail, under the degree of a squire. 

Shal. He will make you a hundred and fifty 
pounds jointure. eo 

Anne. Good Master Shallow, let him woo for 
himself. 

Shal. Marry, I thank you for it; I thank 
ou for that good comfort. She calls you, coz. 
’ll leave you. 65 

Anne. Now, Master Slender, — 

Slen. Now, good Mistress Anne, — 

Anne. What is your will ? 

Slen. My will! ’Od’s heartlings, that’s a 
pretty jest indeed ! I ne’er made my will yet, I 
thank heaven. I am not such a sickly crea¬ 
ture, I give heaven praise* 62 

Anne. I mean, Master Slender, what would 
you with me ? 

Slen. Truly, for mine own part, I would 
little or nothing with you. Your father and [os 
my uncle hath made motions. If it be my luck, 
so ; if not, happy man be his dole I They can 
tell you how things go better than I can. You 
may ask your father ; here he comes. 70 

[Enter Page and Mistress Page.] 

Page. Now, Master Slender. Love him, 
daughter Anne. 

Why, how now! What does Master Fenton 
here ? 

You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my 
house. 

I told you, sir, my daughter is dispos’d of. 
Fent. Nay, Master Page, be not impa¬ 
tient. 75 

Mrs. Page. Good Master Fenton, come not 
to my child. 

Page. She is no match for you. 

Fent. Sir, will you hear me ? 

Page. No, good Master Fenton. 

Come, Master Shallow; come, son Slender, in. 
Knowing my mind, you wrong me, Master Fen¬ 
ton. [Exeunt Page , Shal ., and Slen.] so 
Quick. Speak to Mistress Page. 

Fent. Good Mistress Page, for that I love 
vour daughter 

In such a righteous fashion as I do, 

Perforce, against all checks, rebukes, and man- 


Fent. Farewell, gentle mistress; farewell. 
Nan. [Exeunt Mrs. Page and Anne. 1 

Quick. This is my doing, now. “ Nay,” saia 
I, ‘ will you cast away your child on a fool, 
and a physician? Look on Master Fen- [io« 
ton.” This is my doing. 

Fent. I thank thee ; and I pray thee, once 
to-night 

Give my sweet Nan this ring. There’s for thy 
pains. 104 

Quick. Now heaven send thee good for¬ 
tune ! [Exit Fenton .] A kind heart he hath. 
A woman would run through fire and water 
for such a kind heart. But yet I would my 
master had Mistress Anne ; or I would Mas¬ 
ter Slender had her ; or, in sooth, I would 
Master Fenton had her. I will do what I [no 
can for them all three ; for so I have promis’d, 
and I ’ll be as good as my word ; but speciously 
for Master Fenton. Well, I must of another 
errand to Sir John Falstaff from my two mis¬ 
tresses. What a beast am I to slack it! 116 

[Exit. 

Scene V. [A room in the Garter Inn.] 
Enter Falstaff and Bardolph. 

Fal. Bardolph, I say! 

Bard. Here, sir. 

Fal. Go fetch me a quart of sack. Put a 
toast in ’t. [Exit Bard] Have I liv’d to be 
carried in a basket, and to be thrown in the [e 
Thames like a barrow of butcher’s offal? 
Well, if I be serv’d such another trick, I’ll 
have my brains ta’en out and butter’d, and 
give them to a dog for a new-year’s gift. The 
rogues slided me into the river with as little 
remorse as they would have drown’d a blind [10 
bitch’s puppies, fifteen i’ the litter; and you 
may know by my size that I have a kind of 
alacrity in sinking. If the bottom were as 
deep as hell, I should down. I had been 
drown’d, but that the shore was shelvy and 
shallow, — a death that I abhor; for the water [is 
swells a man ; and what a thing should I have 
been when I had been swell’d ! I should have 
been a mountain of mummy. 

[Re-enter Bardolph, with sack.] 


ners, * 

I must advance the colours of my love 33 

And not retire. Let me have your good will. 

Anne. Good mother, do not marry me to 
yond fool. 

Mrs. Page. I mean it not; I seek you a bet¬ 
ter husband. 

Quick. That’s my master, Master Doctor. 

Anne. Alas, I had rather be set quick i’ the 
earth # 90 

And bowl’d to death with turnips! 

Mrs. Paqe. Come, trouble not yourself. 
Good Master Fenton, 

I will not be your friend nor enemy. 

My daughter will I question how she loves 
you, 

And as I find her, so am I affected. 95 

Till then farewell, sir ; she must needs go in. 
Her father will be angry. 


Bard. Here’s Mistress Quickly, sir, to speak 
with you. # 21 

Fal. Come, let me pour in some sack to the 
Thames water; for my belly’s as cold as if I 
had swallow’d snowballs for pills to cool the 
reins. Call her in. 20 

Bard. Come in, woman! 

Enter Mistress Quickly. 

Quick. By your leave; I cry you mercy. 
Give vour worship good morrow. 

Fal. Take away these chalices. Go brew me 
a pottle of sack finely. 30 

Bard. With eggs, sir ? 

Fal. Simple of itself. I’ll no pullet-sperm 
in my brewage. [Exit Bardolph.] How now ? 

Quick. Marry, sir, I come to your worship 
from Mistress Ford. 35 





170 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


hi. v. 


Fal. Mistress Ford ! I have had ford enough. 
I was thrown into the ford; I have my belly 
full of ford. 

Quick. Alas the day ! Good heart, that was 
not her fault. She does so take on with her 
men; they mistook their erection. 41 

Fal. So did I mine, to build upon a foolish 
woman’s promise. 

Quick. Well, she laments, sir, for it, that it 
would yearn your heart to see it. Her hus- [« 
band goes this morning a-birding. She de¬ 
sires you once more to come to her between 
eight and nine. I must carry her word 
quickly. She ’ll make you amends, I warrant 
you. 49 

Fal. Well, I will visit her. Tell her so ; and 
bid her think what a man is. Let her consider 
his frailty, and then judge of my merit. 

Quick. I will tell her. 

Fal. Do so. Between nine and ten, say’st 
thou ? 

Quick. Eight and nine, sir. 65 

Fal. Well, be gone. I will not miss her. 

Quick. Peace be with you, sir. [Exit. 

Fal. I marvel I hear not of Master Brook ; 
he sent me word to stay within. I like his 
money well. O, here he comes. so 

Enter Ford. 


Ford. Bless you, sir ! 

Fal. Now, Master Brook, you come to know 
what hath pass’d between me and Ford’s 
wife ? 

Ford. That, indeed, Sir John, i3 my busi¬ 
ness. 64 

Fal. Master Brook, I will not lie to you. 
I was at her house the hour she appointed 
me. 

Ford. And sped you, sir ? 

Fal. Very ill-favouredly, Master Brook. 

Ford. How so, sir ? Did she change her de¬ 
termination ? 70 

Fal. No, Master Brook ; but the peaking 
cornuto her husband, Master Brook, dwelling 
in a continual ’larum of jealousy, comes me 
in the instant of our encounter, after we had 
embrac’d, kiss’d, protested, and, as it were, 
spoke the prologue of our comedy; and at his [75 
heels a rabble of his companions, thither pro¬ 
voked and instigated by his distemper, and, 
forsooth, to search his house for his wife’s 
love. 

Ford. What, while you were there ? so 

Fal. While I was there. 

Ford. And did he search for you, and could 
not find you ? 

Fal. You shall hear. As good luck would 
have it, comes in one Mistress Page ; gives [85 
intelligence of Ford’s approach; and, in her 
invention and Ford’s wife’s distraction, they 
convey’d me into a buck-basket. 

Ford. A buck-basket! 89 

Fal. [By the Lord,] a buck-basket! Ramm’d 
me in with foul shirts and smocks, socks, foul 
stockings, greasy napkins ; that, Master Brook, 
there was the rankest compound of villanous 
smell that ever offended nostril. 


Ford. And how long lay you there ? 95 

Fal. Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook, 
what I have suffer’d to bring this woman to 
evil for your good. Being thus cramm’d in the 
basket, a couple of Ford’s knaves, his hinds, 
were call’d forth by their mistress to carry me 
in the name of foul clothes to Datchet-lane. [100 
They took me on their shoulders ; met the jeal¬ 
ous knave their master in the door, who ask’d 
them once or twice what they had in their 
basket. I quak’d for fear, lest the lunatic 
knave would have search’d it; but fate, or- [ioe 
daining he should be a cuckold, held his hand. 
Well, on went he for a search, and away went 
I for foul clothes. But mark the sequel, Mas¬ 
ter Brook. I suffered the pangs of three several 
deaths ; first, an intolerable fright, to be de- [no 
tected with a jealous rotten bell-wether; next, 
to be compass’d, like a good bilbo, in the cir¬ 
cumference of a peck, hilt to point, heel to 
head ; and then, to be stopp’d in, like a strong 
distillation, with stinking clothes that fretted 
in their own grease. Think of that, — a man [us 
of my kidney, — think of that, — that am as 
subject to heat as butter ; a man of continual 
dissolution and thaw, — it was a miracle to 
scape suffocation. And in the height of this 
bath, when I was more than half stew’d in [120 
grease, like a Dutch dish, to be thrown into the 
Thames, and cool’d, glowing hot, in that surge, 
like a horse-shoe ; think of that, — hissing hot, 
— think of that, Master Brook. 12 4 

Ford. In good sadness, sir, I am sorry that 
for my sake you have suffer’d all this. My suit 
then is desperate ; you ’ll undertake her no 
more ? 

Fal. Master Brook, I will be thrown into 
Etna, as I have been into Thames, ere I will 
leave her thus. Her husband is this morn- [130 
ing gone a-birding. I have received from her 
another embassy of meeting. ’Twixt eight and 
nine is the hour, Master Brook. 

Ford. ’T is past eight already, sir. 

Fal. Is it ? I will then address me to my [135 
appointment. Come to me at your convenient 
leisure, and you shall know how I speed ; and 
the conclusion shall be crowned with your en¬ 
joying her. Adieu. You shall have her, Mas¬ 
ter Brook. Master Brook, you shall cuckold 
Ford. [Exit. i 4 o 

Ford. Hum! ha ! is this a vision ? Is this 
a dream ? Do I sleep ? Master Ford, awake ! 
awake. Master Ford ! there’s a hole made in 
your best coat, Master Ford. This ’tis to be 
married ! This’t is to have linen and buck-bas¬ 
kets ! Well, I will proclaim myself what I [us 
am. I will now take the lecher ; he is at my 
■ house ; he cannot scape me; ’t is impossible 
he should. He cannot creep into a halfpenny- 
purse, nor into a pepper-box ; but, lest the devil 
that guides him should aid him, I will search [iso 
impossible places. Though what I am I cannot 
avoid, yet to be what I would not shall not make 
me tame. If I have horns to make one mad, 
let the proverb go with me: I’ll be horn 
mad. 155 

[Exit. 






IV. 11. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


171 


ACT IV 

Scene I. [A street.] 

Enter Mistress Page, Mistress Quickly, 
and William. 

Mrs. Page. Is he at Master Ford’s already, 
think’st thou ? 

Quick. Sure he is by this, or will be presently. 
But, truly, he is very courageous mad about his 
throwing into the water. Mistress Ford desires 
you to come suddenly. 6 

Mrs. Page. I ’ll be with her by and by ; I ’ll 
but bring my young man here to school. 

[Enter Sir Hugh Evans.] 

Look, where his master comes ; ’t is a playing- 
day, I see. How now, Sir Hugh ! no school to¬ 
day ? 10 

Evans. No; Master Slender is let the boys 
leave to play. 

Quick. Blessing of his heart! 

Mrs. Page. Sir Hugh, my husband says my 
so*- profits nothing in the world at his book, [is 
I pray you, ask him some questions in his acci¬ 
dence. 

Evans. Come hither, William ; hold up your 
head ; come. 

Mrs. Page. Come on, sirrah, hold up your 
head. Answer your master, be not afraid. 20 
Evans. William, how many numbers is in 
nouns ? 

Will. Two. 

Quick. Truly, I thought there had been 
one number more, because they say, “ ’Od’s 
nouns.” 26 

Evans. Peace your tattlings! What is 
“fair,” William? 

Will. Pulcher. 

Quick. Polecats! There are fairer things 
than polecats, sure. ... 80 

Evans. You are a very simplicity ’oman. I 
pray you, peace. What is lapis , William ? 

Will. A stone. 

Evans. And what is “ a stone,” William ? 
Will. A peeble. 85 

Evans. No, it is lapis. I pray you, remember 
in your prain. 

Will. Lapis. 

Evans. That is a good William. What is he, 
William, that does lend articles ? 40 

Will. Articles are borrowed of the pronoun, 
and be thus declined, Singulariter , nominativo , 
Ate, Acec, hoc. 

Evans. Nominativo , hig, hag , hog; pray you, 
mark ; genitivo , hujus. Well, what is your ac¬ 
cusative case ? 46 

Will. Accusativo , hinc. 

Evans. I pray you, haye your remembrance, 
child. Accusativo , hing, hang , hog. 

Quick. “Hang-hog” is Latin for bacon, I 
warrant you. 61 

Evans. Leave your prabbles, oman. What 
is the focative case, William ? 

Will. O, —- vocativo , O. m 

Evans. Remember, William ; focative is 
caret. 65 


Quick. And that’s a good root. 

Evans. ’Oman, forbear. 

Mrs. Paae. Peace 1 

Evans. What is your genitive case plural, 
William? 00 

Will. Genitive case ? 

Evans. Ay. 

Will. Genitive, horum. harum , horum. 

Quick. Vengeance of Jenny’s case! Fie on 
her! Never name her, child, if she be a 
whore. «s 

Evans. For shame, ’oman. 

Quick. You do ill to teach the child such 
words. He teaches him to hick and to hack, 
which they ’ll do fast enough of themselves, 
and to call “ horum,” — fie upon you ! 70 

Evans. ’Oman, art thou lunatics ? Hast thou 
no understandings for thy cases and the num¬ 
bers of the genders ? Thou art as foolish Chris¬ 
tian creatures as I would desires. 

Mrs. Page. Prithee, hold thy peace. 75 
Evans. Show me now, William, some declen¬ 
sions of your pronouns. 

Will. Forsooth, I have forgot. 

Evans. It is qui, quee , quod: if you forget 
your quies, your quees , and your quods , you [so 
must be preeches. Go your ways, and play ; go. 

Mrs. Page. He is a better scholar than I 
thought he was. 

Evans. He is a good sprag memory. Fare¬ 
well, Mistress Page. ss 

Mrs. Page. Adieu, good Sir Hugh. [Exit 
Sir Hugh.] Get you home, boy. Come, we stay 
too long. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. [A room in Ford’s house.] 

Enter Falstaff and Mistress Ford. 

Fal. Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten 
up my sufferance. I "ee you are obsequious in 
your love, and I profess requital to a hair’s 
breadth ; not only, Mistress Ford, in the simple 
office of love, but in all the accoutrement, [s 
complement, and ceremony of it. But are you 
sure of your husband now ? 

Mrs. Ford. He’s a-birding, sweet Sir John. 
Mrs. Page. [Within.] What, ho, gossip 
Ford ! What, ho ! 10 

Mrs. Ford. Step into the chamber, Sir John. 

[Exit Falstaff.] 

[Enter Mistress Page.] 

Mrs. Page. How now, sweetheart! who’s at 
home besides yourself ? 

Mrs. Ford. W T hy, none but mine own people. 
Mrs. Page. Indeed! is 

Mrs. Ford. No, certainly. [Aside to her.] 
Speak louder. 

Mrs. Page. Truly, I am so glad you have no¬ 
body here. 

Mrs. Ford. Why? 20 

Mrs. Page. Why, woman, your husband is 
in his old lines again. He so takes on yonder 
with my husband; so rails against all married 
mankind; so curses all Eve’s daughters, of 
what complexion soever ; and so buffets him¬ 
self on the forehead, crying, “ Peer out, peer [26 




172 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


iv. ii. 


out! ” that any madness I ever yet beheld 
seemed but tameness, civility, and patience, to 
this his distemper he is in now. I am glad the 
fat knight is not here. 

Mrs. Ford. Why, does he talk of him ? 30 

Mrs. Page. Of none but him ; and swears he 
was carried out, the last time he search’d for 
him, in a basket; protests to my husband he is 
now here, and hath drawn him and the rest of 
their company from their sport, to make an¬ 
other experiment of his suspicion. But I [35 
am glad the knight is not here. Now he shall 
see his own foolery. 

Mrs. Ford. How near is he, Mistress Page ? 

Mrs. Page. Hard by ; at street end. He will 
he here anon. 

Mrs. Ford. I am undone! The knight is 
here. 

Mrs. Page. Why then you are utterly sham’d, 
and he’s but a dead man. What a woman are 
you ! — Away with him, away with him ! Bet¬ 
ter shame than murder. 46 

Mrs. Ford. Which way should he go ? How 
should I bestow him ? Shall I put him into the 
basket again ? 

[Re-enter Falstaff.] 


him in this shape. He cannot abide the old 
woman of Brainford. He swears she’s a witch ; 
forbade her my house, and hath threat’ned to 
beat her. 89 

Mrs. Page. Heaven guide him to thy hus¬ 
band’s cudgel, and the devil guide his cudgel 
afterwards! 

Mrs. Ford. But is my husband coming ? 
Mrs. Page. Ay, in good sadness, is he ; and 
talks of the basket too, howsoever he hath had 
intelligence. 95 

Mrs. Ford. We ’ll try that; for I ’ll appoint 
my men to carry the basket again, to meet him 
at the door with it, as they did last time. 

Mrs. Page. Nay, hut he ’ll be here presently. 
Let’s go dress him like the witch of Brain- 
ford. 100 

Mrs. Ford. I ’ll first direct my men what 
they shall do with the basket. Go up; I ’ll 
bring linen for him straight. [ Exit .] 

Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest varlet! We 
cannot misuse him enough. i ® 6 

We ’ll leave a proof, by that which we will do, 
Wives may he merry, and yet honest too. 

We do not act that often jest and laugh ; 

’T is old, but true. Still swine eats all the draff. 

[Exit.] 


Fal. No, I ’ll come no more i’ the basket. 
May I not go out ere he come ? 6 i 

Mrs. Page. Alas, three of Master Ford’s 
brothers watch the door with pistols, that none 
shall issue out; otherwise you might slip away 
ere he came. But what make you here ? 56 

Fal. What shall I do ? I ’ll creep up into the 
chimney. 

Mrs. Ford. There they always use to dis¬ 
charge their birding-pieces. Creep into the 
kiln-hole. 

Fal. Where is it ? 60 

Mrs. Ford. He will seek there, on my word. 
Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, 
but he hath an abstract for the remembrance 
of such places, and goes to them by his note. 
There is no hiding you in the house. es 

Fal. I ’ll go out then. 

[Mrs. Page.] If you go out in your own 
semblance, you die, Sir John. Unless you go 
out disguis’d — 

Mrs. Ford. How might we disguise him ? 70 
Mrs. Page. Alas the day, I know not! There 
is no woman’s gown big enough for him ; other¬ 
wise he might put on a hat, a muffler, and a 
kerchief, and so escape. 

Fal. Good hearts, devise something. Any 
extremity rather than a mischief. 76 

Mrs. Ford. My maid’s aunt, the fat woman 
of Brainford, has a gown above. 

Mrs. Page. On my word, it will serve him. 
She’s as big as he is; and there’s her 
thrumm’d hat and her muffler too. Run up, [so 
Sir John. 

Mrs. Ford. Go, go, sweet Sir John. Mistress 
Page and I will look some linen for your head. 

Mrs. Page. Quick, quick ! we ’ll come dress 
you straight. Put on the gown the while. 86 

[Exit Falstaff.] 
Mrs. Ford. I would my husband would meet 


[Re-enter Mistress Ford with two Servants.] 

Mrs. Ford. Go, sirs, take the basket again 
on your shoulders. Your master is hard at [no 
door. If he bid you set it down, obey him. 
Quickly, dispatch. [Exit.] 

1 . Serv. Come, come, take it up. 

2 . Serv. Pray neaven it be not full of knight 

again. no 

1 . Serv. I hope not; I had as lief bear so 
much lead. 


Enter Ford, Page, Shallow [Caius], and Sir 
Hugh Evans. 


Ford. Ay, but if it prove true, Master Page, 
have you any way then to unfool me again? 
Set down the basket, villain ! Somebody call [120 
my wife. Youth in a basket! O you panderly 
rascals ! there’s a knot, a ging, a pack, a con¬ 
spiracy against me. Now shall the devil be 
sham’d. What, wife, I say! Come, come forth ! 
Behold what honest clothes you send forth to 
bleaching! 126 

Page. Why, this passes, Master Ford. You 
are not to go loose any longer; you must be 
pinion’d. 

Evans. Why, this is lunatics! This is mad 
as a mad dog ! 131 

Shal. Indeed, Master Ford, this is not well, 
indeed. 

• Ford. So say I too, sir. 


[Re-enter Mistress Ford.] 

Come hither, Mistress Ford ; Mistress Ford, the 
honest woman, the modest wife, the vir- [135 
tuous creature, that hath the jealous fool to 
her husband ! I suspect without cause, mistress, 
do I? 

Mrs. Ford. Heaven be my witness you do, 
if you suspect me in any dishonesty. 







iV. IV. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


J 73 


Ford. Well said, brazen-face! hold it out. 
Come forth, sirrah! 

[Pulling clothes out of the basket.] 
Page. This passes ! 

Mrs. Ford. Are you not asham’d ? Let the 
clothes alone. us 

Ford. I shall find you anon. 

Evans. ’T is unreasonable! Will you take 
up your wife’s clothes ? Come away. 

Ford. Empty the basket, I say! 

Mrs. Ford. Why, man, why ? iso 

Ford. Master Page, as I am a man, there 
was one convey’d out of my house yesterday in 
this basket. Why may not he be there again ? 
In my house I am sure he is. My intelligence 
is true ; my jealousy is reasonable. Pluck me 
out all the linen. ise 

Mrs. Ford. If you find a man there, he shall 
die a flea’s death. 

Page. Here’s no man. 

Shal. By my fidelity, this is not well, Master 
Ford ; this wrongs you. lei 

Evans. Master Ford, you must pray, and not 
follow the imaginations of your own heart. 
This is jealousies. 

Ford. Well, he’s not here I seek for. ies 
Page. No, nor nowhere else but in your brain. 
Ford. Help to search my house this one 
time. If I find not what I seek, show no colour 
for my extremity, let me forever be your table- 
sport. Let them say of me, “As jealous as 
Ford, that search’d a hollow walnut for his [m 
wife’s leman.” Satisfy me once more; once 
more search with me. 

Mrs. Ford. What, ho, Mistress Page ! come 
you and the old woman down ; my husband 
will come into the chamber. 

Ford. Old woman! What old woman’s that ? 
Mrs. Ford. Why, it is my maid’s aunt of 
Brainford. 179 

Ford. A witch, a quean, an old cozening 
quean ! Have I not forbid her my house ? She 
comes of errands, does she? We are simple 
men ; we do not know what’s brought to pass 
under the profession of fortune-telling. She 
works by charms, by spells, by the figure ; 
and such daubery as this is beyond our ele- [iss 
ment; we know nothing. Come down, you 
witch, you hag, you ; come down, I say! 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, good, sweet husband! 
Good gentlemen, let him not strike the old 
woman. i°<* 


Re-enter Falstaff disguised like an old wo¬ 
man, and Mistress Page with him. 

Mrs. Page. Come, Mother Prat; come, 
give me your hand. 

Ford. I ’ll prat her. Out of my door, you 
witch, you hag, you baggage, you polecat, you 
ronyon ! out, out! I ’ll conjure you, I ’ll [195 
fortune-tell you! 

[Ford beats him , and he runs away. 

Mrs. Page. Are you not asham’d ? I think 
you have kill’d the poor woman. 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, he will do it. ’T is a 
goodly credit for you. 200 

Ford. Hang her, witch ! 


Evans. By yea and no, I think the ’oman is 
a witch indeed. I like not when a ’oman has a 
great peard. I spy a great peard under his 
muffler. 20c 

Ford. Will you follow, gentlemen ? I be¬ 
seech you, follow ; see but the issue of my 
jealousy, if I cry out thus upon no trail, never 
trust me when I open again. 

Page. Let’s obey his humour a little fur¬ 
ther. Come, gentlemen. 211 

[Exeunt [Ford, Page , Shal., Caius, 
and Evans]. 

Mrs. Page. Trust me, he beat him most piti¬ 
fully. 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, by the mass, that he did 
not; he beat him most unpitifully, methought. 

Mrs. Page. I ’ll have the cudgel hallow’d [210 
and hung o’er the altar. It hath done merito¬ 
rious service. 

Mrs. Ford. Wkat think you? May we, 
with the warrant of womanhood and the wit¬ 
ness of a good conscience, pursue him with any 
further revenge ? 222 

Mrs. Page. The spirit of wantonness is, 
sure, scar’d out of him. If the devil have him 
not in fee-simple, with fine and recovery, he 
will never, I think, in the way of waste, at¬ 
tempt us again. 227 

Mrs. Ford. Shall we tell our husbands how 
we have serv’d him ? 229 

Mrs. Page. Yes, by all means ; if it be but 
to scrape the figures out of your husband’s 
brains. If they can find in their hearts the 
poor unvirtuous fat knight shall be any further 
afflicted, we two will still be the ministers. 234 
Mrs. Ford. I ’ll warrant they ’ll have him 
publicly sham’d ; and methinks there would 
be no period to the jest, should he not be pub¬ 
licly sham’d. 

Mrs. Page. Come, to the forge with it then ; 
shape it. 1 would not have things cool. 240 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. [A room in the Garter Inn.] 
Enter Host and Bardolph. 

Bard. Sir, the German desires to have three 
of your horses. The Duke himself will be to¬ 
morrow at court, and they are going to meet 
him. * 

Host. What duke should that be comes so 
secretly ? I hear not of him in the court. Let 
me speak with the gentlemen. They speak 
English ? 

Bard. Ay, sir ; I ’ll call them to you. 9 
Host. They shall have my horses ; but I ’ll 
make them pay, I ’ll sauce them. They have 
had my houses a week at command. I have 
turn’d away my other guests. They must come 
off ; I ’ll sauce them. Come. [Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [A room in Ford's house.] 

Enter Page, Ford, Mistress Page, Mistress 
Ford, and Sir Hugh Evans. 

Evans. ’T is one of the best discretions of a 
’oman as ever I did look upon. 





J 74 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


IV. V. 


Page. And did he send you both these let¬ 
ters at an instant ? 

Mrs. Page. Within a quarter of an hour, s 

Ford. Pardon me, wife. Henceforth do 
what thou wilt. 

I rather will suspect the sun with cold 
Than thee with wantonness. Now doth thy 
honour stand, 

In him that was of late an heretic, 

As firm as faith. 

Page. ’T is well, ’t is well; no more. 

Be not as extreme in submission n 

As in offence. 

But let our plot go forward. Let our wives 
Yet once again, to make us public sport, 
Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow, is 
Where we may take him and disgrace him for 
it. 

Ford. There is no better way than that they 
spoke of. 

Page. How ? To send him word they ’ll 
meet him in the park at midnight ? Fie, fie ! 
he ’ll never come. 20 

Evans. You say he has been thrown in the 
rivers and has been grievously peaten as an old 
’oman. Methinks there should be terrors in 
him that he should not come ; methinks his 
flesh is punish’d ; he shall have no desires. 

Page. So think I too. 25 

Mrs. Ford. Devise but how you ’ll use him 
when he comes, 

And let us two devise to bring him thither. 

Mrs. Page. There is an old tale goes that 
Herne the hunter, 

Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest, 
Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight, 30 
Walk round about an oak, with great ragg’d 
horns; 

And there he blasts the tree, and takes the 
cattle, 

And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes 
a chain 

In a most hideous and dreadful manner. 

You have heard of such a spirit, and well you 
know 35 

The superstitious idle-headed eld 
Receiv’d and did deliver to our age 
This tale of Herne the hunter for a truth. 

Page. Why, yet there want not many that 
do fear 39 

In deep of night to walk by this Herne’s oak. 
But what of this ? 

Mrs. Ford. Marry, this is our device; 
That Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us 
[Disguis’d like Herne, with huge horns on his 
head]. 

Page. Well, let it not be doubted but he ’ll 
come ; 

And in this shape when you have brought him 
thither, 

What shall be done with him ? What is your 

plot ? 45 

Mrs. Page. That likewise have we thought 
upon, and thus : 

Nan Page my daughter and my little son 
And three or four more of their growth we ’ll 
dress 


Like urchins, ouphes, and fairies, green and 
white, 

With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads, so 
And rattles in their hands. Upon a sudden, 

As Falstaff, she, and I are newly met, 

Let them from forth a sawpit rush at once 
With some diffused song. Upon their sight, 
We two in great amazedness will fly. EB 

Then let them all encircle him about 
And, fairy-like, to pinch the unclean knight, 
And ask him why, that hour of fairy revel, 

In their so sacred paths he dares to tread 
In shape profane. 

[Mrs.] Ford. And till he tell the truth, so 
Let the supposed fairies pinch him sound 
And burn him with their tapers. 

Mrs. Page. The truth being known, 

We ’ll all present ourselves, dis-horn the spirit, 
And mock him home to Windsor. 

Ford. The children must 

Be practis’d well to this, or they ’ll ne’er 
do’t. . . 66 

Evans. I will teach the children their be¬ 
haviours ; and I will be like a jack-an-apes also, 
to burn the knight with my taber. 

Ford. That will be excellent. I’ll go and 
buy them vizards. 70 

Mrs. Page. My Nan shall be the queen of all 
the fairies, 

Finely attired in a robe of white. 

Page. That silk will I go buy. [Aside.] And 
in that time 

Shall Master Slender steal my Nan away 
And marry her at Eton. Go send to Falstaff 
straight. 7 « 

Ford. Nay, I’ll to him again in name of 
Brook. 

He ’ll tell me all his purpose. Sure, he ’ll come. 
Mrs. Page. Fear not you that. Go get us 
properties 

And tricking for our fairies. 

Evans. Let us about it. It is admirable 
pleasures and fery honest knaveries. si 

[Exeunt. Page , Ford, and Evans.] 
Mrs. Page. Go, Mistress Ford, 

Send Quickly to Sir John, to know his mind. 

[Exit Mrs. Ford.] 

I ’ll to the doctor ; he hath my good will, 

And none but he, to marry with Nan Page, ss 
That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot: 
And he my husband best of all affects. 

The doctor is well money’d, and his friends 
Potent at court. He, none but he, shall have 
her, 

Though twenty thousand worthier come to 
crave her. [Exit.] so 

Scene V. [A room in the Garter Inn.] 
Enter Host and Simple. 

Host. What wouldst thou have, boor ? 
What, thick-skin ? Speak, breathe, discuss; 
brief, short, quick, snap. 

Sim. Marry, sir, I come to speak with Sir 
John Falstaff from Master Slender. s 

Host. There’s his chamber, his house, his 
castle, his standing-bed and truckle-bed; ’tis 




IV. V. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


*75 


painted about with the story of the Prodigal, 
fresh and new. Go knock and call; he ’ll speak 
like an Anthropophaginian unto thee. Knock, 
I say. 11 

Sun. There ’s an old woman, a fat woman, 
gone up into his chamber. I ’ll be so bold as 
stay, sir, till she come down. I come to speak 
with her, indeed. is 

Host. Ha! a fat woman? The knight may 
be robb’d. I ’ll call. Bully knight! bully Sir 
John! speak from thy lungs military. Art thou 
there ? It is thine host, thine Ephesian, calls. 
Fed. [Above .] How now, mine host? 20 
Host. Here’s a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the 
coming down of thy fat woman. Let her de¬ 
scend, bully, let her descend ; my chambers are 
honourable. Fie 1 privacy ? fie ! 

Enter Falstaff. 

Fal. There was, mine host, an old fat 
woman even now with me ; but she’s gone. 26 
Sim. Pray you, sir, was ’t not the wise 
woman of Brainford ? 

Fal. Ay, marry, was it, mussel-shell. What 
would you with her ? 30 

Sim. My master, sir, my Master Slender, sent 
to her, seeing her go thorough the streetSj to 
know, sir, whether one Nym, sir, that beguil’d 
him of a chain, had the chain or no. 

Fal. I spake with the old woman about it. 35 
Sim. And what says she, I pray, sir ? 

Fal. Marry, she says that the very same man 
that beguil’d Master Slender of his chain coz¬ 
en’d him of it. 39 

Sim. I would I could have spoken with the 
woman herself. I had other things to have 
spoken with her too from him. 

Fal. What are they ? Let us know. 

Host. Ay, come ; quick. 

Sim. I may not conceal them, sir. *5 

Host. Conceal them, or thou diest. 

Sim. Why, sir, they were nothing but about 
Mistress Anne Page; to know if it were my 
master’s fortune to have her or no. 

Fal. ’T is, ’t is his fortune. so 

Sim. What, sir ? 

Fal. To have her, or no. Go ; say the woman 
told me so. 

Sim. May I be bold to say so, sir ? 

Fal. Ay, sir ; like who more bold ? ss 

Sim. I thank your worship. I shall make 
my master glad with these tidings. [Exit.] 
Host. Thou art clerkly, thou art clerkly, Sir 
John. Was there a wise woman with thee ? so 
Fal. Ay, that there was, mine host; one that 
hath taught me more wit than ever I learn’d 
before in my life; and I paid nothing for it 
neither, but was paid for my learning. 

Enter Bardolph. 

Bard. Out, alas, sir I cozenage, mere coz¬ 
enage. 

Host. Where be my horses ? Speak well of 
them, varletto. 66 

Bard. Run away with the cozeners; for so 
soon as I came beyond Eton, they threw me off 
from behind one of them, in a slough of mire ; 


and set spurs and away, like three German 
devils, three Doctor Faustuses. n 

Host. They are gone but to meet the Duke, 
villain ; do not say they be fled. Germans are 
honest men. 

Enter Sir Hugh Evans. 

Evans. Where is mine host ? 75 

Host. What is the matter, sir ? 

Evans. Have a care of your entertainments. 
There is a friend of mine come to town, tells 
me there is three cozen-germans that has coz¬ 
en’d all the hosts of Readins, of Maidenhead, 
of Colebrook, of horses and money. I tell [so 
you for good will, look you. You are wise and 
full of gibes and vlouting-stocks, and’t is not 
convenient you should be cozened. Fare you 
well. [Exit.] 

Enter Doctor Caius. 

Caius. Vere is mine host de Jarteer? ss 
Host. Here, Master Doctor, in perplexity and 
doubtful dilemma. 

Caius. I cannot tell vat is dat; but it is tell-a 
me dat you make grand preparation for a duke 
de Jamany. By my trot, dere is no duke that 
de court is know to come. I tell you for good 
will; adieu. [Exit.] 91 

Host. Hue and cry, villain, go ! Assist me, 
knight. I am undone ! Fly, run, hue and cry, 
villain ! I am undone ! 

[Exeunt Host [and Bard.] 
Fal. I would all the world might be coz¬ 
en’d ; for I have been cozen’d and beaten too. 
If it should come to the ear of the court, how 
I have been transformed and how my trans¬ 
formation hath been wash’d and cudgell’d, 
they would melt me out of my fat drop by drop, 
and liquor fishermen’s boots with me. I [100 
warrant they would whip me with their fine 
wits till I were as crestfallen as a dri’d pear. I 
never prosper’d since I forswore myself at pri- 
mero. Well, if my wind were but long enough 
[to say my prayers,] I would repent. ios 

Enter Mistress Quickly. 

Now, whence come you ? 

Quick. From the two parties, forsooth. 

Fal. The devil take one party and his dam 
the other ! and so they shall be both bestowed. 
I have suffer’d more for their sakes, more than 
the villanous inconstancy of man’s disposi- [no 
tion is able to bear. 

Quick. And have not they suffer’d ? Yes, I 
warrant; speciously one of them. Mistress 
Ford, good heart, is beaten black and blue,that 
you cannot see a white spot about her. m 

Fal. What tellest thou me of black and 
blue ? I was beaten myself into all the colours 
of the rainbow ; and I was like to be appre¬ 
hended for the witch of Brainford. But that 
my admirable dexterity of wit, my counter- [120 
feiting the action of an old woman, deliver’d 
me, the knave constable had set me i’ the 
stocks, i’ the common stocks, for a witch. 124 
Quick. Sir, let me speak with you in your 
chamber. You shall hear how things go, and, 






i 7 6 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


v. 11. 


I warrant, to your content. Here is a letter 
will say somewhat. Good hearts, what ado here 
is to bring you together ! Sure, one of you 
does not serve heaven well, that you are so 
cross’d. iso 

Fal. Come up into my chamber. [ Exeunt. 

Scene VI. [Another room, in the Garter Inn.] 

Enter Fenton and Host. 

Host. Master Fenton, talk not to me; my 
mind is heavy. I will give over all. 

Fent. Yet hear me speak. Assist me in my 
purpose, 

And, as I am a gentleman, I ’ll give thee 
A hundred pound in gold more than your loss, e 
Host. I will hear you, Master Fenton; and 
I will at the least keep your counsel. 

Fent. From time to time I have acquainted 
you 

With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page ; 
Who mutually hath answer’d my affection, io 
So far forth as herself might be her chooser, 
Even to my wish. I have a letter from her 
Of such contents as you will wonder at; 

The mirth whereof so larded with my mat¬ 
ter, 

That neither singly can be manifested, is 

Without the show of both. Fat Falstaff 
Hath a great scene. The image of the jest 
I ’ll show you here at large. Hark, good mine 
host. 

To-night at Herne’s oak, just ’twixt twelve 
and one, i» 

Must my sweet Nan present the Fairy Queen ; 
The purpose why, is here ; in which disguise, 
While other jests are something rank on foot, 
Her father hath commanded her to slip 
Away with Slender and with him at Eton 
Immediately to marry. She hath consented. 25 
Now, sir, 

Her mother, ever strong against that match 
And firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed 
That he shall likewise shuffle her away 
While other sports are tasking of their minds, 
And at the deanery, where a priest attends, 3 i 
Straight marry her. To this her mother’s plot 
She seemingly obedient likewise hath 
Made promise to the doctor. Now, thus it 
rests: 

Her father means she shall be all in white, 35 
And in that habit, when Slender sees his 
time 

To take her by the hand and bid her go, 

She shall go with him. Her mother hath in¬ 
tended, 

The better to denote her to the doctor, 

For they must all be mask’d and vizarded, 40 
That quaint in green she shall be loose enrob’d, 
With ribands pendent, flaring ’bout her head ; 
And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe, 

To pinch her by the hand, and, on that token, 
The maid hath given consent to go with him. 
Host. Which means she to deceive, father or 
mother ? 46 

Fent. Both, my good host, to go along with 
me. 


And here it rests, that you ’ll procure the vicar 
To stay for me at church ’twixt twelve and 
one, 

And, in tne lawful name of marrying, G0 

To give our hearts united ceremony. 

Host. Well, husband your device; I’ll to 
the vicar. 

Bring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest. 

Fent. So shall I evermore be bound to 
thee; 

Besides, I ’ll make a present recompense. 

[ Exeunt . ss 

ACT V 

Scene I. [A room in the Garter Inn.] 

Enter Falstaff and Mistress Quickly. 

Fal. Prithee, no more prattling; go. I’ll 
hold. This is the third time; I hope good 
luck lies in odd numbers. Away ! go. Thev 
say there is divinity in odd numbers, either 
in nativity, chance, or death. Away ! s 

Quick. I ’ll provide you a chain ; and I ’ll do 
what I can to get you a pair of horns. 

Fal. Away, I say; time wears. Hold up 
your head, and mince. [ Exit Mrs. Quickly .] 

[Enter Ford.] 

How now, Master Brook ! Master Brook, the [10 
matter will be known to-night, or never; Be 
you in the park about midnight, at Herne’s oak, 
and you shall see wonders. 

Ford. Went you not to her yesterday, sir, as 
you told me you had appointed ? is 

Fal. I went to her, Master Brook, as you 
see, like a poor old man ; but I came from her, 
Master Brook, like a poor old woman. That 
same knave Ford, her husband, hath the finest 
mad devil of jealousy in him, Master Brook, 
that ever govern’d frenzy. I will tell you. He [20 
beat me grievously, in the shape of a woman ; 
for in the shape of man, Master Brook, I fear 
not Goliath with a weaver’s beam ; because I 
know also life is a shuttle. I am in haste ; go 
along with me. I ’ll tell you all, Master Brook. [25 
Since I pluck’d geese, play’d truant and 
whipp’d top, I knew not what ’twas to be 
beaten till lately. Follow me. I ’ll tell you 
strange things of this knave Ford, on whom to¬ 
night I will be revenged, and I will deliver [so 
his wife into your hand. Follow. Strange things 
in hand, Master Brook ! Follow. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. [Windsor Park.] 

Enter Page, Shallow, and Slender. 

Page. Come, come ; we ’ll couch i’ the castle- 
dfitch till we see the light of our fairies. Re¬ 
member, son Slender, ray daughter. 

Slen. Ay, forsooth; I have spoke with her 
and we have a nay-word how to know one [c 
another. I come to her in white, and cry 
“mum”; she cries “budget”; and by that 
we know one another. 

Shal. That’s good too; but what needs 
either your “mum” or her “budget”? The 




v. v. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


177 


white will decipher her well enough. It hath 
struck ten o’clock. 11 

Page. The night is dark; light and spirits 
will become it well. Heaven prosper our sport! 
No man means evil but the devil, and we shall 
know him by his horns. Let’s away; follow 
me. [Exeunt. ie 

Scene III. [A street leading to the Park.] 

Enter Mistress Page, Mistress Ford, and 
Doctor Caius. 

Mrs. Page. Master Doctor, my daughter is 
in green. When you see your time, take her 
by the hand, away with her to the deanery, 
and dispatch it quickly. Go before into the 
park; we two must go together. 5 

Caius. I know vat I have to do. Adieu. 

Mrs. Page. Fare you well, sir. [ Exit Caius.] 
My husband will not rejoice so much at the 
abuse of Falstaff as he will chafe at the doc¬ 
tor’s marrying my daughter. But ’tis no mat¬ 
ter ; better a little chiding than a great deal of 
heart-break. 11 

Mrs. Ford. Where is Nan now and her troop 
of fairies, and the Welsh devil Hugh ? 

Mrs. Page. They are all couch’d in a pit 
hard by Herne’s oak, with obscur’d lights; 
which, at the very instant of Falstaff’s and [is 
our meeting, they will at once display to the 
night. 

Mrs. Ford. That cannot choose hut amaze 
him. 

Mrs. Page. If he he not amaz’d, he will be 
mock’d; if he be amaz’d, he will every way he 
mock’d. 21 

Mrs. Ford. We ’ll betray him finely. 

Mrs. Page. Against such lewdsters and their 
lechery 

Those that betray them do no treachery. 

Mrs. Ford. The hour draws on. To the oak, 
to the oak! [Exeunt. 26 

Scene TV. [Windsor Park.] 

Enter Sir Hugh Evans [disguised], and [others 
as] Fairies. 

Evans. Trib, trib, fairies; come; and re¬ 
member your parts. Be pold, I pray you. 
Follow me into the pit, and when I give the 
watch-’ords, do as I pid you. Come, come; 
trib, trib. [Exeunt. 

Scene V. [Another part of the Park.] 
Enter Falstaff with a buck's head upon him. 

Fal. The Windsor bell hath struck twelve ; 
the minute draws on. Now, the hot-blooded 
gods assist me 1 Remember, Jove, thou wast a 
bull for thy Europa ; love set on thy horns. 0 
powerful love ! that, in some respects, makes a 
beast a man, in some other, a man a beast. [0 
You were also, Jupiter, a swan for the love of 
Leda. 0 omnipotent Love ! how near the god 
drew to the complexion of a goose ! A fault 
done first in the form of a beast. 0 Jove, a 
beastly fault! And then another fault in the [10 


semblance of a fowl; think on’t, Jove; a foul 
fault! When gods have hot backs, what shall 
poor men do? For me, I am here a Windsor 
stag; and the fattest, I think, i’ the forest. 
Send me a cool rut-time, Jove, or who can [is 
blame me to piss my tallow ? Who comes 
here ? My doe ? 

Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page. 

Mrs. Ford. Sir John! art thou there, my 
deer ? my male deer ? 

Fal. My doe with the black scut! Let the [20 
sky rain potatoes ; let it. thunder to the tune of 
“ Green Sleeves,” hail kissing-comfits and snow 
eringoes ; let there come a tempest of provoca¬ 
tion. I will shelter me here. 24 

Mj's. Ford. Mistress Page is come with me, 
sweetheart. 

Fal. Divide me like a brib’d buck, each a 
haunch. I will keep my sides to myself, my 
shoulders for the fellow of this walk, and my 
horns I bequeath your husbands. Am I a [30 
woodman, ha ? Speak I like Herne the hunter ? 
Why, now is Cupid a child of conscience; he 
makes restitution. As I am a true spirit, wel¬ 
come ! . [Noise within.] 

Mrs. Page. Alas, what noise ? 

Mrs. Ford. Heaven forgive our sins! 35 

Fal. What should this be ? 

Mrs’. Page, j Awa ^ awa y ! [They run <#•] 
Fal. I think the devil will not have me 
damn’d, lest the oil that’s in me should set hell 
on fire ; he would never else cross me thus. 40 

Enter Sir Hugh Evans, like a Satyr , and boys 
dressed like Fairies [Pistol, as Hobgoblin ]; 
Mistress Quickly, like the Queen of Fairies ; 
they sing a song about him and afterward speak. 

Quick. Fairies, black, grey, green, and white, 
You moonshine revellers, and shades of night, 
You orphan heirs of fixed destiny, 

Attend your office and your quality. 

Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes. « 

Pist. Elves, list your names. Silence, you 
airy toys! 

Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap, 
Where fires thou find’st unrak’d and hearths 
unswept, 

There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry; 

Our radiant queen hates sluts and sluttery. eo 
Fal. They are fairies; he that speaks to 
them shall die. 

I ’ll wink and couch ; no man their works must 
eye. [Lies down upon his face.] 

Evans. Where’s Bead ? Go you, and where 
you find a maid 

That, ere she sleep, has thrice her prayers said, 
Rein up the organs of her fantasy; 55 

Sleep she as sound as careless infancy. 

But those as sleep and think not on their sins, 
Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides, 
and shins. 

Quick. About, about; 

Search Windsor Castle, elves, within and out. «o 
Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room, 
That it may stand till the perpetual doom, 




178 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


V. V. 


In state as wholesome as in state’t is fit, 
Worthy the owner, and the owner it. 

The several chairs of order look you scour 65 
With juice of halm and every precious flower. 
Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest, 
With loyal blazon, evermore be blest! 

And nightly, meadow-fairies, look you sing, 
Like to the Garter’s compass, in a ring. 70 
The expressure that it bears, green let it be, 
More fertile-fresh than all the field to see; 

And “ Honi soit qui mal y pense ” write 
In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue, and 
white; 

Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery, 75 
Buckled below fair knighthood’s bending knee. 
Fairies use flowers for their charactery. 

Away ; disperse ! but till’t is one o’clock, 

Our dance of custom round about the oak 
Of Herne the hunter, let us not forget. so 

Evans. Pray you, lock hand in hand ; your¬ 
selves in order set; 

And twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be, 
To guide our measure round about the tree. 
But, stay; I smell a man of middle-earth. 

Fal. Heavens defend me from that Welsh [sb 
fairy, lest he transform me to a piece of cheese ! 
Pist. Vile worm, thou wast o’erlook’d even 
in thy birth. 

Quick. With trial-fire touch mehis finger-end. 
If he be chaste, the flame will back descend 
And turn him to no pain ; but if he start, 90 
It is the flesh of a corrupted heart. 

Pist. A trial, come. 

Evans. Come, will this wood take fire ? 

[They put the tapers to his fingers, 
and he starts. 

Fal. Oh, Oh, Oh! 

Quick. Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire! 
About him, fairies ; sing a scornful rhyme ; 95 
And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time. 

The Song. 

Fie on sinful fantasy ! 

Fie on lust and luxury! 

Lust is but a bloody fire, 

Kindled with unchaste desire, 100 

Fed in heart, whose flames aspire 
As thoughts do blow them, higher and higher. 
Pinch him, fairies, mutually ! 

Pinch him for his villainy ! 

Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him 
about, 105 

Till candles and starlight and moonshine be out. 

Here they pinch Falstaff and sing about him. 
Doctor Caius comes one way , and steals away 
a boy in green; Slender another way , and 
takes a boy in white ; and Fenton comes , and 
steals Ann e Page. A noise of hunting is made 
within. All the Fairies run away. Falstaff 
pulls off his buck's head , and rises up. 

Enter Page, Ford, Mistress Page, Mistress 
Ford, and Shallow. 

Page. Nay, do not fly; I think we have 
watch’d you now. 

Will none but Herne the hunter serve your turn? 


Mrs. Page. I pray you, come, hold up the 
jest no higher. 

Now, good Sir John, how like you Windsor 
wives ? no 

See you these, husband? Do not these fairy 
oaks 

Become the forest better than the town ? 

Ford. Now, sir, who’s a cuckold now ? Mas¬ 
ter Brook, Falstaff’s a knave, a cuckoldly 
knave ; here are his horns, Master Brook ; and, 
Master Brook, he hath enjoyed nothing of [ns 
Ford’s but his buck-basket, his cudgel, and 
twenty pounds of money, which must be paid 
to Master Brook. His horses are arrested for 
it, Master Brook. 

Mrs. Ford. Sir John, we have had ill luck ; [120 
we could never meet. I will never take you for 
my love again ; but I will always count you my 
deer. 

Fal. I do begin to perceive that I am made 
an ass. 126 

Ford. Ay, and an ox too ; both the proofs 
are extant. 

Fal. And these are not fairies ? I was three 
or four times in the thought they were not fai¬ 
ries ; and yet the guiltiness of my mind, the 
sudden surprise of my powers, drove the [130 
grossness of the foppery into a receiv’d belief, 
in despite of the teeth of all rhyme and reason, 
that they were fairies. See now how wit may 
be made a Jack-a-Lent, when’t is upon ill em¬ 
ployment ! 136 

Evans. Sir John Falstaff, serve Got, and 
leave your desires, and fairies will not pinse 
you. 

Ford. Well said, fairy Hugh. 

Evans. And leave your jealousies too, J 
pray you. 140 

Ford. I will never mistrust my wife again, 
till thou art able to woo her in good English. 

Fal. Have I laid my brain in the sun and 
dri’d it, that it wants matter to prevent so 
gross o’erreaching as this ? Am I ridden with 
a Welsh goat too? Shall I have a coxcomb [ns 
of frieze ? ’T is time I were chok’d with a 
piece of toasted cheese. 

Evans. Seese is not good to give putter; your 
belly is all putter. 149 

Fal. “ Seese ” and “ putter ” ! Have I liv’d 
to stand at the taunt of one that makes frit¬ 
ters of English ? This is enough to be the 
decay of lust and late-walking through the 
realm. 

Mrs. Page. Why, Sir John, do you think, 
though we would have thrust virtue out of 
our hearts by the head and shoulders, and [ibb 
have given ourselves without scruple to hell, 
that ever the devil could have made you our 
delight ? 

Ford. What, a hodge-pudding ? A bag of 
flax ? 

Mrs. Page. A puff’d man ? ie« 

Page. Old, cold, wither’d, and of intoler¬ 
able entrails ? 

Ford. And one that is as slanderous as Satan ? 

Page. And as poor as Job ? 

Ford. And as wicked as his wife ? les 




V. V. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 


179 


Evans. And given to fornications, and to 
taverns, and sack, and wine, and metheglins, 
and to drinkings, and swearings and starings, 
pribbles and prabbles ? igo 

Fal. Well, I am your theme; you have the 
start of me. I am dejected; I am not able to 
answer the Welsh flannel. Ignorance itself is a 
plummet o’er me. Use me as you will. 

Ford. Marry, sir, we ’ll bring you to Windsor, 
to one Master Brook, that you have cozen’d of 
money, to whom you should have been a pan- [ne 
der. Over and above that you have suffer’d, 
I think to repay that money will be a biting 
affliction. 

Page. Yet be cheerful, knight. Thou shalt 
eat a posset to-night at my house; where I 
will desire thee to laugh at my wife, that [iso 
now laughs at thee. Tell her Master Slender 
hath married her daughter. 

Mrs. Page. [ Aside. ] Doctors doubt that. If 
Anne Page be my daughter, she is, by this, 
Doctor Caius’ wife. ;86 

Enter Slender. 

Slen. Whoa, ho ! I10, father Page ! 

Page. Son, how now ! how now, son! have 
you dispatch’d ? lss 

Slen. Dispatch’d! I ’ll make the best in 
Gloucestershire know on’t. Would I were 
hang’d, la, else ! 

Page. Of what, sou ? 

Slen. I came yonder at Eton to marry Mis¬ 
tress Anne Page, and she’s a great lubberly 
boy. If it had not been i’ the church, I [we 
would have swing’d him, or he should have 
swing’d me. If I did not think it had been 
Anne Page, would I might never stir ! — and 
’t is a postmaster’s boy. 

Page. Upon my life, then, you took the 
wrong. 201 

Slen. What need you tell me that ? I think 
so, when I took a boy for a girl. If I had been 
married to him, for all he was in woman’s ap¬ 
parel, I would not have had him. 205 

Page. Why, this is your own folly. Did not 
I tell you how you should know my daughter 
by her garments ? 

Slen. I went to her in white, and cried 
“mum,” and she cri’d “budget,” as Anne 
and I had appointed ; and yet it was not [210 
Anne, but a postmaster’s boy. 

Mrs. Page. Good George, be not angry. I 
knew of your purpose; turn’d my daugh¬ 
ter into green ; and, indeed, she is now with 
the Doctor at the deanery, and there mar¬ 
ried. 216 


Enter Caius. 

Caius. Vere is Mistress Page ? By gar, I am 
cozened. I ha’ married oon garsoon, a boy ; oon 
pesant, by gar, a boy; it is not Anne Page. By 
gar, I am cozened. 220 

Mrs. Page. Why, did you take her in green ? 
Caius. Ay, by gar, and ’tis a boy. By gar, 
I ’ll raise all Windsor. [Exit. 

Ford. This is strange. Who hath got the 
right Anne ? 22c 

Page. My heart misgives me. Here comes 
Master Fenton. 

Enter Fenton and Anne Page. 

How now. Master Fenton ! 

Anne. Pardon, good father! good my mother, 
pardon! 

Page. Now, mistress, how chance you went 
not with Master Slender ? 231 

Mrs. Page. Why went you not with Master 
Doctor, maid ? 

Pent. You do amaze her. Hear the truth of it. 
You would have married her most shamefully, 
Where there was no proportion held in love. 233 
The truth is, she ana I, long since contracted, 
Are now so sure that nothing can dissolve us. 
The offence is holy that she hath committed ; 
And this deceit loses the name of craft, 

Of disobedience, or unduteous title, 240 

Since therein she doth estate and shun 
A thousand irreligious cursed hours, 

Which forced marriage would have brought 
upon her. 

Ford. Stand not amaz’d ; here is no remedy. 
In love the heavens themselves do guide the 
state; . 245 

Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate. 

Fal. I am glad, though you have ta’en a 
special stand to strike at me, that your arrow 
hath glanc’d. 

Page. Well, what remedy? Fenton, heaven 
give thee joy ! 250 

What cannot be eschew’d must be embrac’d. 
Fal. When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer 
are chas’d. 

Mrs. Page. Well, I will muse no further. 
Master Fenton, 

Heaven give you many, many merry days! 
Good husband, let us every one go home, 255 
And laugh this sport o’er by a country fire ; 

Sir John and all. 

Ford. Let it be so. Sir John, 

To Master Brook you yet shall hold your word, 
For he to-night shall he with Mistress Ford. 

[Exeunt. 






MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


Much Ado About Nothing was entered in the Stationers’ Register on August 4 and again on 
August 24 , 1600 , and the quarto edition of the play appeared in the same year. Unless this 
comedy be regarded as the Love’s Labour ’s Won of Palladis Tamia , it is not mentioned in Meres’s 
list, and so probably did not exist in 1598 . The title-page of the Quarto states that it had been 
already “ sundry times publicly acted,” so that 1599 , the date most generally assigned, is not 
likely to be more than a year wrong either way. 

The text of the First Folio was taken from a copy of the Quarto, which, judging from some 
changes in the stage directions, seems to have been used as a prompter’s copy. The present text 
is based on the Quarto, with some few readings from the Folio and later editions. 

The story of Hero and Claudio is derived from the twentieth Novel of Bandello, though it is 
by no means clear that Shakespeare had direct access to this, especially since there is no trace of 
an English translation. In Bandello the scene is laid in Messina at the close of a successful war ; 
Don Pedro of Arragon appears as King Piero d’ Aragona, and Leonato as Lionato de’ Lionati; 
and the thread of the story is the same as in Shakespeare with these main exceptions: the vil¬ 
lain is a disappointed lover of Hero’s ; there is no Margaret, the deceiving of the bridegroom, 
Timbreo, being accomplished merely by his being led to see a man enter a window in the hero¬ 
ine’s home ; the scene in the church, where Claudio casts off Hero, is lacking, the Italian lover 
sending a friend to the father to announce the breaking off of the match ; Timbreo repents of his 
own accord of his hasty inference ; and the denouement is brought about by the remorse of the 
villain. Thus in Shakespeare’s main plot the character and motive of Don John are quite differ¬ 
ent, the deceiving of Claudio is made more plausible, and the humors of Dogberry and Verges 
are introduced to undo the tangle. The French version of Bandello by Belleforest supplies 
nothing that is found in the English but lacking in the Italian, and there is no evidence of 
Shakespeare’s having used the translation any more than the original. But a probable source 
for the scene at Hero’s window has been found in the story of Ariodante and Ginevra in the fifth 
book of Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso , translated into English in 1591 by Sir John Harington, who 
tells us that the incident had been stated to be historical. Further, Spenser narrated it in The 
Faerie Queene (book II, canto iv, stanza 17 ), omitting, however, the window as the scene of the 
deception ; two other English renderings of the episode are recorded; and, finally, a play on the 
subject was acted before Queen Elizabeth in 158 %. There is, therefore, no difficulty in suppos¬ 
ing Shakespeare to have borrowed this detail. 

Bandello’s story forms the basis of several German and Dutch plays also, only one of which, 
Jacob Ayrer’s Die Schoene Phaenicia, need he mentioned here. This version has come through 
Belleforest and probably other intermediaries, and varies from both Bandello and Shakespeare 
in that the deception of the hero is accomplished by a man dressed to personate the heroine. It 
has been attempted, but without complete success, to show that both Ayrer’s play and Much Ado 
come from a lost English play. The presence of a humorous underplot in both, upon which 
stress has been laid, is deprived of significance by the marked dissimilarity of these plots and 
their characters. 

The plot in which Beatrice and Benedick are the chief actors has not so far been found else¬ 
where. The similarity of their mutual relation to that of Rosaline and Biron in Love’s Labour’s 
Lost shows that Shakespeare had long had their particular kind of comedy in mind, and he may 
have invented the underplot to give them scope and to lighten the somewhat sombre story of 
Hero. On the other hand, it is quite possible that their prototypes may have already appeared 
in some play now lost, which Shakespeare recast in the present comedy. Traces of such a play 
have been evident to some scholars in the presence of Hero’s mother, Innogen, in two stage 
directions, and in hints of a previous love affair between Beatrice and Benedick. Moreover, a 
play called “ Benedicke and Betteris ” is recorded as having been acted at the Princess Elizabeth’s 
wedding in 1613 , though Much Ado also occurs in the list, and no other play was given twice 
on that occasion. But these indications afford at most no more than a presumption in favor of 
the theory of an older play. 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


[DRAMATIS PERSONS 


Don Pedro, prince of Arragon. 

Don John, his bastard brother. 

Claudio, a young lord of Florence. 
Benedick, a young lord of Padua. 

Leonato, governor of Messina. 

Antonio, his brother. 

Balthasar, esquire to Don Pedro. 

Borachio', | foUower8 of Don John. 

Friar Francis. 

Messengers, 


Dogberry, a constable. 

Verges, a headborough. 

A Sexton. 

A Boy. 

Hero, daughter to Leonato. 

Beatrice, niece to Leonato. 

’ | gentlewomen attending on Her*, 
i, Attendants, etc. 


Scene : Messina.'] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [Before Leonato's house.] 

Enter Leonato, Hero, and Beatrice, with a 
Messenger. 

Leon. I learn in this letter that Don Pedro 
of Arragon comes this night to Messina. 

Mess. He is very near by this. He was not 
three leagues off when I left him. 

Leon. How many gentlemen have you lost in 
this action ? 0 

Mess. But few of any sort, and none of name. 
Leon. A victory is twice itself when the 
achiever brings home full numbers. I find here 
that Don Pedro hath bestowed much honour on 
a young Florentine called Claudio. 11 

Mess. Much deserv’d on his part and equally 
rememb’red by Don Pedro. He hath borne him¬ 
self beyond the promise of his age, doing, in 
the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion. He 
hath indeed better bett’red expectation than 
you must expect of me to tell you how.. it 
Leon. He hath an uncle here in Messina will 
be very much glad of it. i» 

Mess. I have already delivered him letters, 
and there appears much joy in him; even so 
much that joy could not show itself modest 
enough without a badge of bitterness. 

Leon. Did he break out into tears ? 

Mess. In great measure. 25 

Leon. A kind overflow of kindness. There 
are no faces truer than those that are so wash’d. 
How much better is it to weep at joy than to 
joy at weeping! 

Beat. I pray you, is Signior Mountanto re¬ 
turn’d from the wars or no ? si 

Mess. I know none of that name, lady. There 
was none such in the army of any sort. 

Leon. What is he that you ask for, niece ? 
Hero. My cousin means Signior Benedick of 
Padua. 36 

Mess. 0 , he’s return’d; and as pleasant as 
ever he was. 


Beat. He set up his bills here in Messina and 
challeng’d Cupid at the flight; and my un- [40 
cle’s fool, reading the challenge, subscrib’d 
for Cupid, and challeng’d him at the bird-bolt. 
I pray you, how many hath he kill’d and eaten 
in these wars ? But how many hath he kill’d ? 
for indeed I promised to eat all of his killing. 45 

Leon. Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick 
too much ; but he ’ll be meet with you, I doubt 
it not. 

Mess. He hath done good service, lady, in 
these wars. 

Beat. You had musty victual, and he hath [so 
holp to eat it. He is a very valiant trencher¬ 
man ; he hath an excellent stomach. 

Mess. And a good soldier too, lady. 

Beat. And a good soldier to a lady. But what 
is he to a lord ? so 

Mess. A lord to a lord, a man to a man; 
stuff’d with all honourable virtues. 

Beat. It is so, indeed ; he is no less than a 
stuff’d man. But for the stuffing, — well, we 
are all mortal. so 

Leon. You must not, sir, mistake my niece. 
There is a kind of merry war betwixt Signior 
Benedick and her. They never meet but there’s 
a skirmish of wit between them. 04 

Beat. Alas! he gets nothing by that. In 
our last conflict four of his five wits went halt¬ 
ing off, and now is the whole man govern’d 
with one ; so that if he have wit enough to keep 
himself warm, let him bear it for a difference 
between himself and his horse ; for it is all the 
wealth that he hath left, to be known a [to 
reasonable creature. Who is his companion 
now? He hath every month a new sworn 
brother. 

Mess. Is’t possible ? _ « 

Beat. Very easily possible. He wears his 
faith but as the fashion of his hat; it ever 
changes with the next block. 

Mess. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your 
books. 

Beat. No; an he were, I would burn my [s* 




182 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


1.1. 


study. But, I pray you, who is his companion ? 
Is there no young- squarer now that will make 
a voyage with him to the devil? 

Mess. He is most in the company of the right 
noble Claudio. ss 

Beat. 0 Lord, he will hang upon him like a 
disease. He is sooner caught than the pesti¬ 
lence, and the taker runs presently mad. God 
help the noble Claudio ! If he have caught the 
Benedick, it will cost him a thousand pounds 
ere ’a be cur’d. 

Mess. I will hold friends with you, lady. 

Beat. Do, good friend. 

Leon. You will never run mad, niece. 

Beat. No, not till a hot January. 

Mess. Don Pedro is approach’d. 

Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, Bal¬ 
thasar, and John the Bastard. 

D. Pedro. Good Signior Leonato, are you 
come to meet your trouble ? The fashion of 
the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it. 

Leon. Never came trouble to my house in 
the likeness of your Grace, for trouble being 
one, comfort should remain ; but when you [100 
epart from me, sorrow abides and happiness 
takes his leave. 

D. Pedro. You embrace your charge too 
■willingly. I think this is your daughter. 

Leon. Her mother hath many times told me 

SO. 105 

Bene. Were you indoubt, sir, that you ask’d 
her ? 

Leon. Signior Benedick, no ; for then were 
you a child. 109 

D. Pedro. You have it full, Benedick. 
We may guess by this what you are, being a 
man. Truly, the lady fathers herself. Be 
happy, lady; for you are like an honourable 
father. 

Bene. If Signior Leonato be her father, she 
would not have his head on her shoulders for 
all Messina, as like him as she is. ue 

Beat. I wonder that you will still be talking, 
Signior Benedick. Nobody marks you. 

Bene. What, my dear Lady Disdain ! are 
you yet living ? 120 

Beat. Is it possible disdain should die while 
she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior 
Benedick ? Courtesy itself must convert to dis¬ 
dain, if you come in her presence. 124 

Bene. Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is 
certain I am loved of all ladies, only you ex¬ 
cepted ; and I would I could find in my heart 
that I had not a hard heart, for, truly, I love 
none. 

Beat. A dear happiness to women; they 

would else have been troubled with a pernicious 
suitor. I thank God and my cold blood, I [130 
am of your humour for that. I had rather hear 
my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he 
loves me. 

Bene. God keep your ladyship still in that 
mind ! So some gentleman or other shall scape 
a predestinate scratch’d face. 136 

Beat. Scratching could not make it worse, an 
’t were such a face as yours were. 


Bene. Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher. 
Beat. A bird of my tongue is better than a 
beast of yours. 141 

Bene. I would my horse had the speed of 
your tongue, and so good a continuer. But 
keep your way, i’ God’s name ; I have done. 

Beat. You always end with a jade’s trick; I 
know you of old. 148 

D. Pedro. That is the sum of all, Leonato. 
Signior Claudio and Signior Benedick, my dear 
friend Leonato hath invited you all. I tell him 
we shall stay here at the least a month ; and 
he heartily prays some occasion may detain [iso 
us longer. 1 dare swear he is no hypocrite, but 
prays from his heart. 

Leon. If you swear, my lord, you shall not be 
forsworn. [To Don John.] Let me bid you [155 
welcome, my lord. Being reconciled to the 
Prince your brother, I owe you all duty. 

D. John. I thank you. I am not of many 
words, but I thank you. 

Leon. Please it your Grace lead on ? . ieo 

D. Pedro. Your hand, Leonato; we will go 
together. [ Exeunt all except Benedick and 

Claudio. 

Claud. Benedick, didst thou note the daugh¬ 
ter of Signior Leonato ? 

Bene. I noted her not; but I look’d on her. i 65 
Claud. Is she not a modest young lady ? 
Bene. Do you question me, as an honest man 
should do, for my simple true judgement; or 
would you have me speak after my custom, as 
being a professed tyrant to their sex? no 

Claud. No; I pray thee speak in sober 
judgement. 

Bene. Why, i’ faith, methinks she’s too low 
for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise 
and too little for a great praise ; only this [ns 
commendation I can afford her, that were she 
other than she is, she were unhandsome ; and 
being no other but as she is, I do not like 
her. 

Claud. Thou thinkest I am in sport. I pray 
thee tell me truly how thou lik’st her. iso 

Bene. Would you buy her, that you inquire 
after her ? 

Claud. Can the world buy such a jewel? 
Bene. Yea, and a case to put it into. But 
speak you this with a sad brow, or do you 
play the flouting Jack, to tell us Cupid is a [iss 
good hare-finder and Vulcan a rare carpenter ? 
Come, in what key shall a man take you, to go 
in the song ? 

Claud. In mine eye she is the sweetest lady 
that ever I look’d on. 190 

Bene. I can see yet without spectacles and I 
see no such matter. There’s her cousin, an she 
were not possess’d with a fury, exceeds her as 
much in beauty as the first of May doth the last 
of December. But I hope you have no intent 
to turn husband, have you ? m 

Claud. I would scarce trust myself, though 
I had sworn the contrary, if Hero would be my 
wife. 

Bene. Is’t come to this ? In faith, hath not 
the world one man but he will wear his cap 
with suspicion ? Shall I never see a bachelor [200 





MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


1 .1. 


i8 3 


of threescore again ? Go to, i’ faith, an thou 
wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the 
print of it, and sigh away Sundays. Look ! 
Don Pedro is returned to seek you. 205 

Re-enter Don Pedro. 

D. Pedro. What secret hath held you here, 
that you followed not to Leonato’s ? 

Bene. I would your Grace would constrain 
me to tell. 

B. Pedro. I charge thee on thy allegiance. 210 
Bene. You hear. Count Claudio. I can be 
secret as a dumb man ; I would have you think 
so ; but, on my allegiance, mark you this, on 
my allegiance. He is in love. With who? Now 
that is your Grace’s part. Mark how short his 
answer is: — With Hero, Leonato’s short daugh¬ 
ter. 216 

Claud. If this were so, so were it utt’red. 
Bene. Like the old tale, my lord: “ It is not 
so, nor’t was not so, but, indeed, God forbid it 
should be so.” 220 

Claud. If my passion change not shortly, God 
forbid it should be otherwise. 

D. Pedro. Amen, if you love her; for the 
lady is very well worthy. 

Claud. You speak this to fetch me in, my 
lord. 226 

D. Pedro. By my troth, I speak my thought. 
Claud. And, in faith, my lord, I spoke mine. 
Bene. And, by my two faiths and troths, my 
lord, I spoke mine. 

Claud. That I love her, I feel. 230 

D. Pedro. That she is worthy, I know. 

Bene. That I neither feel how she should be 
loved nor know how she should be worthy, is 
the opinion that fire cannot melt out of me. I 
will die in it at the stake. 235 

D. Pedro. Thou wast ever an obstinate here¬ 
tic in the despite of beauty. 

Claud. And never could maintain his part 
but in the force of his will. 239 

Bene. That a woman conceived me, I thank 
her; that she brought me up, I likewise give 
her most humble thanks ; but that I will have 
a recheat winded in my forehead, or hang my 
bugle in an invisible baldrick, all women shall 
pardon me. Because I will not do them the 
wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the [245 
right to trust none; and the fine is, for the 
which I may go the finer, I will live a bachelor. 

D. Pedro. I shall see tnee, ere I die, look pale 
with love. 250 

Bene. With anger, with sickness, or with 
hunger, my lord, not with love. Prove that 
ever I lose more blood with love than I will get 
again with drinking, pick out mine eyes with a 
ballad-maker’s pen and hang me up at the door 
of a brothel-house for the sign of blindCupid. 256 
D. Pedro. Well, if ever thou dost fall from 
this faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument. 

Bene. If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat 
and shoot at me ; and he that hits me, let him 
be clapp’d on the shoulder, and called Adam. 201 
JD. Pedro. Well, as time shall try. 

“ In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.” 
Rene. The savage bull may ; but if ever the 


sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull’s [266 
horns and set them in my forehead ; and let me 
be vilely painted, and in such great letters as 
they write “ Here is good horse to hire,” let 
them signify under my sign, “ Here you may see 
Benedick the married man.” 270 

Claud. If this should ever happen, thou 
wouldst be horn-mad. 

D. Pedro. Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his 
quiver in Venice, thou wiltquake for this shortly. 
Bene. I look for an earthquake too, then. 275 
D. Pedro. Well, you will temporize with the 
hours. In the meantime, good Signior Bene¬ 
dick, repair to Leonato’s ; commend me to him, 
and tell him I will not fail him at supper ; for 
indeed he hath made great preparation. 280 

Bene. I have almost matter enough in me for 
such an embassage ; and so I commit you — 
Claud. To the tuition of God. From my 
house, if I had it, — 

B. Pedro. The sixth of July. Your loving 
friend, Benedick. 28# 

Bene. Nay, mock not, mock not. The body 
of your discourse is sometime guarded with 
fragments, and the guards are but slightly 
basted on neither. Ere you flout old ends any 
further, examine your conscience ; and so I leave 
you. > [Exit. 29 i 

Claud. My liege, your Highness now may do 
me good. 

D. Pedro. My love is thine to teach ; teach 
it but how, 

And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn 
Any hard lesson that may do thee good. 295 
Claud. Hath Leonato any son, my lord ? 

D. Pedro. No child but Hero ; she’s his only 
heir. 

Dost thou affect her, Claudio ? 

Claud. O, my lord, 

When you went onward on this ended action, 

I look’d upon her with a soldier’s eye, 300 

That lik’d, but had a rougher task in hand 
Than to drive liking to the name of love. 

But now I am return’d and that war-thoughts 
Have left their places vacant, in their rooms 
Come thronging soft and delicate desires, 305 
All prompting me how fair young Hero is, 
Saying, I lik’d her ere I went to wars. 

I). Pedro. Thou wilt be like a lover presently 
And tire the hearer with a book of words. 

If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it, 310 

And I will break with her and with her father 
And thou shalt have her. Was ’t not to this end 
That thou began’st to twist so fine a story ? 

Claud. How sweetly you do minister to love, 
That know love’s grief by his complexion ! 315 

But lest my liking might too sudden seem, 

I would have salv’d it with a longer treatise. 

D. Pedro. What need the bridge much 
broader than the flood ? 

The fairest grant is the necessity. 

Look, what will serve is fit: ’t is once, thou 
lovest, 320 

And I will fit thee with the remedy. 

I know we shall have revelling to-night. 

I will assume thy part in some disguise 
And tell fair Hero I am Claudio, 






184 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


II. L 


And in her bosom I ’ll unclasp my heart 325 
And take her hearing prisoner with the force 
And strong encounter of my amorous tale ; 
Then after to her father will I break ; 

And the conclusion is, she shall be thine. 

In practice let us put it presently. [Exeunt. 330 

[Scene II. A room in Leonato's house.] 
Enter Leonato .and Antonio, meeting. 

Leon. How now, brother! Where is my 
cousin, your son ? Hath he provided this 
music ? 

Ant. He is very busy about it. But, brother, 
I can tell you strange news that you yet dreamt 
not of. 5 

Leon. Are they good ? 

Ant. As the event stamps them ; but they 
have a good cover, they show well outward. 
The Prince and Count Claudio, walking in a 
thick-pleached alley in mine orchard, were [10 
thus much overheard by a man of mine. The 
Prince discovered to Claudio that he loved my 
niece your daughter and meant to acknowledge 
it this night in a dance ; and if he found her 
accordant, he meant to take the present time 
by the top and instantly break with you of it. ie 

Leon. Hath the fellow any wit that told you 
this ? 

Ant. A good sharp fellow. I will send for 
him ; and question him yourself. 20 

Leon. No, no ; we will hold it as a dream till 
it appear itself ; but I will acquaint my daughter 
withal, that she may be the better prepared for 
an answer, if peradventure this be true. Go 
you and tell her of it. [Several persons cross [25 
the stage.] Cousins, you know what you have to 
do. 0 , I cry you mercy, friend ; go you with 
me, and I will use your skill. Good cousin, 
have a care this busy time. [Exeunt. 

[Scene III. The same.] 

Enter John the Bastard and Conrade. 

Con. What the good-year, my lord! Why 
are you thus out of measure sad ? 

D. John. There is no measure in the occasion 
that breeds; therefore the sadness is without 
limit. 5 

Con. You should hear reason. 

D. John. And when I have heard it, what 
blessing brings it ? 

Con. If not a present remedy, at least a 
patient sufferance. 10 

D. John. I wonder that thou, being, as thou 
say’st thou art, born under Saturn, goest about 
to apply a moral medicine to a mortifying mis¬ 
chief. I cannot hide what I am. I must be sad 
when I have cause, and smile at no man’s 
jests; eat when I have stomach, and wait [ie 
for no man’s leisure ; sleep when I am drowsy, 
and tend on no man’s business ; laugh when I 
am merry, and claw no man in his humour. 19 

Con. Yea, but you must not make the full 
show of this till you may do it without control- 
ment. You have of late stood out against your 
brother, and he hath ta’en you newly into his 


grace ; where it is impossible you should take 
true root but by the fair weather that you 
make yourself. It is needful that you frame [26 
the season for your own harvest. 

D. John. I had rather be a canker in a hedge 
than a rose in his grace, and it better fits my 
blood to be disdain’d of all than to fashion a [so 
carriage to rob love from any. In this, though 
I cannot be said to be a flattering honest man, 
it must not be denied but I am a plain-dealing 
villain. I am trusted with a muzzle and enfran¬ 
chis’d with a clog ; therefore I have decreed [36 
not to sing in my cage. If I had my mouth, I 
would bite ; if I had my liberty, I would do my 
liking. In the meantime let me be that I am 
and seek not to alter me. 

Con. Can you make no use of your discon¬ 
tent ? 40 

D. John. I make all use of it, for I use it only. 
Who comes here ? 

Enter Borachio. 

What news, Borachio ? 

Bora. I came yonder from a great supper. 
The Prince your brother is royally entertained 
by Leonato ; and I can give you intelligence of 
an intended marriage. < 4 * 

D. John. Will it serve for any model to build 
mischief on ? What is he for a fool that be- 
troths himself to unquietness ? eo 

Bora. Marry, it is your brother’s right hand. 
D. John. Who? The most exquisite Claudio ? 
Bora. Even he. 

D. John. A proper squire! And who, and 
who ? Which way looks he ? es 

Bora. Marry, one Hero, the daughter and 
heir of Leonato. 

D.John. A very forward March-chick J How 
came you to this ? es» 

Bora. Being entertain’d for a perfumer, as 
I was smoking a musty room, comes me the 
Prince and Claudio, hand in hand, in sad con¬ 
ference. I whipt me behind the arras, and there 
heard it agreed upon that the Prince should 
woo Hero for himself, and having obtain’d her, 
give her to Count Claudio. ce 

D. John. Come, come, let us thither; this 
may prove food to my displeasure. That young 
start-up hath all the glory of my overthrow. If 
I can cross him any way, I bless myself every 
way. You are both sure, and will assist me ? n 
Con. To the death, my lord. 

D. John. Let us to the great supper; their 
cheer is the greater that I am subdued. Would 
the cook were o’ my mind ! Shall we go prove 
what’s to be done ? 7« 

Bora. We’ll wait upon your lordship. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT II 

[Scene I. A hall in Leonato's house.] 

Enter Leonato, Antonio, Hero, Beatrice, 
and a kinsman. 

Leon. Was not Count John here at supper? 
Ant. I saw him not. 




II. 1. 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


i 85 


Beat. How tartly that gentleman looks! I 
never can see him but I am heart-burn’d an 
hour after. B 

Hero. He is of a very melancholy disposition. 
Beat. He were an excellent man that were 
made just in the midway between him and 
Benedick. The one is too like an image and 
says nothing, and the other too like my lady’s 
eldest son, evermore tattling. u 

. Leon. Then half Signior Benedick’s tongue 
in Count John’s mouth, and half Count John’s 
melancholy in Signior Benedick’s face, — 14 

Beat. With a good leg and a good foot, 
uncle, and money enough in his purse, such a 
man would win any woman in the world, if ’a 
could get her good-will. 

Leon. By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get 
thee a husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy 
tongue. 21 

Ant. In faith, she’s too curst. 

Beat. Too curst is more than curst. I shall 
lessen God’s sending that way; for it is said, 
“ God sends a curst cow short horns ; ” but to a 
cow too curst he sends none. 20 

Leon. So, by being too curst, God will send 
you no horns. 

Beat.. Just, if he send me no husband; for 
the which blessing I am at him upon my 
knees every morning and evening. Lord, I [30 
could not endure a husband with a beard on his 
face ! I had rather lie in the woollen. 

Leon. You may light on a husband that hath 
no beard. sa 

Beat. What should I do with him ? Dress him 
in my apparel and make him my waiting-gen¬ 
tlewoman ? He that hath a beard is more than 
a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than 
a man ; and he that is more than a youth is not 
for me, and he that is less than a man, I am [40 
not for him ; therefore I will even take sixpence 
in earnest of the bear-’ard, and lead his apes 
into hell. 

Leon. Well, then, go you into hell ? 44 

Beat. No, but to the gate ; and there will the 
devil meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns 
on his head, and say, “ Get you to heaven, 
Beatrice, get you to heaven; here’s no place 
for you maids: ” so deliver I up my apes, and 
away to Saint Peter for the heavens. He shows 
me where the bachelors sit, and there live we 
as merry as the day is long. 52 

Ant. [To Hero.] Well, niece, I trust you will 
be rul’d by your father. 64 

Beat. Yes, faith; it is my cousin’s duty to 
make curtsy and say, “Father, as it please 
you.” But yet for all that, cousin, let him be a 
nandsome fellow, or else make another curtsy 
and say, “ Father, as it please me.” 59 

Leon. Well, niece, I hope to see you one day 
fitted with a husband. 

Beat. Not till God make men of some other 
metal than earth. Would it not grieve a 
woman to be overmaster’d with a piece of 
valiant dust? to make an account of her life 
to a clod of wayward marl ? No, uncle, I ’ll [«s 
none. Adam’s sons are my brethren; and, 
truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred. 


Leon. Daughter, remember what I told you. 
If the Prince do solicit you in that kind, you 
know your answer. 71 

Beat. The fault will be in the music, cousin, 
if you be not woo’d in good time. If the Prince 
be too important, tell him there is measure in 
every thing and so dance out the answer. 
For, hear me, Hero : wooing, wedding, and [75 
repenting, is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a 
cinque pace ; the first suit is hot and hasty, 
like a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the 
wedding, mannerly-modest, as a measure, full 
of state and ancientry; and then comes re- [so 
pentance and, with his bad legs, falls into the 
cinque pace faster and faster, till he sink into 
his grave. 

Leon. Cousin, you apprehend passing 
shrewdly. 

Beat. I have a good eye, uncle ; I can see a 
church by daylight. sa 

Leon. The revellers are entering, brother; 
make good room. [ All put on their masks.] ■ 

Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, 
Balthasar, Don John [Borachio, Mar¬ 
garet, Ursula, and others , masked], with a 
drum. 

D. Pedro. Lady, will you walk about with 
your friend ? 90 

Hero. So you walk softly and look sweetly 
and say nothing, I am yours for the walk ; and 
especially when I walk away. 

D. Pedro. With me in your company ? 

Hero. I may say so when I please. 95 

D. Pedro. And when please you to say so? 
Hero. When I like your favour ; for God de¬ 
fend the lute should be like the case ! 

D. Pedro. My visor is Philemon’s roof; 
within the house is Jove. 100 

Hero. Why, then, your visor should be 
thatch’d. 

D. Pedro. Speak low, if you speak love. 

[Drawing her aside.] 
Balth. Well, I would you did like me. 

Marg. So would not I, for your own sake ; [105 
for I have many ill qualities. 

Balth. Which is one ? 

Marg. I say my prayers aloud. 

Balth. I love you the better; the hearers 
may cry, Amen. no 

Marg. God match me with a good dancer ! 
Balth. Amen. 

Marg. And God keep him out of my sight 
when the dance is done ! Answer, clerk. 

Balth. No more words; the clerk is an¬ 
swered. ns 

Urs. I know you well enough ; you are Sign¬ 
ior Antonio. 

Ant. At a word, I am not. 

Urs. I know you by the waggling of your 
head. _ 129 

Ant. To tell you true, I counterfeit him. 

Urs. You could never do him so ill-well, un¬ 
less you were the very man. Here’s his dry 
hand up and down. You are he, you are he. 
Ant. At a word, I am not. 126 

Urs. Come, come, do you think I do not 






i86 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


ii. L 


know you by your excellent wit ? Can virtue 
hide itself ? Go to, mum, you are he. Graces 
will appear, and there’s an end. 

Beat. Will you not tell me who told you so ? 

Bene . No, you shall pardon me. 131 

Beat. Nor will you not tell me who you are ? 

Bene. Not now. 

Beat. That I was disdainful, and that I had 
my good wit out of the “ Hundred Merry 
Tales — well, this was Signior Benedick 
that said so. 136 

Bene. What’s he ? 

Beat. I am sure you know him well enough. 

Bene. Not I, believe me. 

Beat. Did he never make you laugh ? 140 

Bene. I pray you, what is he ? 

Beat. Why, he is the Prince’s, jester, a very 
dull fool; only his gift is in devising impossible 
slanders. None but libertines delight in him, 
and the commendation is not in his wit but in 
his villainy; for he both pleases men and [145 
angers them, and then they laugh at him and 
beat him. I am sure he is in the fleet; I would 
he had boarded me. 

Bene. When I know the gentleman, I ’ll tell 
him what you say. . 151 

Beat. Do, do : he ’ll but break a comparison 
or two on me ; which, peradventure not mark’d 
or not laugh’d at, strikes him into melancholy ; 
and then there’s a partridge wing saved, for 
the fool will eat no supper that night, [iss 
[Music ] We must follow the leaders. 

Bene. In every good thing. 

Beat. Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave 
them at the next turning. 160 

[Dance. [Then] exeunt [all except 
Don John , Borachio , and 
Claudio ]. 

D. John. Sure my brother is amorous on Hero 
and hath withdrawn her father to break with 
him about it. The ladies follow her and but 
one visor remains. 

Bora. And that is Claudio. I know him by 
his bearing. ice 

D. John. Are not you Signior Benedick ? 

Claud. You know me well; I am he. 

D. John. Signior, you are very near my 
brother in his love. He is enamour’d on Hero. 
I pray you, dissuade him from her ; she is [m 
no equal for his birth. You may do the part of 
an honest man in it. 

Claud. How know you he loves her ? 

D. John. I heard him swear his affection. 175 

Bora. So did I too ; and he swore he would 
marry her to-night. 

D. John. Come, let us to the banquet. 

[Exeunt Don John and Borachio. 

Claud. Thus answer I in name of Benedick, 
But hear these ill news with the ears of 
Claudio. . iso 

’T is certain so ; the Prince wooes for him¬ 
self. 

Friendship is constant in aH other things 
Save in the office and affairs of love ; 

Therefore aH hearts in love use their own 
tongues. 

Let eYery eye negotiate for itself 


And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch 
Against whose charms faith melteth into blood. 
This is an accident of hourly proof, 

Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, 
Hero! 

Be-enter Benedick. 

Bene. Count Claudio ? 190 

Claud. Yea, the same. 

Bene. Come, will you go with me ? 

Claud. Whither? 

Bene. Even to the next willow, about your 
own business, county. What fashion wiH 
you wear the garland of ? About your neck, [195 
like an usurer’s chain, or under your arm, like 
a lieutenant’s scarf ? You must wear it one way, 
for the Prince hath got your Hero. 

Claud. I wish him joy of her. 200 

Bene. Why, that’s spoken like an honest 
drovier; so they sell bullocks. But did you 
think the Prince would have served you thus ? 

Claud. I pray you, leave me. 204 

Bene. Ho! now you strike like the blind 
man. ’T was the boy that stole your meat, and 
you ’U beat the post. 

Claud. If it will not be, I ’U leave you. 

[Exit. 

Bene. Alas, poor hurt fowl! now will he 
creep into sedges. But that my Lady Beatrice 
should know me, and not know me ! The [210 
Prince’s fool! Ha ? It may be I go under that 
title because I am merry. Yea, but so I am apt 
to do myself wrong. I am not so reputed. It is 
the base, though bitter, disposition of Beatrice 
that puts the world into her person, and so [215 
gives me out. Well, I ’ll be revenged as I may. 

Re-enter Don Pedro. 

D. Pedro. Now, signior, where’s the count ? 
Did you see him ? 219 

Bene. Troth, my lord, I have played the 
part of Lady Fame. I found him here as mel¬ 
ancholy as a lodge in a warren. I told him, and 
I think I told him true, that your Grace had got 
the good wiH of this young lady; and I off ’red 
him my company to a wiUow-tree, either to 
make him a garland, as being forsaken, or [225 
to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be 
whipp’d. 

D. Pedro. To be whipp’d ! What’s his fault ? 

Bene. The flat transgression of a school-boy, 
who, being overjoyed with finding a birds’ nest, 
shows it his companion, and he steals it. 231 

D. Pedro. WHt thou make a trust a trans¬ 
gression ? The transgression is in the stealer. 

Bene. Yet it had not been amiss the rod had 
been made, and the garland too ; for the gar¬ 
land he might have worn himself, and the [235 
rod he might have bestowed on you, who, as I 
take it, have stolen his birds’ nest. 

D. Pedro. I will but teach them to sing, and 
restore them to the owner. 240 

Bene. If their singing answer your saying, 
by my faith, you say honestly. 

D. Pedro. The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel 
to you. The gentleman that danc’d with her 
told her she is much wrong’d by you. 245 


188 





II. 1. 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


187 


Bene. O, she misus’d me past the endurance 
of a block ! An oak but with one green leaf on 
it would have answered her. My very visor 
began to assume life and scold with her. ! 5 he 
told me, not thinking I had been myself, that 
I was the Prince’s jester, that I was duller [250 
than a great thaw ; huddling jest upon jest 
with such impossible conveyance upon me that 
I stood like a man at a mark, with a whole 
army shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and 
every word stabs. If her breath were as ter- [255 
rible as her terminations, there were no living 
near her ; she would infect to the north star. 
I weuld not marry her, though she were en¬ 
dowed with all that Adam had left him before 
he transgress’d. She would have made Her- [200 
cules have turn’d spit, yea, and have cleft his 
club to make the fire too. Come, talk not of 
her; you shall find her the infernal Ate in 
good apparel. I would to God some scholar 
would conjure her ; for certainly while she is 
here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in [265 
a sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose, be¬ 
cause they would go thither; so, indeed, all 
disquiet, horror, and perturbation follows her. 


Enter Claudio, Beatrice, Hero, and Leo- 

NATO. 

D. Pedro. Look, here she comes. 270 

Bene. Will your Grace command me any ser¬ 
vice to the world’s end ? I will go on the slight¬ 
est errand now to the Antipodes that you can 
devise to send me on ; I will fetch you a tooth- 
picker now from the furthest inch of Asia, 
bring you the length of Prester John’s foot, [275 
fetch you a hair off the great Cham’s beard, do 
you any embassage to the Pigmies, rather than 
hold three words’ conference with this harpy. 
You have no employment for me ? 280 

D. Pedro. None, but to desire your good com¬ 
pany. 

Bene. 0 God, sir, here’s a dish I love not. I 
cannot endure my Lady Tongue. [Exit. 

D. Pedro. Come, lady, come; you have lost 
the heart of Signior Benedick. 286 

Beat. Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile ; 
and I gave him use for it, a double heart for 
his single one. Marry, once before he won it of 
me with false dice, therefore your Grace may 
well sav I have lost it. _ 291 

D. Pedro. You have put him down, lady, 
you have put him down. 

Beat. So I would not he should do me, my 
lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools. 
I have brought Count Claudio, whom you sent 
me to seek. 297 

D. Pedro. Why, how now, count! wherefore 
are you sad ? 

Claud. Not sad, my lord. 3 <x> 

I). Pedro. How then ? Sick ? 

Claud. Neither, my lord. 

Beat. The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor 
merry, nor well; but civil count, civil as an 
orange, and something of that jealous com¬ 
plexion. 306 

D. Pedro. V faith, lady, I think your blazon 
to be true; though, I ’ll be sworn, if he be so, 


his conceit is false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed 
in thy name, and fair Hero is won. I have 
broke with her father, and his good will ob¬ 
tained. Name the day of marriage, and God 
give thee joy ! 312 

Leon. Count, take of me my daughter, and 
with her my fortunes. His Grace hath made 
the match, and all grace say Amen to it. sis 
Beat. Speak, count, ’tis your cue. 

Claud. Silence is the perfectest herald of 
joy ; I were but little happy, if I could say how 
much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours. 
I give away myself for you and dote upon the 
exchange. 320 

Beat. Speak, cousin ; or, if you cannot, stop 
his mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak 
neither. 

D. Pedro. In faith, lady, you have a merry 
heart. 325 

Beat. Yea, my lord ; I thank it, poor fool, it 
keeps on the windy side of care. My cousin 
tells him in his ear that he is in her heart. 
Claud. And so she doth, cousin. 329 

Beat. Good Lord, for alliance ! Thus goes 
every one to the world but I, and 1 am sun¬ 
burnt. I may sit in a corner and cry “ Heigh- 
ho for a husband 1 ” 

D. Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one. 
Beat. I would rather have one of your 
father’s getting. Hath your Grace ne’er a [s 3 s 
brother like you? Your father got excellent 
husbands, if a maid could come by them. 

D. Pedro. Will you have me, lady ? 

Beat. No, my lord, unless I might have [340 
another for working-days. Your Grace is too 
costly to wear every day. But, I beseech your 
Grace, pardon me ; I was born to speak all 
mirth and no matter. 344 

D. Pedro. Your silence most offends me, 
and to be merry best becomes you; for, out o’ 
question, you were born in a merry hour. 

Beat. No, sure, my lord, my mother cried ; 
but then there was a star danc’d, and under 
that was I born. Cousins. God give you joy ! seo 
Leon. Niece, will you look to those things I 
told you of ? 

Beat. I cry you mercy, uncle. By your 
Grace’s pardon. [Exit. 

D. Pedro. By my troth, a pleasant-spirited 
lady. see 

Leon. There’s little of the melancholy ele¬ 
ment in her, my lord. She is never sad but 
when she sleeps, and not ever sad then ; for 
I have heard my daughter say, she hath often 
dreamt of unhappiness and wak’d herself with 
laughing. sr»i 

1). Pedro. She cannot endure to hear tell of 
a husband. 

Leon. 0 , by no means; she mocks all her 
wooers out of suit. 366 

D. Pedro. She were an excellent wife for 
Benedick. 

Leon. 0 Lord, my lord, if they were but a 
week married, they would talk themselves 
mad. 

D. Pedro. County Claudio, when mean you 
to go to church ? sra 





i88 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


II. iii. 


Claud. To-morrow, my lord. Time goes on 
crutches till love have all his rites. 

Leon. Not till Monday, my dear son, which 
is hence a just seven-night; and a time too 
brief, too, to have all things answer my mind. 376 
D. Pearo. Come, you shake the head at so 
long a breathing ; but, I warrant thee, Claudio, 
the time shall not go dully by us. I will in the 
interim undertake one of Hercules’ labours ; [380 
which is, to bring Signior Benedick and the 
Lady Beatrice into a mountain of affection the 
one with the other. I would fain have it a 
match, and I doubt not but to fashion it, if you 
three will but minister such assistance as I 
shall give you direction. 386 

Leon. My lord, I am for you, though it cost 
me ten nights’ watchings. 

Claud. And I, my lord. 

D. Pedro. And you too, gentle Hero ? 

Hero. I will do any modest office, my lord, 
to help my cousin to a good husband. 391 

D. Pedro. And Benedick is not the unhope- 
fullest husband that I know. Thus far can I 
praise him: he is of a noble strain, of approved 
valour, and confirm’d honesty. I will teach 
you how to humour your cousin, that she [395 
shall fall in love with Benedick ; and I, with 
your two helps, will so practise on Benedick 
that, in despite of his quick wit and his queasy 
stomach, he shall fall in love with Beatrice. If 
we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer. [400 
His glory shall be ours, for we are the only love- 
gods. Go in with me, and I will tell you my 
drift. [ Exeunt. 

[Scene II. The same.] 

Enter [Don] John and Borachio. 

D. John. It is so; the Count Claudio shall 
marry the daughter of Leonato. 

Bora. Yea, my lord ; but I can cross it. 

D. John. Any bar, any cross, any impediment 
will be medicinable to me. I am sick in dis- [5 
leasure to him, and whatsoever comes athwart 
is affection ranges evenly with mine. How 
canst thou cross this marriage ? 

Bora. Not honestly, my lord ; but so covertly 
that no dishonesty shall appear in me. 10 

D. John. Show me briefly how. 

Bora. I think I told your lordship a year 
since, how much I am in the favour of Mar¬ 
garet, the waiting gentlewoman to Hero. 

D. John. I remember. xe 

Bora. I can, at any unseasonable instant of 
the night, appoint her to look out at her lady’s 
chamber-window. 

D.John. What life is in that, to be the death 
of this marriage ? 20 

Bora. The poison of that lies in you to tem¬ 
per. Go you to the Prince your brother ; spare 
not to tell him that he hath wronged his honour 
in marrying the renowned Claudio — whose 
estimation do you mightily hold up — to a con¬ 
taminated stale, such a one as Hero. 26 

D. John. What proof shall I make of that ? 
Bora. Proof enough to misuse the Prince, to 
vex Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato. 
Look you for any other issue ? 30 


D. John. Only to despite them, I will en¬ 
deavour anything. 

Bora. Go, then ; find me a meet hour to draw 
Don Pedro and the Count Claudio alone; tell 
them that you know that Hero loves me ; in¬ 
tend a kind of zeal both to the Prince and [35 
Claudio, as, —in love of your brother’s honour, 
who hath made this match, and his friend’s 
reputation, who is thus like to be cozen’d with 
the semblance of a maid, — that you have dis¬ 
cover’d thus. They will scarcely believe [40 
this without trial. Offer them instances ; which 
shall bear no less likelihood than to see me at 
her chamber-window, hear me call Margaret 
Hero, hear Margaret term me Claudio; and 
bring them to see this the very night before [45 
the intended wedding, — for in the meantime I 
will so fashion the matter that Hero shall be 
absent, — and there shall appear such seeming 
truth of Hero’s disloyalty, that jealousy shall 
be call’d assurance and all the preparation over¬ 
thrown. si 

D. John. Grow this to what adverse issue it 
can, I will put it in practice. Be cunning in the 
working this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats. 

Bora. Be you constant in the accusation, and 
my cunning shall not shame me. b« 

D. John. I will presently go learn their day 

of marriage. [ Exeunt. 

[Scene III. Leonato" 1 s orchard .] 

Enter Benedick alone. 

Bene. Boy I 

[Enter Boy.] 

Boy. Signior? 

Bene. In my chamber-window lies a book; 
bring it hither to me in the orchard. 

Boy. I am here already, sir. [Exit. 5 

Bene. I know that ; but I would have thee 
hence, and here again. I do much wonder that 
one man, seeing how much another man is a 
fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, 
will, after he hath laugh’d at such shallow [10 
follies in others, become the argument of his 
own scorn by falling in love; and such a man 
is Claudio. I have known when there was no 
music with him but the drum and the fife ; and 
now had he rather hear the tabor and the 
pipe. I have known when he would have [15 
walk’d ten mile a-foot to see a good armour; 
and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving 
the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to 
speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest 
man and a soldier; and now is he turn’d [20 
orthography; his words are a very fantastical 
banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be 
so converted and see with these eyes ? I cannot 
tell; I think not. I will not be sworn but love 
may transform me to an oyster; but I ’ll [2* 
take my oath on it, till he have made an oys¬ 
ter of me, he shall never make me such a fool. 
One woman is fair, yet I am well; another 
is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I 
am well; but till all graces be in one woman, [so 
one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich 





MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


189 


II. iii. 


she shall be, that’s certain ; wise, or I ’ll none ; 
virtuous, or I ’ll never cheapen her ; fair, or I ’ll 
never look on her ; mild, or come not near me ; 
noble, or not I for an angel; of good dis- [36 
course, an excellent musician, and her hair shall 
he of what colour it please God. Ha! the Prince 
and Monsieur Love ! I will hide me in the 
arbour. [ Withdraws.] 

Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato. 
Music [within], 

L>. Pedro. Come, shall we hear this music ? 
Claud. Yea, my good lord. How still the 
evening is, 40 

As hush’d on purpose to grace harmony ! 

D. Pedro. See you where Benedick hath hid 
himself ? 

Claud. O, very well, my lord. The music 
ended, 

We ’ll fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth. 

Enter Balthasar with music. 

D. Pedro. Come, Balthasar, we ’ll hear that 
song again. 45 

Balth. O, good my lord, tax not so had a 
voice 

To slander music any more than once. 

D. Pedro. It is the witness still of excellency 
To put a strange face on his own perfection. 

I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more. eo 
Balth. Because you talk of wooing, I will 
sing; 

Since many a wooer doth commence his suit 
To her he thinks not worthy, yet he wooes, 

Yet will he swear he loves. 

t). Pedro. Now, pray thee, come ; 

Or, if thou wilt hold longer argument, es 

Do it in notes. 

Balth. Note this before my notes ; 

There’s not a note of mine that’s worth the 
noting. 

D. Pedro. Why, these are very crotchets that 
he speaks; 

Note, notes, forsooth, and nothing. _ [Air.] 
Bene. Now, divine air ! now is his soul [so 
ravish’d! Is it not strange that sheeps’ guts 
should hale souls out of men’s bodies? Well, a 
horn for my money, when all’s done. 

The Song. 

[Balth.] Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, 

Men were deceivers ever, es 

One foot in sea and one on shore, 

To one thing constant never. 

Then sigh not so, but let them go, 
And be you blithe and bonny, 
Converting all your sounds of woe 70 
Into Hey nonny nonny. 

Sing no more ditties, sing no moe, 

Of dumps so dull and heavy ; 

The fraud of men was ever so, 

Since summer first was leafy. 75 

Then sigh not so, etc. 

D. Pedro. By my troth, a good song. 

Balth. And an ill singer, my lord. 


D. Pedro. Ha, no, no, faith ; thou sing’st 
well enough for a shift. so 

Bene. An he had been a dog that should have 
howl’d thus, they would have hang’d him ; and 
I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief. 1 
had as lief have heard the night-raven, come 
what plague could have come after it. so 

I) . Pedro. Yea, marry; dost thou hear, 
Balthasar ? I pray thee, get us some excellent 
music; for to-morrow night we would have it 
at the Lady Hero’s chamber-window. 

Balth. The best I can, my lord. »o 

[Exit Balthasar. 
D. Pedro. Do so; farewell. Come hither, 
Leonato. What was it you told me of to-day, 
that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior 
Benedick ? 

Claud. [Aside.] 0 , ay, stalk on, stalk on; 
the fowl sits. — I did never think that lady [oo 
would have loved any man. 

Leon. No, nor I neither ; but most wonderful 
that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, 
whom she hath in all outward behaviours 
seemed ever to abhor. 101 

Bene. Is’t possible? Sits the wind in that 
corner ? 

Leon. By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell 
what to think of it but that she loves him with 
an enraged affection. It is past the infinite [105 
of thought. 

J) . Pedro. May be she doth but counterfeit. 
Claud. Faith, like enough. 

Leon. 0 God, counterfeit! There was never 
counterfeit of passion came so near the life of 
passion as she discovers it. 111 

D. Pedro. Why, what effects of passion 
shows she ? 

Claud. Bait the hook well; this fish will 
bite. 

Leon. What effects, my lord ? She will sit [n» 
you, —you heard my daughter tell you how. 
Claud She did, indeed. 

D. Pedro. How, how, I pray you ? You 
amaze me ; I would have thought her spirit had 
been invincible against all assaults of affec¬ 
tion. 120 

Leon. I would have sworn it had, my lord; 
especially against Benedick. 

Bene. I should think this a gull, but that 
the white-bearded fellow speaks it. Knavery 
cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence. 126 
Claud. [Aside.] He hath ta’en the infection. 
Hold it up. 

D. Pearo. Hath she made her affection 
known to Benedick ? 

Leon. No ; and swears she never will. That’s 
her torment. wo 

Claud. ’T is true, indeed ; so your daughter 
says. “Shall I,” says she, “ that have so oft 
encount’red him with scorn, write to him that 
I love him ? ” 

Leon. This says she now when she is [13s 
beginning to write to him : for she ’ll be up 
twenty times a night, and there will she sit in 
her smock till she have writ a sheet of paper. 
My daughter tells us all. wo 

Claud. Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I 





MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


ii. in. 


190 


remember a pretty jest your daughter told us 
of. 

Leon. 0 , when she had writ it and was read¬ 
ing it over, she found Benedick and Beatrice 
between the sheet ? 

Claud. That. _ 

Leon. 0 , she tore the letter into a thousand 
halfpence ; railed at herself, that she should be 
so immodest to write to one tnat she knew would 
flout her. “I measure him,” says she, “by 
my own spirit; for I should flout him, if he writ 
to me ; yea, though I love him, I should.” 151 
Claud. Then down upon her knees she falls, 
weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, 
prays, curses; “O sweet Benedick! God give 
me patience ! ” iss 

Leon. She doth indeed, my daughter says so ; 
and the ecstasy hath so much overborne her 
that my daughter is sometime afeard she will 
do a desperate outrage to herself. It is very 
true. 

D. Pedro. It were good that Benedick knew 
of it by some other, if she will not discover it. iei 
Claud. To what end ? He would make but 
a sport of it and torment the poor lady worse. 

D. Pedro. An he should, it were an alms to 
hang him. She’s an excellent sweet lady ; and, 
out of all suspicion, she is virtuous. 166 

Claud. And she is exceeding wise. 

D. Pedro. In every thing but in loving Bene¬ 
dick. 

Leon. 0 , my lord, wisdom and blood com- [170 
bating in so tender a body, we have ten proofs 
to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry 
for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle 
and her guardian. 174 

D. Pedro. I would she had bestowed this 
dotage on me ; I would have daff’d all other re¬ 
spects and made her half myself. I pray you, 
tell Benedick of it, and hear what ’a will say. 
Leon. Were it good, think you ? 179 

Claud. Hero thinks surely she will die ; for 
she says she will die, if he love her not, and 
she will die, ere she make her love known, and 
she will die, if he woo her, rather than she will 
bate one breath of her accustomed crossness. i »4 
D. Pedro. She doth well. If she should make 
tender of her love, ’t is very possible he ’ll scorn 
it; for the man, as you know all, hath a con¬ 
temptible spirit. 

Claud. He is a very proper man. 

D. Pedro. He hath indeed a good outward 
happiness. 191 

Claud. Before God ! and, in my mind, very 
wise. 

D. Pedro. He doth indeed show some sparks 
that are like wit. 

Claud. And I take him to be valiant. 195 

D. Pedro. As Hector, I assure you; and in 
the managing of quarrels you may say he is 
wise, for either he avoids them with great dis¬ 
cretion, or undertakes them with a most Chris¬ 
tian-like fear. 200 

Leon. If he do fear God, ’a must necessarily 
keep peace. If he break the peace, he ought to 
enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling. 
D. Pedro. And so will he do ; for the man 


doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him 
by some large jests he will make. Well, [205 
I am sorry for your niece. Shall we go seek 
Benedick, and tell him of her love ? 

Claud. Never tell him, my lord. Let her 
wear it out with good counsel. 210 

Leon. Nay, that’s impossible ; she may wear 
her heart out first. 

D. Pedro. Well, we will hear further of it 
by your daughter. Let it cool the while. I love 
Benedick well; and I could wish he would [216 
modestly examine himself, to see how much he 
is unworthy so good a lady. 

Leon. My lord, will you walk ? Dinner is 
ready. 

Claud. [ Aside .] If he do not dote on her upon 
this, I will never trust my expectation. 220 

D. Pedro. [Aside.} Let there be the same 
net spread for her ; and that must your daugh¬ 
ter and her gentlewomen carry. The sport 
will be, when they hold one an opinion of an¬ 
other’s dotage, and no such matter ; that’s the 
scene that I would see, which will be merely [226 
a dumb-show. Let us send her to call him in to 
dinner. [ Exeunt [Don Pedro , Claudio , and 

Leonato ]. 

Bene. [Coming forward .] This can be no 
trick ; the conference was sadly borne. They 
have the truth of this from Hero. They seem 
to pity the lady; it seems her affections [230 
have their full bent. Love me ! why, it must 
be requited. I hear how I am censur’d. They 
say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the 
love come from her ; they say too that she will 
rather die than give any sign of affection. [23s 
I did never think to marry. I must not seem 
proud. Happy are they that hear their detrac¬ 
tions and can put them to mending. They say 
the lady is fair ; ’t is a truth, I can bear them 
witness ; and virtuous ; ’t is so, I cannot re- [240 
prove it; and wise, but for loving me ; by my 
troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor no great 
argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in 
love with her. I may chance have some odd 
quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, be¬ 
cause I have rail’d so long against marriage ; [245 
but doth not the appetite alter ? A man loves 
the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in 
his age. Shall quips and sentences and these 
paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the 
career of his humour ? No, the world must [250 
be peopled. When I said I would die a bache¬ 
lor, I did not think I should live till I were 
married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day ! 
she’s a fair lady. I do spy some marks of love 
in her. 255 

Enter Beatrice. 

Beat. Against my will I am sent to bid you 
come in to dinner. 

Bene. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your 
pains. 

Beat. I took no more pains for those thanks 
than you take pains to thank me. If it had 
been painful, I would not have come. set 

Bene. You take pleasure then in the mes¬ 
sage? 





III. 1. 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


Seat. Yea. just so much as you may take 
mjon a knife’s point and choke a daw withal. 
You have no stomach, signior ? Fare you 
well. . [Exit. 265 

Bene. Ha ! “ Against my will I am sent to 
bid you come in to dinner ; ” there’s a double 
meaning in that. ‘ ‘ I took no more pains for 
those thanks than you took pains to thank 
me ; ” that’s as much as to say, “ Any pains 
that I take for you is as easy as thanks. ’ [270 
If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain ; if I 
do not love her, I am a Jew. T will go get her 
picture. [Exit. 

ACT III 

[Scene I. Leonato's garden.] 

Enter Hero and two Gentlewomen , Margaret 
and Ursula. 

Hero. Good Margaret, run thee to the par¬ 
lour. 

There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice 
Proposing with the Prince and Claudio. 
Whisper her ear and tell her, I and Ursula 
Walk in the orchard and our whole dis¬ 
course 5 

Is all of her. Say that thou overheard’st us, 
And bid her steal into the pleached bower, 
Where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun, 
Forbid the sun to enter, like favourites 
Made proud by princes, that advance their 
pride 10 

Against that power that bred it. There will 
she hide her, 

To listen our propose. This is thy office ; 

Bear thee well in it and leave us alone. 

Marg. I ’ll make her come, I warrant you, 
presently. [Exit.] 

Hero. Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth 
come, is 

As we do trace this alley up and down, 

Our talk must only be of Benedick. 

When I do name him, let it be thy part 
To praise him more than ever man did merit. 
My talk to thee must be how Benedick 20 
Is sick in love with Beatrice. Of this mat¬ 
ter 

Is little Cupid’s crafty arrow made, 

That only wounds by hearsay. Now begin ; 

For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, 
runs 

Close by the ground, to hear our conference. 26 
Enter Beatrice [behind]. 

XJrs. The pleasant’st angling is to see the 
fish 

Cut with her golden oars the silver stream, 
And greedily devour the treacherous bait. 

So angle we for Beatrice, who even now 
Is couched in the woodbine coverture. 30 

Fear you not my part of the dialogue. 

Hero. Then go we near her, that her ear lose 
nothing 

Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it. 

[Approaching the bower.] 
No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful. 


I 9 I 


I know her spirits are as coy and wild ss 

As haggards of the rock. 

Urs. But are you sure 

That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely ? 
Hero. So says the Prince and my new- 
trothed lord. 

Urs. And did they bid you tell her of it, 
madam ? 

Hero. They did entreat me to acquaint her 
of it; io 

But I persuaded them, if they lov’d Benedick, 
To wish him wrestle with affection, 

And never to let Beatrice know of it. 

Urs. Why did you so ? Doth not the gentle¬ 
man 

Deserve as full as fortunate a bed 
As ever Beatrice shall couch upon ? 45 

Hero. 0 god of love ! I know he doth deserve 
As much as may be yielded to a man; 

But Nature never fram’d a woman’s heart 
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice. 50 

Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, 
Misprising what they look on, and her wit 
Values itself so highly that to her 
All matter else seems weak. She cannot love, 
Nor take no shape nor project of affection, 65 
She is so self-endeared. 

Urs. Sure, I think so; 

And therefore certainly it were not good 
She knew his love, lest she ’ll make sport at it. 
Hero. Why, you speak truth. I never yet 
saw man, 

How wise, how noble, young, how rarely 
featur’d, eo 

But she would spell him backward. If fair- 
fac’d, 

She would swear the gentleman should be her 
sister; 

If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antic, 
Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed; 

If low, an agate very vilely cut; ss 

If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds ; 
If silent, why, a block moved with none. 

So turns she every man the wrong side out, 

And never gives to truth and virtue that 
Which simpleness and merit purchaseth. 70 

Urs. Sure, sure, such carping is not com¬ 
mendable. 

Hero. No, not to be so odd and from all 
fashions 

As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable. 

But who dare tell her so ? If I should speak, 
She would mock me into air; O, she would 
laugh me _ . 75 

Out of myself, press me to death with wit. 
Therefore let Benedick, like cover’d fire, 
Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly. 

It were a better death than die with mocks, 
Which is as bad as die with tickling. «o 

Urs. Yet tell her of it; hear what she will 
say. 

Hero. No ; rather I will go to Benedick 
And counsel him to fight against his passion ; 
And, truly, I ’ll devise some honest slanders 
To stain my cousin with. One doth not know 86 
How much an ill word may empoison liking. 
Urs. 0 , do not do your cousin such a wrong. 





192 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


hi. 11 . 


She cannot be so much without true judge¬ 
ment — 

Having so swift and excellent a wit 

As she is priz’d to have — as to refuse so 

So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick. 

Hero. He is the only man of Italy, 

Always excepted my dear Claudio. 

Urs. I pray you, be not angry with me, 
madam, 

Speaking my fancy; Signior Benedick, 95 
For shape, for bearing, argument, and valour, 
Goes foremost in report through Italy. 

Hero. Indeed, he hath an excellent good 
name. 

Urs. His excellence did earn it, ere he had 
it. 

When are you married, madam ? 100 

Hero. Why, every day, to-morrow. Come, 
go in ; 

I ’ll show thee some attires, and have thy coun¬ 
sel 

Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow. 
Urs. [Aside.'] She’s lim’d, I warrant you. 

We have caught her, madam. 

Hero. [Aside.] If it proves so, then loving 
goes by haps. 105 

Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps. 

[Exeunt [Hero and Ursula]. 
Beat. [Coming forward.] What fire is in mine 
ears ? Can this be true ? 

Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so 
much ? 

Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu! 

No glory lives behind the back of such. no 
And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee, 
Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand. 

If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite 
thee 

To bind our loves up in a holy band ; 

For others say thou dost deserve, and I 115 
Believe it better than reportingly. [Exit. 

[Scene II. A room in Leonato ' 1 s house.] 

Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, and 
Leonato. 

D. Pedro. I do but stay till your marriage 
be consummate, and then go I toward Arragon. 

Claud. I’ll bring you thither, my lord, if 
you ’ll vouchsafe me. 

D. Pedro. Nay, that would be as great a soil [s 
in the new gloss of your marriage as to show 
a child his new coat and forbid him to wear it. 
I will only be bold with Benedick for his com¬ 
pany ; for, from the crown of his head to the 
sole of his foot, he is all mirth. He hath twice 
or thrice cut Cupid’s bowstring, and the little [11 
hangman dare not shoot at him. He hath a 
heart as sound as a bell and his tongue is the 
clapper, for what his heart thinks his tongue 
speaks. 

Bene. Gallants, I am not as I have been. ,ie 
Leon. So say I; methinks you are sadder. 
Claud. I hope he be in love. 

D. Pedro. Hang him, truant 1 There’s no 
true drop of blood in him, to be truly touch’d 
with love. If he be sad, he wants money. 20 


Bene. I have the toothache. 

_D. Pedro. Draw it. 

Bene. Hang it! 

Claud. You must hang it first, and draw it 
afterwards. 26 

D. Pedro. What! sigh for the toothache ? 
Leon. Where is but a humour or a worm. 
Bene. Well, every one can master a grief but 
he that has it. 

Claud. Yet say I, he is in love. so 

D. Pedro. There is no appearance of fancy 
in him, unless it be a fancy that he hath to 
strange disguises; as, to be a Dutchman to¬ 
day, a Frenchman to-morrow, or in the shape 
of two countries at once, as, a German from the 
waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard [36 
from the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he 
have a fancy to this foolery, as it appears he 
hath, he is no fool for fancy, as you would have 
it appear he is. 39 

Claud. If he be not in love with some woman, 
there is no believing old signs. ’A brushes his 
hat o’ mornings ; what should that bode ? 

D. Pedro. Hath any man seen him at the 
barber’s ? 

Claud. No, but the barber’s man hath been [45 
seen with him, and the old ornament of his 
cheek hath already stuffed tennis-balls. 

Leon. Indeed, he looks younger than he did, 
by the loss of a beard. 

D. Pedro. Nay, ’a rubs himself with civet. 
Can you smell him out by that ? si 

Claud. That’s as much as ta say, the sweet 
youth’s in love. 

D. Pedro. The greatest note of it is his mel¬ 
ancholy. ss 

Claud. And when was he wont to wash his 
face ? 

D. Pedro. Yea, or to paint himself ? For the 
which, I hear what they say of him. 69 

Claud. Nay, but his jesting spirit; which is 
now crept into a lute-string and now govern’d 
by stops. 

D. Pedro. Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for 
him. Conclude, conclude he is in love. 

Claud. Nay, but I know who loves him. «s 
D. Pedro. That would I know too. I war¬ 
rant, one that knows him not. 

Claud. Yes, and his ill conditions; and, in 
despite of all, dies for him. 

1 ). Pedro. She shall be buried with her face 
upwards. 71 

Bene. Yet is this no charm for the tooth¬ 
ache. Old signior, walk aside with me ; I have 
studied eight or nine wise words to speak to 
you, which these hobby-horses must not hear. 76 
[Exeunt Benedick and Leonato.] 
D. Pedro. For my life, to break with him 
about Beatrice. 

Claud. ’T is even so. Hero and Margaret 
have by this played their parts with Beatrice ; 
and then the two bears will not bite one another 
when they meet. si 

Enter John the Bastard. 

D. John. My lord and brother, God save you! 
D. Pedro. Good den, brother. 





MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


hi. in. 


*93 


D. John. If your leisure serv’d, I would 
t speak with you. se 

D. Pedro. In private ? 

D. John. If it please you ; yet Count Claudio 
may hear, for what I would speak of concerns 
him. 

D. Pedro. What’s the matter ? 90 

I). John. [To Claudio.] Means your lordship 
to be married to-morrow ? 

D. Pedro. You know he does. 

D. John. I know not that, when he knows 
what I know. 95 

Claud. If there be any impediment, I pray 
you discover it. 

1 ). John. You may think I love you not; let 
that appear hereafter, and aim better at me by 
that I now will manifest. For my brother, I [100 
think he holds you well, and in dearness of 
heart hath holp to effect your ensuing: mar¬ 
riage ; — surely suit ill spent and labour ill 
bestowed. 

D. Pedro. Why, what’s the matter ? 

D. John. I came hither to tell you ; and, [105 
circumstances short’ned, for she has been too 
long a talking of, the lady is disloyal. 

Claud. Who? Hero? 

D. John. Even she ; Leonato’s Hero, your 
Hero, every man’s Hero. no 

Claud. Disloyal ? 

D. John. The word is too good to paint out 
her wickedness. I could say she were worse ; 
think you of a worse title, and I will fit her to 
it. Wonder not till further warrant. Go but 
with me to-night ; you shall see her cham- [ns 
ber-window ent’rea, even the night before her 
wedding-day. If you love her then, to-morrow 
wed her ; but it would better fit your honour 
to change your mind. 

Claua. May this be so ? 120 

D. Pedro. I will not think it. 

D. John. If you dare not trust that you see, 
confess not that you know. If you will follow 
me, I will show you enough ; and when you 
have seen more and heard more, proceed ac¬ 
cordingly. 126 

Claud. If I see any thing to-night why I 
should not marry her to-morrow, in the congre¬ 
gation, where I should wed, there will I shame 
her. 

D. Pedro. And, as I wooed for thee to obtain 
her, I will join with thee to disgrace her. iso 
D. John. I will disparage her no farther till 
you are my witnesses. Bear it coldly but till 
midnight, and let the issue show itself. 

D. Pedro. O day untowardly turned ! 

Claud. 0 mischief strangely thwarting ! 135 

D. John. 0 plague right well prevented ! So 
will you say when you have seen the sequel. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III. A street .] 

Enter Dogberry and his compartner [Verges] 
with the Watch. 

Dog. Are you good men and true ? 

Vera. Yea, or else it were pity but they 
should suffer salvation, body and soul. 


Dog. Nay, that were a punishment too 
good for them, if they should have any alle¬ 
giance in them, being chosen for the Prince’s 
watch. e 

Verg. Well, give them their charge, neigh¬ 
bour Dogberry. 

Dog. First, who think you the most desart- 
less man to be constable ? 10 

1 . Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George 
Seacole ; for they can write and read. 

Dog. Come hither, neighbour Seacole. God 
hath bless’d you with a good name. To be a 
well-favoured man is the gift of fortune, but 
to write and read comes by nature. is 

2. Watch. Both which, master constable, — 
Dog. You have: I knew it would be your 

answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why, give 
God thanks, and make no boast of it; and 
for your writing and reading, let that ap- [20 
pear when there is no need of such vanity. 
You are thought here to be the most senseless 
and fit man for the constable of the watch ; 
therefore bear you the lantern. This is your 
charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom [2s 
men ; you are to bid any man stand, in the 
Prince’s name. 

2. Watch. How if ’a will not stand ? 

Dog. Why, then, take no note of him. but 
let him go ; and presently call the rest of the 
watch together, and thank God you are rid of 
a knave. 31 

Verg. If he will not stand when he is bid¬ 
den, he is none of the Prince’s subjects. 

Dog. True, and they are to meddle with none 
but the Prince’s subjects. You shall also [35 
make no noise in the streets ; for for the watch 
to babble and to talk is most tolerable and not 
to be endured. 

[2.] Watch. We will rather sleep than talk ; 
we know what belongs to a watch. 40 

Dog. Why, you speak like an ancient and 
most quiet watchman, for I cannot see how 
sleeping should offend ; only, have a care that 
your bills be not stolen. Well, you are to call 
at all the ale-houses, and bid those that are 
drunk get them to bed. 46 

[2.] Watch. How if they will not ? 

Dog. WTy, then, let them alone till they are 
sober. If they make you not then the better 
answer, you may say they are not the men you 
took them for. ei 

[2.] Watch. Well, sir. 

Dog. If you meet a thief, you may suspect 
him, by virtue of your office, to be no true 
man ; and, for such kind of men, the less you 
meddle or make with them, why, the more is 
for your honesty. # se 

[2.] Watch. If we know him to be a thief, 
shall we not lay hands on him ? 

Dog. Truly, by your office, you may ; but I 
think they that touch pitch will be defil’d. 
The most peaceable way for you, if you do [«o 
take a thief, is to let him show himself what 
he is and steal out of your company. 

Verg. You have been always called a merci¬ 
ful man, partner. «s 

Dog. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my 







i94 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


in. iii. 


will, much more a man who hath any honesty 
in him. 

Verg. If you hear a child cry in the night, 
you must call to the nurse and bid her still 

it. 70 

[2.] Watch. How if the nurse be asleep and 
will not hear us ? 

Dog. Why, then, depart in peace, and let the 
child wake her with crying ; for the ewe that 
will not hear her lamb when it baes will never 
answer a calf when he bleats. 76 

Verg. ’T is very true. 

Dog. This is the end of the charge: you, 
constable, are to present the Prince’s own per¬ 
son. If you meet the Prince in the night, you 
may stay him. si 

Verg. Nay, by ’r lady, that I think ’a can¬ 
not. 

Dog. Five shillings to one on ’t, with any 
man that knows the statues, he may stay him ; 
marry, not without the Prince he willing ; [ss 
for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man, 
and it is an offence to stay a man against his 
will. 

Verg. By ’r lady, I think it be so. 89 

Dog. Ha, ah ha! Well, masters, good 
night. An there be any matter of weight 
chances, call up me. Keep your fellows’ coun¬ 
sels and your own, and good night. Come, 
neighbour. 

[2.] Watch. Well, masters, we hear our 
charge. Let us go sit here upon the church- 
bench till two, and then all to bed. 96 

Dog. One word more, honest neighbours. I 
pray you, watch about Signior Leonato’s door ; 
for the wedding being there to-morrow, there 
is a great coil to-night. Adieu ! Be vigitant, I 
beseech you. 101 

[.Exeunt [Dogberry and Verges], 

Enter Borachio and Conrade. 

Dora. What, Conrade ! 

Watch. [Aside.] Peace ! stir not. 

Bora. Conrade, I say ! 

Con. Here, man ; I am at thy elbow. ion 
Bora. Mass, and my elbow itch’d ; I thought 
there would a scab follow. 

Con. I will owe thee an answer for that; and 
now forward with thy tale. 

Bora. Stand thee close, then, under this [no 
pent-house, for it drizales rain ; and I will, like 
a true drunkard, utter all to thee. 

Watch. [Aside.] Some treason, masters ; yet 
stand close. 

Bora. Therefore know I have earned of Don 
John a thousand ducats. lie 

Con. Is it possible that any villainy should 
be so dear ? 

Bora. Thou shouldst rather ask if it were 
possible any villainy should be so rich ; for 
when rich villains have need of poor ones, poor 
ones may make what price they will. 122 

Con. I wonder at it. 

Bora. That shows thou art unconfirm’d. 
Thou knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or 
a hat, or a cloak, is nothing to a man. 126 

Con. Yes, it is apparel. 


Bora. I mean, the fashion. 

Con. Yes, the fashion is the fashion. 129 J 

Bora. Tush! 1 may as well say the fool’s 
the fool. But seest thou not what a deformed 
thief this fashion is ? 

Watch. [Aside.] I know that Deformed ; ’a 
has been a vile thief this seven years. ’A 
goes up and down like a gentleman. I remem¬ 
ber his name. 

Bora. Didst thou not hear somebody ? 

Con. No ; ’t was the vane on the house. 

Bora. Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed 
thief this fashion is, how giddily ’a turns about 
all the hot bloods between fourteen and [m 
five-and-thirty, sometimes fashioning them like 
Pharaoh’s soldiers in the reechy painting, some¬ 
time like god Bel’s priests in the old church- 
window, sometime like the shaven Hercules in 
the smirch’d worm-eaten tapestry, where [us 
his codpiece seems as massy as his club ? 

Con. All this I see ; and I see that the fash¬ 
ion wears out more apparel than the man. But 
art not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, 
that thou hast shifted out of thy tale into tell¬ 
ing me of the fashion ? 162 

Bora. Not so, neither ; but know that I have 
to-night wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero’s gen¬ 
tlewoman, by the name of Hero. She leans me 
out at her mistress’ chamber-window, bids [iw 
me a thousand times good night, — I tell this 
tale vilely : — I should first tell thee how the 
Prince, Claudio, and my master, planted and 
placed and possessed by my master Don John, 
saw afar off in the orchard this amiable en¬ 
counter. 161 

Con. And thought they Margaret was Hero ? 

Bora. Two of them did, the Prince and 
Claudio; but the devil my master knew she 
was Margaret; and partly by his oaths, [166 
which first possess’d them, partly by the dark 
night, which did deceive them, but chiefly by 
my villainy, which did confirm any slander that 
Don John had made, away went Claudio en¬ 
rag’d ; swore he would meet her, as he was [170 
appointed, next morning at the temple, and 
there, before the whole congregation, shame 
her with what he saw o’er night, and send her 
home again without a husband. 175 

1. Watch. We charge you, in the Pi'ince’s 
name, stand ! 

2. Watch. Call up the right master constable. 

We have here recovered the most dangerous 
piece of lechery that ever was known in the 
commonwealth. isi 

1. Watch. And one Deformed is one of them. 

I know him ; ’a wears a lock. 

Con. Masters, masters, — 

2. Watch. You ’ll be made bring Deformed 

forth, I warrant you. 186 

Con. Masters, — 

[l. Watch.] Never speak. We charge you 
let us obey you to go with us. 

Bora. We are like to prove a goodly 
commodity, being taken up of these men’s 
bills. m 

Con. A commodity in question, I warrant 
you. Come, we ’ll obey you. [Exeunt. 




III. V. 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


[Scene IV. Hero's apartment .] 

Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula. 

Hero. Good Ursula, wake my cousin Bea¬ 
trice, and desire her to rise. 

Urs. I will, lady. 

Hero. And bid her come hither. 

Urs. Well. [Exit. 5 

Marg. Troth, I think your other rabato were 
better. 

Hero. No, pray thee, good Meg, I ’ll wear this. 

Marg. By my troth, ’s not so good ; and I 
warrant your cousin will say so. 10 

Hero. My cousin’s a fool, and thou art an¬ 
other. I ’ll wear none but this. 

Marg. I like the new tire within excellently, 
if the hair were a thought browner ; and your 
gown’s a most rare fashion, i’ faith. I saw 
the Duchess of Milan’s gown that they praise 

SO. 16 

Hero. 0 , that exceeds, they say. 

Marg. By my troth, ’s but a night-gown 
in respect of yours : cloth o’ gold, and cuts, 
and lac’d with silver, set with pearls, down 
sleeves, side sleeves, and skirts, round under- [20 
borne with a bluish tinsel; but for a fine, 
quaint, graceful, and excellent fashion, yours is 
worth ten on’t. 

Hero. God give me joy to wear it! for my 
heart is exceeding heavy. 25 

Marg. ’T will be heavier soon by the weight 
of a man. 

Hero Fie upon thee ! art not asham’d ? 

Marg. Of what, lady ? Of speaking honour¬ 
ably ? Is not marriage honourable in a [30 
beggar ? Is not your lord honourable without 
marriage ? I think you would have me say, 
“ saving your reverence, a husband.” An bad 
thinking do not wrest true speaking, I ’ll offend 
nobody. Is there any harm in “ the heavier for * 
a husband ” ? None, I think, an it be the [35 
right husband and the right wife ; otherwise’t is 
light, and not heavy. Ask my Lady Beatrice 
else ; here she comes. 

Enter Beatrice. 

Hero. Good morrow, coz. 

Beat. Good morrow, sweet Hero. *0 

Hero. Why, how now ? Do you speak in the 
sick tune ? 

Beat. I am out of all other tune, methinks. 

Marg. Clap’s into “ Light o’ love ” ; that 
goes without a burden. Do you sing it, and I ’ll 

dclIlCQ it, 

Beat. Ye light o’ love with your heels! 
Then, if your husband have stables enough, 
you ’ll see he shall lack no barns. 

Marg. O illegitimate construction ! I scorn 
that with my heels. # f 1 

Beat. ’T is almost five o’clock, cousin ; ’t is 
time you were ready. By my troth, I am ex¬ 
ceeding ill. Heigh-ho ! 

Marg. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband ? 

Beat. For the letter that begins them all, H. se 

Marg. Well, an you be not turn’d Turk, 
there’s no more sailing by the star. 

Beat. What means the fool, trow ? 


*95 


Marg. Nothing I; but God send every one 
their heart’s desire ! ei 

Hero. These gloves the count sent me ; they 
are an excellent perfume. 

Beat. I am stuff’d, cousin ; I cannot smell. 
Marg. A maid, and stuff’d ! There’s goodly 
catching of cold. 

Beat. 0 , God help me ! God help me ! How 
long have you profess’d apprehension ? 

Marg. Ever since you left it. Doth not my 
wit become me rarely ? 70 

Beat. It is not seen enough, you should wear 
it in your cap. By my troth, I am sick. 

Marg. Get you some of this distill’d Carduus 
Benedictus, and lay it to your heart. It is the 
only tiling for a qualm. 75 

Hero. There thou prick’st her with a thistle. 
Beat. Benedictus! why Benedictus ? You 
have some moral in this Benedictus. 

Marg. Moral! no, by my troth, I have no 
moral meaning; I meant, plain holy-thistle. 
You may think perchance that I think you [so 
are in love. Nay, by ’r lady, I am not such a 
fool to think what I list, nor I list not to think 
what I can, nor indeed I cannot think, if I 
would think my heart out of thinking, that you 
are in love or that you will be in love or [ss 
that you can be in love. Yet Benedick was 
such another, and now is he become a man. 
He swore he would never marry, and yet now, 
in despite of his heart, he eats his meat without 
rudging ; and how you may be converted [00 
know not, but methinks you look with your 
eyes as other women do. 

Beat. What pace is this that thy tongue 
keeps ? 

Marg. Not a false gallop. 04 

Re-enter Ursula. 

Urs. Madam, withdraw; the Prince, the 
count, Signior Benedick, Don John, and all 
the gallants of the town, are come to fetch you 
to church. 

Hero. Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, 
good Ursula. [Exeunt.] 

[Scene Y. Another room in Leonato's house.] 

Enter Leonato, with the Constable [Dogberry] 
and the Headborough [Verges]. 

Leon. What would you with ine, honest 
neighbour? 

Dog. Marry, sir, I would have some confi¬ 
dence with you that decerns you nearly. 

Leon. Brief, I pray you; for you see it is a 
busy time with me. _ . 0 

Dog. Marry, this it is, sir. 

Verg. Yes, in truth it is, sir. _ 

Leon. What is it, my good friends ? < 9 

Dog. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little 
off the matter; an old man, sir, and his wits 
are not so blunt as, God help, I would desire 
they were; but, in faith, honest as the skin 
between his brows. 

Verg. Yes, I thank God I am as honest as [w 
any man living that is an old man and no hon- 
ester than I. 






196 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


iv. i. 


Dog. Comparisons are odorous. Palabras, 
neighbour Verges. 

Leon. Neighbours, you are tedious. 20 

Dog. It pleases your worship to say so, but 
we are the poor Duke’s officers ; but truly, for 
mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I 
could find in my heart to bestow it all of your 
worship. 25 

Leon. All thy tediousness on me, ah ? 

Dog. Yea, an ’t. were a thousand pound more 
than ’t is; for I hear as good exclamation on 
your worship as of any man in the city; and 
though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it. 
Verg. And so am I. 31 

Leon. I would fain know what you have to say. 
Verg. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, ex¬ 
cepting your worship’s presence, ha’ ta’en a 
couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina. 35 
Dog. A good old man, sir ; he will be talking: 
as they say, When the age is in, the wit is out. 
God help us ! It is a world to see. Well said, 
i’’faith, neighbour Verges. Well, God’s a good 
man ; an two men ride of a horse, one must 
ride behind. An honest soul, i’ faith, sir ; by [40 
my troth he is, as ever broke bread ; but God 
is to be worshipp’d; all men are not alike; 
alas, good neighbour! 

Leon. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short 
of you. « 

Dog. Gifts that God gives. 

Leon. I must leave you. 

Dog. One word, sir. Our watch, sir, have 
indeed comprehended two aspicious persons, 
and we would have them this morning examined 
before your worship. 52 

Leon. Take their examination yourself and 
bring it me. I am now in great haste, as it may 
appear unto you. 55 

Dog. It shall be suffigance. 

Leon. Drink some wine ere you go. Fare you 
well. 

[Enter a Messenger.] 

Mess. My lord, they stay for you to give your 
daughter to her husband. 60 

Leon. I ’ll wait upon them ; I am ready. 

[Exeunt Leonato and Messenger .] 
Dog. Go, good partner, go, get you to Francis 
Seacole ; bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to 
the gaol. We are now to examination these men. 
Verg. And we must do it wisely. cs 

Dog. We will spare for no wit, I warrant you. 
Here ’s that shall drive some of them to a non- 
come ; only get the learned writer to set down 
our excommunication, and meet me at the gaol. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT IV 

[Scene I. A church .] 

Enter Don Pedro, [John the ] Bastard , Leo¬ 
nato, Friar Francis, Claudio, Benedick, 
Hero, Beatrice [and attendants ]. 

Leon. Come, Friar Francis, be brief; only to 
the plain form of marriage, and you shall re¬ 
count their particular duties afterwards. 


Friar. You come hither, my lord, to marry 
this lady. e 

Claud. No. 

Leon. To be married to her. Friar, you come 
to marry her. 

Friar. Lady, you come hither to be married 
to this count. 10 

Hero. I do. 

Friar. If either of you know any inward 
impediment why you should not be conjoined, 
I charge you, on your souls, to utter it. 

Claud. Know you any, Hero ? is 

Hero. None, my lord. 

Friar. Know you any, count ? 

Leon. I dare make his answer, none. 

Claud. O, what men dare do ! What men 
may do ! What men daily do, not knowing what 
they do! 21 

Bene. How now! interjections ? Why, then, 

some be of laughing, as, ah, ha, he ! 

Claud. Stand thee by, friar. Father, by your 
leave. 

Will you with free and unconstrained soul 26 
Give me this maid, your daughter ? 

Leon. As freely, son, as God did give her me. 
Claud. And what have I to give you back, 
whose worth 

May counterpoise this rich and precious gift ? 
D. Pedro. Nothing, unless you render her 
again. 30 

Claud. Sweet Prince, you learn me noble 
thankfulness. 

There, Leonato, take her back again. 

Give not this rotten orange to your friend ; 

She’s but the sign and semblance of her honour. 
Behold how like a maid she blushes here ! 35 

O, what authority and show of truth 
Can cunning sin cover itself withal! 

Comes not that blood as modest evidence 
To witness simple virtue ? Would you not 
swear, 

All you that see her, that she were a maid, 40 
By these exterior shows ? But she is none. 

She knows the heat of a luxurious bed ; 

Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty. 

Leon. What do you mean, my lord ? 

Claud. Not to be married; 

Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton. 45 
Leon. Dear my lord, if you, in your own 
proof, 

Have vanquish’d the resistance of her youth, 
And made defeat of her virginity, — 

Claud. I know what you would say. If I 
have known her, 

You will say she did embrace me as a hus¬ 
band, 50 

And so extenuate the ’forehand sin. 

No, Leonato, 

I never tempted her with word too large ; 

But, as a brother to his sister, show’d 
Bashful sincerity and comely love. sb 

Hero. And seem’d I ever otherwise to you ? 
Claud . Out on thee ! Seeming I I will write 
against it: 

You seem to me as Dian in her orb, 

As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown ; 

But you are more intemperate in your blood 6« 





iv. i. 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


x 97 


Than Venus, or those pamp’red animals 
That rage in savage sensuality. 

Hero. Is my lord well, that he doth speak so 
wide ? 

Leon. Sweet Prince, why speak not you ? 

D. Pedro. What should I speak ? 

I stand dishonour’d, that have gone about 65 
To link my dear friend to a common stale. 
Leon. Are these things spoken, or do I but 
dream ? 

D. John. Sir, they are spoken, and these 
things are true. 

Bene. This looks not like a nuptial. 

Hero. True ! 0 God! 

Claud. Leonato, stand I here ? to 

Is this the Prince ? Is this the Prince’s brother ? 
Is this face Hero’s ? Are our eyes our own ? 
Leon. All this is so ; but what of this, my 
lord ? 

Claud. Let me but move one question to your 
daughter ; 

And, by that fatherly and kindly power 76 

That you have in her, bid her answer truly. 
Leon. I charge thee do so, as thou art my 
child. 

Hero. 0 , God defend me ! how am I beset ! 
What kind of catechising call you this ? 

Claud. To make you answer truly to your 
name. »o 

Hero. Is it not Hero ? Who can blot that 
name 

With any just reproach ? 

Claud. Marry, that can Hero ; 

Hero itself can blot out Hero’s virtue. 

• What man was he talk’d with you yester¬ 
night 

Out at your window betwixt twelve and one ? 85 
Now, if you are a maid, answer to this. 

Hero. I talk’d with no man at that hour, my 
lord. 

D. Pedro. Why, then are you no maiden. 
Leonato, 

I am sorry you must hear. Upon mine honour, 
Myself, my brother, and this grieved count 00 
Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night 
Talk with a ruffian at her chamber-window ; 
Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain, 
Confess’d the vile encounters they have had 
A thousand times in secret. 95 

D. John. Fie, fie ! they are not to be named, 
my lord, 

Not to be spoke of; 

There is not chastity enough in language 
Without offence to utter them. Thus, pretty 
lady, 

I am sorry for thy much misgovernment. too 
Claud. 0 Hero, what a Hero hadst thou 
been, 

If half thy outward graces had been plac’d 
About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart! 
But fare thee well, most foul, most fair ! Fare¬ 
well, 

Thou pure impiety and impious purity! «* 

For thee I ’ll lock up all the gates of love, 

And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang, 

To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm, 

And never shall it more be gracious. 


Leon. Hath no man’s dagger here a point for 
me ? [Hero swoons .1 u* 

Beat. Why, how now, cousin! wherefore 
sink you down ? 

D. John. Come, let us go. These things, 
come thus to light, 

Smother her spirits up. 

[Exeunt Don Pedro , Don John , and 
Claudio .] 

Bene. How doth the lady ? 

Beat. Dead, I think. Help, uncle 1 

Hero! why, Hero ! Uncle! Signior Benedick ! 
Friar! 115 

Leon. O Fate ! take not away thy heavy hand. 
Death is the fairest cover for her shame 
That may be wish’d for. 

Beat. How now, cousin Hero! 

Friar. Have comfort, lady. 

Leon. Dost thou look up ? 125 

Friar. Yea, wherefore should she not? 

Leon. Wherefore! Why, doth not every 
earthly thing 

Cry shame upon her ? Could she here deny 
The story that is printed in her blood ? 

Do not live, Hero ; do not ope thine eyes ; 125 

For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die, 
Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy 
shames, 

Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches, 
Strike at thy life. Griev’d I, I had but one ? 
Chid I for that at frugal nature’s frame ? iso 
0 , one too much by thee ! Why had I one ? 
Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes ? 

Why had I not with charitable hand 
Took up a beggar’s issue at my gates, 

Who smirched thus and mir’d with infamy, ish 
I might have said “ No part of it is mine. 

This shame derives itself from unknown loins ” ? 
But mine, and mine I lov’d, and mine I prais’d, 
And mine that I was proud on, mine so much 
That I myself was to myself not mine, wo 

Valuing of her, —why, she, 0 , she is fallen 
Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea 
Hath drops too few to wash her clean again, 
And salt too little which may season give 
To her foul-tainted flesh ! 

Bene. Sir, sir, be patient. 

For my part, I am so attir’d in wonder, 140 
I know not what to say. 

Beat. 0 , on my soul, my cousin is belied! 
Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow last 
night ? 

Beat. No, truly not; although, until last 
night, I®* 

I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow. 
Leon. Confirm’d, confirm’d! 0 , that is 

stronger made 

Which was before barr’d up with ribs of iron ! 
Would the two princes lie, and Claudio lie, 
Who lov’d her so, that, speaking of her foul¬ 
ness, I 50 

Wash’d it with tears ? Hence from her ! Let 
her die. 

Friar. Hear me a little ; 

For I have only been silent so long 

And given way unto this course of fortune, 

By noting of the lady. I have mark’d 1*0 





198 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


iv. i. 


A thousand blushing apparitions 
To start into her face, a thousand innocent 
shames 

In angel whiteness beat away those blushes ; 
And in her eye there hath appear’d a fire 
To burn the errors that these princes hold i 65 
Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool; 
Trust not my reading nor my observations, 
Which with experimental seal doth warrant 
The tenour of my book ; trust not my age, 

My reverence, calling, nor divinity, 170 

If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here 
Under some biting error. 

Leon. Friar, it cannot be. 

Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left 
Is that she will not add to her damnation 
A sin of perjury ; she not denies it. 175 

Why seek’st thou then to cover with excuse 
That which appears in proper nakedness ? 
Friar. Lady, what man is he you are accus’d 
of? 

Hero. They know that do accuse me ; I know 
none. 

If I know more of any man alive 180 

Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant, 
Let all my sins lack mercy ! 0 my father, 
Prove you that any man with me convers’d 
At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight 
Maintain’d the change of words with any crea¬ 
ture, 185 

Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death! 
Friar. There is some strange misprision in 
the princes. 

Bene. Two of them have the very bent of 
honour; 

And if their wisdoms be misled in this, 

The practice of it lives in John the Bastard, 190 
Whose spirits toil in frame of villainies. 

Leon. I know not. If they speak but truth 
of her, 

These hands shall tear her ; if they wrong her 
honour, 

The proudest of them shall well hear of it. 
Time hath not yet so dried this blood of 
mine, 195 

Nor age so eat up my invention, 

Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, 

Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends, 
But they shall find, awak’d in such a kind, 
Both strength of limb and policy of mind, 200 
Ability in means and choice of friends, 

To quit me of them throughly. 

Friar. Pause awhile, 

And let my counsel sway you in this case. 

Your daughter here the princes left for dead. 
Let her awhile be secretly kept in, 205 

And publish it that she is dead indeed. 
Maintain a mourning ostentation 
And on your family’s old monument 
Hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites 
That appertain unto a burial. 210 

Leon. What shall become of this ? What will 
this do ? 

Friar. Marry, this well carried shall on her 
behalf 

Change slander to remorse ; that is some good. 
But not for that dream I on this strange course, 


But on this travail look for greater birth. 215 
She dying, as it must be so maintain’d, 

Upon the instant that she was accus’d, 

Shall be lamented, pitied, and excus’d 
Of every hearer ; for it so falls out 
That what we have we prize not to the worth 220 
Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack’d and lost, 
Why, then we rack the value ; then we find 
The virtue that possession would not show us 
Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Clau¬ 
dio. 

When he shall hear she died upon his words, 226 
The idea of her life shall sweetly creep 
Into his study of imagination, 

And every lovely organ of her life 
Shall come apparell’d in more precious habit, 
More moving-delicate and full of life, 230 

Into the eye and prospect of his soul, 

Than when she liv’d indeed. Then shall he 
mourn, 

If ever love had interest in his liver, 

And wish he had not so accused her, 

No, though he thought his accusation true. 235 
Let this be so, and doubt not but success 
Will fashion the event in better shape 
Than I can lay it down in likelihood. 

But if all aim but this be levell’d false, 

The supposition of the lady’s death 240 

Will quench the wonder of her infamy. 

And if it sort not well, you may conceal her, 

As best befits her wounded reputation, 

In some reclusive and religious life, 

Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries. 245 

Bene. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise 
you ; 

And though you know my inwardness and love 
Is very much unto the Prince and Claudio, 

Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this 
As secretly and justly as your soul 250 

Should with your body. 

Leon. Being that I flow in grief, 

The smallest twine may lead me. 

Friar. ’T is well consented ; presently away, 
For to strange sores strangely they strain the 
cure. 

Come, lady, die to live. This wedding-day 255 
Perhaps is but prolong’d ; have patience and 
endure. 

[.Exeunt [all but Benedick and Bea¬ 
trice]. 

Bene. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this 
while ? 

Beat. Yea, and I will weep a while longer. 

Bene. I will not desire that. 

Beat. You have no reason ; I do it freely. 260 

Bene. Surely I do believe your fair cousin is 
wrong’d. 

Beat. Ah, how much might the man deserve 
of me that would right her ! 

Bene. Is there any way to show such friend¬ 
ship ? 

Beat. A very even way, but no such 
friend. 265 

Bene. May a man do it ? 

Beat. It is a man’s office, but not yours. 

Bene. I do love nothing in the world so well 
as you. Is not that strange ? 279 





IV. 11. 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


r 99 


Beat. As strange as the thing I know not. It 
were as possible for me to say I lov’d nothing so 
well as you: but believe me not; and yet I lie 
not. I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I 
am sorry for my cousin. 275 

Bene. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lov’st me. 
Beat. Do not swear, and eat it. 

Bene. I will swear by it that you love me ; 
and I will make him eat it that says I love not 
you. 

Beat. Will you not eat your word ? 280 

Bene. With no sauce that can be devised to 
it. I protest I love thee. 

Beat. Why, then, God forgive me ! 

Bene. What offence, sweet Beatrice ? 

Beat. You have stayed me in a happy hour. 
I was about to protest I loved you. sso 

Bene. And do it with all thy heart. 

Beat. I love you with so much of my heart 
that none is left to protest. 

Bene. Come, bid me do any thing for thee. 290 
Beat. Kill Claudio. 

Bene. Ha! not for the wide world. 

Beat. You kill me to deny it. Farewell. 
Bene. Tarry, sweet Beatrice. 

Beat. I am gone, though I am here. There 
is no love in you. Nay, I pray you, let me go. 29s 
Bene. Beatrice, — 

Beat. In faith, I will go. 

Bene. We ’ll be friends first. 

Beat. You dare easier be friends with me 
than fight with mine enemy. 301 

Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy ? 

Beat. Is ’a not approved in the height a vil¬ 
lain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured 
my kinswoman ? O that I were a man ! What, 
bear her in hand until they come to take [305 
hands ; and then, with public accusation, un¬ 
cover’d slander, unmitigated rancour, — O God, 
that I were a man ! I would eat his heart in the 
market-place. 

Bene. Hear roe, Beatrice, — 310 

Beat. Talk with a man out at a window ! A 
proper saying! 

Bene. Nay, but, Beatrice, — 

Beat. Sweet Hero! She is wrong’d, she is 
sland’red, she is undone. 316 

Bene. Beat— 

Beat. Princes and counties ! Surely, a princely 
testimony, a goodly count, Count Comfect; a 
sweet gallant, surely ! O that I were a man for 
his sake ! or that I had any friend would be 
a man for my sake ! But manhood is melted [320 
into courtesies, valour into compliment, and men 
are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too. 
He is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells 
a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with 
wishing, therefore I will die a woman with [325 
grieving. 

Bene. Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, 
I love thee. 

Beat. Use it for my love some other way 
than swearing by it. 330 

Bene. Think you in your soul the Count 
Claudio hath wrong’d Hero ? 

Beat. Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a 
soul. 334 


Bene. Enough, I am engag’d ; I will chal¬ 
lenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so I leave 
you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a 
dear account. As you hear of me, so think of 
me. Go, comfort your cousin. I must say she 
is dead ; and so, farewell. [Exeunt.] 340 

[Scene II. A prison.] 

Enter the Constables [Dogberry, Verges, and 
Sexton] in gowns [and the Watch, with 
Conrade] and Borachio. 

Dog. Is our whole dissembly appear’d ? 

Verg. 0 , a stool and a cushion for the sexton. 
Sex. Which be the malefactors ? 

Dog. Marry, that am I and my partner. 

Verg. Nay, that’s certain; we have the [6 
exhibition to examine. 

Sex. But which are the offenders that are to 
be examined ? Let them come before master 
constable. 

Dog. Yea, marry, let them come before me. 
What is your name, friend ? is 

Bora. Borachio. 

Dog. Pray, write down, Borachio. Yours, 
sirrah ? 

Con. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is 
Conrade. io 

Dog. Write down, master gentleman Con¬ 
rade. Masters, do you serve God ? 

Bom. I Yea ’ sir ’ we hope ' 

Dog. Write down, that they hope they serve 
God : and write God first; for God defend [21 
but God should go before such villains ! Mas¬ 
ters, it is proved already that you are little 
better than false knaves ; and it will go near 
to be thought so shortly. How answer you for 
yourselves ? 26 

Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none. 

Dog. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure 
you ; but I will go about with him. Come you 
hither, sirrah ; a word in your ear, sir. I say 
to you, it is thought you are false knaves. 30 
Bora. Sir, I say to you we are none. 

Dog. Well, stand aside. ’Fore God, they are 
both in a tale. Have you writ down, that they 
are none ? 34 

Sex. Master constable, you go not the way to 
examine. You must call forth the watch that 
are their accusers. 

Dog. Yea, marry, that’s the eftest way. 
Let the watch come forth. Masters, I charge 
you, in the Prince’s name, accuse these men. 40 

1. Watch. This man said, sir, that Don John, 
the Prince’s brother, was a villain. 

Dog. Write down Prince John a villain. 
Why, this is flat perjury, to call a prince’s bro¬ 
ther villain. 

Bora. Master constable, — 45 

Dog. Pray thee, fellow, peace. I do not like 
thy look, I promise thee. 

Sex. What heard you him say else ? 

2. Watch. Marry, that he had received a 

thousand ducats of Don John for accusing the 
Lady Hero wrongfully. ei 

Dog. Flat burglary as ever was committed. 





200 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


v. L 


Verg. Yea, by mass, that it is. 

Sex. What else, fellow ? 

1. Watch. And that Count Claudio did [se 
mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before 
the whole assembly, and not marry her. 

Dog. 0 villain ! thou wilt be condemn’d into 
everlasting redemption for this. 

Sex. What else ? 60 

1. Watch. This is all. 

Sex. And this is more, masters, than you can 
deny. Prince John is this morning secretly 
stolen away. Hero was in this manner ac¬ 
cus’d, in this very manner refus’d, and upon 
the grief of this suddenly died. Master con- [ee 
stable, let these men be bound, and brought to 
Leonato’s. I will go before and show him their 
examination. . _ [Exit.] 

Dog. Come, let.them be opinion’d. 

Verg. Let them be in the hands — 70 

[Con.] Off, coxcomb! 

Dog. God ’s my life, where’s the sexton ? 
Let him write down the Prince’s officer cox¬ 
comb. Come, bind them. Thou naughty var- 
let! 

Con. Away! you are an ass, you are an 
ass. 75 

Dog. Dost thou not suspect my place ? Dost 
thou not suspect my years ? 0 that he were 
here to write me down an ass ! But, masters, 
remember that I am an ass ; though it be not 
written down, yet. forget not that I am an 
ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, [so 
as shall be prov’d upon thee by good witness. I 
am a wise fellow, and, which is more, an officer, 
and, which is more, a householder, and, which is 
more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in Mes¬ 
sina, and one that knows the law, go'to ; [ss 
and a rich fellow enough, go to ; and a fellow 
that hath had losses, and one that hath two 
gowns and every thing handsome about him. 
Bring him away. 0 that I had been writ down 
an ass ! [Exeunt, so 

ACT V 

[Scene I. Before Leonato's house.] 

Enter Leonato and Antonio. 

Ant. If you go on thus, you will kill yourself; 
And’t is not wisdom thus to second grief 
Against yourself. 

Leon. I pray thee, cease thy counsel, 

Which falls into mine ears as profitless 
As water in a sieve. Give not me counsel; o 
Nor let no comforter delight mine ear 
But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine. 
Bring me a father that so lov’d his child, 
Whose joy of her is overwhelm’d like mine, 
And bid him speak of patience ; io 

Measure his woe the length and breadth of 
mine, 

And let it answer every strain for strain, 

As thus for thus, and such a grief for such, 

In every lineament, branch, shape, and form ; 
If such a one will smile and stroke his beard, is 
Bid sorrow wag, cry “ hem! ” when he should 
groan, 


Patch grief with proverbs, make misfortune 
drunk 

With candle-wasters, bring him yet to me, 

And I of him will gather patience. 

But there is no such man ; for, brother, men *o 
Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief . 
Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it, 
Their counsel turns to passion, which before 
Would give preceptial medicine to rage, 

Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, 25 
Charm ache with air and agony with words. 
No, no ; ’t is all men’s office to speak patience 
To those that wring under the load of sorrow, 
But no man’s virtue nor sufficiency 
To be so moral when he shall endure 30 

The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel; 
My griefs cry louder than advertisement. 

Ant. Therein do men from children nothing 
differ. 

Leon. I pray thee, peace. I will be flesh and 
blood; 

For there was never yet philosopher 3fi 

That could endure the toothache patiently, 
However they have writ the style of gods 
And made a push at chance and sufferance. 
Ant. Yet bend not all the harm upon your¬ 
self ; 

Make those that do offend you suffer too. 40 
Leon. There thou speak’st reason. Nay, I 
will do so. 

My soul doth tell me Hero is belied ; 

And that shall Claudio know; so shall the 
Prince 

And all of them that thus dishonour her. 

Enter Don Pedro and Claudio. 

Ant. Here comes the Prince and Claudio 
hastily. 46 

D. Pedro. Good den, good den. 

Claud. Good day to both of you. 

Leon. Hear you, my lords, — 

D. Pedro. We have some haste, Leonato. 
Leon. Some haste, my lord ! Well, fare you 
well, my lord. 

Are you so hasty now ? Well, all is one. 

D. Pedro. Nay, do not quarrel with us, good 
old man. eo 

Ant. If he could right himself with quar¬ 
relling, 

Some of us would lie low. 

Claud. Who wrongs him ? 

Leon. Marry, thou dost wrong me ; thou dis¬ 
sembler, thou,— 

Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword ; 

I fear thee not. 

Claud. Marry, beshrew my hand, 56 

If it should give your age such cause of fear. 

In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword. 
Leon. Tush, tush, man ; never fleer and jest 
at me. 

I speak not like a dotard nor a fool, 

As under privilege of age to brag eo 

What I have done being young, or what would 
do 

Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head, 
Thou hast so wrong’d mine innocent child and 
me 





V. 1. 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


201 


That I am forc’d to lay my reverence by 
And, with grey hairs and bruise of many days, on 
Do challenge thee to trial of a man. 

I say thou hast belied mine innocent child ! 

Thy slander hath gone through and through her 
heart, 

And she lies buried with her ancestors, 

O, in a tomb where never scandal slept, to 
S ave this of hers, fram’d by thy villainy! 
Claud. My villainy ? 

Leon. Thine, Claudio ; thine, I say. 

1 ). Pedro. You say not right, old man. 

Leon. My lord, my lord, 

I ’ll prove it on his body, if he dare, 

Despite his nice fence and his active practice, ts 
H is May of youth and bloom of lustihood. 
Claud. Away! I will not have to do with 
you. 

Leon. Canst thou so daff me ? Thou hast 
kill’d my child. 

If thou kill’st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man. 

Ant. He shall kill two of us, and men indeed. 
But that’s no matter ; let him kill one first, si 
Win me and wear me ; let him answer me. 
Come, follow me, boy ; come, sir boy, come, fol¬ 
low me. 

Sir boy, I ’ll whip you from your foiuing fence ; 
Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will. ss 

Leon. Brother, — 

Ant. Content yourself. God knows I lov’d 
ray niece; 

And she is dead, slander’d to death by villains, 
That dare as well answer a man indeed 
As I dare take a serpent by the tongue. «o 

Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops ! 

Leon. Brother Antony,— 

Ant. Hold you content. What, man ! I know 
them, yea, 

And what they weigh, even to the utmost 
scruple, — 

Scambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys, 
That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slan¬ 
der, 66 

Go anticly and show outward hideousness, 

And speak off half a dozen dangerous words, 
How they might hurt their enemies, if they 
durst; 

And this is all. 

Leon. But, brother Antony, — 

Ant. Come, ’t is no matter. 

Do not you meddle ; let me deal in this. 101 
D. Pedro. Gentlemen both, we will not wake 
your patience. 

My heart is sorry for your daughter’s death ; 
But, on my honour, she was charg’d with 
nothing 

But what was true and very full of proof. n* 
Leon. My lord, my lord, — 

D. Pedro. I will not hear you. 

Leon. No ? Come, brother, away 1 I will be 
heard. 

Ant. And shall, or some of us will smart for 
it. [ Exeunt Leonato and Antonio. 

Enter Benedick. 

D. Pedro. See, see ; here comes the man we 
went to seek. 116 


Claud. Now, signior, what news ? 

Bene. Good day, my lord. 

D. Pedro. Welcome, signior. You are almost 
come to part almost a fray. m 

Claud. We had like to have had our two 
noses snapp’d off with two old men without 
teeth. 

D. Pedro. Leonato and his brother. What 
think’st thou ? Had we fought, I doubt we 
should have been too young for them. 

Bene. In a false quarrel there is no true val¬ 
our. I came to seek you both. 121 

Claud. We have been up and down to seek 
thee; for we are high-proof melancholy and 
would fain have it beaten away. Wilt thou use 
thy wit ? 

Bene. It is in my scabbard; shall I draw 

it ? 125 

D. Pedro. Dost thou wear thy wit by thy 
side ? 

Claud. Never any did so, though very many 
have been beside their wit. I will bid thee 
draw, as we do the minstrels ; draw, to pleasure 
us. 

_D. Pedro. As I am an honest man, he looks 
pale. Art thou sick, or angry ? isi 

Claud. What, courage, man ! What though 
care kill’d a cat, thou hast mettle enough in 
thee to kill care. 

Bene. Sir, I shall meet your wit in the ca¬ 
reer, an you charge it against me. I pray you 
choose another subject. 137 

Claud. Nay, then, give him another staff. 
This last was broke across. 

D. Pedro. By this light, he changes more 
and more. I think he be angry indeed. mi 
Claud. If he be, he knows how to turn his 
girdle. 

Bene. Shall I speak a word in your ear ? 
Claud. God bless me from a challenge ! i« 
Bene. [Aside to Claudio .] You are a vil¬ 
lain ! I jest not. I will make it good how 
you dare, with what you dare, and when you 
dare. Do me right, or I will protest your cow¬ 
ardice. You have kill’d a sweet lady, and her 
death shall fall heavy on you. Let me hear 
from you. 161 

Claud. Well, I will meet you, so I may have 
good cheer. 

D. Pedro. What, a feast, a feast ? 154 

Claud. I’ faith, I thank him. He hath bid 
me to a calf’s head and a capon; the which if 
I do not carve most curiously, say my knife’s 
naught. Shall I not find a woodcock too ? 

Bene. Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes 
easily. ^ 159 

D. Pedro. I ’ll tell thee how Beatrice 
prais’d thy wit the other day. I said, thou 
hadst a fine wit. “True,” said she, “a fine 
little one.” “No,” said I, “ a great wit.” 
“Right,” says she, “a great gross one.” 
“Nay,” said I, “a good wit.” “Just,” said 
she, “ it hurts nobody.” “Nay,” said I, “ the ['65 
gentleman is wise.” “ Certain,” said she, “a 
wise gentleman.” “Nay,” said I, “he hath 
the tongues.” “ That I believe,” said she, “for 
he swore a thing to me on Monday night, which 




202 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


v. i. 


he forswore on Tuesday morning. There’s a 
double tongue ; there ’s two tongues.” Thus [no 
did she, an hour together, trans-shape thy 
particular virtues; yet at last she concluded 
with a sigh, thou wast the properest man in 
Italy. 

Claud. For the which she wept heartily and 
said she car’d not. no 

B. Pedro. Yea, that she did; but yet, for 
all that, an if she did not hate him deadly, she 
would love him dearly. The old man’s daughter 
told us all. iso 

Claud. All, all; and, moreover, God saw him 
when he was hid in the garden. 

B. Pedro. But when shall we set the savage 
bull’s horns on the sensible Benedick’s head ? 

Claud. Yea, and text underneath, “Here 
dwells Benedick the married man ” ? iso 

Bene. Fare you well, boy; you know my 
mind. I will leave you now to your gossip-like 
humour. You break jests as braggarts do their 
blades, which, God be thanked, hurt not. My [iao 
lord, for your many courtesies I thank you. I 
must discontinue your company. Your brother 
the bastard is fled from Messina. You have 
among you kill’d a sweet and innocent lady. 
For my Lord Lackbeard there, he and I 
shall meet; and, till then, peace be with him. [loe 

[Exit.\ 

D. Pedro. He is in earnest. 

Claud. In most profound earnest; and, I ’ll 
warrant you, for the love of Beatrice. 

B. Pedro. And hath challeng’d thee ? 200 

Claud. Most sincerely. 

B. Pedro. What a pretty thing man is when 
he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off 
his wit! 204 

Enter Constables [Dogberry, Verges, and the 
Watch, with] Conrade and Borachio. 

Claud. He is then a giant to an ape; but 
then is an ape a doctor to such a man. 

JD. Pedro. But, soft you, let me be. Pluck 
up, my heart, and be sad. Did he not say, my 
brother was fled ? 209 

Bog. Come you, sir. If justice cannot tame 
ou, she shall ne’er weigh more reasons in her 
alance. Nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite 
once, you must be look’d to. 

D. Pedro. How now ? Two of my brother’s 
men bound ! Borachio one ! 215 

Claud. Hearken after their offence, my lord. 
B. Pedro. Officers, what offence have these 
men done ? 218 

Bog. Marry, sir, they have committed false 
report; moreover, they have spoken un¬ 
truths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth 
and lastly, they have belied a lady ; thirdly, 
they have verified unjust things ; and, to con¬ 
clude, they are lying knaves. 224 

B. Pedro. First, I ask thee what they have 
done ; thirdly, I ask thee what’s their offence ; 
sixth and lastly, why they are committed; and, 
to conclude, what you lay to their charge. 

Claud. Rightly reasoned, and in his own 
division ; and, by my troth, there’s one mean¬ 
ing well suitea. 231 


B. Pedro. Who have you offended, masters, 
that you are thus bound to your answer ? This 
learned constable is too cunning to be under¬ 
stood. What’s your offence ? 235 

Bora. Sweet Prince, let me go no farther to 
mine answer. Do you hear me, and let this 
count kill me. I have deceived even your very 
eyes. What your wisdoms eould not discover, 
these shallow fools have brought to light, who 
in the night overheard me confessing to this [240 
man how Don John your brother incensed me 
to slander the Lady Hero, how you were brought 
into the orchard and saw me court Margaret 
in Hero’s garments, how you disgrac’d her, 
when you should marry her. My villainy [245 
they have upon record ; which I had rather 
seal with my death than repeat over to my 
shame. The lady is dead upon mine and my 
master’s false accusation ; and, briefly, I desire 
nothing but the reward of a villain. 201 

B. Pedro. Runs not this speech like iron 
through your blood ? 

Claud. I have drunk poison whiles he utter’d 
it. 

B. Pedro. But did my brother set thee on to 
this ? 

Bora. Yea, and paid me richly for the prac¬ 
tice of it. 266 

B. Pedro. He is compos’d and fram’d of 
treachery, 

And fled he is upon this villainy. 

Claud. Sweet Hero! now thy image doth 
appear 

In the rare semblance that I lov’d it first. 260 
Bog. Come, bring away the plaintiffs. By 
this time our sexton hath reformed Signior 
Leonato of the matter; and, masters, do not 
forget to specify, when time and place shall 
serve, that I am an ass. 206 

Verg. Here, here comes master Signior 
Leonato, and the sexton too. 

Be-enter Leonato and Antonio, with the 
Sexton. 

Leon. Which is the villain ? Let me see his 
eyes, 

That, when I note another man like him, 270 
I may avoid him. Which of these is he ? 

Bora. If you would know your wronger, 
look on me. 

Leon. Art thou the slave that with thy breath 
hast kill’d 

Mine innocent child ? 

Bora. Yea, even I alone. 

Leon. No, not so, villain ; thou beliest thy¬ 
self. 275 

Here stand a pair of honourable men, 

A third is fled, that had a hand in it. 

I thank you, princes, for my daughter’s death. 
Record it with your high and worthy deeds. 
’Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of 

it. 284 

Claud. I know not how to pray your pa¬ 
tience ; 

Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge your¬ 
self ; 

Impose me to what penance your invention 





V. 11. 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


203 


Can lay upon my sin; yet sinn’d I not 
But in mistaking. 

D. Pedro. By my soul, nor I; 285 

And yet, to satisfy this good old man, 

I would bend under any heavy weight 
That he ’ll enjoin me to. 

Leon. I cannot bid you hid my daughter 
live, — 

That were impossible ; but, I pray you both, 290 
Possess the people in Messina here 
How innocent she died; and if your love 
Can labour ought in sad invention, 

Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb 
And sing it to her bones, sing it to-night. 295 
To-morrow morning come you to my house, 
And since you could not be my son-in-law, 

Be yet my nephew. My brother hath a 
daughter, 

Almost the copy of my child that’s dead, 

And she alone is heir to both of us. 300 

Give her the right you should have given her 
cousin, 

And so dies my revenge. 

Claud. 0 noble sir, 

Your over-kindness doth wring tears from 
me ! 

I do embrace your offer ; and dispose 

For henceforth of poor Claudio. 305 

Leon. To-morrow then I will expect your 
coming ; 

To-night I take my leave. This naughty man 
Shall face to face be brought to Margaret, 
Who I believe was pack’d in all this wrong, 
Hir’d to it by your brother. 

Bora. No, by my soul, she was not, 

Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to 
me, . an 

But always hath been just and virtuous 
In any thing that I do know by her. 

Dog. Moreover, sir, which indeed is not un¬ 
der white and black, this plaintiff here, the of¬ 
fender, did call me ass. I beseech you, let it [316 
be rememb’red in his punishment. And also, the 
watch heard them talk of one Deformed. They 
say he wears a key in his ear and a lock hanging 
by it, and borrows money in God’s name, the 
which he hath used so long and never paid [320 
that now men grow hard-hearted and will lend 
nothing for God’s sake. Pray you, examine him 
upon that point. 

Leon. I thank thee for thy care and honest 
pains. 824 

Dog. Your worship speaks like a most thank¬ 
ful and reverend youth, and I praise God for 
you. 

Leon. There’s for thy pains. 

Dog. God save the foundation ! 

Leon. Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, 
and I thank thee. 330 

Dog. I leave an arrant knave with your wor¬ 
ship ; which I beseech your worship to correct 
yourself, for the example of others. God keep 
your worship ! I wish your worship well. God 
restore you to health ! I humbly give you leave 
to depart; and if a merry meeting may be L 336 
wish’d, God prohibit it! Come, neighbour. 

[.Exeunt [Dogberry and Verges]. 


Leon. Until to-morrow morning, lords, fare¬ 
well. 

Ant. Farewell, my lords. We look for you 
to-morrow. 

D. Pedro. We will not fail. 

Claud. To-night I ’ll mourn with Hero. 

Leon. [To the Watch.] Bring you these fel¬ 
lows on. We’ll talk with Margaret, 341 
How her acquaintance grew with this lewd 
fellow. [Exeunt [severally], 

[Scene H. Leonato's garden.] 

Enter Benedick and Margaret [meeting]. 

Bene. Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, 
deserve well at my hands by helping me to the 
speech of Beatrice. 

Marg. Will you then write me a sonnet in 
praise of my beauty ? c 

Bene. In so high a style, Margaret, that no 
man living shall come over it; for, in most 
comely truth, thou deservest it. 

Marg. To have no man come over me I Why, 
shall I always keep below stairs ? 10 

Bene. Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound’s 
mouth; it catches. 

Marg. And yours as blunt as the fencer’s 
foils, which hit, but hurt not. 14 

Bene. A most manly wit, Margaret; it will 
not hurt a woman. And so, I pray thee, call 
Beatrice ; I give thee the bucklers. 

Marg. Give us the swords ; we have bucklers 
of our own. 19 

Bene. If you use them, Margaret, you must 
put in the pikes with a vice ; and they are dan¬ 
gerous weapons for maids. 

Marg. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who 
I think hath legs. [Exit Margaret. 

Bene. And therefore will come. 25 

[/Singrs.] The god of love, 

That sits above. 

And knows me, and knows me, 

How pitiful I deserve, — 29 

I mean in singing ; but in loving, Leander the 
good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of 
panders, and a whole bookful of these quondam 
carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly 
in the even road of a blank verse, why, they 
were never so truly turn’d over and over as my 
poor self in love. Marry, I cannot show it in [35 
rhyme. I have tried. I can find out no rhyme to 
“lady” but “ baby,” an innocent rhyme ; for 
“scorn,” “horn,” a hard rhyme ; for “school,” 
“ fool,” a babbling rhyme ; very ominous end¬ 
ings. No, I was not born under a rhyming 
planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms. 41 

Enter Beatrice. 

Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I 
call’d thee ? 

Beat. Yea, signior, and depart when you bid 
me. 

Bene. O, stay but till then ! 45 

Beat. “Then” is spoken; fare you well 
now. And yet, ere I go, let me go with that I 
came for ; which is, with knowing what hath 
pass’d between you and Claudio. 




204 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


v. iv. 


Bene. Only foul words ; and thereupon I will 
kiss thee. ei 

Beat. Foul words is hut foul wind, and foul 
wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noi¬ 
some ; therefore I will depart unkiss’d. 

Bene. Thou hast frighted the word out of 
his right sense, so forcible is thy wit. But I [55 
must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my 
challenge ; and either I must shortly hear from 
him, or I will subscribe him a coward. And, I 
pray thee now, tell me for which of my bad 
parts didst thou first fall in love with me ? 61 

Beat. For them all together, which main¬ 
tained so politic a state of evil that they will 
not admit any good part to intermingle with 
them. But for which of my good parts did you 
first suffer love for me ? 66 

Bene. Suffer love! a good epithet! I do 
suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my 
will. 

Beat. In spite of your heart, I think ; alas, 
poor heart! If you spite it for my sake, I will 
spite it for yours; for I will never love that 
which my friend hates. 72 

Bjene. Thou and I are too wise to woo peace¬ 
ably. 

Beat. It appears not in this confession. 
There’s not one wise man among twenty that 
will praise himself. 77 

Bene. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that 
liv’d in the time of good neighbours. If a man 
do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he 
dies, he shall live no longer in monument 
than the bell rings and the widow weeps. 82 
Beat. And how long is that, think you ? 
Bene. Question. Why, an hour in clamour 
and a quarter in rheum; therefore is it most 
expedient for the wise, if Don Worm, his [ss 
conscience, find no impediment to the contrary, 
to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am 
to myself. So much for praising myself, who, I 
myself will bear witness, is praiseworthy. And 
now tell me, how doth your cousin ? 91 

Beat. Very ill. 

Bene. And how do you ? 

Beat. Very ill too. 

Bene. Serve God, love me, and mend. There 
will I leave you too, for here comes one in 
haste. 96 

Enter Ursula. 

Urs. Madam, you must come to your uncle. 
Yonder’s old coil at home. It is proved my 
Lady Hero hath been falsely accus’d, the 
Prince and Claudio mightily abus’d ; and Don 
John is the author of all, who is fled and 
gone. Will you come presently ? 102 

Beat. Will you go hear this news, signior ? 
Bene. I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, 
and be buried in thy eyes ; and moreover I will 
go with thee to thy uncle’s. [ Exeunt . ioe 

[Scene III. A church.] 

Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and three or four 
with tapers. 

Claud. Is this the monument of Leonato ? 


A Lord. It is, my lord. 

Claud. [Reading out of a scroll.] 

Epitaph. 

“ Done to death by slanderous tongues 
Was the Hero that here lies. 

Death, in guerdon of her wrongs, 6 

Gives her fame which never dies. 

So the life that died with shame 
Lives in death with glorious fame.” 

Hang thou there upon the tomb, 

Praising her when I am dumb. 10 

Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn 
hymn. 

Song. 

“ Pardon, goddess of the night, 

Those that slew thy virgin knight; 

For the which, with songs of woe, 

Round about her tomb they go. is 

Midnight, assist our moan ; 

Help us to sigh and groan, 

Heavily, heavily. 

Graves, yawn and yield your dead, 

Till death be uttered, 20 

Heavily, heavily.” 

[Claud.\ Now, unto thy bones good night! 
Yearly will I do this rite. 

D. Pedro. Good morrow, masters; put your 
torches out. 

The wolves have prey’d; and look, the 
gentle day, 26 

Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about 
Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey. 
Thanks to you all, and leave us. Fare you 
well. 

Claud. Good morrow, masters. Each his 
several way. 

D. Pedro. Come, let us hence, and put on 
other weeds ; 30 

And then to Leonato’s we will go. 

Claud. And Hymen now with luckier issue 
speed’s 

Than this for whom we rend’red up this 
woe. [ Exeunt . 

[Scene IV. A room in Leonato" 1 s house.] 

Enter Leonato, old man [Antonio], Bene¬ 
dick, [Beatrice] Margaret, Ursula, 
Friar Francis, and Hero. 

Friar. Did I not tell you she was innocent ? 
Leon. So are the Prince and Claudio, who 
accus’d her 

Upon the error that you heard debated. 

But Margaret was in some fault for this, 
Although against her will, as it appears b 

In the true course of all the question. 

Ant. Well, I am glad that all things sort so 
well. 

Bene. And so am I, being else by faith en¬ 
forc’d 

To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it. 
Leon. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen 
all, 10 




V. IV. 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


205 


Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves, 

And when I send for you, come hither mask’d. 
The Prince and Claudio promis’d by this hour 
To visit me. You know your office, brother. 
You must be father to your brother’s daugh¬ 
ter, 15 

And give her to young Claudio. 

[Exeunt Ladies. 

Ant. Which I will do with confirm’d counte¬ 
nance. 

Bene. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I 
think. 

Friar. To do what, signior? 

Bene. To bind me, or undo me ; one of 
them. 20 

Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior, 

Your niece regards me with an eye of favour. 

Leon. That eye my daughter lent her; ’t is 
most true. 

Bene. And I do with an eye of love requite 
her. 

Leon. The sight whereof I think you had 
from me, 25 

From Claudio, and the Prince. But what’s 
your will ? 

Bene. Your answer, sir, is enigmatical; 

But, for my will, my will is your good will 
May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin’d 
In the state of honourable marriage ; 30 

In which, good friar, I shall desire your help. 

Leon. My heart is with your liking. 

Friar. And my help. 

Here comes the Prince and Claudio. 

Enter Don Pedro and Claudio, and two or 
three other. 

D. Pedro. Good morrow to this fair assem¬ 
bly. 

Leon. Good morrow, Prince ; good morrow, 
Claudio; 35 

We here attend you. Are you yet determin’d 
To-day to marry with my brother’s daughter ? 

Claud. I ’ll hold my mind, were she an Ethi- 
ope. 

Leon. Call her forth, brother; here’s the 
friar ready. [Exit Antonio.\ 

L. Pedro. Good morrow, Benedick. Why, 

what’s the matter, 40 

That you have such a February face, 

So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness ? 

Claud. I think he thinks upon the savage 
bull. 

Tush, fear not, man ; we ’ll tip thy horns with 
gold . . 

And all Europa shall rejoice at thee, 45 

As once Europa did at lusty Jove, 

When he would play the noble beast in love. 

Bene. Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low ; 
And some such strange bull leap’d your 
father’s cow, 

And got a calf in that same noble feat bo 

Much like to you, for you have just his bleat. 

Be-enter Antonio, with the Ladies [masked]. 

Claud. For this I owe you: here comes other 
reckonings. 

Which is the lady I must seize upon ? 


Ant. This same is she, and I do give you her. 

Claud. Why, then she’s mine, oweet, let me 
see your face. m 

Leon. No, that you shall not, till you take 
her hand 

Before this friar and swear to marry her. 

Claud. Give me your hand. Before this holy 
friar 

I am your husband, if you like of me. 

Hero. And when I liv’d, I was your other 
wife; [ Unmasking .] w 

And when you lov’d, you were my other hus¬ 
band. 

Claud. Another Hero! 

Hero. Nothing certainer. 

One Hero died defil’d, but I do live ; 

And surely as I live, I am a maid. 

D. Pedro. The former Hero ! Hero that is 
dead! « 

Leon. She died, my lord, but whiles her 
slander liv’d. 

Friar. All this amazement can I qualify ; 
When after that the holy rites are ended, 

I ’ll tell you largely of fair Hero’s death. 
Meantime let wonder seem familiar, 70 

And to the chapel let us presently. 

Bene. Soft and fair, friar. Which is Bea 
trice ? 

Beat. [ Unmasking .] I answer to that name. 
What is your will ? 

Bene. Do not you love me ? 

Beat. Why, no ; no more than reason. 

Bene. Why, then your uncle and the Prince 
and Claudio 70 

Have been deceived. They swore you did. 

Beat. Do not you love me ? 

Bene. Troth, no ; no more than reason. 

Beat. Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and 
Ursula 

Are much deceiv’d, for they did swear you did. 

Bene. They swore that you were almost sick 
for me. so 

Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh 
dead for me. 

Bene. ’T is no such matter. Then you do not 
love me ? 

Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompense. 

Leon. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the 
gentleman. 

Claud. And I ’ll be sworn upon’t that he 
loves her; »s 

For here’s a paper written in his hand, 

A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, 
Fashion’d to Beatrice. 

Hero. And here’s another 

Writ in my cousin’s hand, stolen from her 
pocket, 

Containing her affection unto Benedick. 90 

Bene. A miracle ! here’s our own hands 
against our hearts. Come, I will have thee; 
but, by this light, I take thee for pity. 

Beat. I would not deny you ; but, by this 
good day, I yield upon great persuasion ; and [»s 
partly to save your life, for I was told you were 
in a consumption. 

[Bene.] Peace ! I will stop your mouth. 

[Kissing her.] 




206 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 


V. IV. 


D. Pedro. How dost thou, Benedick, the 
married man ? 100 

Bene. I ’ll tell thee what, Prince ; a college 
of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my hu¬ 
mour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an 
epigram ? No; if a man will be beaten with 
brains, ’a shall wear nothing handsome about 
him. In brief, since I do purpose to marry, [ios 
I will think nothing to any purpose that the 
world can say against it ; and therefore never 
flout at me for what I have said against it, for 
man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion. 
For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have [no 
beaten thee ; but in that thou art like to be my 
kinsman, live unbruis’d and love my cousin. 

Claud. I had well hop’d thou wouldst 
have denied Beatrice, that I might have eud- 
gell’d thee out of thy single life, to make [us 
thee a double-dealer; which, out of question, 


thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look exceed¬ 
ing narrowly to thee. 

Bene. Come, come, we are friends. Let’s 
have a dance ere we are married, that we may 
lighten our own hearts and our wives’ heels. 121 

Leon. We ’ll have dancing afterward. 

Bene. First, of my word ; therefore play, 
music. Prince, thou art sad ; get thee a Avife, 
get thee a wife. There is no staff more reverend 
than one tipp’d with horn. 126 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. My lord, your brother John is ta’en in 
flight, 

And brought with armed men back to Mes¬ 
sina. 

Bene. Think not on him till to-morrow. I ’ll 
devise thee brave punishments for him. Strike 
up, pipers. [Dance. [Exeunt.] m 






AS YOU LIKE IT 


The earliest reference to the comedy of As You Like It is found in an entry in the Stationers’ 
Register, under the date of August 4 , 1600 . How much earlier the play was composed is 
uncertain, but no modern critic of authority places it earlier than 1598 . The reference in Hi. 
v. 81 , 82 to Marlowe’s Hero and Leander (pub. 1598 ) has been taken as fixing the earlier limit, 
but the possibility of Shakespeare’s having known the “ dead shepherd’s ” poem in manuscript 
somewhat weakens the ai'gument from this passage. The same limit, however, is suggested by 
the absence of the title from the list in Meres’s Palladis Tamia. The evidence from metre, too, 
indicates 1599-1600 as a probable date, and, with slight variations, there is a general agreement 
in this. 

Although the play was entered in the Stationers’ Register in 1600 , it does not seem to have 
been actually published before it appeared in the First Folio. From this edition the present 
text is taken, with a few modifications drawn chiefly from the later Folios and the emendations 
of modern editors. 

“ Stories which relate the fate of a younger brother who is deprived of his inheritance by the 
jealousy of a senior brother, and who nevertheless achieves great prosperity, are as old as the 
time of Joseph.” (Skeat.) To this class belongs an anonymous Middle English poem, found in 
several MSS. of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales , into which it has been inserted with the title, The 
Coke's Tale of Gamelyn. The poem is not by Chaucer, nor has it any relation to his fragmentary 
Cook's Tale , save in name. On the basis of this poem, Thomas Lodge composed a novel called 
Bosalynde, Euphues' Golden Legacie ( 1590 ), adding the female characters, and the love stories 
of Orlando and Silvius. Whether these are due to his own invention, or are drawn from some 
other source, is unknown. This novel Shakespeare in turn dramatized in As You Like It. It does 
not appear that Shakespeare knew the Tale of Gamelyn. 

Lodge’s romance is a euphuistic pastoral, and, in turning it into a play, Shakespeare dropped 
the euphuism, but retained many of the pastoral characteristics. In retaining these, he was 
following not only his source, but the example of other dramatists who had recently scored suc¬ 
cesses with pastorals on the stage. The more conventional pastoral features to be detected in 
As You Like It are these : the shepherds and foresters, both those who are actual rustics and 
those who are courtiers living in retirement; the love-sick shepherd and obdurate shepherdess ; 
the girl in the dress of a boy ; the hanging or carving of verses on trees ; the hunting scene and 
song ; the figure of Hymen ; and the suggested landscape of woodland, sheep-cote, and pasture. 
The forest life of the banished Duke, also, and his attitude towards adversity have been thought 
to show the influence of contemporary plays on Robin Hood. 

The length of time covered by the action is much shorter in the play than in the novel. 
Shakespeare summarizes the whole first section of Bosalynde in Orlando’s opening speech, and, 
greatly to the advantage of the hero’s refinement, cuts out a number of rowdy incidents between 
his wrestling and his setting out. The wrestling, indeed, is a survival of the merely muscular 
hero of the Tale of Gamelyn. Oliver’s change of heart, which is used by Shakespeare to reflect 
credit on Orlando, is in Lodge due to the elder brother’s meditations in prison. In Bosalynde , 
the restoration of the Duke is brought about by the overthrow and death of the usurper in 
battle, in contrast with the dramatist’s milder device of conversion, which, however unplausible, 
suits better the mood of the play. The chief characters are all raised to a much higher spiritual 
level by Shakespeare, finer motives are introduced, Rosalind is given a sense of humor, and 
Phebe and Silvius are made much less the conventional figures of the artificial pastoral. The 
characters of Jaques, Touchstone, Audrey, William, Dennis, Le Beau, Amiens, the First Lord, 
and Sir Oliver Martext are all added, and with them the distinctive atmosphere of the play, its 
philosophy, its humor, its lyric beauty, and its landscape. 



AS YOU LIKE II 


(DRAMATIS 

Duke, living in banishment. 

Frederick, his brother, and usurper of his dominions. 
A™, | lords attending on the banished Duke. 

Le Beau, a courtier attending upon Frederick. 
Charles, wrestler to Frederick. 

Oliver, ) 

Jaques, > sons of Sir Roland de Boys. 

Orlando, ) 

Dennis, } servants to Oliver. 


PERSONAE 

Touchstone, a clown. 

Sir Oliver Martext, a vicar. 

Silvio's, } shepherd,. 

William, a country fellow, in love with Audrey. 
A person representing Hymen. 

Rosalind, daughter to the banished Duke. 
Celia, daughter to Frederick. 

Phebe, a shepherdess. 

Audrey, a country wench. 


Lords, pages, attendants, etc. 


Scene : Oliver's house; Duke Frederick's court; and the Forest of Arden!] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [Orchard of Oliver's house.] 
Enter Orlando and Adam. 

Orl. As I remember, Adam, it was upon 
this fashion : bequeathed me by will but poor a 
thousand crowns, and, as thou sayest, charged 
my brother, on his blessing, po breed me well; 
and there begins my sadness. My brother 
Jaques he keeps at school, and report speaks [e 
goldenly of his profit. For my part, he keeps 
me rustically at home, or, to speak more pro¬ 
perly, stays me here at home unkept; for call 
you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth, 
that differs not from the stalling of an ox ? [10 
His horses are bred better; for, besides that 
they are fair with their feeding, they are taught 
their manage, and to that end riders dearly 
hir’d; but I, his brother, gain nothing under him 
but growth; for the which his animals on [is 
his dungliills are as much bound to him as I. 
Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives 
me, the something that nature gave me his 
countenance seems to take from me. He lets me 
feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a [20 
brother, and, as much as in him lies, mines my 
gentility with my education. This is it, Adam, 
that grieves me; and the spirit of my father, 
which I think is within me, begins to mutiny 
against this servitude. I will no longer en¬ 
dure it, though yet I know no wise remedy 
how to avoid it. 27 

Enter Oliver. 

Adam. Yonder comes my master, your bro¬ 
ther. 

Orl. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear 
how he will shake me up. 30 

Oli. Now, sir ! what make you here ? 

Orl. Nothing. I am not taught to make any 
thing. 

Oli. What mar you then, sir ? s* 


Orl. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar 
that which God made, a poor unworthy brother 
of yours, with idleness. 

Oli. Marry, sir, be better employed, and be 
naught awhile. 39 

Orl. Shall I keep your hogs and eat husks 
with them? What prodigal portion have I 
spent, that I should come to such penury ? 

Oli. Know you where you are, sir ? 

Orl. O, sir, very well; here in your orchard. 

Oli. Know you before whom, sir ? 45 

Orl. Ay, better than him I am before knows 
me. I know you are my eldest brother; and, 
in the gentle condition of blood, you should so 
know me. The courtesy of nations allows you 
my better, in that you are the first-born; but 
the same tradition takes not away my blood, [go 
were there twenty brothers betwixt us. I have 
as much of my father in me as you; albeit, I 
confess, your coming before me is nearer to his 
reverence. 

Oli. What, boy ! 55 

Orl. Come, come, elder brother, you are too 
young in this. 

Oli. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain ? 

Orl. I am no villain ; I am the youngest son 
of Sir Roland de Boys. He was my father, 
and he is thrice a villain that says such a fa- [00 
ther begot villains. Wert thou not my brother, 
I would not take this hand from thy throat till 
this other had pull’d out thy tongue for saying 
so. Thou hast rail’d on thyself. cs 

Adam. Sweet masters, be patient; for your 
father’s remembrance, be at accord. 

Oli. Let me go, I say. 

Orl. I will not, till I please. You shall hear 
me. My father charg’d you in his will to give [71 
me good education. You have train’d me like 
a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all 
gentleman-like qualities. The spirit of my fa¬ 
ther grows strong in me, and I will no longer 
endure it; therefore allow me such exercises 
as may become a gentleman, or give me the [75 




1 .11. 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


209 


poor allottery my father left me by testament. 
With that I will go buy my fortunes. 78 

Oli. And what wilt thou do ? Beg, when 
that is spent? Well, sir, get you in. I will not 
long be troubled with you; you shall have 
some part of your will. I pray you, leave me. 

Orl. I will no further offend you than be¬ 
comes me for my good. 

Oli . Get you with him, you old dog. 85 

Adam. Is “old dog” my reward? Most 
true, I have lost my teeth in your service. God 
be with my old master! He would not have 
spoke such a word. 8 » 

[Exeunt Orlando and Adam. 
Oli. Is it even so ? Begin you to grow upon 
me ? I will physic your rankness, and yet give 
no thousand crowns neither. Holla, Dennis 1 

Enter Dennis. 

Den. Calls your worship ? 

Oli. Was not Charles, the Duke’s wrestler, 
here to speak with me ? »s 

Den. So please you, he is here at the door 
and importunes access to you. 

Oli. Call him in. [ Exit Dennis .] ’T will be 
a good way ; and to-morrow the wrestling is. 

Enter Charles. 


Cha. Good morrow to your worship. 100 
Oli. Good Monsieur Charles, what ’sthe new 
news at the new court ? 

Cha. There’s no news at the court, sir, but 
the old news: that is, the old Duke is banished 
by his younger brother the new Duke ; and 
three or four loving lords have put them- [105 
selves into voluntary exile with him, whose lands 
and revenues enrich the new Duke ; therefore 
he gives them good leave to wander. 

Oli. Can you tell if Rosalind, the Duke’s 
daughter, be banished with her father ? m 
Cha. O, no; for the Duke’s daughter, her 
cousin, so loves her, being ever from their 
cradles bred together, that she would have fol¬ 
lowed her exile, or have died to stay behind 
her. She is at the court, and no less beloved [us 
of her uncle than his own daughter ; and never 
two ladies loved as they do. 

Oli. Where will the old Duke live ? 

Cha. They say he is already in the forest of 
Arden, and a many merry men with him ; and 
there they live like the old Robin Hood of Eng¬ 
land. They say many young gentlemen flock 
to him every day, and fleet the time carelessly, 
as they did in the golden world. 125 

Oli. What, you wrestle to-morrow before the 
new Duke? 

Cha. Marry, do I, sir; and I came to ac¬ 
quaint you with a matter. I am given, sir, 
secretly to understand that your younger bro¬ 
ther, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in [130 
disguis’d against me to try a fall. To-morrow, 
sir, I wrestle for my credit; and he that es¬ 
capes me without some broken limb shall acquit 
him well. Your brother is but young and 
tender ; and, for your love, I would be loath [135 
to foil him, as I must, for my own honour, if he 
come in; therefore, out of my love to you, I 


came hither to acquaint you withal, that either 
you might stay him from his intendment, or 
brook such disgrace well as he shall run [140 
into, in that it is a thing of his own search, and 
altogether against my will. 

Oli. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, 
which thou shalt find I will most kindly re¬ 
quite. I had myself notice of my brother’s pur¬ 
pose herein, and have by underhand means [i« 
laboured to dissuade him from it, but he is 
resolute. I ’ll tell thee, Charles, it is the stub- 
bornest young fellow of France; full of ambi¬ 
tion, an envious emulator of every man’s good 
parts, a secret and villanous contriver against [ieo 
me his natural brother; therefore use thy dis¬ 
cretion. I had as lief thou didst break his 
neck as his finger. And thou wert best look 
to’t; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace, 
or if he do not mightily grace himself on [1*5 
thee, he will practise against thee by poison, en¬ 
trap thee by some treacherous device, and never 
leave thee till he hath ta’en thy life by some in¬ 
direct means or other; for, I assure thee, and 
almost with tears I speak it, there is not one [100 
so young and so villanous this day living. I 
speak but brotherly of him ; but should I anat¬ 
omize him to thee as he is, I must blush and 
weep, and thou must look pale and wonder. 164 

Cha. I am heartily glad I came hither to 
you. If he come to-morrow, I ’ll give him his 
payment. If ever he go alone again, I ’ll never 
wrestle for prize more. And so, God keep your 
worship! [Exit. 

Oli. Farewell, good Charles. 169 

Now will I stir this gamester. I hope I shall 
see an end of him ; for my soul, yet I know not 
why, hates nothing more than he. Yet he’s 
gentle ; never school’d, and yet learned ; full of 
noble device ; of all sorts enchantingly beloved ; 
and indeed so much in the heart, of the world, 
and especially of my own people, who best [its 
know him, that I am altogether misprised. But 
it shall not be so long ; tbis wrestler shall clear 
all. Nothing remains but that I kindle the boy 
thither, which now I ’ll go about. [Exit. i»o 

Scene II. [Lawn before the Duke's palace.] n 
Enter Rosalind and Celia. 

Cel. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be 
merry. 

Ros. Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I 
am mistress of ; and would you yet I were mer¬ 
rier ? Unless you could teach me to forget a [s 
banished father, you roust not learn me how to 
remember any extraordinary pleasure. 

Cel. Herein I see thou lov’st me not with 
the full weight that I love thee. If my uncle, 
thy banished father, had banished thy uncle, 
the Duke my father, so thou hadst been still [10 
with me, I could have taught my love to take 
thy father for mine. So wouldst thou, if the 
truth of thy love to me were so righteously 
temper’d as mine is to thee. _ 18 

Ros. Well, I will forget the condition of my 
estate, to rejoice in yours. 

Cel. You know my father hath no child but 




210 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


I. ii. 


I, nor none is like to have; and, truly, when 
he dies, thou shalt be his heir; for what he 
hath taken away from thy father perforce, I [20 
will render thee again in affection. By mine 
honour, I will; and when I break that oath, 
let me turn monster. Therefore, my sweet 
Rose, my dear Rose, he merry. _ 26 

Ros. From henceforth I will, coz, and devise 
sports. Let me see ; what think you of falling 
in love ? 

Cel. Marry, I prithee, do, to make sport 
withal. But love no man in good earnest, nor 
no further in sport neither than with safety [so 
of a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off 
again. 

Ros. What shall be our sport, then ? 

Cel. Let us sit and mock the good housewife 
Fortune from her wheel, that her gifts may 
henceforth be bestowed equally. so 

Ros. I would we could do so ; for her bene¬ 
fits are mightily misplaced, and the bountiful 
blind woman doth most mistake in her gifts 
to women. 39 

Cel. ’T is true; for those that she makes 
fair she scarce makes honest, and those that 
she makes honest she makes very ill-favouredly. 

Ros. Nay, now thou goest from Fortune’s 
office to Nature’s. Fortune reigns in gifts of 
the world, not in the lineaments of Nature. 45 

Enter Clown [Touchstone]. 

Cel. No ? When Nature hath made a fair 
creature, may she not by Fortune fall into the 
fire? Though Nature hath given us wit to 
flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune sent in this 
fool to cut off the argument ? so 

Ros. Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for 
Nature, when Fortune makes Nature’s natural 
the cutter-off of Nature’s wit. 

Cel. Peradventure this is not Fortune’s work 
neither, hut Nature’s; who, perceiving our 
natural wits too dull to reason of such god- [55 
desses, hath sent this natural for our whet¬ 
stone ; for always the dulness of the fool is the 
whetstone of the wits. How now, wit! whither 
wander you ? 

Touch. Mistress, you must come away to 
your father. ei 

Cel. Were you made the messenger? 

Touch. No, by mine honour, hut I was hid to 
come for you. 

Ros. Where learned you that oath, fool ? es 
Touch. Of a certain knight that swore by his 
honour they were good pancakes, and swore by 
his honour the mustard was naught. Now I ’il 
stand to it, the pancakes were naught and the 
mustard was good, and yet was not the knight 
forsworn. n 

Cel. How prove you that, in the great heap 
of your knowledge ? 

Ros. Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your -wisdom. 
Touch. Stand yon both forth now. Stroke [75 
your chins, and swear by your beards that I am 
a knave. 

Cel. By our beards, if we had them, thou 
art. T 9 

Touch. By my knavery, if I had it, then I 


were. But if you swear by that that is not, you 
are not forsworn. No more was this knight, 
swearing by his honour, for he never had any ; 
or if he had, he had sworn it away before ever 
he saw those pancakes or that mustard. 86 

Cel. Prithee, who is’t that thou meanest ? 
Touch. One that old Frederick, your father, 
loves. 

Cel. My father’s love is enough to honour 
him. Enough ! speak no more of him. You ’ll 
be whipp’d for taxation one of these days. »i 
Touch. The more pity, that fools may not 
speak wisely what wise men do foolishly. 

Cel. By my troth, thou sayest true ; for since 
the little wit that fools have was silenced, the [as 
little foolery that wise men have makes a great 
show. Here comes Monsieur the Beau. 

Enter Le Beau. 

Ros. With his mouth full of news. 

Cel. Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed 
their young. 100 

Ros. Then shall we be news-cramm’d. 

Cel. All the better; we shall be the more 
marketable. Bon jour, Monsieur Le Beau. 
What’s the news ? 

Ee Beau. Fair princess, you have lost much 
good sport. 106 

Cel. Sport! Of what colour ? 

Be Beau. What colour, madam ? How shall 
I answer you ? 

Ros. As wit and fortune will. 110 

Touch. Or as the Destinies decrees. 

Cel. Well said. That was laid on with a 
trowel. 

Touch. Nay, if I keep not my rank, — 

Ros. Thou losest thy old smell. 

Le Beau. You amaze me, ladies. I would [us 
have told you of good wrestling, which you 
have lost the sight of. 

Ros. Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling. 
Be Beau. I will tell you the beginning; and, 
if it please your ladyships, you may see the 
end. For the best is yet to do ; and here, [120 
where you are, they are coming to perform it. 

Cel. Well, the beginning, that is dead and 
buried. 

Be Beau. There comes an old man and his 
three sons, — 126 

Cel. I could match this beginning with an 
old tale. 

Le Beau. Three proper young men, of excel¬ 
lent growth and presence. 130 

Ros. With bills on their necks, “Be it 
known unto all men by these presents.” 

Be Beau. The eldest of the three wrestled 
with Charles, the Duke’s wrestler; which 
Charles in a moment threw him, and broke 
three of.his ribs, that there is little hope of [135 
life in him. So he serv’d the second, and so the 
third. Yonder they lie ; the poor old man, their 
father, making such pitiful dole over them that 
all the beholders take his part with weeping. 140 
Ros. Alas! 

Touch. But what is the sport, monsieur, that 
the ladies have lost ? 

Le Beau. Why, this that I speak of. 






AS YOU LIKE IT 


211 


I. ii. 


Touch. Thus men may grow wiser every 
day. It is the first time that ever I heard 
breaking of ribs was sport for ladies. 147 

Cel. Or I, I promise thee. 

Jtios. But is there any else longs to see this 
broken music in his sides? Is there yet an¬ 
other dotes upon rib-breaking? Shall we see 
this wrestling, cousin ? 152 

Le Beau. You must, if you stay here ; for 
here is the place appointed for the wrestling, 
and they are ready to perform it. 15s 

Cel. Yonder, sure, they are coming. Let us 
now stay and see it. 

Flourish. Enter Duke [Frederick], Lords, 
Orlando, Charles, and Attendants. 

Duke F. Come on. Since the youth will not 
be entreated, his own peril on his forwardness. 
Bos. Is yonder the man ? ieo 

Le Beau. Even he, madam. 

Cel. Alas, he is too young! Yet he looks 
successfully. 

Duke F. How now, daughter and cousin! 
Are you crept hither to see the wrestling ? use 
Bos. Ay, my liege, so please you give us 
leave. 

Duke F. You will take little delight in it, I 
can tell you, there is such odds in the man. In 
pity of the challenger’s youth I would fain [no 
dissuade him, but he will not be entreated. 
Speak to him, ladies ; see if you can move him. 

Cel. Call him hither, good Monsieur Le 
Beau. 

Duke F. Do so ; I ’ll not be by. 

Le Beau. Monsieur the challenger, the prin¬ 
cess calls for you. 

Orl. I attend them with all respect and 

X Young man, have you challeng’d 
Charles the wrestler ? 179 

Orl. No, fair princess; he is the general 
challenger. I come but in, as others do, to try 
with him the strength of my youth. 

Cel. Young gentleman, your spirits are too 
bold for your years. You have seen cruel proof 
of this man’s strength. If you saw yourself 
with your eyes, or knew yourself with your [iss 
judgement, the fear of your adventure would 
counsel you to a more equal enterprise. W e 
pray you, for your own sake, to embrace your 
own safety, and give over this attempt. 

Bos. Do, young sir; your reputation shall 
not therefore be misprised. We will make it 
our suit to the Duke that the wrestling might 
not go forward. . 194 

Orl. I beseech you, punish me not with your 
hard thoughts, wherein I confess me much 
guilty, to deny so fair and excellent ladies any 
thing. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes 
go with me to my trial; wherein if I be foil d, 
there is but one sham’d that was never gra¬ 
cious ; if kill’d, but one dead that is willing [200 
to be so. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I 
have none to lament me ; the world no injury, 
for in it I have nothing. Only in the world I fill 
up a place, which may be better supplied when 
I have made it empty. 


Bos. The little strength that I have, I would 
it were with you. 

Cel. And mine, to eke out hers. 

Bos. Fare you well! Pray heaven I be de¬ 
ceiv’d in you! 210 

Cel. Your heart’s desires be with you! 

Cha. Come, where is this young gallant that 
is so desirous to lie with his mother earth ? 

Orl. Ready, sir ; but his will hath in it a 
more modest working. 215 

Duke F. You shall try but one fall. 

Cha. No, I warrant your Grace, you shall 
not entreat him to a second, that have so might¬ 
ily persuaded him from a first. 219 

Orl. You mean to mock me after; you 
should not have mock’d me before. But come 
your ways. 

Bos. Now Hercules be thy speed, young man ! 
Cel. I would I were invisible, to catch the 
strong fellow by the leg. [ They wrestle. 

Bos. O excellent young man ! 225 

Cel. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye I 
can tell who should down. 

[Shout. [Charles is thrown .] 
Duke F. No more, no more. 

Orl. Yes, I beseech your Grace. I am not 
yet well breath’d. 230 

Duke F. How dost thou, Charles ? 

Le Beau. He cannot speak, my lord. 

Duke F. Bear him away. Wlxat is thy name, 
young man ? 

Orl. Orlando, my liege ; the youngest son of 
Sir Roland de Boys. 

Duke F. I would thou hadst been son to 
some man else. 

The world esteem’d thy father honourable, 

But I did find him still mine enemy. 

Thou shouldst have better pleas’d me with this 
deed, 

Hadst thou descended from another house. 240 
But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth. 

I would thou hadst told me of another father. 

[Exeunt Duke [Fred., train, and 
Le Beau\. 

Cel. Were I my father, coz, would I do this ? 
Orl. I am more proud to be Sir Roland’s son, 
His youngest son, — and would not change that 
calling, 2 48 

To be adopted heir to Frederick. 

Bos. My father lov’d Sir Roland as his soul, 
And all the world was of my father’s mind. 
Had I before known this young man his son, 

I should have given him tears unto entreaties, 260 
Ere he should thus have ventur’d. 

Cel. Gentle cousin, 

Let us go thank him and encourage him. 

My father’s rough and envious disposition 
Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have v'ell deserv’d. 
If you do keep your promises in love 26c 

But justly, as you have exceeded all promise, 
Your mistress shall be happy. 

Bos. Gentleman, 

[Giving him a chain from her neck.] 
Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune, 
That could give more, but that her hand lacks 
means. 

Shall we go, coz ? 





212 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


I. iii. 


Cel. Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman. 
Orl. Can I not say, I thank you ? My better 
parts 2ci 

Are all thrown down, and that which here 
stands up 

Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block. 

Ros. He calls us back. My pride fell with 
my fortunes; 

I ’ll ask him what he would. Did you call, 
sir ? 266 

Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown 
More than your enemies. 

Cel. Will you go, coz ? 

Ros. Have with you. Fare you well. 

[Exeunt [Rosalind and Celia]. 
Orl. What passion hangs these weights upon 
my tongue ? 

I cannot speak to her, yet she urg’d conference. 
Re-enter Le Beau. 

0 poor Orlando, thou art overthrown! 271 

Or Charles or something weaker masters thee. 
Le Beau. Good sir ; I do in friendship counsel 
you 

To leave this place. Albeit you have deserv’d 
High commendation, true applause, and love, 275 
Yet such is now the Duke’s condition, 

That he misconstrues all that you have done. 
The Duke is humorous: — what he is, indeed, 
More suits you to conceive than I to speak of. 
Orl. I thank you, sir; and, pray you, tell me 
this: 280 

Which of the two was daughter of the Duke, 
That here was at the wrestling ? 

Le Beau. Neither his daughter, if we judge 
by manners; 

But yet, indeed, the taller is his daughter. 

The other is daughter to the banish’d Duke, 285 
And here detain’d by her usurping uncle 
To keep his daughter company ; whose loves 
Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters. 

But I can tell you that of late this Duke 
Hath ta’en displeasure ’gainst his gentle niece, 
Grounded upon no other argument 291 

But that the people praise her for her virtues, 
And pity her for her good father’s sake ; 

And, on my life, his malice ’gainst the lady 
Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you 

Well. 296 

Hereafter, in a better world than this, 

I shall desire moi’e love and knowledge of you. 
Orl. I rest much bounden to you; fare you 
well. [Exit Le Beau.] 

Thus must I from the smoke into the smother, 
From tyrant Duke unto a tyrant brother. 300 

But heavenly Rosalind! [Exit. 

Scene III. [A room in the palace.] 

Enter Celia and Rosalind. 

Cel. Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid 
have mercy ! not a word ? 

Ros. Not one to throw at a dog. 

Cel. No, thy words are too precious to be 
cast away upon curs; throw some of them at 
me. Come, lame me with reasons. o 

Ros. Then there were two cousins laid up, 


when the one should be lam’d with reasons 
and the other mad without any. 

Cel. But is all this for your father ? 10 

Ros. No, some of it is for my child’s father. 
0 , how full of briers is this working-day world ! 

Cel. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon 
thee in holiday foolery. If we walk not in the 
trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch 

them. is 

Ros. I could shake them olf my coat. These 
burs are in my heart. 

Cel. Hem them away. 

Ros. I would try, if I could cry hem and 
have him. 20 

Cel. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections. 
Ros. 0 , they take the part of a better wres¬ 
tler than myself ! 

Cel. 0 , a good wish upon you ! you will try 
in time, in despite of a fall. But, turning 
these jests out of service, let us talk in [26 
good earnest. Is it possible, on such a sudden 
you should fall into so strong a liking with old 
Sir Roland’s youngest son ? 

Ros. The Duke my father lov’d his father 
dearly. 31 

Cel. Doth it therefore ensue that you should 
love his son dearly ? By this kind of chase, 
I should hate him, for my father hated his 
father dearly ; yet I hate not Orlando. 35 

Ros. No, faith, hate him not, for my sake. 
Cel. Why should I not ? Doth he not deserve 
well? 

Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords. 

Ros. Let me love him for that, and do you 
love him because I do. Look, here comes the 

Duke. 41 

Cel. With his eyes full of anger. 

Duke F. Mistress, dispatch you with your 
safest haste, 

And get you from our court. 

Ros. Me, uncle ? 

Duke F. You, cousin. 

Within these ten days if that thou be’st found « 
So near our public court as twenty miles, 

Thou diest for it. 

Ros. I do beseech your Grace, 

Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with 
me. 

If with myself I hold intelligence, 

Or have acquaintance with mine own desires ; so 
If that I do not dream, or be not frantic, — 

As I do trust I am not — then, dear uncle, 
Never so much as in a thought unborn 
Did I offend your Highness. 

Duke F. Thus do all traitors. 

If their purgation did consist in words, o* 

They are as innocent as grace itself. 

Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not. 

Ros. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a 
traitor. 

Tell me whereon the likelihoods depends. 

Duke F. Thou art thy father’s daughter; 

there’s enough. oo 

Ros. So was I when your Highness took his 
dukedom. 

So was I when your Highness banish’d him. 





AS YOU LIKE IT 


213 


11. i. 


Treason is not inherited, my lord ; 

Or, if we did derive it from our friends, 

What’s that to me ? My father was no traitor, as 
Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much 
To think my poverty is treacherous. 

Cel. Dear sovereign, hear me speak. 

Duke F. Ay, Celia ; we stay’d her for your 
sake, 

Else had she with her father rang’d along. 70 
Cel. I did not then entreat to have her stay ; 
It was your pleasure and your own remorse. 

I was too young that time to value her, 

But now I know her. If she be a traitor, 

Why so am I. We still have slept together, 75 
Rose at an instant, learn’d, play’d, eat together; 
And wheresoe’er we went, like Juno’s swans, 
Still we went coupled and inseparable. 

Duke F. She is too subtle for thee ; and her 
smoothness, 

Her very silence, and her patience so 

Speak to the people, and they pity her. 

Thou art a fool. She robs thee of thy name, 
And thou wilt show more bright and seem more 
virtuous 

When she is gone. Then open not thy lips. 
Firm and irrevocable is my doom ss 

Which I have pass’d upon her ; she is banish’d. 
Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, 
my liege; 

I cannot live out of her company. 

Duke F. You are a fool. You, niece, provide 
yourself. 

If you outstay the time, upon mine honour, 90 
And in the greatness of my word, you die. 

[Exeunt Duke Frederick and Lords. 
Cel. O my poor Rosalind, whither wilt thou 
go ? 

Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee 
mine. 

I charge thee, be not thou more griev’d than I 
am. 

Ros. I have more cause. 

Cel. Thou hast not, cousin ; 

Prithee, be cheerful. Know’st thou not, the 
Duke 96 

Hath banish’d me, his daughter ? 

Ros. That he hath not. 

Cel. No, hath not ? Rosalind lacks then the 
love 

Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one. 
Shall we be sund’red ? Shall we part, sweet 
girl ? # 100 

No ; let my father seek another heir. 
Therefore devise with me how we may fly, 
Whither to go and what to bear with us ; 

And do not seek to take your change upon you, 
To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me 
out; 105 

For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, 
Say what thou canst, I ’ll go along with thee. 
Ros. Why, whither shall we go ? 

Cel. To seek my uncle in the forest of Ar¬ 
den. 

Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us, no 
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far ! 

Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold. 
Cel. I ’ll put myself in poor and mean attire. 


And with a kind of umber smirch my face. 
The like do you. So shall we pass along us 
And never stir assailants. 

Ros. Were it not better, 

Because that I am more than common tall, 
That I did suit me all points like a man ? 

A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh, n» 

A boar-spear in my hand ; and — in my heart 
Lie there what hidden woman’s fear there 
will — 

We ’ll have a swashing and a martial outside, 

As many other mannish cowards have 
That do outface it with their semblances. 

Cel. What shall I call thee when thou art a 
man ? 126 

Ros. I ’ll have no worse a name than Jove’s 
own page, 

And therefore look you call me Ganymede. 
But what will you be call’d ? 

Cel. Something that hath a reference to my 
state: 

No longer Celia, but Aliena. no 

Ros. But, cousin, what if we assay’d to 
steal 

The clownish fool out of your father’s court ? 
Would he not be a comfort to our travel ? 

Cel. He ’ll go along o’er the wide world with 
me. 

Leave me alone to woo him. Let’s away, 135 
And get our jewels and our wealth together, 
Devise the fittest time and safest way 
To hide us from pursuit that will be made 
After my flight. Now go we in content 
To liberty and not to banishment. [ Exeunt. no 


ACT II 

Scene I. [The Forest of Ardent 

Enter Duke senior, Amiens, and two or three 
Lords, like foresters. 

Duke S. Now, my co-mates and brothers in 
exile, 

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet 
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these 
woods 

More free from peril than the envious court ? 
Here feel we not the penalty of Adam, s 

The seasons’ difference, as the icy fang 
And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind, 
WTiich, when it bites and blows upon my body, 
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say, 

“ This is no flattery: these are counsellors 10 
That feelingly persuade me what I am.” 

Sweet are the uses of adversity, 

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ; 

And this our life, exempt from public haunt, is 
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running 
brooks, 

Sermons in stones, and good in every thing. 
Ami. I would not change it. Happy is your 
Grace, 

That can translate the stubbornness of for¬ 
tune 

Into so quiet and so sweet a style. »• 




214 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


II. iii. 


Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us ven¬ 
ison ? 

And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools, 
Being native burghers of this desert city, 
Should in their own confines with forked heads 
Have their round haunches gor’d. 

1 . Lord. Indeed, my lord, 

The melancholy Jaques grieves at that; 20 

And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp 
Than doth your brother that hath banish’d you. 
To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself 
Did steal behind him as he lay along 30 

Under an oak whose antique root peeps out 
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood ; 
To the which place a poor sequest’red stag, 
That from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurt, 
Did come to languish ; and indeed, my lord, 36 
The wretched animal heav’d forth such groans, 
That their discharge did stretch his leathern 
coat 

Almost to bursting, and the big round tears 
Cours’d one another down his innocent nose 
In piteous chase ; and thus the hairy fool, 40 
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, 

Stood on the extremest verge of the swift 
brook, 

Augmenting it with tears. 

Duke S. But what said Jaques ? 

Did he not moralize this spectacle ? 

1 . Lord. 0 , yes, into a thousand similes. 45 
First, for his weeping into the needless stream : 
“ Poor deer,” quoth he, “ thou mak’st a testa¬ 
ment 

As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more 
To that which had too much.” Then, being 
there alone, 

Left and abandoned of his velvet friends, eo 
“ ’T is right,” quoth he ; “thus misery doth part 
The flux of company.” Anon a careless herd, 
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him 
And never stays to greet him. “ Ay,” quoth 
Jaques, 

“Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens. 55 
’T is just the fashion. Wherefore do you look 
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there ? ” 
Thus most invectively he pierceth through 
The body of the country, city, court, 

Yea, and of this our life ; swearing that we 60 
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what’s worse, 
To fright the animals and to kill them up 
In their assign’d and native dwelling-place. 
Duke S. And did you leave him in this con¬ 
templation ? 

2 . Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and com¬ 

menting 65 

Upon the sobbing deer. 

Duke S. ' ' Show me the place. 

I love to cope him in these sullen fits, 

For then he’s full of matter. 

1 . Lord. I ’ll bring you to him straight. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [A room in the palace .] 

Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords. 

Duke F. Can it be possible that no man saw 
them ? 


It cannot be. Some villains of my court 
Are of consent and sufferance in this. 

1 . Lord. 1 cannot hear of any that did see her. 
The ladies, her attendants of her chamber, b 
Saw her a-bed, and in the morning early 
They found the bed untreasur’d of their mis¬ 
tress. 

2 . Lord. My lord, the roynish clown, at 

whom so oft 

Your Grace was wont to laugh, is also missing. 
Hisperia, the princess’ gentlewoman, 10 

Confesses that she secretly o’erheard 
Your daughter and her cousin much commend 
The parts and graces of the wrestler 
That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles; 
And she believes, wherever they are gone, is 
That youth is surely in their company. 

Duke F. Send to his brother. Fetch that 
gallant hither. 

If he be absent, bring his brother to me ; 

I ’ll make him find him. Do this suddenly, 
And let not search and inquisition quail 20 
To bring again these foolish runaways. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. [Before Oliver's house .] 

Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting. 

Orl. Who’s there ? 

Adam. What, my young master ? 0 my 
gentle master! 

O my sweet master ! 0 you memory 
Of old Sir Roland! Why, what make you 
here ? 

WTiy are you virtuous ? Wliy do people love 
you ? 5 

And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and val¬ 
iant ? 

Why would you be so fond to overcome 
The bonny priser of the humorous Duke ? 

Your praise is come too swiftly home before 
you. 

Know you not, master, to some kind of men 10 
Their graces serve them but as enemies ? 

No more do yours. Your virtues, gentle mas¬ 
ter, 

Are sanctified and holy traitors to you. 

O, what a world is this, when what is comely 
Envenoms him that bears it! 15 

Orl. Wliy, what’s the matter ? 

Adam. O unhappy youth ! 

Come not within these doors 1 Within this 
roof 

The enemy of all your graces lives. 

Your brother — no, no brother ; yet the son — 
Yet not the son, I will not call him son, 20 
Of him I was about to call his father, —- 
Hath heard your praises, and this night he 
means 

To burn the lodging where you use to lie 
And you within it. If he fail of that, 

He will have other means to cut you off. 25 
I overheard him and his practices. 

This is no place ; this house is but a butchery. 
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it. 

Orl. Wliy, whither, Adam, wouldst thou 
have me go ? 





II. iv. 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


2I 5 


Adam. No matter whither, so you come not 
here. so 

Orl. What, wouldst thou have me go and 
beg my food ? 

Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce 
A thievish living on the common road ? 

This I must do, or know not what to do; 

Yet this I will not do, do how I can. 36 

I rather will subject me to the malice 
Of a diverted blood and bloody brother. 

Adam. But do not so. I have five hundred 
crowns, 

The thrifty hire I saved under your father, 
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse *o 
When service should in my old limbs lie lame, 
And unregarded age in corners thrown. 

Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed, 
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, 

Be comfort to my age ! Here is the gold. 46 
All this I give you. Let me be your servant. 
Though I Took old, yet I am strong and lusty; 
For in my youth I never did apply 
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood, 

Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo 60 
The means of weakness and debility ; 
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 

Frosty, but kindly. Let me go with you ; 

I ’ll do the service of a younger man 
In all your business and necessities. ee 

Orl. O good old man, how well in thee appears 
The constant service of the antique world, 
When service sweat for duty, not for meed ! 
Thou art not for the fashion of these times, 
Where none will sweat but for promotion, eo 
And having that do choke their service up 
Even with the having. It is not so with thee. 
But, poor old man, thou prun’st a rotten tree, 
That cannot so much as a blossom yield 
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry. 65 

But come thy ways ; we ’ll go along together, 
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent, 

We ’ll light upon some settled low content. 

Adam. Master, go on, and I will follow thee 
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty. n 
From seventeen years till now almost four¬ 
score 

Here lived I, but now live here no more. 

At seventeen years many their fortunes seek, 
But at fourscore it is too late a week ; 

Yet fortune cannot recompense me better 76 
Than to die well and not my master’s debtor. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [The Forest of Arden.] 

Enter Rosalind for Ganymede , Celia far 
Aliena , and Clown , alias Touchstone. 

Bos. 0 Jupiter, how weary are my spirits! 
Touch. I care not for my spirits, if my legs 
were not weary. 

Bos. I could find in my heart to disgrace my 
man’s apparel and to cry like a woman ; but I 
must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet [e 
and hose ought to show itself courageous to 
petticoat; therefore, courage, good Aliena. 

Cel. I pray you, bear with me ; I cannot go 
no further. 10 


Touch. For my part, I had rather bear with 
you than bear you. Yet I should bear no cross 
if I did bear you, for I think you have no 
money in your purse. 

Bos. Well, tl lis is the forest of Arden. ie 

Touch. Ay, now am I in Arden, the more 
fool I. When I was at home, I was in a better 
place ; but travellers must be content. 

Enter Cobin and Silvius. 


Bos. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look 
you, who comes here ; a young man and an old 
in solemn talk. 21 

Cor. That is the way to make her scorn you 
still. 

Sil. 0 Corin, that thou knew’st how I do 
love her! 

Cor. I partly guess; for I have lov’d ere 
now. 

Sil. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not 
guess, 25 

Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover 
As ever sigh’d upon a midnight pillow. 

But if thy love were ever like to mine,— 

As sure I think did never man love so — 

How many actions most ridiculous so 

Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy ? 

Cor. Into a thousand that I have forgotten. 
Sil. 0 , thou didst then ne’er love so heartily ! 
If thou rememb’rest not the slightest folly 
That ever love did make thee run into, ss 

Thou hast not lov’d ; 

Or if thou hast not sat as I do now, 

Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress’ praise, 
Thou hast not lov’d ; 

Or if thou hast not broke from company 40 
Abruptly, as my passion now makes me, 

Thou hast not lov’d. 

0 Phebe, Phebe, Phebe ! [Exit. 

Bos. Alas, poor shepherd ! searching of thy 
wound, 

I have by hard adventure found mine own. 46 
Touch. And I mine. I remember, when I 
was in love I broke my sword upon a stone, 
and bid him take that for coming a-night to 
Jane Smile ; and I remember the kissing of her 
batlet and the cow’s dugs that her pretty chopt 
hands had milk’d ; and I remember the woo-[eo 
ing of a peascod instead of her ; from whom I 
took two cods and, giving her them again, said 
with weeping tears, “ Wear these for my sake.” 
We that are true lovers run into strange capers ; 
but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature 
in love mortal in folly. 57 

Bos. Thou speakest wiser than thou art 
ware of. 

Touch. Nay, I shall ne’er be ware of mine 
own wit till I break my shins against it. eo 

Bos. Jove, Jove ! this shepherd’s passion 
Is much upon my fashion. 

Touch. And mine; but it grows something 
stale with me. 

Cel. I pray you, one of you question yond 
man 

If he for gold will give us any food. 0* 

I faint almost to death. 

Touch. Holla, you clown ! 






216 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


II. VI. 


Eos. Peace, fool; he’s not thy kinsman. 
Cor. Who calls ? 

Touch. Your betters, sir. 

Cor. Else are they very wretched. 

Eos. Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend. 
Cor. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all. 70 
Eos. I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold 
Can in this desert place buy entertainment, 
Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed. 
Here’s a young maid with travel much op¬ 
pressed 

And faints for succour. 

Cor. Fair sir, I pity her, 75 

And wish, for her sake more than for mine own, 
My fortunes were more able to relieve her ; 

But I am shepherd to another man, 

And do not shear the fleeces that I graze. 

My master is of churlish disposition, so 

And little recks to find the way to heaven 
By doing deeds of hospitality. 

Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed 
Are now on sale, and at our sheep-cote, now, 

By reason of his absence, there is nothing ss 
That you will feed on ; but what is, come see, 
And in my voice most welcome shall you be. 
Eos. What is he that shall buy his flock and 
pasture ? 

Cor. That young swain that you saw here 
but erewhile, 

That little cares for buying any thing. 90 

Eos. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty, 
Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock, 
And thou shalt have to pay for it of us. 

Cel. And we will mend thy wages. I like 
this place, 

And willingly could waste my time in it. »6 
Cor. Assuredly the thing is to be sold. 

Go with me. If you like upon report 
The soil, the profit, and this kind of life, 

I will your very faithful feeder be, 

And buy it with your gold right suddenly. 100 

[ Exeunt. 

Scene V. [The forest .] 

Enter Amiens, Jaques, and others. 

Song. 

[.Ami .] Under the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me, 

And turn his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird’s throat, 

Come hither, come hither, come hither! 5 

Here shall he see 
No enemy 

But winter and rough weather. 

Jaq. More, more, I prithee, more. 

Ami. It will make you melancholy, Mon¬ 
sieur Jaques. n 

Jaq. 1 thank it. More, I prithee, more. I 
can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel 
sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more. 

Ami. My voice is ragged. I know I cannot 
please you. is 

Jaq. I do not desire you to please me ; I do 
desire you to sing. Come, more ; another stanzo. 
Call you ’em stanzos ? 

Ami. What you will, Monsieur Jaques. ao 


Jaq. Nay, I care not for their names; they 
owe me nothing. Will you sing ? 

Ami. More at your request than to please 
myself. 2* 

Jaq. Well then, if ever I thank any man, 
I ’ll thank you ; but that they call compliment 
is like the encounter of two dog-apes ; and when 
a man thanks me heartily, methinks I have 
given him a penny and he renders me the beg¬ 
garly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will 
not, hold your tongues. 31 

Ami. Well, I ’ll end the song. Sirs, cover the 
while ; the Duke will drink under this tree. He 
hath been all this day to look you. 

Jaq. And I have been all this day to avoid [35 
him. He is too disputable for my company. I 
think of as many matters as he ; but I give 
heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. 
Come, warble, come. 

Song. 

[All together here. 
Who doth ambition shun, «> 

And loves to live i’ the sun, 

Seeking the food he eats, 

And pleased with what he gets, 

Come hither, come hither, come hither! 

Here shall he see « 

No enemy 

But winter and rough weather. 

Jaq. I ’ll give you a verse to this note, that 
I made yesterday in despite of my invention. 
Ami. And I ’ll sing it. 50 

Jaq. Thus it goes : — 

If it do come to pass 
That any man turn ass, 

Leaving his wealth and ease 
A stubborn will to please, bs 

Ducdame, ducdame,, ducdame! 

Here shall he see 
Gross fools as he, 

An if he will come to me. 

Ami. What’s that “ ducdame ” ? co 

Jaq. ’T is a Greek invocation, to call fools 
into a circle. I ’ll go sleep, if I can ; if I cannot, 

I ’ll rail against all the first-born of Egypt. 

Ami. And I ’ll go seek the Duke ; his ban¬ 
quet is prepared. [Exeunt, es 


Scene VI. [The forest .] 

Enter Orlando and Adam. 

Adam. Dear master, I can go no further. O, 
I die for food! Here lie I down, and measure 
out my grave. Farewell, kind master. 

Orl. Why, how now, Adam ! no greater heart 
in thee ? Live a little ; comfort a little ; cheer [b 
thyself a little. If this uncouth forest yield any 
thing savage, I will either be food for it or 
bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer 
death than thy powers. For my sake be com¬ 
fortable ; hold death awhile at the arm’s end. I 
will here be with thee presently ; and if I [10 







II. Vll. 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


217 


bring thee not something to eat, I will give thee 
leave to die; but if thou diest before I come, 
thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said! 
thou look’st cheerly, and I ’ll be with thee 
quickly. Yet thou liest in the bleak air. [is 
Come, I will bear thee to some shelter; and 
thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner if there 
live any thing in this desert. Cheerly, good 
Adam! [Exeunt. 

Scene VII. [The forest .] 

[A table set oaf.] Enter Duke senior, [Amiens] 
and Lords, like outlaws. 

Duke S. I think he be transform’d into a 
beast, 

For I can no where find him like a man. 

1. Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone 
hence. 

Here was he merry, hearing of a song. 

Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musi¬ 
cal, e 

We shall have shortly discord in the spheres. 
Go, seek him ; tell him I would speak with him. 

Enter Jaques. 

1. Lord. He saves my labour by his own 
approach. 

Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur ! what a 
life is this, 

That your poor friends must woo your company ? 
What, you look merrily ! 11 

Jaq. A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ the forest, 
A motley fool. • A miserable world ! 

As I do live by food, I met a fool; 

Who laid hini rr &own and bask’d him in the 
sun, 16 

And rail’d on Lady Fortune in good terms, 

In good set terms, and yet a motley fool. 
“Good morrow, fool,” quoth I. ,“No, sir,” 
quoth he, niT . 

“ Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me 
fortune.” _ "" 

And then he drew a dial from his poke, 20 
And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, 

Says very wisely, “ It is ten o’clock. 

Thus we may see,” quoth he, “ how the world 
wags. 

’T is but an hour ago since it was nine ; 

And after one hour more’t will be eleven ; 25 

And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, 
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; 
And thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear 
The motley fool thus moral on the time, 

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, 30 
That fools should be so deejMJontemplative ; 
And I did laugh sans intermission 
An hour by his dial. 0 noble fool! 

A worthy fool! Motley’s the only wear. 

Duke S. What fool is this ? 35 

Jaq. O worthy fool! One that hath been a 
courtier, . 

And says, if ladies be but young and fair, 

They have the gift to know it; and in his 
brain, 

Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit 


After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm’d 
With observation, the which he vents « 

In mangled forms. 0 that I were a fool! 

I am ambitious for a motley coat. 

Duke S. Thou shalt have one. 

Jaq. It is my only suit; — 

Provided that you weed your better judgements 
Of all opinion that grows rank in them 40 

That I am wise. I must have liberty 
Withal, as large a charter as the wind, 

To blow on whom I please ; for so fools have ; 
And they that are most galled with my folly, so 
They most must laugh. And why, sir, must 
they so ? 

The “ why ” is plain as way to parish church. 
He that a fool doth very wisely hit 
Doth very foolishly, although he smart, 

[Not to] seem senseless of the bob ; if not, ss 
The wise man’s folly is anatomiz’d 
Even by the squandering glances of the fool. 
Invest me in my motley. Give me leave 
To speak my mind, and I will through and 
through 

Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, so 
If they will patiently receive my medicine. 
Duke S. Fie on thee ! I can tell what thou 
wouldst do. 

Jaq. What, for a counter, would I do but 
good ? 

Duke S. Most mischievous foul sin, in chid¬ 
ing sin. 

For thou thyself hast been a libertine, ee 

As sensual as the brutish sting itself; 

And all the embossed sores and headed evils, 
That thou with license of free foot hast caught, 
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world. 

Jaq. Why, who cries out on pride, » 

That can therein tax any private party ? 

Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea, 

Till that the wearer’s very means do ebb ? 
What woman in the city do I name, 

When that I say the city-woman bears ?s 

The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders ? 
Who can come in and say that 1 mean her, 
When such a one as she such is her neighbour ? 
Or what is he of basest function, 

That says his bravery is not on my cost, so 
Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits 
His folly to the mettle of my speech ? 

There then ; how then ? what then ? Let me 
see wherein 

My tongue hath wrong’d him. If it do him 
right, 

Then he hath wrong’d himself . If he be free, ss 
WEy then my taxing like a wild-goose flies, 
Unclaim’d of any man. But who comes here ? 

Enter Orlando [with his sword drawn]. 

Orl. Forbear, and eat no more* 

Jaq. Why, I have eat none, yet. 

Orl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be servfd. 
Jaq. Of what kind should this cock come 
of? »» 

Duke S. Art thou thus bolden’d, man, by 
thy distress ? 

Or else a rude despiser of good manners, 

That in civility thou seem’st so empty ? 







2l8 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


II. Vll. 


Orl. You touch’d my vein at first. The 
thorny point 

Of hare distress hath ta’en from me the show 96 
Of smooth civility. Yet am I inland bred 
And know some nurture. But forbear, I say. 
He dies that touches any of this fruit 
Till I and my affairs are answered. 

Jag. An you will not be answer’d with rea¬ 
son, I must die. 101 

Duke S. What would you have ? Your 
gentleness shall force, 

More than your force move us to gentleness. 
Orl. I almost die for food ; and let me have 
it. 

Duke S. Sit down and feed, and welcome to 
our table. ios 

Orl. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I 
pray you. 

I thought that all things had been savage here, 
And therefore put I on the countenance 
Of stern commandment. But whate’er you 
are 

That in this desert inaccessible no 

Under the shade of melancholy boughs 
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time ; 

If ever you have look’d on better days, 

If ever been where bells have knoll’d to church, 
If ever sat at any good man’s feast, ue 

If ever from your eyelids wip’d a tear 
And know what’t is to pity and be pitied, 

Let gentleness my strong enforcement be ; 

In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword. 
Duke S. True is it that we have seen better 
days, 120 

And have with holy bell been knoll’d to church, 
And sat at good men’s feasts, and wip’d our 
eyes 

Of drops that sacred pity hath engend’red ; 
And therefore sit you down in gentleness 
And take upon command what help we 
have i26 

That to your wanting may be minist’red. 

Orl. Then but forbear your food a little 
while, 

Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn 
And give it food. There is an old poor man, 
Who after me hath many a weary step 130 
Limp’d in pure love. Till he be first suffic’d, 
Oppress’d with two weak evils, age and hun¬ 
ger, 

I will not touch a bit. 

Duke S. Go find him out, 

And we will nothing waste till you return. 

Orl. I thank ye; and be blest for your good 
comfort! [Exit.] i 36 

Duke S. Thou seest we are not all alone un¬ 
happy. 

This wide and universal theatre 

Presents more woeful pageants than the scene 

Wherein we play in. 

Jaq. All the world’s a stage, 

And all the men and women merely players. wo 
They have their exits and their entrances, 

And one man in his time plays many parts, 

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, 
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. 144 
Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel 


And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, 
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad 
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier, 
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the 
pard, iso 

Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quar¬ 
rel, 

Seeking the bubble reputation 
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the 
justice, 

In fair round belly with good capon lin’d, 

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, iss 
Full of wise saws and modern instances; 

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts 
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon, 

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side, ara 
His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide 
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly 
voice, 

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, 
That ends this strange eventful history, 

Is second childishness and mere oblivion, i 65 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every 
thing. 

Re-enter Orlando, with Adam. 

Duke S. Welcome. Set down your venerable 
burden, 

And let him feed. 

Orl. I thank you most for him. 

Adam. So had you need ; 

I scarce can speak to thank you for myself, wo 
Duke S. Welcome; fall to. I will not 
trouble you OQ ^ 

As yet, to question you about vour fortunes. 
Give us some music ; and, good cousin, sing. 

Song. 

[Ami.] Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 

Thou art not so unkind m 

' As man’s ingratitude; 

Thy tooth is not so keen, 

Because thou art not seen, 

Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green 

holly. iso 

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere 
folly. 

Then, heigh-ho, the holly! 

This life is most jolly. 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 

That dost not bite so nigh i 85 

As benefits forgot; 

Though thou the waters warp, 

Thy sting is not so sharp 
As friend rememb’red nok 
Heigh-ho ! sing, etc. wo 

Duke S. If that you were the good Sir Ro¬ 
land’s SOUj 

As you have whisper’d faithfully you were, 
And as mine eye doth his effigies witness 
Most truly limn’d and living in your face, 

Be truly welcome hither. I am the Duke i 96 






III. II. 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


219 


That lov’d your father. The residue of your 
fortune, 

Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man, 
Thou art right welcome as thy master is. 
Support him by the arm. Give me your hand, 
Ana let me all your fortunes understand. 200 

[ Exeunt . 

ACT III 

Scene I. [A room in the palace.] 

Enter Duke [Frederick], Oliver, and 
Lords. 

Duke F. Not see him since ? Sir, sir, that 
cannot be. 

But were I not the better part made mercy, 

I should not seek an absent argument 
Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it. 
Find out thy brother, wheresoe’er he is. e 

Seek him with candle! Bring him dead or 
living 

Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more 
To seek a living in our territory. 

Thy lands and all things that thou dost call 
thine 

Worth seizure do we seize into our hands, 10 
Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother’s mouth 
Of what we think against thee. 

Oli. O that your Highness knew my heart in 
this ! 

I never lov’d my brother in my life. 

Duke F. More villain thou. Well, push him 
out of doors ; is 

And let my officers of such a nature 
Make an extent upon his house and lands. 

Do this expediently and turn him going. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [Theforest.] 

Enter Orlando [with a paper], 

Orl. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my 
love; ' 

And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, 
survey 

With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere 
above, 

Thy huntress’ name that my full life doth 
sway. 

0 Rosalind ! these trees shall be my books, 5 
And in their barks my thoughts I ’ll char¬ 
acter ; 

That every eye which in this forest looks 
Shall see thy virtue witness’d every where. 
Run, run, Orlando ; carve on every tree 
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. 10 

[Exit. 

Enter Corin and Clown [Touchstone]. 

Cor. .And how like you this shepherd’s life, 
Master Touchstone ? 

Touch. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, 
it is a good life ; but in respect that it is a shep¬ 
herd’s life, it is naught. In respect that it 
is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect [is 
that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now, 


in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; 
but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedi¬ 
ous. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my 
humour well; but as there is no more plenty [20 
in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast 
any philosophy in thee, shepherd ? 

Cor. No more but that I know the more one 
sickens the worse at ease he is ; and that he 
that wants money, means, and content is [25 
without three good friends; that the property 
of rain is to wet and fire to burn; that good 
pasture makes fat sheep, and that a great cause 
of the night is lack of the sun ; that he that 
hath learned no wit by nature nor art may [30 
complain of good breeding or comes of a very 
dull kindred. 

Touch. Such a one is a natural philosopher. 
Wast ever in court, shepherd? 

Cor. No, truly. si 

Touch. Then thou art damn’d. 

Cor. Nay, I hope. 

Touch. Truly, thou art damn’d, like an ill- 
roasted egg all on one side. 39 

Cor. For not being at court ? Your reason. 
Touch. Why, if thou never wast at court, 
thou never saw’st good manners; if thou never 
saw’st good manners, then thy manners must 
be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is 
damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, shep¬ 
herd. 45 

Cor. Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that 
are good manners at the court are as ridiculous 
in the country as the behaviour of the country 
is most mockable at the court. You told me 
you salute not at the court but you kiss your 
hands. That courtesy would be uncleanly if 
courtiers were shepherds. 62 

Touch. Instance, briefly ; come, instance. 

Cor. Why, we are still handling our ewes, 
and their fells, you know, are greasy. cs 

Touch. Why, do not your courtier’s hands 
sweat ? And is not the grease of a mutton as 
wholesome as the sweat of a man ? Shallow, 
shallow. A better instance, I say ; come. 

Cor. Besides, our hands are hard. eo 

Touch. Your lips will feel them the sooner. 
Shallow again. A more sounder instance, come. 

Cor. And they are often tarr’d over with the 
surgery of our sheep ; and would you have us 
kiss tar? The courtier’s hands are perfum’d 
with civet. 88 

Touch. Most shallow man! thou worm’s- 
meat, in respect of a good piece of flesh indeed ! 
Learn of the wise, and perpend. Civet is of a 
baser birth than tar, the very uncleanly flux of 
a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd. 

Cor. You have too courtly a wit for me. I ’ll 
rest. 

Touch. Wilt thou rest damn’d ? God help 
thee, shallow man ! God make incision in thee ! 
Thou art raw. ™ 

Cor. Sir, I am a true labourer. I earn that I 
eat, get that I wear, owe no man hate, envy 
no man’s happiness, glad of other men’s good, 
content with my harm, and the greatest of my 
pride is to see my ewes graze and my lambs 
suok. 81 





220 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


hi. n. 


Touch. That is another simple sin in you, to 
bring the ewes and the rams together, and to 
offer to get your living by the copulation of 
cattle; to be bawd to a bell-wether, and to 
betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to a [ss 
crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of all 
reasonable match. If thou beest not damn’d 
for this, the devil himself will have no shep¬ 
herds. I cannot see else how thou shouldst 
scape. so 

Cor. Here comes young Master Ganymede, 
my new mistress’s brother. 

Enter Rosalind [ with a paper, reading ]. 

Ros. From the east to western Ind, 

No jewel is like Rosalind. 

Her worth, being mounted on the wind, 
Through all the world bears Rosalind. 96 
All the pictures fairest lin’d 
Are but black to Rosalind. 

Let no face be kept in mind 

But the fair of Rosalind. ioo 

Touch. I ’ll rhyme you so eight years to¬ 
gether, dinners and suppers and sleeping-hours 
excepted. It is the right butter-women’s rank 
to market. 

Ros. Out, fool! roe 

Touch. For a taste : — 

If a hart do lack a hind, 

Let him seek out Rosalind. 

If the cat will after kind, 

So be sure will Rosalind. no 

Wint’red garments must be lin’d, 

So must slender Rosalind. 

They that reap must sheaf and bind, 
Then to cart with Rosalind. 

Sweetest nut hath sourest rind, ue 

Such a nut is Rosalind. 

He that sweetest rose will find, 

Must find love’s prick and Rosalind. 
This is the very false gallop of verses. Why do 
you infect yourself with them ? 120 

Ros. Peace, you dull fool 1 I found them on 
a tree. 

Touch. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit. 

Ros. I ’ll graff it with you, and then I shall 
graff it with a medlar. Then it will be the 
earliest fruit i’ the country; for you ’ll be [125 
rotten ere you be half ripe, and that’s the right 
virtue of the medlar. 

Touch. You have said ; but whether wisely 
or no, let the forest judge. 130 

Enter Celia, with a writing. 

Ros. Peace! 

Here comes my sister, reading ; stand aside. 

Cel. [ Reads .] Why should this a desert be ? 
For it is unpeopled ? No ! 

Tongues I ’ll hang on every tree, 135 
That shall civil sayings show : 

Some, how brief the life of man 
Runs his erring pilgrimage, 

That the stretching of a span 
Buckles in his sum of age ; uo 

Some, of violated vows 

’Twixt the souls of friend and friend ; 
But upon the fairest boughs, 


Or at every sentence end, 

Will I Rosalinda write, i *6 

Teaching all that read to know 
The quintessence of every sprite 
Heaven would in little show. 
Therefore Heaven Nature charg’d 
That one body should be fill’d iso 
With all graces wide-enlarg’d. 

Nature presently distill’d 
Helen’s cheek, but not her heart, 
Cleopatra’s majesty, 

Atalanta’s better part, 

Sad Lucretia’s modesty. 

Thus Rosalind of many parts 
By heavenly synod was devis’d ; 

Of many faces, eyes, and hearts, 

To have the touches dearest priz’d. 

Heaven would that she these gifts should 
have, 

And I to live and die her slave. 

Ros. 0 most gentle pulpiter! what tedious 
homily of love have you w earied your parish¬ 
ioners withal, and never cri’d “Have patience, 
good people!” 166 

Cel. How now ! Back, friends! Shepherd, 
go off a little. Go with him, sirrah. 

Touch. Come, shepherd, let us make an hon¬ 
ourable retreat; though not with bag and bag¬ 
gage, yet with scrip and scrippage. 171 

[Exeunt [Conn and Touchstone ]. 

Cel. Didst thou hear these verses ? 

Ros. 0 , yes, I heard them all, and more, too ; 
for some of them had in them more feet than 
the verses would bear. m 

Cel. That’s no matter. The feet might bear 
the verses. 

Ros. Ay, but the feet were lame and could 
not bear themselves without the verse, and 
therefore stood lamely in the verse. iso 

Cel. But didst thou hear without wondering 
how thy name should be hang’d and carved 
upon these trees ? 

Ros. I was seven of the nine days out of the 
wonder before you came ; for look here [iss 
what I found on a palm tree. I was never so 
berhym’d since Pythagoras’ time, that I was 
an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember. 

Cel. Trow you who hath done this ? 

Ros. Is it a man ? 100 

Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, about 
his neck. Change you colour ? 

Ros. I prithee, who ? 

Cel. 0 Lord, Lord ! it is a hard matter for 
friends to meet; but mountains may be re¬ 
moved with earthquakes and so encounter. i 96 

Ros. Nay, but who is it ? 

Cel. Is it possible ? 

Ros. Nay, I prithee now with most petition¬ 
ary vehemence, tell me who it is. 200 

Cel. 0 wonderful, wonderful, and most won¬ 
derful wonderful ! and yet again wonderful, 
and after that, out of all whooping ! 

Ros. Good my complexion ! dost thou think, 
though I am caparison’d like a man, I have 
a doublet and hose in my disposition ? One [205 
inch of delay more is a South-sea of discovery. 
I prithee, tell me who is it quickly, and speak 




III. ii. 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


221 


apace. I would thou couldst stammer, that 
thou might’st pour this conceal’d man out of 
thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow- [210 
mouth’d bottle, either too much at once, or 
none at all. I prithee, take the cork out of thy 
mouth that I may drink thy tidings. 

Cel. So you may put a man in your belly. 215 
Eos. Is he of God’s making ? What manner 
of man ? Is his head worth a hat or his chin 
worth a beard ? 

Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard. 219 
Eos. Why, God will send more, if the man 
will be thankful. Let me stay the growth of 
his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge 
of his chin. 

Cel. It is young Orlando, that tripp’d up the 
wrestler’s heels and your heart both in an 
instant. 225 

Eos. Nay, but the devil take mocking. 
Speak sad brow and true maid. 

Cel. I’ faith, coz, ’t is he. 

Eos. Orlando ? 

Cel. Orlando. 230 

Eos. Alas the day ! what shall I do with my 
doublet and hose ? What did he when thou 
saw’st him? What said he ? How look’d he ? 
Wherein went he ? What makes he here ? Did 
he ask for me ? Where remains he ? How 
parted he with thee ? And when shalt thou [235 
see him again ? Answer me in one word. 

Cel. You must borro w me Gargantua’s mouth 
first. ’T is a word too great for any mouth of 
this age’s size. To say ay and no to these partic¬ 
ulars is more than to answer in a catechism. 241 
Eos. But doth he know that I am in this 
forest and in man’s apparel ? Looks he as 
freshly as he did the day he wrestled ? 

Cel. It is as easy to count atomies as to 
resolve the propositions of a lover. But take [24s 
a taste of my finding him, and relish it with 
good observance. I found him under a tree, 
like a dropp’d acorn. 

Eos. It may well be called Jove’s tree, when 
it drops forth such fruit. 260 

Cel. Give me audience, good madam. 

Eos. Proceed. 

Cel. There lay he, stretch'd along, like a 
wounded knight. 

Eos. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it 
well becomes the ground. 2 gc 

Cel. Cry “holla” to thy tongue, I prithee ; 
it curvets unseasonably. He was furnish’d like 
a hunter. 

Eos. O, ominous ! he comes to kill my heart. 260 
Cel. I would sing my song without a bur¬ 
den. Thou bring’st me out of tune. 

Eos. Do you not know I am a woman ? 
When I think, I must speak. Sweet, say 
on. 284 

Enter Orlando and Jaques. 

Cel. You bring me out. Soft! comes he not 
here ? 

Eos. ’Tishe. Slink by, and note him. 

Jaq. I thank you for your company; but, 
good faith, I had as lief have been myself 
alone. 270 


Orl. And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, 
I thank you too for your society. 

Jaq. God buy you ; let’s meet as little as we 
can. 214 

Orl. I do desire we may be better strangers. 
Jaq. I pray you, mar no more trees with 
writing love-songs in their barks. 

Orl. I pray you, mar no moe of my verses 
with reading them ill-favouredly. 

Jaq. Kosalind is your love’s name ? 280 

Orl. Yes, just. 

Jaq. I do not like her name. 

Orl. There was no thought of pleasing you 
when she was christen’d. 

Jaq. What stature is she of ? 285 

Orl. Just as high as my heart. 

Jaq. You are full of pretty answers. Have 
you not been acquainted with goldsmiths’ 
wives, and conn’d them out of rings ? 239 

Orl. Not so ; but I answer you right painted 
cloth, from whence you have studied your 
questions. 

Jaq. You have a nimble wit. I think ’twas 
made of Atalanta’s heels. Will you sit down 
with me ? and we two will rail against our mis¬ 
tress the world, and all our misery. 206 

Orl. I will chide no breather in the world 
but myself, against whom I know most faults. 

Jaq. The worst fault you have is to be in 
love. 300 

Orl. ’T is a fault I will not change for your 
best virtue. I am weary of you. 

Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool 
when I found you. 

Orl. He is drown’d in the brook. Look but 
in, and you shall see him. soe 

Jaq. There I shall see mine own figure. 

Ort. Which I take to be either a fool or a 


cipher. 

Jaq. I’ll tarry no longer with you. Fare¬ 
well, good Signior Love. 310 

Orl. I am glad of your departure. Adieu, 
good Monsieur Melancholy. [Exit Jaques .] 
Eos. [Aside to Celia.] I will speak to him 
like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play 
the knave with him. Do you hear, forester ? 315 
Orl. Very well. What would you ? 

Eos. I pray you, what is’t o’clock ? 

Orl. You should ask me what time o’ day. 
There’s no clock in the forest. 319 

Eos. Then there is no true lover in the 
forest; else sighing every minute and groaning 
every hour would detect the lazy foot of Time 
as well as a clock. 

Orl. And why not the swift foot of Time ? 
Had not that been as proper ? 325 

Eos. By no means, sir. Time travels in 
divers paces with divers persons. I ’ll tell you 
who Time ambles withal, who Time trots 
withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he 
stands still withal. sao 

Orl. I prithee, who doth he trot withal ? 
Eos. Marry, he trots hard with a young 
maid between the contract of her marriage and 
the day it is solemniz’d. If the interim be but 
a se’nnight, Time’s pace is so hard that it 
seems the length of seven year. 335 




222 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


lit. iii. 


Orl. Who ambles Time withal ? 

Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin, and a 
rich man that hath not the gout; for the one 
sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the 
other lives merrily because he feels no pain ; the 
one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful [340 
learning, the other knowing no burden of heavy 
tedious penury. These Time ambles withal. 
Orl. Who doth he gallop withal ? 344 

Ros. With a thief to the gallows ; for though 
he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks him¬ 
self too soon there. 

Orl. Who stays it still withal ? 

Ros. With lawyers in the vacation ; for they 
sleep between term and term, and then they 
perceive not how Time moves. 351 

Orl. Where dwell you, pretty youth ? 

Ros. With this shepherdess, my sister ; here 
in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a 
petticoat. 355 

Orl. Are you native of this place ? 

Ros. As the cony that you see dwell where 
she is kindled. 

Orl. Your accent is something finer than you 
could purchase in so removed a dwelling. 300 
Ros. I have been told so of many ; but in¬ 
deed an old religious uncle of mine taught me 
to speak, who was in his youth an inland man ; 
one that knew courtship too well, for there he 
fell in love. I have heard him read many lec¬ 
tures against it, and I thank God I am not [335 
a woman, to be touch’d with so many giddy 
offences as he hath generally tax’d their whole 
sex withal. 

Orl. Can you remember any of the principal 
evils that he laid to the charge of women ? 370 

Ros. There were none principal; they were 
all like one another as half-pence are, every 
one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow-fault 
came to match it. 

Orl. I prithee, recount some of them. 375 
Ros. No, I will not cast away my physic but 
on those that are sick. There is a man haunts 
the forest, that abuses our young plants with 
carving Rosalind on their barks; hangs odes 
upon hawthorns and elegies on brambles ; all, [380 
forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind. If I 
could meet that fancy-monger, I would give 
him some good counsel, for he seems to have 
the quotidian of love upon him. 384 

Orl. I am he that is so love-shak’d. I pray 
you, tell me your remedy. 

Ros. There is none of my uncle’s marks 
upon you. He taught me how to know a man 
in love, in which cage of rushes I am sure you 
are not prisoner. 390 

Orl. What were his marks ? 

Ros. A lean cheek, which you have not; a 
blue eye and sunken, which you have not; an 
unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a 
beard neglected, which you have not; but I 
pardon you for that,, for simply your having [395 
in beard is a younger brother’s revenue. Then 
your hose should be ungarter’d, your bonnet 
unbanded, your sleeve unbutton’d, your shoe 
unti’d, and every thing about you demonstrat¬ 
ing a careless desolation. But you are no [«o 


such man; you are rather point-device in your 
accoutrements, as loving yourself than seeming 
the lover of any other. 

Orl. Fair youth, I would I could make thee 
believe I love. 405 

Ros. Me believe it! you may as soon make 
her that you love believe it; which, I warrant, 
she is apter to do than to confess she does. 
That is one of the points in the which women 
still give the lie to their consciences. But, in 
good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses [410 
on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired ? 

Orl. I swear to thee, youth, by the white 
hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortu¬ 
nate he. 416 

Ros. But are you so much in love as your 
rhymes speak ? 

Orl. Neither rhyme nor reason can express 
how much. *iq 

Ros. Love is merely a madness, and, I tell 
you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip 
as madman do; and the reason why they are 
not so punish’d and cured is, that the lunacy 
is so ordinary that the whippers are in love 
too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel. 425 
Orl. Did you ever cure any so ? 

Ros. Yes, one, and in this manner. He was 
to imagine me his love, his mistress, and I set 
him every day to woo me ; at which time would 
I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be [430 
effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, 
proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, 
full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion 
something and for no passion truly any thing, 
as boys and women are for the most part cattle 
of this colour; would now like him, now [435 
loathe him ; then entertain him, then forswear 
him; now weep for him, then spit at him ; 
that I drave my suitor from his mad humour 
of love to a living humour of madness ; which 
was, to forswear the full stream of the [440 
world and to live in a nook, merely monastic. 
And thus I cur’d him ; and this way will I take 
upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound 
sheep’s heart, that there shall not be one spot 
of love in’t. 446 

Orl. I would not be cured, youth. 

Ros. I would cure you, if you would but 
call me Rosalind and come every day to my 
cote and woo me. 

Orl. Now, by the faith of my love, I will. 
Tell me where it is. 4£i 

Ros. Go with me to it and I ’ll show it you ; 
and by the way you shall tell me where in the 
forest you live. Will you go ? 

Orl. With all my heart, good youth. 455 
Ros. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, 
sister, will you go ? [ Exeunt. 

Scene III. [The forest.} 

Enter Clown [Touchstone] and Audrey; 
Jaques [behind]. 

Touch. Come apace, good Audrey. I will 
fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how, Au¬ 
drey, am I the man yet? Doth my simple 
feature content you ? 




in. iv. 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


223 


Aud. Your features! Lord warrant us! 
what features ? « 

Touch. 1 am here with thee and thy goats, 
as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was 
among the Goths. 

Jaq. [Aside.] 0 knowledge ill-inhabited, 
worse than Jove in a thatch’d house 1 11 

Touch. When a man’s verses cannot be 
understood, nor a man’s good wit seconded 
with the forward child, understanding, it 
strikes a man more dead than a great reck¬ 
oning in a little room. Truly, I would the gods 
had made thee poetical. 

Aud. I do not know what “ poetical ” is. Is 
it honest in deed and word ? Is it a true thing ? 

Touch. No, truly; for the truest poetry is 
the most feigning; and lovers are given to 
poetry, and what they swear in poetry may be 
said as lovers they do feign. 22 

Aud. Do you wish then that the gods had 
made me poetical ? 

Touch. I do, truly; for thou swearest to 
me thou art honest. Now, if thou wert a poet, 
I might have some hope thou didst feign. 27 
Aud. Would you not have me honest ? 
Touch. No, truly, unless thou wert hard- 
favour’d; for honesty coupled to beauty is to 
have honey a sauce to sugar. si 

Jaq. [Aside .1 A material fool! 

Aud. Well, I am not fair ; and therefore I 
pray the gods make me honest. 34 

Touch. Truly, and to cast away honesty 
upon a foul slut were to put good meat into an 
unclean dish. 

Aud. I am not a slut, though I thank the 
gods I am foul. 39 

Touch. Well, praised be the gods for thy 
foulness! Sluttishnees may come hereafter. 
But be it as it may be, I will marry thee, and 
to that end I have been with Sir Oliver Mar- 
text, the vicar of the next village, who hath 
promis’d to meet me in this place of the forest 
and to couple us. 45 

Jaq. [Aside.] I would fain see this meeting. 
A ud. Well, the gods give us joy! 

Touch. Amen. A man may, if he were of a 
fearful heart, stagger in this attempt; for here 
we have no temple but the wood, no assembly [so 
but horn-beasts. But what though ? Courage ! 
As horns are odious, they are necessary. It is 
said, “ Many a man knows no end of his goods.” 
Right; many a man has good horns, and knows 
no end of them. Well, that is the dowry of 
his wife; ’t is none of his own getting, [os 
Horns ? — even so. Poor men alone ? No, no ; 
the noblest deer hath them as huge as the 
rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed ? 
No: as a wall’d town is more worthier than a 
village, so is the forehead of a married man [00 
more honourable than the bare brow of a bache¬ 
lor ; and by how much defence is better than 
no skill, by so much is a horn more precious 
than to want. 

Enter Sir Oliver Martext. 

Here comes Sir Oliver. Sir Oliver Martext, [ S4 
you are well met. Will you dispatch us here 


under this tree, or shall we go with you to your 
chapel ? 

Sir Oli. Is there none here to give the 
woman ? 

Touch. I will not take her on gift of any man. 
*StV Oli. Truly, she must be given, or the 
marriage is not lawful. 7 i 

Jaq. Proceed, proceed. I ’ll give her. 

Touch. Good even, good Master What-ye- 
call’t; how do you, sir? You are very well 
met. God ’ild you for your last company. I [75 
am very glad to see you. Even a toy in hand 
here, sir. Nay, pray be cover’d. 

Jaq. Will you be married, motley ? 79 

Touch. As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse 
his curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath 
his desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock 
would be nibbling. 83 

Jaq. And will you, being a man of your 
breeding, be married under a bush like a 
beggar ? Get you to church, and have a good 
priest that can tell you what marriage is. This 
fellow will but join you together as they join 
wainscot; then one of you will prove a shrunk 
panel, and like green timber w arp, warp. so 
Touch. [Aside.] I am not in the mind but I 
were better to be married of him than of an¬ 
other ; for he is not like to marry me well; 
and not being well married, it will be a good 
excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife. »s 
Jaq. Go thou with me, and let me counsel 
thee. 

Touch. Come, sweet Audrey; 

We must be married, or we must live in 
bawdry. 

Farewell, good Master Oliver: not, — 100 

O sweet Oliver, 

O brave Oliver, 

Leave me not behind thee; 

but, — 

Wind away, 105 

Begone, I say, 

I will not to wedding with thee. 

[Exeunt Jaques, Touchstone , and 
Audrey.] 

Sir Oli. ’T is no matter. Ne’er a fantastical 
knave of them all shall flout me out of my call¬ 
ing. [Exit. i «9 


Scene IV. [Theforest.] 

Enter Rosalind and Celia. 

Ros. Never talk to me ; I will weep. 

Cel. Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace 
to consider that tears do not become a man. 

Ros. But have I not cause to weep ? 

Cel. As good cause as one would desire; 
therefore weep. . 6 

Ros. His very hair is of the dissembling 
colour. 

Cel. Something browner than Judas s. 
Marry, his kisses are Judas’s own children. 10 

Ros. I’ faith, his hair is of a good colour. 

Cel. An excellent colour. Your chestnut was 
ever the only colour. 

Ros. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as 
the touch of holy bread. 16 





224 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


III. v. 


Cel. He hath bought a pair of east lips of 
Diana. A nun of winter’s sisterhood kisses not 
more religiously. The very ice of chastity is in 
them. 

Ros. But why did he swear he would come 
this morning, and comes not ? 21 

Cel. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him. 
Ros. Do you think so ? 

Cel. Yes ; I think he is not a pick-purse nor 
a horse-stealer ; but for his verity in love, I 
do think him as concave as a covered goblet or 
a worm-eaten nut. 27 

Ros. Not true in love ? 

Cel. Yes, when he is in ; hut I think he is 
not in. 

Ros. You have heard him swear downright 

he was. 32 

Cel. “Was” is not “is.” Besides, the oath 
of a lover is no stronger than the word of a 
tapster; they are both the confirmer of false 
reckonings. He attends here in the forest on 
the Duke your father. 37 

Ros. I met the Duke yesterday and had 
much question with him. He asked me of 
what parentage I was. I told him, of as good as 
he; so he laugh’d and let me go. But what 
talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as 
Orlando ? 42 

Cel. 0 , that’s a brave man! He writes 

brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave 
oaths and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, 
athwart the heart of his lover ; as a puisny [45 
tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, 
breaks his staff like a noble goose. But all’s 
brave that youth mounts and folly guides. 
Who comes here ? 


Enter Corin. 



After the shepherd that complain’d of love, 
Who you saw sitting by me on the turf, 
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess 
That was his mistress. 

Cel. Well, and what of him ? 

Cor. If you will see a pageant truly play’d, 55 
Between the pale complexion of true love 
And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain, 
Go hence a little and I shall conduct you, 

If you will mark it. 

Ros. 0 , come, let us remove; 

The sight of lovers feedeth those in love. eo 
Bring us to this sight, and you shall say 
I ’ll prove a busy actor in their play. [Exeunt. 


Scene Y. [Another part of the forest.] 

Enter Silvius and Phebe. 

Sil. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me ; do not, 
Phebe. 

Say that you love me not, but say not so 
In bitterness. The common executioner, 
Whose heart the accustom’d sight of death 
makes hard, 

Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck b 
B ut first begs pardon. Will you sterner be 
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops ? 


Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin [ behind ], 

Phe. I would not be thy executioner. 

I fly thee, for I would not injure tliee. 

Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye: m 
’T is pretty, sure, and very probable, 

That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest 
things, 

Who shut their coward gates on atomies, 
Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers I 
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart; is 
And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill 
thee. 

Now counterfeit to swoon ; why, now fall down ; 
Or if thou canst not, 0 , for shame, for shame, 
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers! 

Now show the wound mine eye hath made in 
thee. 20 

Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains 
Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush, 

The cicatrice and capable impressure 
Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine 
eyes, 

Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not, 25 
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes 
That can do hurt. 

Sil. O dear Phebe, 

If ever — as that ever may be near — 

You meet in some fresh cheek the power of 
fancy, 

Then shall you know the wounds invisible so 
That love’s keen arrows make. 

Phe. But till that time 

Come not thou near me; and when that time 
comes, 

Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not, 

As till that time I shall not pity thee. 

Ros. And why, I pray you ? Who might be 
your mother, 3s 

That you insult, exult, and all at once, 

Over the wretched? What though you have 
no beauty, — 

As, by my faith, I see no more in you 
Than without candle may go dark to bed — 
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless ? 40 

Why, what means this ? Why do you look on 
me ? 

I see no more in you than in the ordinary 
Of nature’s sale-work. ’Od’s my little life, 

I think she means to tangle my eyes too ! 

No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it. 4s 
’T is not your inky brows, your black silk hair, 
Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream 
That can entame my spirits to your worship. 
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow 
her, 

Like foggy south, puffing with wind and 
rain ? 6P 

You are a thousand times a properer man 
Than she a woman. ’T is such fools as you 
That makes the world full of ill-favour’d chil¬ 
dren. 

7 not her glass ’ y° u > that flatters her ; 
And out of you she sees herself more proper es 
Than any of her lineaments can show her. 

But, mistress, know yourself. Down on youi 
knees, 




iv. i. 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


225 


And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s 
love; 

For I must tell you friendly in your ear, 

Sell when you can; you are not for all mar¬ 
kets. 60 

Cry the man mercy ; love him ; take his offer. 
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer. 

So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well. 
Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year 
together. 

I had rather hear you chide than this man 
woo. 65 

Eos. He’s fallen in love with your foulness, 
and she ’ll fall in love with my anger. If it be 
so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning 
looks, I ’ll sauce her with bitter words. Why 
look you so upon me ? 70 

Phe. For no ill will I bear you. 

Eos. I pray you, do not fall in love with 


me, 

For I am falser than vows made in wine. 
Besides, I like you not. If you will know my 
house, 

’T is at the tuft of olives here hard by. 75 

Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard. 
Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better, 
And be not proud. Though all the world could 
see, 

None could be so abus’d in sight as he. 

Come, to our flock. so 

[Exeunt [ Rosalind , Celia , and 
Corin\. 

Phe. Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of 
might, 

‘ Who ever loved that loved not at first 
sight?” 

Sil. Sweet Phebe, — 

Phe. Ha, what say’st thou, Silvius ? 

Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me. 

Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Sil¬ 
vius. # > 86 

Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be. 

If you do sorrow at my grief in love, 

By giving love, your sorrow and my grief 
Were both extermin’d. 

Phe. Thou hast my love. Is not that neigh¬ 
bourly ? 90 

Sil. I would have you. 

Phe. W T hy, that were covetousness. 

Silvius, the time was that I hated thee, 

And yet it is not that I bear thee love ; 

Bat since that thou canst talk of love so well, 
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, os 
I will endure, and I ’ll employ thee too. 

But do not look for further recompense 
Than thine own gladness that thou art em¬ 
ploy’d. 

Sil. So holy and so perfect is my love, 

And I in such a poverty of grace, 100 

That I shall think it a most plenteous crop 
To glean the broken ears after the man 
That the main harvest reaps. Loose now and 
then 

A scatt’red smile, and that I ’ll live upon. 

Phe. Know’st thou the youth that spoke to 
me erewhile ? 105 

Sil. Not very well, but I have met him oft; 


And he hath bought the cottage and the 
bounds 

That the old carlot once was master of. 

Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for 
him; 

’T is but a peevish boy ; yet he talks well, no 
But what care I for words ? Yet words do well 
When he that speaks them pleases those that 
hear. 

It is a pretty youth ; not very pretty ; 

But, sure, he’s proud, and yet his pride be¬ 
comes him. 

He ’ll make a proper man. The best thing in 
him ns 

Is his complexion ; and faster than his tongue 
Did make offence his eye did heal it up. 

He is not very tall; yet for his years he’s tall. 
His leg is but so so ; and yet’t is well. 

There was a pretty redness in his lip, iao 

A little riper and more lusty red 
Than that mix’d in his cheek ; ’t was just the 
difference 

Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. 
There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d 
him 

In parcels as I did, would have gone near 12s 
To fall in love with him ; but, for my part, 

I love him not nor hate him not; and yet 
I have more cause to hate him than to love 
him, 

For what had he to do to chide at me ? 

He said mine eyes were black and my hair 
black; is® 

And, now I am rememb’red, scorn’d at me. 

I marvel why I answer’d not again. 

But that’s all one ; omittance is no quittance. 

I ’ll write to him a very taunting letter. 

And thou shalt bear it; wilt thou, Silvius ? 13a 
Sil. Phebe, with all my heart. 

Phe. I ’ll write it straight; 

The matter’s in my head and in my heart. 

I will be bitter with him and passing short. 

Go with me, Silvius. [Exeunt. 


ACT IV 

Scene I. [Theforest.] 

Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques. 

Jaq. I prithee, pretty youth, let me be bet¬ 
ter acquainted with thee. 

Eos. They say you are a melancholy fellow. 

Jaq. I am so ; I do love it better than laugh- 
ing. . . 4 

Eos. Those that are in extremity of either 
are abominable fellows, and betray themselves 
to every modern censure worse than drunk¬ 
ards. 

Jaq. Why, ’t is good to be sad and say no¬ 
thing. 

Eos. Why then, ’t is good to be a post. ® 

Jaq. I have neither the scholar’s melan¬ 
choly, which is emulation ; nor the musician’s, 
which is fantastical; nor the courtier’s, which 
is proud ; nor the soldier’s, which is ambitious ; 
nor the lawyer’s, which is politic; nor the 





226 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


iv. L 


lady’s, which is nice ; nor the lover’s, which is 
all these : but it is a melancholy of mine own, [is 
compounded of many simples, extracted from 
many objects ; and indeed the sundry contem¬ 
plation of my travels, in which my often rumi¬ 
nation wraps me in a most humorous sad¬ 
ness - 20 

Ros. A traveller! By my faith, you have 
great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold 
your own lands to see other men’s; then, to 
have seen much, and to have nothing, is to 
have rich eyes and poor hands. 25 

Jaq. Yes, I have gained my experience. 

Enter Orlando. 

Ros. And your experience makes you sad. 
I had rather have a fool to make me merry 
than experience to make me sad ; and to travel 
for it too ! 

Orl. Good-day and happiness, dear Rosa¬ 
lind ! 30 

Jaq. Nay, then, God buy you, an you talk 
in blank verse. [Exit. 

Ros. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look 
you lisp and wear strange suits, disable all the 
benefits of your own country, be out of love 
with your nativity, and almost chide God for [35 
making you that countenance you are, or I will 
scarce think you have swam in a gondola. Why, 
how now, Orlando ! Where have you been all 
this while ? You a lover! An you serve me 
such another trick, never come in my sight 
more. 41 

Orl. My fair Rosalind, I come within an 
hour of my promise. 

Ros. Break an hour’s promise in love ! He 
that will divide a minute into- a thousand 

parts, and break but a part of the thou- [45 
sandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, 
it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapp’d 
him o’ the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him 
heart-whole. 

Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind. «> 

Ros. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no 
more in my sight. I had as lief be woo’d of a 
snail. 

Orl. Of a snail ? bs 

Ros. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes 
slowly, he carries his house on his head; 
a better jointure, I think, than you make a 
woman. Besides, he brings his destiny with 
him. 57 

Orl. What’s that ? 

Ros. Why, horns, which such as you are fain 
to be beholding to your wives for. But he 
comes armed in his fortune and prevents the 
slander of his wife. 62 

Orl. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my 

Rosalind is virtuous. 

Ros. And I am your Rosalind. 

Cel. It pleases him to call you so; but he 
hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you. 07 
Ros. Come, woo me, woo me ; for now I am 
in a holiday humour and like enough to con¬ 
sent. What would you say to me now, an I 
were your very very Rosalind ? 71 

Orl. I would kiss before I spoke. 


Ros. Nay, you were better speak first; and 
when you were gravell’d for lack of matter, 
you might take occasion to kiss. Very good 
orators, when they are out, they will spit; [75 
and for lovers lacking — God warn us! — 
matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss. 

Orl. How if the kiss be deni’d ? 

Ros. Then she puts you to entreaty and 
there begins new matter. si 

Orl. Who could be out, being before his be¬ 
loved mistress ? 

Ros. Marry, that should you if I were your 
mistress, or I should think my honesty ranker 
than my wit. se 

Orl. What, of my suit ? 

Ros. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of 
your suit. Am not I your Rosalind ? 

Orl. I take some joy to say you are, because 
I would be talking of her. 91 

Ros. Well, in her person, I say I will not 
have you. 

Orl. Then in mine own person I die. 

Ros. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor 
world is almost six thousand years old, and in 
all this time there was not any man died in [«b 
his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troi- 
lus had his brains dash’d out with a Grecian 
club ; yet he did what he could to die before, 
and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, 
he would have liv’d many a fair year though [100 
Hero had turn’d nun, if it had not been for a 
hot mid-summer night; for, good youth, he 
went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont 
and being taken with the cramp was drown’d ; 
and the foolish chroniclers of that age found [105 
it was — Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies. 
Men have died from time to time and worms 
have eaten them, but not for love. 

Orl. I would not have my right Rosalind of 
this mind ; for, I protest, her frown might kill 


Ros. By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But 
come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more 
coming-on disposition; and ask me what you 
will, I will grant it. 

Orl. Then love me, Rosalind. ub 

Ros. Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Satur¬ 
days and all. 

Orl. And wilt thou have me ? 

Ros. Ay, and twenty such. 

~ ’ What sayest thou ? 120 

Are you not good ? 

I hope so. 

- Why then, can one desire too much of 

a good thing ? Come, sister, you shall be the 
priest and marry us. Give me your hand, Or¬ 
lando. What do you say, sister ? 126 

Pray thee, marry us. 

I cannot say the words. 

You must begin, “ Will you, Orlan- 


Orl. 

Ros. 

Orl. 

Ros. 


Orl. 

Cel. 

Ros. 

do,”- 

Cel. 


Go to. Will you, Orlando, have to wife 
this Rosalind ? 131 

Orl. I will. 

Ros. Ay, but when ? 

Orl. Why now; as fast as she can marry 
us. 




AS YOU LIKE IT 


227 


iv. iii. 


Ros. Then you must say, “ I take thee, 
Rosalind, for wife.” 136 

Orl. I take thee, Rosalind, ^or wife. 

Ros. I might ask you for your commission ; 
but I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband. 
There’s a girl goes before the priest; and cer¬ 
tainly a woman’s thought runs before her 
actions. 

Orl. So do all thoughts ; they are wing’d. 
Ros. Now tell me how long you would have 
her after you have possess’d her. 

Orl. For ever and a day. 145 

Ros. Say “a day,” without the “ever.” 
No, no, Orlando. Men are April when they 
woo, December when they w r ed ; maids are 
May when they are maids, but the sky changes 
when they are wives. I will be more 3ealous of 
thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his [i«> 
hen, more clamorous than a parrot against rain, 
more new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in 
my desires than a monkey. I will weep for 
nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will 
do that when you are dispos’d to be merry. [155 
I will laugh like a liyen, and that when thou 
art inclin’d to sleep. 

Orl. But will my Rosalind do so ? 

Ros. By my life, she will do as I do. 

Orl. 0 , but she is wise. . iso 

Ros, Or else she could not have the wit to 
do this. The wiser, the waywarder. Make the 
doors upon a woman’s wit and it will out 
at the casement; shut that and ’t will out at 
the key-hole; stop that, ’t will fly with the 
smoke out at the chimney. i °6 

Orl. A man that had a wife with such a wit, 
he might say, “ Wit, whither wilt ? ” 

Ros. Nay, you might keep that check for it, 
till you met your wife’s wit going to your 
neighbour’s bed. 171 

Orl. And what wit could wit have to excuse 


that ? 

Ros. Marry, to say she came to seek you 
there. You shall never take her without her [ns 
answer, unless you take her without her 
tongue. 0 , that woman that cannot make her 
fault her husband’s occasion, let her never 
nurse her child herself, for she will breed it 
like a fool! 

Orl. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will 
leave thee. 181 

Ros. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two 
hours! ,. 

Orl. I must attend the Duke at dinner. By 
two o’clock I will be with thee again. ise 

Ros. Ay, go your ways, go your ways ; I 
knew what you would prove. My friends told 
me as much, and I thought no less. That flat¬ 
tering tongue of yours won me. ’Tis but one 
cast away, and so, come, death ! Two o clock 
is your hour ? t 100 

Orl. Ay, sweet Rosalind. 

Ros. By my troth, and in good earnest, and 
so God mend me, and by all pretty paths that 
are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your 
promise or oome one minute behind vour 
hour, I will think you the most pathetical [v* 
break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and 


the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind, 
that may be chosen out of the gross band of the 
unfaithful; therefore beware my censure and 
keep your promise. 200 

Orl. With no less religion than if thou wert 
indeed my Rosalind ; so adieu. 

Ros. Well, Time is the old justice that exam¬ 
ines all such offenders, and let Time try. Adieu. 

[Exit [Orlando]. 

Cel. You have simply misus’d our sex in 
your love-prate. We must have your doub- [205 
let and hose pluck’d over your head, and show 
the world what the bird hath done to her ow r n 
nest. 

Ros. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, 
that thou didst know how many fathom deep 
I am in love ! But it cannot be sounded. My [211 
affection hath an unknown bottom, like the bay 
of Portugal. 

Cel. Or rather, bottomless; that as fast as 
you pour affection in, it runs out. 215 

Ros. No, that same wicked bastard of Yenus 
that was begot of thought, conceiv’d of spleen, 
and born of madness, that blind rascally boy 
that abuses every one’s eyes because his own 
are out, let him be judge how deep I am in 
love. I ’ll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out [220 
of the sight of Orlando. I ’ll go find a shadow 
and sigh till he come. 

Cel. And I ’ll sleep. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. [The forest.] 

Enter Jaques, Lords, and Foresters. 

Jaq. Which is he that killed the deer ? 

A Lord. Sir, it was I. 

Jaq. Let’s present him to the Duke, like a 
Roman conqueror ; and it would do well to set 
the deer’s horns upon his head, for a branch 
of victory. Have you no song, forester, for this 
purpose ? 7 

[ 7 .] For. Yes, sir.. 

Jaq. Sing it. ’T is no matter how it be in 
tune, so it make noise enough. 10 

Song. [Music. 

[ 7.1 For. What shall he have that killed the 

deer ? 

His leather skin and horns to wear. 
Then sing him home. 

[The rest shall bear this burden. 

Take thou no scorn to wear the horn ; 

It was a crest ere thou wast born ; is 
Thy father’s father wore it, 

And thy father bore it. 

The horn, the horn, the lusty horn 

Is not a thing to laugh to scorn. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. [The forest.] 

Enter Rosalind and Celia. 

Ros. How say you now ? Is it not past two 
o’clock ? And here much Orlando ! 

Cel. I warrant you, with pure love and 
troubled brain, ( Enter Silvios) he hath ta’en 
his bow and arrows and is gone forth — to sleep. 
Look, who comes here. * 




228 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


iv. iii. 


Sil. My errand is to you, fair youth ; 

My gentle Pliebe bid me give you this. 

I know not the contents ; but, as I guess 
By the stern brow and waspish action 
Which she did use as she was writing of it, 10 
It bears an angry tenour. Pardon me, 

I am but as a guiltless messenger. 

Bos. Patience herself would startle at this 
letter 

And play the swaggerer. Bear this, bear all. 
She says I am not fair, that I lack manners, is 
She calls me proud, and that she could not love 
me, 

Were man as rare as phoenix. ’Od’s my will 1 
Her love is not the hare that I do hunt. 

Why writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, 
well, 

This is a letter of your own device. 20 

Sil. No, I protest, I know not the contents. 
Phebe did write it. 

Bos. Come, come, you are a fool, 

And turn’d into the extremity of love. 

I saw her hand ; she has a leathern hand, 

A freestone-coloured hand. I verily did think 26 
That her old gloves were on, but ’twas her 
hands; 

She has a huswife’s hand; but that’s no 
matter. 

I say she never did invent this letter. 

This is a man’s invention and his hand. 

Sil. Sure, it is hers. so 

Bos. Why, ’t is a boisterous and a cruel 
style, 

A style for challengers. Why, she defies me, 
Like Turk to Christian. Women’s gentle brain 
Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention, 
Such Ethiope words, blacker in their effect 35 
Than in their countenance. Will you hear the 
letter ? 

Sil. So please you, for I never heard it yet; 
Yet heard too much of Phebe’s cruelty. 

Bos. She Phebes me. Mark how the tyrant 
writes. 

[Beads.] 

“ Art thou god to shepherd turn’d, 40 

Thatamaiden’s heart hath burn’d? ” 

Can a woman rail thus ? 

Sil. Call you this railing ? 

Bos. [Beads.] 

“ Why, thy godhead laid apart, 

Warr’st thou with a woman’s heart ? ” 4 g 
D id you ever hear such railing ? 

“ Whiles the eye of man did woo me. 

That could do no vengeance to me. 

Meaning me a beast. 

“ If the scorn of your bright eyne so 

Have power to raise such love in mine, 
Alack, in me what strange effect 
Would they work in mild aspect! 

Whiles you chid me, I did love; 

How then might your prayers move ! bb 
He that brings this love to thee 
Little knows this love in me ; 

And by him seal up thy mind, 

Whether that thy youth and kind 

Will the faithful offer take 00 

Of me and all that I can make; 


Or else by him my love deny. 

And then I ’ll study how to die.” 

Sil. Call you this chiding ? 

Cel. Alas, poor shepherd! 05 

Bos. Do you pity him ? No, he deserves no 
pity. Wilt thou love such a woman ? What, to 
make thee an instrument and play false strains 
upon thee ! Not to be endur’d ! Well, go your 
way to her—for I see love hath made thee a 
tame snake — and say this to her: that if [to 
she love me, I charge her to love thee ; if she 
will not, I will never have her unless thou en¬ 
treat for her. If you be a true lover, hence, 
and not a word ; for here comes more company. 

[Exit Silvius. to 

Enter Oliver. 

Oli. Good morrow, fair ones. Pray you, if 
you know, 

Where in the purlieus of this forest stands 
A sheep-cote fenc’d about with olive-trees ? 

Cel. West of this place, down in the neigh¬ 
bour bottom. 

The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream ao 
Left on your right hand brings you to the 
place. 

But at this hour the house doth keep itself ; 
There’s none within. 

Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue, 
Then should I know you by description; bb 
Such garments and such years. “The boy is 
fair, 

Of female favour, and bestows himself 
Like a ripe sister ; the woman low, 

And browner than her brother.” Are not you 
The owner of the house I did enquire for ? 90 

Cel. It is no boast, being ask’d, to say we 
are. 

Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both, 
And to that youth he calLs his Rosalind 
He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he ? 

Bos. I am. What must we understand by 
this ? as 

Oli. Some of my shame, if you w ill know of 
me 

What man I am, and how, and why, and where 
This handkercher was stain’d. 

I pray you, tell it. 
Oil. When last the young Orlando parted 
from you 

He left a promise to return again 100 

Within an hour ; and pacing through the forest, 
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy, 

Lo, what befell! He threw his eye aside. 

And mark what object did present itself. 

Under an old oak, whose boughs were moss’d 
with age 105 

And high top bald with dry antiquity, 

A wretched ragged man, o’ergrown with hair, 
Lay sleeping on his back. About his neck 
A green and gilded snake had wreath’d itself, 
Who with her head nimble in threats ap¬ 
proach’d U( 

The opening of his mouth ; but suddenly, 
Seeing Orlando, it unlink’d itself, 

And with indented glides did slip away 
Into a bush; under which bush’s shade 




V. 1. 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


229 


A lioness, with udders all drawn dry, ue 

Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike 
watch, 

When that the sleeping man should stir; for 
’tis 

The royal disposition of that beast 
To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead. 
This seen, Orlando did approach the man 120 
And found it was his brother, his elder brother. 
Cel. O, I have heard him speak of that same 
brother; 

And lie did render him the most unnatural 
That liv’d amongst men. 

Oli. And well he might so do, 

For well I know he was unnatural. 12s 

Ros. But, to Orlando. Did lie leave him 
there, 

Food to the suck’d and hungry lioness ? 

Oli. Twice did he turn his back and pur¬ 
pos’d so ; 

But kindness, nobler ever than revenge, 

And nature, stronger than his just occasion, 130 
Made him give battle to the lioness, 

Who quickly fell before him ; in which hurt- 
ling 

From miserable slumber I awaked. 

Cel. Are you his brother ? 

Ros. Was ’t you he rescu’d ? 

Cel. Was’t you that did so oft contrive to 
kill him r 13s 

Oil. ’T was I; but ’t is not I. I do not 
shame 

To tell you what I was, since my conversion 
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am. 

Ros. But, for the bloody napkin ? 

Oli. By and by. 

When from the first to last betwixt us two 140 
Tears our recomitments had most kindly 
bath’d, 

As how I came into that desert place, — 

In brief, he led me to the gentle Duke, 

Who gave me fresh array and entertainment, 
Committing me unto my brother’s love ; 145 

Who led me instantly unto his cave, 

There stripp’d himself, and here upon his arm 
The lioness had torn some flesh away, 

Which all this while had bled ; and now he 
fainted 

And cri’d, in fainting, upon Rosalind. iso 

Brief, I recover’d him, bound up his wound ; 
And, after some small space, being strong at 
heart, 

He sent me hither, stranger as I am, 

To tell this story, that you might excuse 
His broken promise, and to give this napkin, 
Dyed in his blood, unto the shepherd youth iss 
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind. 

[Rosalind swoons.) 
Cel. Why, how now, Ganymede ! sweet Gany¬ 
mede ! 

Oli. Many will swoon when they do look on 
blood. 

Cel. There is more in it. Cousin Ganymede ! 
Oli. Look, he recovers. 1*1 

Ros. I would I were at home. 

Cel. We’ll lead you thither. 

I pray you, will you take him by the arm ? 


Oli. Be of good cheer, youth. You a man ! 
You lack a man’s heart. ier> 

Ros. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah, a body 
would think this was well counterfeited ! I 
pray you, tell your brother how well I counter¬ 
feited. Heigh-ho! isa 

Oli. This was not counterfeit. There is too 
great testimony in your complexion that it was 
a passion of earnest. 

Ros. Counterfeit, I assure you. 

Oli. Well then, take a good heart and coun¬ 
terfeit to be a man. nr, 

Ros. So I do. But, i’ faith, I should have 
been a woman by right. 

Cel. Come, you look paler and paler. Pray 
you, draw homewards. Good sir, go with us. 
Oli. That will I, for I must bear answer 
back 

How you excuse my brother, Rosalind. 181 

Ros. I shall devise something ; but, I pray 
you, commend my counterfeiting to him. Will 
you go ? [Exeunt. 

ACT V 

Scene I. [The forest.) 

Enter Clown [Touchstone] and Audrey. 

Touch. We shall find a time, Audrey; pa¬ 
tience, gentle Audrey. 

Aud. Faith, the priest was good enough, 
for all the old gentleman’s saying. 4 

Touch. A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, 
a most vile Martext. But, Audrey, there is a 
youth here in the forest lays claim to you. 

Aud. Ay, I know who ’tis ; he hath no in¬ 
terest in .me in the world. Here comes the 
man you mean. 10 

Enter William. 

Touch. It is meat and drink to me to see a 
clown. By my troth, we that have good wits 
have much to answer for ; we shall be flouting; 
we cannot hold. 

Will. Good even, Audrey. ic 

Aud. God ye good even, William. 

Will. And good even to you, sir. 

Touch. Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy 
head, cover thy head; nay, prithee, be cov¬ 
er’d. How old are you, friend ? 20 

Will. Five and twenty, sir. 

Touch. A ripe age. Is thy name William ? 
Will. William,'sir. 

Touch. A fair name. Was’t born i’ the for¬ 
est here ? 2c 

Will. Ay, sir, I thank God. 

Touch. ‘‘ Thank God ” — a good answer. 
Art rich ? 

Will. Faith, sir, so so. 

Touch. “ So so ” is good, very good, very ex¬ 
cellent good ; and yet it is not; it is but so so. 
Art thou wise ? si 

Will. Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit. 

Touch. Why, thou say’st well. I do now re¬ 
member a saying, “The fool doth think he is 
wise, but the wise man knows himself to [s* 
be a fooL” The heathen philosopher, when he 





230 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


V. IL 


had a desire to eat a grape, would open his lips 
when he put it into his mouth ; meaning there¬ 
by that grapes were made to eat and lips to 
open. You do love this maid ? 40 

Will. I do, sir. 

Touch. Give me your hand. Art thou 
learned ? 

Will. No, sir. 

Touch. Then learn this of me : to have, is to 
have ; for it is a figure in rhetoric that drink, [45 
being pour’d out of a cup into a glass, by filling 
the one doth empty the other. For all your 
writers do consent that ipse is he: now, you 
are not ipse , for I am he. 

Will. Which he, sir? » 

Touch. He, sir, that must marry this woman. 
Therefore, you clown, abandon — which is in 
the vulgar leave — the society — which in the 
boorish is company — of this female — which 
in the common is woman; which together is, 
abandon the society of this female; or, [cs 
clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better under¬ 
standing, diest; or, to wit, I kill thee, make 
thee away, translate thy life into death, thy 
liberty into bondage. I will deal in poison with 
thee, or in bastinado, or in steel. I will bandy [eo 
with thee in faction ; I will o’er-run thee with 
policy; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty 
ways: therefore tremble, and depart. 

Aud. Do, good William. 

Will. God rest you merry, sir. [Exit. 65 

Enter Corin. 

Cor. Our master and mistress seeks you. 
Come, away, away ! 

Touch. Trip, Audrey! trip, Audrey ! I at¬ 
tend, I attend. [ Exeunt. 

Scene II. [The forest.] 

Enter Orlando and Oliver. 

Orl. Is ’t possible that on so little acquain¬ 
tance you should like her ? That but seeing 
you should love her ? And loving woo ? And, 
wooing, she should grant ? And will you per- 
sever to enjoy her ? s 

_ Oli. Neither call the giddiness of it in ques¬ 
tion, the poverty of her, the small acquain¬ 
tance, my sudden wooing, nor [her] sudden 
consenting; but say with me, I love Aliena ; 
say with her that she loves me ; consent with 
both that we may enjoy each other. It shall [10 
be to your good ; for my father’s house and all 
the revenue that was old Sir Roland’s will I 
estate upon you, and here live and die a shep¬ 
herd. 14 

Enter Rosalind. 

Orl. You have my consent. Let your wed¬ 
ding be to-morrow; thither will I invite the 
Duke and all ’s contented followers. Go you 
and prepare Aliena ; for look you, here comes 
my Rosalind. 

Ros. God save you, brother. 20 

Oli. And you, fair sister. [Exit.] 

Ros. O, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me 
to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf 1 


Orl. It is my arm. 

Ros. I thought thy heart had been wounded 
with the claws of a lion. 2« 

Orl. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a 
lady. 

Ros. Did your brother tell you how I coun¬ 
terfeited to swoon when he show’d me your 
handkercher ? 30 

Orl. Ay, and greater wonders than that. 

Ros. 0 , I know where you are. Nay, ’tis 
true. There was never any thing so sudden but 
the fight of two rams, and Caesar’s thrasonical 
brag of “I came, saw, and overcame.” For 
your brother and my sister no sooner met but [36 
they look’d ; no sooner look’d but they lov’d ; 
no sooner lov’d but they sigh’d ; no sooner 
sigh’d but they ask’d one another the reason ; 
no sooner knew the reason but they sought the 
remedy ; and in these degrees have they [40 
made a pair of stairs to marriage which they 
will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent 
before marriage. They are in the very wrath of 
love and they will together. Clubs cannot part 
them. 45 

Orl. They shall be married to-morrow, and I 
will bid the Duke to the nuptial. But, O, how 
bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through 
another man’s eyes ! By so much the more 
shall I to-morrow be at the height of heart- 
heaviness, by how much I shall think my 
brother happy in having what he wishes for. 52 
Ros. Why then, to-morrow I cannot serve 
your turn for Rosalind ? 

Orl. I can live no longer by thinking. 55 
Ros. I will weary you, then, no longer with 
idle talking. Know of me, then, for now I 
speak to some purpose, that I know you are 
a gentleman of good conceit. I speak not this 
that you should bear a good opinion of my 
knowledge, insomuch I say I know you are ; [eo 
neither do I labour for a greater esteem than 
may in some little measure draw a belief from 
you, to do yourself good and not to grace me. 
Believe then, if you please, that I can do strange 
things. I have, since I was three year old, [os 
convers’d with a magician, most profound in his 
art and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosa¬ 
lind so near the heart as your gesture cries it 
out, when your brother marries Aliena, shall 
you marry her. I know into what straits of [to 
fortune she is driven ; and it is not impossible 
to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, to 
set her before your eyes to-morrow, human as 
she is, and without any danger. 76 

Orl. Speakest thou in sober meanings ? 

Ros. By ray life, I do ; which I tender dearly, 
though I say I am a magician. Therefore, put 
you in your best array ; bid your friends ; for 
if you will be married to-morrow, you shall; 
and to Rosalind, if you will. »i 

Enter Silyius and Phebe. 

Look, here comes a lover of mine and a lover of 
hers. 

Phe. Youth, you have done me much un¬ 
gentleness, 

To show the letter that I writ to you. 







V. IV. 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


231 


Pos. I care not if I have. It is my study 85 
To seem despiteful and ungentle to you. 

You are there followed by a faithful shepherd; 
Look upon him, love him. He worships you. 
Phe. Good shepherd, tell this youth what 
’t is to love. 

Sil. It is to be all made of sighs and tears : 90 
And so am I for Phebe. 

Phe. And I for Ganymede. 

Orl. And I for Rosalind. 

Pos. And I for 110 woman. 

Sil. It is to be all made of faith and service ; 95 
And so am I for Phebe. 

Phe. And I for Ganymede. 

Orl. And I for Rosalind. 

Pos. And I for no woman. 

Sil. It is to be all made of fantasy. 100 

All made of passion, and all made of wishes; 
All adoration, duty, and observance, 

All humbleness, all patience, and impatience, 
All purity, all trial, all observance ; 

And so am I for Phebe. 105 

Phe. And so am I for Ganymede. 

Orl. And so am I for Rosalind. 

Pos. And so am I for no woman. 

Phe. If this be so, why blame you me to 
love you ? no 

Sil. If this be so, why blame you me to love 
you ? 

Orl. If this be so, why blame you me to love 
you? 

Pos. Why do you speak too, “ Why blame 
you me to love you ? ” ue 

Orl. To her that is not here, nor doth not hear. 
Pos. Pray you, no more of this ; ’t is like 
the howling of Irish wolves against the moon. 
[To Sil.] I will help you, if I can. [To Phe.] 
I would love you, if 1 could. To-morrow [120 



* uu lUVilOTT. L-*- V ' J J 

if ever I satisfi’d man, and you shall be mar¬ 
ried to-morrow. [To Sil.] I will content [125 
you, if what pleases you contents you, and you 
shall be married to-morrow. [To Orl. J As you 
love Rosalind, meet. [To Sil.] As you love 
Phebe, meet. And as I love no woman, I ’ll 
meet. So, fare you well. I have left you com¬ 
mands. 131 

Sil. I ’ll not fail, if I live. 

Phe. Nor I. 

Orl. Nor I. [Exeunt. 


2 . Page. We are for you. Sit i’ the middle. 

1 . Page. Shall we clap into ’t roundly, with¬ 

out hawking or spitting or saying we are 
hoarse, which are the only prologues to a bad 
voice ? 14 

2 . Page. V faith, i’ faith ; and both in a 
tune, like two gipsies on a horse. 

Song. 

It was a lover and his lass, 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
That o’er the green corn-field did pass 

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, 
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding ; 21 
Sweet lovers love the spring. 

Between the acres of the rye, 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
These pretty country folks would lie, 25 

In spring time, &c. 

This carol they began that hour, s- 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, ' 
How that a life was but a flower 
In spring time, <fcc. so 

And therefore take the present time, 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino; ^ 
For love is crowned with the prune 
In spring time, &c. 34 


Touch. Truly, young gentlemen, though 
there was no great matter in the ditty, yet the 
note was very untuneable. 

1 . Page. You are deceiv’d, sir. We kept 
time, we lost not our time. 39 

Touch. By my troth, yes: I count it but 
time lost to hear such a foolish song. God buy 
you — and God mend your voices ! Come, Au¬ 
drey. [Exeunt. 


Scene IV. [Theforest.] 

Enter Duke senior, Amiens, Jaques, Or¬ 
lando, Oliver, and Celia. 

Duke S. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that 
the boy 

Can do all this that he hath promised ? 

Orl. I sometimes do believe, and sometimes 
do not; 

As those that fear they hope, and know they 
fear. 


Scene III. [The forest.] 

Enter Clown [Touchstone] and Audrey. 

Touch. To-morrow is the joyful day, Au¬ 
drey ; to-morrow will we be married. 

Aud. I do desire it with all my heart; and I 
hope it is no dishonest desire to desire to be a 
woman of the world. Here come two of the 
banish’d Duke’s pages. « 

Enter two Pages. 

1 . Page. Well met, honest gentlemen. 

Touch. By my troth, well met. Come, sit, 
sit, and a song. 8 


Enter Rosalind, Silvius, and Phebe. 

Pos. Patience once more, whiles our com¬ 
pact is urg’d. b 

You say, if I bring in your Rosalind, 

You will bestow her on Orlando here ? 

Duke S. That would I, had I kingdoms to 
give with her. 

Pos. And you say, you will have her, when I 
bring her. 

Orl. That would I, were I of all kingdoms 
king. _ < I® 

Pos. You say, you ’ll marry me, if I be will¬ 
ing? 

Phe. That will I, should I die the hour after. 






232 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


v. iv. 


Bos. But if you do refuse to marry me, 

You ’ll give yourself to this most faithful shep¬ 
herd ? 

Phe. So is the bargain. # is 

Bos. You say, that you ’ll have Phebe, if she 
will ? 

Sil. Though to have her and death were both 
one thing. 

Bos. I have promis’d to make all this matter 
even. 

Keep you your word, O Duke, to give your 
daughter; 20 

You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter ; 
Keep your word, Phebe, that you ’ll marry me, 
Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd ; 
Keep your word, Silvius, that you ’ll marry her, 
If she refuse me ; and from hence I go, 

To make these doubts all even. 25 

[Exeunt Bosalind and Celia. 

Duke S. I do remember in this shepherd boy 
Some lively touches of my daughter’s favour. 

Orl. My lord, the first time that I ever saw 
him 

Methought he was a brother to your daughter. 
But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born, 30 
And hath been tutor’d in the rudiments 
Of many desperate studies by his uncle, 

Whom he reports to be a great magician, 
Obscured in the circle of this forest. 34 

Enter Clown [Touchstone] and Audrey. 

Jaq. There is, sure, another flood toward, 
and these couples are coming to the ark. Here 
comes a pair of very strange beasts, which in all 
tongues are called fools. 

Touch. Salutation and greeting to you all! 39 

Jaq. Good my lord, bid him welcome. This 
is the motley-minded gentleman that I have so 
often met in the forest. He hath been a cour¬ 
tier, he swears. 43 

Touch. If any man doubt that, let him put . 
me to my purgation. I have trod a measure ; 

I have flatt’red a lady ; I have been politic 
with my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I 
have undone three tailors; I have had four 
quarrels, and like to have fought one. 49 

Jaq. And how was that ta’en up ? 

Touch. Faith, we met, and found the quarrel 
was upon the seventh cause. 

Tag. How seventh cause? Good my lord, 
like this fellow. 

Duke S. I like him very well. 55 

Touch. God ’ild you, sir ; I desire you of the 
like. I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of 
the country copulatives, to swear and to for¬ 
swear, according as marriage binds and blood 
breaks. A poor virgin, sir, an ill-favour’d thing, 
sir, but mine own. A poor humour of mine. [00 
sir, to take that that no man else will. Rich 
honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house, 
as your pearl in your foul oyster. 

Duke S. By my faith, he is very swift and 
sententious. 06 

Touch. According to the fool’s bolt, sir, and 
such dulcet diseases. 

Jaq. But, for the seventh cause, — how did 
you find the quarrel on the seventh cause ? 70 


Touch. Upon a lie seven times removed, — 
bear your body more seeming, Audrey, — as 
thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a certain 
courtier’s beard. He sent me word, if I said 
his beard was not cut well, he was in the mind 
it was : this is call’d the Retort Courteous. [75 
If I sent him word again “ it was not well cut,” 
he would send me word, he cut it to please him¬ 
self: this is call’d the Quip Modest. If again 
“ it was not well cut,” he disabled my judge¬ 
ment : this is called the Reply Churlish. If [so 
again “ it was not well cut,” he would answer, 
I spake not true: this is called the Reproof 
Valiant. If again “ it was not well cut,” he 
would say, I lie: this is call’d the Counter¬ 
check Quarrelsome : and so to Lie Circumstan¬ 
tial and the Lie Direct. se 

Jaq. And how oft did you say his beard was 
not well cut ? 

Touch. I durst go no further than the Lie 
Circumstantial, nor he durst not give me the 
Lie Direct; and so we measur’d swords and 
parted. »i 

Jaq. Can you nominate in order now the de¬ 
grees of the lie ? 

Touch. 0 sir, we quarrel in print, by the 
book, as you have books for good manners. [95 
I will name you the degrees. The first, the 
Retort Courteous ; the second, the Quip Mod¬ 
est ; the third, the Reply Churlish ; the fourth, 
the Reproof Valiant; the fifth, the Counter¬ 
check Quarrelsome ; the sixth, the Lie with Cir¬ 
cumstance ; the seventh, the Lie Direct. All [109 
these you may avoid but the Lie Direct; and 
you may avoid that too, with an If. I knew 
when seven justices could not take up a quar¬ 
rel, but when the parties were met themselves, 
one of them thought but of an If, as, “If [too 
you said so, then I said so ” ; and they shook 
hands and swore brothers. Your If is the only 
peace-maker ; much virtue in If. 

Jaq. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? 
He’s as good at any thing, and yet a fool. no 

Duke S. He uses his folly like a stalking- 
horse and under the presentation of that he 
shoots his wit. 

Enter Hymen, Rosalind, and Celia. 

. . [Still Music. 

Hym. Then is there mirth in heaven, 

When earthly things made even no 
Atone together. 

Good Duke, receive thy daughter. 
Hymen from heaven brought her, 

Yea, brought her hither, 

That thou mightst join her hand with his 
Whose heart within his bosom is. 121 

Bos. [To the Duke.\ To you I give myself, 
for I am yours. 

[To Orl.] To you I give myself, for I am yours. 

Duke S. If there be truth in sight, you are 
my daughter. 

Orl. If there be truth in sight, you are my 
Rosalind. 125 

Phe. If sight and shape be true, 

Why then, my love adieu 1 







Epi. 


AS YOU LIKE IT 


2 33 


Ros. I ’ll have no father, if you be not he ; 

I ’ll have no husband, if you be not he ; 

Nor ne’er wed woman, if you be not she. iso 

Hym. Peace, ho ! I bar confusion. 

’T is I must make conclusion 

Of these most strange events. 
Here’s eight that must take hands 
To join in Hymen’s bands, 13s 

If truth holds true contents. 

You and you no cross shall part; 

You and you are heart in heart; 

You to his love must accord, 

Or have a woman to your lord ; 140 

You and you are sure together, 

As the winter to foul weather. 

Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing, 
Feed yourselves with questioning ; 
That reason wonder may diminish, 145 
How thus we met, and these things 
finish. 

Song. 

Wedding is great Juno’s crown 
O blessed bond of board and bed! 

’T is Hymen peoples every town ; 

High wedlock then be honoured. iso 
Honour, high honour, and renown, 

To Hymen, god of every town ! 

Duke S. 0 my dear niece, welcome thou art 
to me! 

Even daughter, welcome in no less degree. is 4 
Phe. I will not eat my word, now thou art 
mine ; 

Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine. 

Enter Second Brother [Jaques de Boys]. 

Jaq. de B. Let me have audience for a word 
or two. 

I am the second son of old Sir Roland, 

That bring these tidings to this fair assembly. 
Duke Frederick, hearing how that every 
day 160 

Men of great worth resorted to this forest, 
Address’d a mighty power, which were on 
foot, 

In his own conduct, purposely to take 
His brother here and put him to the sword ; 
And to the skirts of this wild wood he came, 10s 
Where meeting with an old religious man, 
After some question with him, was converted 
Both from his enterprise and from the world ; 
His crown bequeathing to his banish’d brother, 
And all their lands restor’d to them again no 
That were with him exil’d. This to be true, 

I do engage my life. 

Duke S. Welcome, young man ; 

Thou offer’st fairly to thy brothers’ wedding: 
To one his lands withheld ; and to the other 
A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. ns 
First, in this forest let us do those ends 
That here were well begun and well begot; 
And after, every of this happy number, 

That have endur’d shrewd days and nights 
with us, 


Shall share the good of our returned fortune, wo 

According to the measure of their states. 

Meantime, forget this new-fallen dignity, 

And fall into our rustic revelry. 

Play, music ! And you, brides and bridegrooms 
all, 

With measure heap’d in joy, to the measures 
fall. i 85 

Jaq. Sir, by your patience. If I heard you 
rightly, 

The Duke hath put on a religious life 

And thrown into neglect the pompous court ? 

Jaq. de B. He hath. 

Jaq. To him will I. Out of these convertites 

There is much matter to be heard and 
learn’d. iai 

[To Duke S.] You to your former honour I 
bequeath ; 

Your patience and your virtue well deserves it: 

[To Orl .] You to a love, that your true faith 
doth merit: 

[To Oli .] You to your land, and love, and 
( great allies: 195 

[To Sit.] You to a long and well-deserved 
bed : 

[To Touch.] And you to wrangling; for thy 
loving voyage 

Is but for two months victualed. So, to your 
pleasures; 

I am for other than for dancing measures. 

Duke S. Stay, Jaques, stay. joo 

Jaq. To see no pastime I. What you would 
have 

I ’ll stay to know at your abandon’d cave. 

[Exit. 

Duke S. Proceed, proceed. We will begin 
these rites, 

As we do trust they ’ll end, in true delights. 

[A dance.] Exeunt. 

[EPILOGUE] 


Ros. It is not the fashion to see the lady the 
epilogue, but it is no more unhandsome than 
to see the lord the prologue. If it be true that 
good wine needs no bush, ’tis true that a good 
play needs no epilogue ; yet to good wine they 
do use good bushes, ancl good plays prove the [o 
better by the help of good epilogues. What a 
case am I in then, that am neither a good epi¬ 
logue, nor cannot insinuate with you in the be¬ 
half of a good play! I am not furnish’d like a 
beggar, therefore to beg will not become me. [10 
My way is to conjure you, and I ’ll begin with 
the women. I charge you, O women, for the 
love you bear to men, to like as much of this 
play as please you ; and I charge you, O men, 
for the love you bear to women, — as I per- [is 
ceive by your simpering, none of you hates 
them — that between you and the women the 
play may please. If I were a woman I would 
kiss as many of you as had beards that pleas’d 
me, complexions that lik’d me, and breaths ['20 
that I defi’d not; and, I am sure, as many as 
have good beards or good faces or sweet 
breaths will, for my kind offer, when I make 
curtsy, bid me farewell. [Exit. 







TWELFTH NIGHT, OR WHAT YOU WILL 


Under the date of February 2 , 160 %, the Diary of John Manningham contains an entry re¬ 
cording the performance in the Hall of the Middle Temple, in which he was a student, of a play 
called Twelfth Night , or What You Will , which he describes in terms that identify it as Shake¬ 
speare’s. This fixes a later limit for the date of composition. An earlier limit has not yet been 
certainly fixed. The title does not occur in Meres’s list, so that it is most probably later than 
1598 . The reference to the ‘ ‘ new map with the augmentation of the Indies ” (ni. ii. 85 ) is not 
quite definite enough to enable us to accept with assurance the results of attempts to identify it 
with a map published in 1599 - 1600 . The evidence from the publication in collections of some of 
the songs in the play is weakened by the possibility of the songs’ having been popularly known 
before they were printed. But neither in these hints, nor in the metre, is there any hindrance 
to our regarding the most generally accepted date, 1601 , as the true one. 

No printed edition seems to have appeared before the First Folio in 1623 , and on this the pre¬ 
sent text is based. 

The problem of the exact source of the main plot involves at least five plays and three novels. 
Of these, two Italian plays with the same name, GV Inganni , may be set aside at once, since 
neither contains the central situation of Olivia’s love for Cesario. In 1531 there was produced at 
Siena the comedy of GV Ingannati, containing the substance of the plot of Twelfth Night; and a 
Latin translation of this was acted at Queens’ College, Cambridge, in 1590 and 1598 , but re¬ 
mained unprinted. The 28 th Novella of Bandello ( 1554 ), later translated into French by Belle- 
forest, has essentially the same plot. Belleforest’s is probably the source of an English version, 
Apolonius and Silla , published in 1581 in Barnabe Riche his Farewell to Military Profession. 
Shakespeare’s plot is on the whole closer to this than to any of the others. In 1608 , English 
comedians acted at Graz a play, extant in a German print of 1677 , called Tug end- und Liebes- 
streit. This comedy is manifestly closely related to Riche’s story, and it is plausibly conjectured 
that it goes back to a lost English play founded on Riche, which may also have been the direct 
original of Twelfth Night. But in any case it is more than likely that Shakespeare knew Riche’s 
book at first hand; for in the story Of Two Brethren and their Wives , contained in the same 
volume, an episode occurs which is the only source so far suggested for the pretended lunacy of 
Malvolio. 

Assuming that Shakespeare’s main source was Apolonius and Silla , or a play founded on it, we 
may note that he omits a long introduction telling of Silla’s love for the Duke before her ar¬ 
rival at his court and her adventures in search of him ; and this omission not only makes the 
action more compact, but also makes possible a finer conception of the heroine. The relations of 
Olivia and Sebastian are also much more delicately treated in the play, and the action is again 
condensed in the final scene. In Riche, the brother leaves the city after having been entertained 
by Julina (Olivia); gossip about Julina and Silla reaches the Duke, who has Silla thrown into a 
dungeon; Julina goes to the Duke to plead for Silla, who is sent for, denies any love-compact 
with Julina, and, under threat of death, reveals her identity. Julina retires in perplexity, and the 
Duke marries Silla. The rumor of the marriage brings the brother back to the city, where he 
confesses his former visit, and marries Julina. This scattering conclusion is in strong contrast to 
the concentration of Shakespeare’s denouement. 

Shakespeare’s treatment of Olivia’s love for Cesario is much fuller than Riche’s, and seems to 
show a reminiscence of a situation in Montemayor’s Diana, from which he had previously drawn 
materials for The Two Gentlemen of Verona. 

In characterization even more is due to the dramatist than in construction. The main persons 
are entirely re-created, and the sentimentalism of the Duke, as well as the appealing union of 
pathos and arch humor which makes the charm of Viola, is altogether the conception of Shake¬ 
speare. Apart from the hint mentioned above for the madness of Malvolio, the underplot, with 
the characters of Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, Maria, Malvolio, Fabian, and Feste, seems to be entirely 
original. 


TWELFTH NIGHT 

OR 

WHAT YOU WILL 


[DRAMATIS PERSON,® 


Obsino, Duke of Illyria. 

Sebastian, brother to Viola. 

Antonio, a sea captain, friend to Sebastian. 
A Sea Captain, friend to Viola. 

Valentine, 

Curio, 

Sir Toby Belch, uncle to Olivia. 

Sir Andrew Aguecheek. 


gentlemen attending on the Duke. 


/ 


Malvolio, steward to Olivia. 

Feste, a clown, } servanta to 01ma * 

Olivia, a rich countess. 

Viola. 

Marla, Olivia’s woman. 


Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and other Attendants. 


Scene : A city in Illyria , and the sea-coast near #.] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [A room in the Duke’s palace .] 

Enter Orsino, Duke of Illyria, Curio, and other 
Loras [Musicians attending]. 

Duke. If music be the food of love, play on ! 
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, 

The appetite may sicken, and so die. 

That strain again ! It had a dying fall. 

O. it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound c 
That breathes upon a bank of violets, 

Stealing and giving odour. Enough ! no more ! 
’T is not so sweet now as it was before. 

O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou, 
That, notwithstanding thy capacity 10 

Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there, 

Of what validity and pitch soe’er, 

But falls into abatement and low price , 

Even in a minute ! So full of shapes is fancy 
That it alone is high fantastical. is 

Cur. Will you go hunt, my lord ? 

Duke. What, Curio ? 

Cur. The hart. 

Duke. Why, so I do, the noblest that I have. 
O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, 
Methought she purg’d the air of pestilence ! 20 
That instant was I turn’d into a hart; 

And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, 
E’er since pursue me. 

Enter Valentine. 

How now ! what news from her ? 
Val. So please my lord, I might not be ad¬ 
mitted, 

But from her handmaid do return this an¬ 
swer : > 28 

The element itself, till seven years’ heat, 

Shall not behold her face at ample view ; 

But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk, 

And water once a day her chamber round 


With eye-offending brine : all this to season so 
A brother’s dead love, which she would keep 
fresh 

And lasting in her sad remembrance. 

Duke. 0 , she that hath a heart of that fine 
frame 

To pay this debt of love but to a brother, 

How will she love when the rich golden shaft sb 
Hath kill’d the flock of all affections else 
That live in her ; when liver, brain, and heart. 
These sovereign thrones, are all suppli’d, and 
fill’d 


Her sweet perfections with one self king ! 
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers ; *0 

Love-thoughts lie rich when canopi’d with 
bowers. [Exeunt. 


Scene II. [The sea-coast.] 

Enter Viola, a Captain, and Sailors. 

Vio. What country, friends, is this ? 

Cajp. This is Illyria, lady. 

Vio. And what should I do in Illyria ? 

My brother he is in Elysium. 

Perchance he is not drown’d. What think you, 
sailors ? 5 

Cap. It is perchance that you yourself were 
saved. 

Vio. 0 my poor brother ! and so perchance 
may he be. 

Cap. True, madam; and, to comfort you 
with chance, 

Assure yourself, after our ship did split, 

When you and those poor number saved with 
you io 

Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother, 

Most provident in peril, bind himself, 

Courage and hope both teaching him the prac¬ 
tice, 

To a strong mast that liv’d upon the sea ; 
Where, like Arion on the dolphin’s back, 1* 





236 


TWELFTH NIGHT 


1 iii. 


I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves 
So long as I could see. 

Vio. For saying so, there ’s gold. 

Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope, 
Whereto thy speech serves for authority, 20 
The like of him. Know’st thou this country ? 
Cap. Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and 
born 

Not three hours’ travel from this very place. 
Vio. Who governs here ? 

Cap. A noble duke, in nature as in name. 26 
Vio. What is his name ? 

Cap. Orsino. 

Vio. Orsino! I have heard my father name 
him. 

He was a bachelor then. 

Cap. And so is now, or was so very late ; 30 
For but a month ago I went from hence, 

And then ’t was fresh in murmur—as, you 
know, 

What great ones do the less will prattle of — 
That he did seek the love of fair Olivia. 

Vio. What’s she ? 35 

Cap. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a 
count 

That died some twelvemonth since, then leav¬ 
ing her 

In the protection of his son, her brother, 

Who shortly also died ; for whose dear love, 
They say, she hath abjur’d the company 40 
And sight of men. 

Vio. 0 that I serv’d that lady, 

And might not be delivered to the world, 

Till I had made mine own occasion mellow, 
What my estate is ! 

Cap. That were hard to compass, 

Because she will admit no kind of suit, 45 
No, not the Duke’s. 

Vio• There is a fair behaviour in thee, cap¬ 
tain ; 

And though that nature with a beauteous wall 
Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee 
I will believe thou hast a mind that suits 50 
With this thy fair and outward character 
I prithee, and I ’ll pay thee bounteously, 
Conceal me what I am, and be my aid 
For such disguise as haply shall become 
The form of my intent. I’ll serve this duke. 55 
Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him. 

It may be worth thy pains, for I can sing 
And speak to him in many sorts of music 
That will allow me very worth his service. 
What else may hap, to time I will commit, so 
Only shape thou thy silence to my wit. 

Cap. Be you his eunuch, and your mute I ’ll 
be. 

When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not 
see. 

Vio. I thank thee. Lead me on. [ Exeunt . 

Scene III. [A room in Olivia " 1 s house.] 
Enter Sir Toby Belch and Maria. 

Sir To. What a plague means my niece, to 
take the death of her brother thus ? I am sure 
care’s an enemy to life. 

Mar. By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come 


in earlier o’ nights. Your cousin, my lady, 
takes great exceptions to your ill hours. s 
Sir To. Why, let her except before excepted. 
Mar. Ay, but you must confine yourself 
within the modest limits of order. » 

Sir To. Confine! I ’ll confine myself no 
finer than I am. These clothes are good enough 
to drink in, and so be these boots too ; an they 
be not, let them hang themselves in their own 
straps. is 

Mar. That quaffing and drinking will undo 
you. I heard my lady talk of it yesterday, 
and of a foolish knight that you brought in one 
night here to be her wooer. 17 

Sir To. Who ? Sir Andrew Aguecheek ? 
Mar. Ay, he. 

Sir To. He’s as tall a man as any’s in Uly- 
ria. 20 

Mar. What’s that to the purpose ? 

Sir To. Why, he has three thousand ducats 
a year. 

Mar. Ay, but he ’U have but a year in all 
these ducats. He’s a very fool and a prodigal. 25 
Sir To. Fie, that you ’ll say so ! He plays o’ 
the viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four 
languages word for word without book, and 
hath all the good gifts of nature. 29 

Mar. He hath indeed, almost natural; for 
besides that he’s a fool, he’s a great quarrel- 
ler; and but that he hath the gift of a coward 
to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, ’t is 
thought among the prudent he would quickly 
have the gift of a grave. 35 

Sir To. By this hand, they are scoundrels 
and substractors that say so of him. Who are 
they ? 

Mar. They that add, moreover, he’s drunk 
nightly in your company. 39 

Sir To. With drinking healths to my niece. 

I ’ll drink to her as long as there is a passage 
in my throat and drink in IUyria. He’s a cow¬ 
ard and a coystriU that will not drink to my 
niece tiU his brains turn o’ the toe like a par¬ 
ish-top. What, wench ! Castiliano vulgo I for 
here comes Sir Andrew Agueface. 46 

Enter Sir Andrew Aguecheek. 

Sir And. Sir Toby Belch! How now, Sir 
Toby Belch J 

Sir To. Sweet Sir Andrew ! 

Sir And. Bless you, fair shrew. />o 

Mar. And you too, sir. 

Sir To. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost. 

Sir And. What’s that ? 

Sir To. My niece’s chambermaid. 

Sir And. Good Mistress Accost, I desire bet¬ 
ter acquaintance. ee 

Mar. My name is Mary, sir. 

Sir And. Good Mistress Mary Accost, — 

Sir To. You mistake, knight. “ Accost ” is 
front her, board her, woo her, assail her. go 

Sir And. By my troth, I would not under¬ 
take her in this company. Is that the meaning 
of “accost”? S 

Mar. Fare you well, gentlemen. 

Sir To. An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, 
would thou mightst never draw sword again, eo 





237 


OR, WHAT YOU WILL 


I. iv. 


Sir And. An you part so, mistress, I would 
I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, 
do you think you have fools in hand ? 

Mar. Sir, I have not you by the hand. 70 
Sir And. Marry, but you shall have ; and 
here’s my hand. 

Mar. Now, sir, “thought is free.” I pray 
you, bring your hand to the buttery-bar and let 
it drink. 

Sir And. Wherefore, sweetheart ? What’s 
your metaphor ? to 

Mar. It’s dry, sir. 

Sir And. Why, I think so. I am not such 
an ass hut I can keep my hand dry. But what’s 
your jest ? so 

Mar. A dry jest, sir. 

Sir And. Are you full of them ? 

Mar. Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers’ 
ends. Marry, now I let go your hand, I am 
barren. [Exit. 

Sir To. O knight, thou lack’st a cup of 
canary. When did I see thee so put down ? «o 
Sir And. Never in your life, I think, unless 
you see canary put me down. Methinks some¬ 
times I have no more wit than a Christian or 
an ordinary man has; but I am a great eater 
of beef and I believe that does harm to my 
wit.. 91 

Sir To. No question. 

Sir And. An I thought that, I’d forswear 
it. I ’ll ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby. 

Sir To. Pourquoi , my dear knight ? 95 

Sir And. What is ‘ pourquoi ' 1 ' 1 ? Do or not 
do ? I would I had bestowed that time in the 
tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and 
bear-baiting. 0 , had I but followed the arts ! 

Sir To. Then hadst thou had an excellent 
head of hair. 101 

Sir And. Why, would that have mended my 
hair? 

Sir To. Past question ; for thou seest it will 
not curl by nature. 10s 

Sir And. But it becomes me well enough, 
does’t not ? 

Sir To. Excellent; it hangs like flax on a 
distaff, and I hope to see a housewife take thee 
between her legs, and spin it off. 110 

Sir And. Faith, I ’ll home to-morrow, Sir 
Toby. Your niece will not be seen, or if she 
be, it’s four to one she ’ll none of me. The 
Count himself here hard by wooes her. 11* 

Sir To. She ’ll none o’ the Count. She ’ll not 
match above her degree, neither in estate, 
years, nor wit; I have heard her swear’t. Tut, 
there’s life in’t, man. 

Sir And. I ’ll stay a month longer. I am a 
fellow o’ the strangest mind i’ the world ; I 
delight in masques and revels sometimes alto¬ 
gether. 121 

Sir To. Art thou good at these kickshawses, 
knight ? 

Sir And. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever 
he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet 
I will not compare with an old man. . 126 

Sir To. What is thy excellence in a galliard, 
knight ? 

Sir And. Faith, I can cut a caper. 


Sir To. And I can cut the mutton to’t. iso 
Sir And. And I think I have the back-trick 
simply as strong as any man in Illyria. 

Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid ? 
Wherefore have these gifts a curtain before 
’em ? Are they like to take dust, like Mistress 
Mall’s picture ? Why dost thou not go to [135 
church in a galliard and come home in a co- 
ranto ? My very walk should be a jig. I would 
not so much as make water but in a sink-a- 
)ace. What dost thou mean ? Is it a world to 
lide virtues in? I did think, by the excel- [wo 
lent constitution of thy leg, it was form’d under 
the star of a galliard. 

Sir And. Ay, ’t is strong, and it does indiffer¬ 
ent well in a damn’d colour’d stock. Shall we 
set about some revels ? us 

Sir To. What shall we do else? Were we 
not born under Taurus ? 

Sir And. Taurus ! That’s sides and heart. 
Sir To. No, sir, it is legs and thighs. Let 
me see thee caper. Ha! Higher! Ha, ha! 
Excellent! [ Exeunt. m 

Scene IV. [A room in the Duke's palace .] 
Enter Valentine, and Viola in man's attire. 

Val. If the Duke continue these favours 
towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much 
advanc’d. He hath known you but three days, 
and already you are no stranger. * 

Vio. You either fear his humour or my neg¬ 
ligence, that you call in question the contin¬ 
uance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir, in his 
favours ? 

Val. No, believe me. 

Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants. 

Vio. I thank you. Here comes the Count. 
Duke. Who saw Cesario, ho ? 19 

Vio. On your attendance, my lord ; here. 
Duke. Stand you a while aloof. Cesario, 

Thou know’st no less but all. I have unclasp’d 
To thee the book even of my secret soul; 
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto 
her. is 

Be not deni’d access, stand at her doors, 

And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow 
Till thou have audience. 

Vio. Sure, my noble lord, 

If she be so abandon’d to her sorrow 
As it is spoke, she never will admit me. 20 
Duke. Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds 
Bather than make unprofited return. 

Vio. Say I do speak with her, my lord, what 
then ? 

Duke. O, then unfold the passion of my love, 
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith. 20 
It shall become thee well to act my woes. 

She will attend it better in thy youth 
Than in a nuncio’s of more grave aspect. 

Vio. I think not so, my lord. 

Duke. Dear lad, believe it; 

For they shall yet belie thy happy years, 30 
That say thou art a man. Diana’s lip 
Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small 
pipe 









TWELFTH NIGHT 


I. v. 


238 


Is as the maiden’s organ, shrill and sound ; 
And all is semblative a woman’s part. 

I know thy constellation is right apt 35 

For this affair. Some four or five attend him,— 
All, if you will; for I myself am best 
When least in company. Prosper well in this, 
And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, 

To call his fortunes thine. 

Vio. I ’ll do my best 40 

To woo your lady, — [aside] yet, a barful strife ! 
Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene V. [A room in Olivia's house.] 
Enter Maria and Clown. 

Mar. Nay, either tell me where thou hast 
been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a bris¬ 
tle may enter, in way of thy excuse. My lady 
will hang thee for thy absence. 

Clo. Let her hang me! He that is well 
hang’d in this world needs to fear no colours. 0 

Mar. Make that good. 

Clo. He shall see none to fear. 

Mar. A good lenten answer. I can tell thee 
where that saying was born, of “I fear no 
colours.” 

Clo. Where, good Mistress Mary ? 11 

Mar. In the wars; and that may you be 
bold to say in your foolery. 

Clo. Well, God give them wisdom that have 
it; and those that are fools, let them use their 
talents. ie 

Mar. Yet you will be hang’d for being so 
long absent; or, to be turn’d away, is not that 
as good as a hanging to you ? 

Clo. Many a good hanging prevents a bad [20 
marriage ; and, for turning away, let summer 
bear it out. 

Mar. You are resolute, then ? 

Clo. Not so, neither; but I am resolv’d on 
two points. 25 

Mar. That if one break, the other will hold ; 
or, if both break, your gaskins fall. 

Clo. Apt, in good faith ; very apt. Well, go 
thy way. If Sir Toby would leave drinking, 
thou wert as witty a piece of Eve’s flesh as any 
in Illyria. 31 

Mar. Peace, you rogue, no more o’ that. 
Here comes my lady. Make your excuse wisely, 
you were best. [Exit.] 34 

Enter Lady Olivia [and retinue] with Mal- 
VOLIO. 

Clo. Wit, an’t be thy will, put me into 
ood fooling! Those wits, that think they 
ave thee, do very oft prove fools ; and I, that 
am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man ; 
for what says Quinapalus ? “Better a witty 
fool than a foolish wit.” — God bless thee, f 4 * 
lady! 

Oli. Take the fool away. 

Clo. Do you not hear, fellows ? Take away 
the lady. 

Oli. Go to, you ’re a dry fool, I ’ll no more of 
you ; besides, you grow dishonest. 4 « 

Clo. Two faults, madonna, that drink and 


ood counsel will amend ; for give the dry fool 
rink, then is the fool not dry: bid the dis¬ 
honest man mend himself ; if he mend, he is 
no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the [*• 
botcher mend him. Any thing that’s mended 
is but patch’d ; virtue that transgresses is but 
patch’d with sin, and sin that amends is but 
patch’d with virtue. If that this simple syllo¬ 
gism will serve, so ; if it will not, what rem- [« 
edy ? As there is no true cuckold but calam¬ 
ity, so beauty’s a flower. The lady bade take 
away the fool; therefore, I say again, take her 
away. 

Oli. Sir, I bade them take away you. eo 
Clo. Misprision in the highest degree ! Lady, 
“ cucullus non facit monachum ”; that’s as much 
to say as I wear not motley in my brain. Good 
madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool. 
Oli. Can you do it ? eo 

Clo. Dexteriously, good madonna. 

Oli. Make your proof. 

Clo. I must catechise you for it, madonna. 
Good my mouse of virtue, answer me. 

Oli. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, 
I ’ll bide your proof. n 

Clo. Good madonna, why mournest thou ? 
Oli. Good fool, for my brother’s death. 

Clo. I think his soul is in hell, madonna. 

Oli. I know his soul is in heaven, fool. w 
Clo. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for 
your brother’s soul being in heaven. Take 
away the fool, gentlemen. 

Oli. What think you of this fool, Malvolio ? 
Doth he not mend ? 80 

Mai. Yes, and shall do till the pangs of 
death shake him. Infirmity, that decays the 
wise, doth ever make the better fool. 

Clo. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, 
for the better increasing your folly ! Sir Toby 
will be sworn that I am no fox, but he will [ss 
not pass his word for twopence that you are no 
fool. 

Oli. How say you to that, Malvolio ? 

Mai. I marvel your ladyship takes delight 
in such a barren rascal. I saw him put down 
the other day with an ordinary fool that has [»o 
no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he’s 
out of his guard already. Unless you laugh 
and minister occasion to him, he is gagg’d. I 
protest, I take these wise men, that crow so at 
these set kind of fools, no better than the fools’ 
zanies. 96 

Oli. 0 , you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, 
and taste with a distemper’d appetite. To be 
generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is 
to take those things for bird-bolts that you 
deem cannon-bullets. There is no slander [100 
in an allow’d fool, though he do nothing but 
rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, 
though he do nothing but reprove. 

Clo. Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, 
for thou speak’st well of fools ! im 

Re-enter Maria. 

Mar. Madam, there is at the gate a young 
much desires to speak with you. 

Oli. From the Count Orsino, is it ? 







I. V. 


OR, WHAT YOU WILL 


*39 


Mar. I know not, madam. ’T is a fair young 
man, and well attended. in 

Oli. Who of my people hold him in de- 
lay ? 

Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. 

Oli. Fetch him off, I pray you. He speaks 
nothing but madman ; fie on him ! [Exit [ns 
Maria?] Go you, Malvolio ; if it be a suit from 
the Count, I am sick ? or not at home, — what 
you will, to dismiss it. {Exit Malvolio.) Now 
you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and 
people dislike it. 

Clo. Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as 
if thy eldest son should be a fool; whose [120 
skull Jove cram with brains! for — here he 
comes — 

Enter Sir Toby. 

one of thy kin has a most weak pia mater. 

Oli. By mine honour, half drunk. What is 
he at the gate, cousin ? ns 

Sir To. A gentleman. 

Oli. A gentleman! What gentleman ? 

Sir To. ’T is a gentleman here — a plague o’ 
these pickle-herring! How now, sot! 

Clo. Good Sir Toby! no 

Oli. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so 
early by this lethargy ? 

Sir To. Lechery I I defy lechery. There’s 
one at the gate. 

Oli. Ay, marry, what is he ? 13s 

Sir To. Let him be the devil, an he will, I 
care not; give me faith, say I. Well,it ’s all 
one. [Exit. 

Oli. What’s a drunken man like, fool ? 

Clo. Like a drown’d man, a fool, and a mad¬ 
man. One draught above heat makes him a 
fool, the second mads him, and a third [no 
drowns him. 

Oli. Go thou and seek the crowner and let 
him sit o’ my coz, for he’s in the third degree 
of drink, he’s drown’d. Go, look after him. 

Clo. He is but mad yet, madonna ; and the 
fool shall look to the madman. [Exit, no 

Re-enter Malvolio. 

Mai. Madam, yond young fellow swears he 
will speak with you. I told him you were sick. 
He takes on him to understand so much, and 
therefore comes to speak with you. I told him 
you were asleep. He seems to have a fore- [no 
knowledge of that too, and therefore comes to 
speak with you. What is to be said to him, 
lady ? He’s fortified against any denial. 

Oli. Tell him he shall not speak with me. no 
Mai. Has been told so; and he says, he ’ll 
stand at your door like a sheriff’s post, and be 
the supporter to a bench, but he ’ll speak with 
you. 

Oli. What kind o’ man is he ? 

Mai. Why, of mankind. 160 

Oli. What manner of man ? 

Mai. Of very ill manner. He ’ll speak with 
you, will you or no. 

Oli. Of what personage and years is he ? im 
Mai. Not yet old enough for a man, nor 
young enough for a boy ; as a squash is before 


’t is a peascod, or a codling when’t is almost an 
apple. ’T is with him in standing water, be¬ 
tween boy and man. He is very well-favour’d 
and he speaks very shrewishly. One would 
think his mother’s milk were scarce out of 
him. i 7 i 

Oli. Let him approach. Call in my gentle¬ 
woman. 

Mai. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. [Exit. 

Re-enter Maria. 

Oli. Give me my veil. Come, throw it o’er 
my face. no 

We ’ll once more hear Orsino’s embassy. 

Enter Viola [and Attendants ]. 

Vio. The honourable lady of the house, 
which is she ? 

Oli. Speak to me; I shall answer for her. 
Your will ? i#o 

Vio. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatcli- 
able beauty, — I pray you, tell me if this be the 
lady of the house, for I never saw her. I would 
be loath to cast away my speech, for besides 
that it is excellently well penn’d, I have taken 
great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me [i»b 
sustain no scorn. I am very comptible, even to 
the least sinister usage. 

Oli. Whence came you, sir ? is» 

Vio. I can say little more than I have stud¬ 
ied, and that question’s out of my part. Good 
gentle one, give me modest assurance if you be 
the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my 
speech. 

Oli. Are you a comedian ? im 

Vio. No, my profound heart; and yet, by 
the very fangs of malice I swear, I am not that 
I play. Are you the lady of the house ? 

Oli. If I do not usurp myself, I am. 

Vio. Most certain, if you are she, you do 
usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow 
is not yours to reserve. But this is from my [200 
commission. I will on with my speech in your 
praise, and then show you the heart of my 
message. 

Oli. Come to what is important in’t. I for¬ 
give you the praise. 206 

Vio. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 
’t is poetical. 

Oli. It is the more like to be feigned. I pray 
you, keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my 
gates, and allow’d your approach rather to [210 
wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not 
mad, be gone. If you have reason, be brief. 
’T is not that time of moon with me to make 
one in so skipping a dialogue. 

Mar. Will you hoist sail, sir ? Here lies your 
way. 219 

Vio. No, good swabber, I am to hull here a 
little longer. Some mollification for your giant, 
sweet lady. Tell me your mind. I am a mes¬ 
senger. **° 

Oli. Sure, you have some hideous matter to 
deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. 
Speak your office. 

Vio. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no 
overture of war, no taxation of homage. I 






240 


TWELFTH NIGHT 


I. V 


hold the olive in my hand. My words are as full 
of peace as matter. 

Oli. Yet you began rudely. What are you ? 
What would you ? 229 

Vio. The rudeness that hath appear’d in me 
have I learn’d from my entertainment. What 
I am, and what I would, are as secret as 
maidenhead; to your ears, divinity, to any 
other’s, profanation. 234 

Oli. Give us the place alone ; we will hear 
this divinity. [ Exeunt Maria and Attendants.] 
Now, sir, what is your text ? 

Vio. Most sweet lady, — 

Oli. A comfortable doctrine, and much may 
be said of it. Where lies your text V 240 

Vio. In Orsino’s bosom. 

Oli. In his bosom! In what chapter of his 
bosom ? 

Vio. To answer by the method, in the first 
of his heart. 246 

Oli. 0 , I have read it; it is heresy. Have 
you no more to say ? 

Vio. Good madam, let me see your face. 

Oli. Have you any commission from your 
lord to negotiate with my face ? You are now 
out of your text, but we will draw the cur- [200 
tain and show you the picture. Look you, sir, 
such a one I was — this present. Is ’t not well 
done? [Unveiling.] 

Vio. Excellently done, if God did all. 

Oli. ’T is in grain, sir; ’twill endure wind 
and weather. 256 

Vio. ’T is beauty truly blent, whose red and 
white 

Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on. 
Lady, you are the cruell’st she alive, 

If you will lead these graces to the grave 260 
And leave the world no copy. 

Oli. O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted ; I 
will give out divers schedules of my beauty. It 
shall .be inventoried, and every particle and 
utensil labell’d to my will: as, item, two lips, 
indifferent red ; item, two grey eyes, with [265 
lids to them ; item, one neck, one chin, and so 
forth. Were you sent hither to praise me ? 

Vio. I see you what you are, you are too 
proud ; 

But, if you were the devil, you are fair. 270 
My lord and master loves you. 0 , such love 
Could be but recompens’d, though you were 
crown’d 

The nonpareil of beauty ! 

Oli. How does he love me ? 

Vio. With adorations, [with] fertile tears, 
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of 
fire. 275 

OH. Your lord does know my mind ; I can¬ 
not love him. 

Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble ; 
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth, 

In voices well divulg’d, free, learn’d, and 
valiant, 

And in dimension and the shape of nature 280 
A gracious person. But yet I cannot love him. 
He might have took his answer long ago. 

Tto. If I did love you in my master’s flame, 
With such a suffering, such a deadly life, 


In your denial I would find no sense, jbs 

I would not understand it. 

Oli. Why, what would you ? 

Vio. Make me a willow cabin at your gate, 
And call upon my soul within the house ; 

Write loyal cantons of contemned love 
And sing them loud even in the dead of 
night; . *90 

Halloo your name to the reverberate hills 
And make the babbling gossip of the air 
Cry out “ Olivia ! ” 0 , you should not rest 
Between the elements of air and earth, 

But you should pity me ! 

Oli. You might do much. 

What is your parentage ? 29 « 

Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is 
well. 

I am a gentleman. 

Oli. Get you to your lord. 

I cannot love him. Let him send no more, — 
Unless, perchance, you come to me again 300 

To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well! 

I thank you for your pains. Spend this for 
me. 

Vio. I am no fee’d post, lady. Keep your 
purse. 

My master, not myself, lacks recompense. 

Love make his heart of flint that you shall 
love; 305 

And let your fervour, like my master’s, be 
Plac’d in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty. 

[Exit. 

Oli. “ What is your parentage ? ” 

“ Above my fortunes, yet my state is well. 

I am a gentleman.” I ’ll be sworn thou art. 310 
Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and 
spirit 

Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast! 
Soft, soft! 

Unless the master were the man. How now ! 
Even so quickly may one catch the plague ? 
Methinks I feel this youth’s perfections 315 
With an invisible and subtle stealth 
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be. 

What ho, Malvolio! 

Re-enter Malvolio. 

Mai. Here, madam, at your service. 

Oli. Run after that same peevish messen- 
ger, 

The County’s man. He left this ring behind 
him, 320 

Would I or not. Tell him I ’ll none of it. 

Desire him not to flatter with his lord, 

Nor hold him up with hopes. I’m not for 
him. 

If that the youth will come this way to-mor¬ 
row. 

I’ll give him reasons for’t. Hie thee, Mal¬ 
volio. 325 

Mai. Madam, I will. [ Exit. 

Oli. I do I know not what, and fear to find 
Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. 
Fate, show thy force; ourselves we do not 
owe; 

What is decreed must be, and be this so. ss* 

[Exit.\ 




II. iii. 


OR, WHAT YOU WILL 


241 


ACT II 

Scene I. [ The sea-coast .] 

Enter Antonio and Sebastian. 

Ant. Will you stay no longer ? Nor will you 
not that I go with you ? 

Seb. By your patience, no. My stars shine 
darkly over me. The malignancy of my fate 
might perhaps distemper yours, therefore I 
shall crave of you your leave that I may bear [5 
my evils alone. It were a bad recompense for 
your love, to lay any of them on you. 

Ant. Let me yet know of you whither you 
are bound. 10 

Seb. No, sooth, sir. My determinate voyage 
is mere extravagancy. But -1 perceive in you 
so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will 
not extort from me what I am willing to keep 
in; therefore it charges me in manners the 
rather to express myself. You must know [is 
of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, 
which I call’d Roderigo. My father was that 
Sebastian of Messaline, whom I know you have 
heard of. He left behind him myself and a 
sister, both born in an hour. If the heavens [20 
had been pleas’d, would we had so ended ! But 
you, sir, alter’d that; for some hour before you 
took me from the breach of the sea was my 
sister drown’d. 

Ant. Alas the day ! 25 

Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said she much 
resembled me, was yet of many accounted beau¬ 
tiful ; but, though I could not with such esti¬ 
mable wonder overfar believe that, yet thus 
far I will boldly publish her : she bore a mind 
that envy could not but call fair. She is [30 
drown’d already, sir, with salt water, though I 
seem to drown her remembrance again with 
more. 

Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertain¬ 
ment. 

Seb. 0 good Antonio, forgive me your 
trouble. 36 

Ant. If you will not murder me for my love, 
let me be your servant. 

Seb. If you will not undo what you have 
done, that is, kill him whom you have re¬ 
cover’d, desire it not. Fare ye well at once. 
My bosom is full of kindness, and I am yet [40 
so near the manners of my mother, that upon 
the least occasion more mine eyes will tell tales 
of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino’s court. 
Farewell. [Exit. 

Ant. The gentleness of all the gods go with 
thee! 45 

I have many enemies in Orsino’s court, 

Else would I very shortly see thee there. 

But, come what may, I do adore thee so, 

That danger shall seem sport, and I will go. 

[Exit. 

Scene II. [A street .] 

Enter Viola and Malvolio, at several doors. 

Mai. Were you not even now with the 
Countess Olivia ? 


Vio. Even now, sir. On a moderate pace I 
have since arriv’d but hither. 4 

Mai. She returns this ring to you, sir. You 
might have saved me my pains, to have taken 
it away yourself. She adds, moreover, that you 
should put your lord into a desperate assurance 
she will none of him ; and — one thing more — 
that you be never so hardy to come again in 
his affairs, unless it be to report your lord’s [10 
taking of this. Receive it so. 

Vio. She took the ring of me. I ’ll none of it. 
Mai. Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to 
her; and her will is, it should be so return’d. 
If it be worth stooping for, there it lies in [is 
your eye ; if not, be it his that finds it. [Exit. 
Vio. I left no ring with her. What means 
this lady ? 

Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d 
her! 

She made good view of me ; indeed, so much, 20 
That [sure] methought her eyes had lost her 
tongue, 

For she did speak in starts distractedly. 

She loves me, sure. The cunning of her passion 
Invites me in this churlish messenger. 

None of my lord’s ring ! Why, he sent her none. 
1 am the man ! If it be so, as ’tis, 26 

Poor lady, she were better love a dream. 
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness 
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. 

How easy is it for the proper-false 3 « 

In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms ! 
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we ! 

For such as we are made of, such we be. 

How will this fadge ? My master loves her 
dearly; 

And I, poor monster, fond as much on him ; ss 
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. 

What will become of this ? As I am man, 

My state is desperate for my master’s love ; 

As I am woman, — now alas the day ! — 

What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe ! 
O time! thou must untangle this, not I. 41 
It is too hard a knot for me to untie 1 [Exit.] 

Scene III. [A room in Olivia's house.] 
Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. 

Sir To. Approach, Sir Andrew. Not to be 
a-bed after midnight is to be up betimes ; and 
“ deliculo surgere ,” thou know’st, — 

Sir And. Nay, by my troth, I know not; but 
I know, to be up late is to be up late. _ 3 

Sir To. A false conclusion. I hate it as an 
unfill’d can. To be up after midnight and to go 
to bed then, is early ; so that to go to bed after 
midnight is to go to bed betimes. Does not our 
lives consist of the four elements ? _ 10 

Sir And. Faith, so they say ; but I think it 
rather consists of eating and drinking. 

Sir To. Thou ’rt a scholar ; let us therefore 
eat and drink. Marian, I say! a stoup of wine l 

Enter Clown. 

Sir And. Here comes the fool, i’ faith. « 
Clo. How now, my hearts ! Did you never 
see the picture of “we three ” ? 




242 


TWELFTH NIGHT 


II. iii. 


Sir To. Welcome, ass. Now let’s have a 
catch. 

Sir And. By my troth, the fool has an ex¬ 
cellent breast. I had rather than forty shillings 
I had such a leg - , and so sweet a breath to [20 
sing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very 
gracious fooling last night, when thou spok’st 
of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the 
equinoctial of Queubus. ’T was very good, i’ 
faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman. 
Hadst it ? 26 

Clo. I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Mal- 
volio’s nose is no whipstock. My lady has a 
white hand, and the Mermidons are no bottle- 
ale houses. 

Sir And. Excellent! Why, this is the best 
fooling, when all is done. Now, a song. 8 i 

Sir To. Come on ; there is sixpence for you. 
Let’s have a song. 

Sir And. There’s a testril of me too. If one 
knight give a — 35 

Clo. Would you have a love-song, or a song 
of good life ? 

Sir To. A love-song, a love-song. 

Sir And. Ay, ay. I care not for good life. 

Clo. (Sings.) 

0 mistress mine, where are you roaming ? 40 

0 , stay and hear, your true love ’s coming, 
That can sing both high and low. 

Trip no further, pretty sweeting ; 

Journeys end in lovers meeting, 

Every wise man’s son doth know. 45 

Sir And. Excellent good, i’ faith. 

Sir To. Good, good. 

Clo. [Sing's.] 

What is love ? ’T is not hereafter. 
Present mirth hath present laughter ; 

What’s to come is still unsure. bo 

In delay there lies no plenty ; 

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, 
Youth’s a stuff will not endure. 

Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true 
knight. os 

Sir .To. A contagious breath. 

Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i’ faith. 

Sir To. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in 
contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance 
indeed ? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a 
catch that will draw three souls out of one [eo 
weaver ? Shall we do that ? 

Sir And. An you love me, let’s do’t. I am 
dog at a catch. 

Clo. By ’r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch 
well. 66 

Sir And. Most certain. Let our catch be, 
“Thou knave.” 

Clo. “ Hold thy peace, thou knave,” knight ? 

I shall be constrain’d in’t to call thee knave, 
knight. 70 

Sir And. ’T is not the first time I have con¬ 
strained one to call me knave. Begin, fool. It 
begins, “ Hold thy peace.” 

Clo. I shall never begin if I hold my peace. 

Sir And. Good, i’ faith. Come, begin. 75 

f Catch sung. 


Enter Maria. 

Mar. What a caterwauling do you keep here ! 
If my lady have not call’d up her steward Mal- 
volio and bid him turn you out of doors, never 
trust me. 79 

Sir To. My lady’s a Cataian, we are politi¬ 
cians, Malvolio’s a Peg-a-Ramsey, and “ Three 
merry men be we.” Am not I consanguineous ? 
Am I not of her blood ? Tilly-vally. Lady ! 
[Sing's.] “ There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, 
lady ! ” 84 

Clo. Beshrew me, the knight’s in admirable 
fooling. 

Sir And. Ay, he does well enough if he be 
dispos’d, and so do I too. He does it with a 
better grace, but 1 do it more natural. 89 

Sir To. [Sing's.] “O, the twelfth day of De¬ 
cember,” — 

Mar. For the love o’ God, peace ! 92 

Enter Malvolio. 

Mai. My masters, are you mad, or what are 
you ? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, 
but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night ? 
Do ye make an alehouse of my lady’s house, 
that ye squeak out your coziers’ catches with¬ 
out any mitigation or remorse of voice ? Is 
there no respect of place, persons, nor time in 
you ? 99 

Sir To. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. 
Sneck up! 

Mai. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. 
My lady bade me tell you that, though she har¬ 
bours you as her kinsman, she’s nothing alli’d 
to your disorders. If you can separate yourself 
and your misdemeanours, you are welcome [105 
to the house ; if not, an it would please you to 
take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you 
farewell. 

Sir To. “ Farewell, dear heart, since I must 
needs be gone.” no 

Mar. Nay, good Sir Toby. 

Clo. “His eyes do show his days are almost 
done.” 

Mai. Is’t even so ? 

Sir To.. “ But I will never die.” us 

Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie. 

Mai. This is much credit to you. 

Sir To. “Shall I bid him go ? ” 

Clo. “ What an if you do ? ” 

Sir To. “ Shall I bid him go, and spare not ? ” 
Clo. 0 no, no, no, no, you dare not.” m 
Sir To. Out o’ tune, sir ! Ye lie. Art any 
more than a steward ? Dost thou think, because 
thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes 
and ale ? 126 

Clo. Yes, by Saint Anne, and gingershall be 
hot i the mouth too. 

Sir To. Thou ’rt i’ the right. Go, sir, rub your 
chain with crumbs. A stoup of wine, Maria ! 

Mai. Mistress Mary, if you priz’d my 
lady s favour at anything more than con- [is* 
tempt, you would not give means for this uncivil 
rule. She shall know of it, by this hand. 

, r ^ , [Exit. 

Mar. Go shake your ears. 134 






II. IV. 


OR, WHAT YOU WILL 


243 


Sir And. T were as good a deed as to drink 
when a man’s a-hungry, to challenge him the 
field, and then to break promise with him and 
make a fool of him. 

Sir To. Do’t, knight. I ’ll write thee a chal¬ 
lenge, or I 11 deliver thy indignation to him by 
word of mouth. 141 

Mar . Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night. 
Since the youth of the Count’s was to-day with 
my lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur 
Malvolio, let me alone with him. If I do not 
gull him into a nayword, and make him a [145 
common recreation, do not think I have wit 
enough to lie straight in my bed. I know I can 
do it. 

Sir To. Possess us, possess us. Tell us some¬ 
thing of him. iso 

Mar. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of 
puritan. 

Sir And. O, if I thought that, I’d beat him 
like a dog ! 

Sir To. What, for being a puritan ? Thy ex¬ 
quisite reason, dear knight ? i6c 

Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for ’t, 
but I have reason good enough. 

Mar. The devil a puritan that he is, or any¬ 
thing constantly, but a time-pleaser ; an af- [iso 
fection’d ass, that cons state without book and 
utters it by great swarths ; the best persuaded 
of himself, so cramm’d, as he thinks, with ex¬ 
cellencies, that it is his grounds of faith that all 
that look on him love him ; and on that vice 
in him will my revenge find notable cause to 
work. wo 

Sir To. What wilt thou do? 

Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure 
epistles of love ; wherein, by the colour of his 
beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of 
his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, [no 
and complexion, he shall find himself most 
feelingly personated. I can write very like my 
lady your niece. On a forgotten matter we can 
hardly make distinction of our hands. iw 

Sir To. Excellent! I smell a device. 

Sir And. I have ’t in my nose too. 

Sir To. He shall think, by the letters that 
thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, 
and that she’s in love with him. iso 

Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that 
colour. 

Sir And. And your horse now would make 
him an ass. 

Mar. Ass, I doubt not. iss 

Sir And. 0 , ’t will be admirable ! 

Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you. I know 
my physic will work with him. I will plant you 
two, and let the fool make a third, where he 
shall find the letter. Observe his construction 
of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on [ioo 
the event. Farewell. [Exit. 

Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea. 

Sir And. Before me, she’s a good wench. 

Sir To. She’s a beagle, true-bred, and one 
that adores me. What o’ that ? ms 

Sir And. I was ador’d once too. 

Sir To. Let’s to bed, knight. Thou hadst 
need send for more money. 


Sir And. If I cannot recover your niece, I 
am a foul way out. 201 

Sir To. Send for money, knight. If thou hast 
her not i’ the end, call me cut. 

Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take 
it how you will. 2 os 

? Sir To. Come, come, I ’ll go burn some sack ; 
t is too late to go to bed now. Come, knight; 
come, knight. [Exeunt. 

Scene IY. [A room in the Duke's palace .] 

Enter Duke, Vioea, Curio, and others. 

Duke. Give me some music. Now, — good 
morrow, friends, — 

Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, 
That old and antique song we heard last night. 
Methought it did relieve my passion much, 
More than light airs and recollected terms 5 

Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times. 
Come, but one verse. 

Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship, 
that should sing it. 

Duke. Who was it ? 10 

Cur. Feste, the jester, my lord ; a fool that 
the lady Olivia’s father took much delight in. 
He is about the house. 

Duke. Seek him out, and plav the tune the 
■while. [Exit Curio.] Music plays. 

Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love, 16 
In the sweet pangs of it remember me ; 

For such as I am all true lovers are, 

Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, 

Save in the constant image of the creature 
That is belov’d. How dost thou like this tune ? 

Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat 21 
Where Love is thron’d. 

Duke. Thou dost speak masterly. 

My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine 
eye 

Hath stay’d upon some favour that it loves. 26 
Hath it not, boy ? 

Vio. A little, by your favour. 

Duke. What kind of woman is’t ? 

Vio. Of your complexion. 

Duke. She is not worth thee, then. What 
years, i’ faith ? 

Vio. About your years, my lord. 

Duke. Too old, by heaven. Let still the 
woman take so 

An elder than herself ; so wears she to him, 

So sways she level in her husband’s heart. 

For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, 

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, 

More longing, wavering, sooner lost and 
worn, 36 

Than women’s are. 

Vio. I think it well, my lord. 

Duke. Then let thy love be younger than 
thyself, 

Or thy affection cannot hold the bent. 

For women are as roses, whose fair flower 
Being once display’d, doth fall that very 
hour. «o 

Vio. And so they are; alas, that they are 
so! 

To die, even when they to perfection grow ! 







TWELFTH NIGHT 


II. V. 


244 


It e-enter Curio and Clown. 

Duke. 0 , fellow, come, the song we had last 
night. 

Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain. 

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun 45 
And the free maids that weave their thread 
with bones 

Do use to chant it. It is silly sooth, 

And dallies with the innocence of love, 

Like the old age. 

Clo. Are you ready, sir ? eo 

Duke. Ay; prithee, sing. [Music. 

Song. 

[Clo.] Come away, come away, death, 

And in sad cypress let me he laid. 

Fly away, fly away, breath ; 

I am slain by a fair cruel maid. cs 

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 

0 , prepare it! 

My part of death, no one so true 
Did share it. 

Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 60 

On my black coffin let there be strown. 

Not a friend, not a friend greet 
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be 
thrown. 

A thousand thousand sighs to save, 

Lay me, O, where ec 

Sad true lover never find my grave, 

To weep there ! 

Duke. There’s for thy pains. 

Clo. No pains, sir ; I take pleasure in sing¬ 
ing, sir. 70 

Duke. I ’ll pay thy pleasure then. 

Clo. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, 
one time or another. 

Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee. 74 
Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee, 
and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable 
taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. I would 
have men of such constancy put to sea, that 
their business might be everything and their 
intent everywhere; for that’s it that always 
makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell, si 

[Exit. 

Duke. Let all the rest give place. 

[Curio and Attendants retire .] 
Once more, Cesario, 

Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty. 

Tell her, my love, more noble than the world, 
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands. 85 

The parts that fortune hath bestow’d upon 
her. 

Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune ; 

But’t is that miracle and queen of gems 
That nature pranks her in attracts my soul. 
Vio. But if she cannot love you, sir ? 90 

Duke. I cannot be so answer’d. 

Vio. Sooth, but you must. 

Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, 

Hath for your love as great a pang of heart 
As you have for Olivia. You cannot love her. 
You tell her so. Must she not then be an¬ 
swer’d? 95 


Duke. There is no woman’s sides 
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion 
As love doth give my heart; no woman’s heart 
So big, to hold so much. They lack retention. 
Alas, their love may be call’d appetite, 100 
No motion of the liver, but the palate, 

That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt; 

But mine is all as hungry as the sea, 

And can digest as much. Make no compare 
Between that love a woman can bear me 106 
And that I owe Olivia. 

Vio. Ay, but I know — 

Duke. What dost thou know ? 

Vio. Too well what love women to men may 
owe. 

In faith, they are as true of heart as we. 

My father had a daughter lov’d a man, no 
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, 

I should your lordship. 

Duke. And what’s her history ? 

Vio. A blank, my lord. She never told her 
love, 

But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, 
Feed on her damask cheek. She pin’d in 
thought, no 

And with a green and yellow melancholy 
She sat, like patience on a monument, 

Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed ? 
We men may say more, swear more; but in¬ 
deed 

Our shows are more than will, for still we 
prove 120 

Much in our vows, but little in our love. 

Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my 
boy? 

Vio. I am all the daughters of my father’s 
house, 

And all the brothers too ; — and yet I know 
not. 

Sir, shall I to this lady ? 

Duke.. Ay, that’s the theme. 

To her in haste. Give her this jewel. Say m 
My love can give no place, bide no denay. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene V. [Olivia ' 1 s garden .] 

Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian. 

Sir To. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian. 

Fab. Nay, I ’ll come. If I lose a scruple of 
this sport, let me be boil’d to death with mel¬ 
ancholy. 4 

Sir To. Wouldst thou not be glad to have 
the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some 
notable shame ? 

Fab. I would exult, man. You know, he 
brought me out o’ favour with my lady about 
a bear-baiting here. 10 

Sir To. To anger him we ’ll have the bear 

again, and we will fool him black and blue. 
Shall we not, Sir Andrew ? 

. Sir And. An we do not, it is pity of our 
lives. 1* 

Enter Maria. 

Sir To. Here comes the little villain. How 

now, my metal of India! 





II. V. 


OR, WHAT YOU WILL 


245 


Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree; 
Malvolio’s coming down this walk. He has been 
yonder i’ the sun practising behaviour to his 
own shadow this half hour. Observe him, [20 
for the love of mockery, for I know this let¬ 
ter will make a contemplative idiot of him. 
Close, in the name of jesting ! Lie thou there 
[throws down a letter ], for here comes the trout 
that must be caught with tickling. [Exit. 20 

Enter Max.vol.io. 

Mai. ’T is but fortune. All is fortune. Maria 
once told me she did affect me ; and I have 
heard herself come thus near, that, should she 
fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Be¬ 
sides, she uses me with a more exalted re- [30 
spect than any one else that follows her. What 
should I think on ’t ? 

Sir To. Here’s an overweening rogue ! 34 

Fab. O, peace ! Contemplation makes a rare 
turkey-cock of him. How he jets under his 
advanc’d plumes! 

Sir Ana. ’S light, I could so beat the rogue! 
Sir To. Peace, I say. 

Mai. To be Count Malvolio I 40 

Sir To. Ah, rogue ! 

Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him. 

Sir To. Peace, peace ! 

Mai. There is example for’t. The lady of 
the Strachy married the yeoman of the ward¬ 
robe. 45 

Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel! 

Fab. O, peace ! now he’s deeply in. Look 
how imagination blows him. 

Mai. Haying been three months married to 
her, sitting in my state, — bo 

Sir To. O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the 
eye ! 

Mai. Calling my officers about me, in my 
branch’d velvet gown, having come from a day- 
bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping, — cs 
Sir To. Fire and brimstone 1 
Fab. 0 , peace, peace ! 

Mai. And then to have the humour of state ; 
and after a demure travel of regard, telling 
them I know my place as I would they should 
do theirs, to ask for my kinsman Toby, — ei 
Sir To. Bolts and shackles ! 

Fab. 0 peace, peace, peace ! Now, now. 

Mai. Seven of my people, with an obedient 
start, make out for him. I frown the while, 
and perchance wind up my watch, or play [os 
with my — some rich jewel. Toby approaches, 
curtsies there to me, — 

Sir To. Shall this fellow live ? 

Fab. Though our silence be drawn from us 
with cars, yet peace. n 

Mai. I extend my hand to him thus, quench¬ 
ing my familiar smile with an austere regard 
of control, — 

Sir To. And does not Toby take you a blow 
o’ the lips then ? 76 

Mai. Saying, “ Cousin Toby, my fortunes, 
having cast me on your niece, give me this 
prerogative of speech,” — 

Sir To. What, what ? 80 

Mai. “ You must amend your drunkenness.” 


Sir To. Out, scab ! 

Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews 
of our plot. 

Mai. “ Besides, you waste the treasure of 
your time with a foolish knight,” — so 

Sir And. That’s me, I warrant you. 

Mai. “ One Sir Andrew,” — 

Sir And. I knew ’t was I; for many do call 
me fool. 90 

Mai. What employment have we here ? 

[Taking up the letter .] 
Fab. Now is the woodcock near the gin. 

Sir To. 0 , peace, and the spirit of humours 
intimate reading aloud to him ! 94 

Mai. By my life, this is my lady’s hand. 
These be her very C’s, her U’s, and her T’s ; 
and thus makes she her great P’s. It is, in 
contempt of question, her hand. 

Sir And. Her C’s, her U’s, and her T’s : why 
that ? 100 

Mai. [Reads.] “To the unknown belov’d, 
this, and my good wishes ” : — her very phrases I 
By your leave, wax. Soft! And the impressure 
her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal. ’T is 
my lady. To whom should this be ? 105 

Fab. This wins him, liver and all. 

Mai [Reads.] 

“ Jove knows I love ; 

But who ? 

Lips, do not move ; 

No man must know.” 110 

“No man must know.” What follows? The 
numbers alter’d! “No man must know!” 
If this should be thee, Malvolio ? 

Sir To. Marry, hang thee, brock ! 

Mai. [Reads .j 

“I may command where I adore ; ns 

But silence, like a Lucrece knife, 

With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore. 

M, 0 , A, I, doth sway my life.” 

Fab. A fustian riddle ! 

Sir To. Excellent wench, say I. 120 

Mai. “M, 0 , A, I, doth sway my life.” 
Nay, but first, let me see, let me see, let me see. 

Fab. What dish o’ poison has she dress’d 
him ! 

Sir To. And with what wing the staniel 
checks at it! 125 

Mai. “I may command where I adore.” 
Why, she may command me. I serve her. 
She is my lady. Why, this is evident to any 
formal capacity, there is no obstruction in this. 
And the end, — what should that alphabetical 
position portend ? If I could make that [130 
resemble something in me! — Softly! M, 0 , 
A, I, — 

Sir To. 0 , ay, make up that. He is now at 
a cold scent. 

Fab. Sowter will cry upon’t for all this, 
though it be as rank as a fox. i 3 « 

Mai. M, — Malvolio ; M, — why, that begins 
my name. 

Fab. Did not I say he would work it out ? 
The cur is excellent at faults. ho 

Mai. M, — but then there is no consonancy 
in the sequel. That suffers under probation. 
A should follow, but 0 does. 






246 


TWELFTH NIGHT 


hi. 1. 


Fab. And 0 shall end, I hope. 

Sir To. Ay, or I ’ll cudgel him, and make 
him cry 0 ! 

Mai. And then I comes behind. 

Fab. Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you 
might see more detraction at your heels than 
fortunes before you. _ ieo 

Mai. M, O, A, I; this simulation is not as 
the former. And yet, to crush this a little, it 
would bow to me, for every one of these letters 
are in my name. Soft! here follows prose, im 

\Reads.} “ If this fall into thy hand, re¬ 
volve. In my stars I am above thee, hut he not 
afraid of greatness. Some are born great, 
some achieve greatness, and some have great¬ 
ness thrust upon ’em. Thy Fates open their 
hands, let thy blood and spirit embrace them ; 
and, to inure thyself to what thou art like [i«o 
to be, cast thy humble slough and appear fresh. 
Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with ser¬ 
vants ; let thy tongue tang arguments of state ; 
put thyself into the trick of singularity : she 
thus advises thee that sighs for thee. Re- [lee 
member who commended thy yellow stockings, 
and wish’d to see thee ever cross-garter’d. I 
say, remember. Go to, thou art made, if thou 
desir’st to be so ; if not, let me see thee a stew¬ 
ard still, the fellow of servants, and not 
worthy to touch Fortune’s finders. Fare- [170 
well. She that would alter services with thee, 
The Fortunate Unhappy.” 

Daylight and champaign discovers not more. 
This is open. I will be proud, I will read po- [ns 
litic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash 
off gross acquaintance, I will be point-device 
the very man. I do not now fool myself, to 
let imagination jade me : for every reason ex¬ 
cites to this, that my lady loves me. She did 
commend my yellow stockings of late, she [iso 
did praise my leg being cross-garter’d ; and in 
this she manifests herself to my love, and with 
a kind of injunction drives me to these habits 
of her liking. I thank my stars I am happy. I 
will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, [iss 
and cross-garter’d, even with the swiftness of 
putting on. Jove and my stars be praised! 
Here is yet a postscript. 

[Reads.] “Thoucanst not choose but know 
who I am. If thou entertain’st my love, let it 
appear in thy smiling. Thy smiles become [120 
thee well; therefore in my presence still smile, 
dear my sweet, I prithee.” 

Jove, I thank thee. I will smile ; I will do 
everything that thou wilt have me. [Exit. i»s 

Fab. I will not give my part of this sport 
for a pension of thousands to be paid from the 
Sophy. 

Sir To. I could marry this wench for this 
device — 200 

Sir And. So could I too. 

Sir To. And ask no other dowry with her 
but such another jest. 

Re-enter Marla. 

Sir And. Nor I neither. 

Egb. Here comes my noble gull-catch en 205 

Sir To. Wilt thou set thy foot o’ my neck ? 


Sir And. Or o’ mine either ? 

Sir To. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, 
and become thy bond-slave ? 

Sir And. I’ faith, or I either ? *10 

Sir To. Why, thou hast put him in such a 
dream, that when the image of it leaves him 
he must run mad. 

Mar. Nay, but say true. Does it work upon 
him? 216 

Sir To. Like aqua-vitae with a midwife. 
Mar. If you will then see the fruits of the 
sport, mark his first approach before my lady. 
He will come to her in yellow stockings, and 
’tis a colour she abhors, and cross-garter’d, a 
fashion she detests ; and he will smile upon [220 
her, which will now be so unsuitable to her 
disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as 
she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable 
contempt. If you will see it, follow me. 226 
Sir To. To the gates of Tartar, thou most 
excellent devil of wit! 

Sir And. I ’ll make one too. [Exeunt. 


ACT III 

Scene I. [Olivia's garden.] 

Enter Viola and Clown [with a tabor], 

Vio. Save thee, friend, and thy music! 
Dost thou live by thy tabor ? 

Clo. No, sir, I live by the church. 

Vio. Art thou a churchman ? 4 

Clo. No such matter, sir. I do live by the 
church ; for I do live at my house, and my 
house doth stand by the church. 

Vio. So thou mayst say, the king lies by a 
beggar, if a beggar dwells near him; or, the 
church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor stand 
by the church. 11 

Clo. You have said, sir. To see this age ! A 
sentence is but a cheveril glove to a good wit. 
How quickly the wrong side may be turn’d 

outward! 15 

Vio. Nay, that’s certain. They that dally 
nicely with words may quickly make them 
wanton. 

Clo. I would, therefore, my sister had had 
no name, sir. 20 

Vio. Why, man ? 

Clo. Why, sir, her name’s a word, and to 
dally with that word might make my sister 
wanton. But, indeed, words are very rascals 
since bonds disgrac’d them. 26 

Vio. Thy reason, man ? 

Clo. Troth, sir, I can yield you none without 
words ; and words are grown so false, I am 
loath to prove reason with them. 20 

Vio. I warrant thou art a merry fellow and 
car’st for nothing. 

Clo. Not so, sir, I do care for something ; but 
in my conscience, sir, I do not care for you. If 
that be to care for nothing, sir, I would it 
would make you invisible. 35 

Vio. Art not thou the Lady Olivia’s fool ? 
Clo. No, indeed, sir ; the Lady Olivia has 
no folly. She will keep no fool, sir, till she be 




III. i. 


OR, WHAT YOU WILL 


247 


married ; and fools are as like husbands as pil¬ 
chards are to herrings, the husband’s the big¬ 
ger. I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter 
of words. 41 

Vio. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino’s. 
Clo. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb 
like the sun, it shines everywhere. I would be 
sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with 
your master as with my mistress. I think I 
saw your wisdom there. 47 

Vio. Nay, an thou pass upon me, I ’ll no more 
with thee. Hold, there’s expenses for thee. 

Clo. Now Jove, in his next commodity of 

hair, send thee a beard ! gi 

Vio. By my troth, I ’ll tell thee, I am almost 
sick for one, — [aside] though I would not 
have it ctow on my chin. Is thy lady within ? 

_ Clo. Would not a pair of these have bred, 
sir ? gg 

Vio. Yes, being kept together and put to use. 
Clo. I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, 
sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus. 

Vio. 1 understand you, sir. ’Tis well 

begg’d. 60 

Clo. The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, 
begging but a beggar. Cressida was a beggar. 
My lady is within, sir. I will construe to them 
whence you come. Who you are and what you 
would are out of my welkin — I might say 
“ element,” but the word is overworn. [Exit. 00 
Vio. This fellow is wise enough to play the 
fool, 

And to do that well craves a kind of wit. 

He must observe their mood on whom he jests, 
The quality of persons, and the time, to 

And, like the haggard, check at every feather 
That comes before his eye. This is a practice 
As full of labour as a wise man’s art; 

For folly that he wisely shows is fit; 1* 

But wise men, folly-fallen, quite taint their wit. 

Enter Sik Toby and Sib Andrew. 

Sir To. Save you, gentleman. 

Vio. And you, sir. 

Sir And. Dieu vous garde , monsieur. 

Vio. Et vous aussi; votre serviteur. 

Sir And. I hope, sir, you are; and I am 
yours. 81 

Sir To. Will you encounter the house ? My 
niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade 
be to her. 

Vio. I am bound to your niece, sir ; I mean, 
she is the list of my voyage. 88 

Sir To. Taste your legs, sir; put them to 
motion. 

Vio. My legs do better understand me, sir, 
than 1 understand what you mean by bidding 
me taste my legs. 

Sir To. I mean, to go, sir, to enter. 

Vio. I will answer you with gait and en¬ 
trance, But we are prevented. 

Enter Olivia and Gentlewoman. 

Most excellent accomplish’d lady, the heavens 
rain odours on you ! 96 

f ir An(k That youth’s a rare courtier. 
a?n odours ; * well. 


Vio. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to 
your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear. io« 
Sir And. “Odours,” “pregnant,” and 
“ vouchsafed ” ; I ’ll get ’em all three all ready. 

Oli. Let the garden door be shut, and leave 
me to my hearing. [Exeunt all but Olivia and 
Viola. J Give me your hand, sir. 105 

Vio. My duty, madam, and most humble 
service. 

Oli. What is your name ? 

Vio. Cesario is your servant’s name, fair 
princess. 

Oli. My servant, sirl ’Twas never merry 
world 

Since lowly feigning was call’d compliment, u* 
You ’re servant to the Count Orsino, youth. 
Vio. And he is yours, and his must needs be 
yours. 

Your servant’s servant is your servant, madam. 
Oli. For him, I think not on him. For his 
thoughts, 

Would they were blanks, rather than fill’d 
with me! us 

Vio. Madam, I come to whet your gentle 
thoughts 
On his behalf. 

Oli. 0 , by your leave, I pray you, 

I bade you never speak again of him ; 

But, would you undertake another suit, 

I had rather hear you to solicit that 120 

Than music from the spheres. 

Vio. Dear lady,— 

Oli. Give me leave, beseech you. I did send, 
After the last enchantment you did here, 

A ring in chase of you ; so did I abuse 
Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you. 125 
Under your hard construction must I sit, 

To force that on you, in a shameful cunning, 
Which you knew none of yours. What might 
you think ? 

Have you not set mine honour at the stake 
And baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts 
That tyrannous heart can think? To one of 
your receiving m 

Enough is shown. A cypress, not a bosom. 
Hides my heart. So, let me hear you speak. 
Vio. I pity you. 

Oli. That’s a degree to love. 

Vio. No, not a grize; for ’tis a vulgar 
proof, # is* 

That very oft we pity enemies. 

Oli. Why, then, methinks’t is time to smile 
again. 

0 world, how apt the poor are to be proud ! 

If one should be a prey, how much the better 
To fall before the lion than the wolf ! no 

[Clock strikes. 

The clock upbraids me with the waste of time. 
Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you ; 
And yet, when wit and youth is come to 
harvest, 

Your wife is like to reap a proper man. 

There lies your way, due west. i 46 

Vio. Then westward-ho! Grace and good 
disposition 

Attend your ladyship! 

You ’ll nothing, madam, to my lord by me ? 





248 


TWELFTH NIGHT 


ill. ii. 


Oli. Stay! 

I prithee, tell me what thou think’st of me. ieo 

Vio. That you do think you are not what 
you are. 

Oli. If I think so, I think the same of you. 

Vio. Then think you right. I am not what 
I am. 

Oli. I would you were as I would have you 
he! 

Vio. Would it he better, madam, than I am ? 
I wish it might, for now I am your fool. 166 

Oli. O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful 
In the contempt and anger of his lip ! 

A murderous guilt shows not itself more soon 
Than love that would seem hid. Love’s night 
is noon. _ 160 

Cesario, by the roses of the spring, 

By maidhood, honour, truth, and everything, 

I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride, 

Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide. 

Do not extort thy reasons from this clause, 

For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause ; 
But rather reason thus with reason fetter, 

Love sought is good, hut given unsought is 
better. 

Vio. By innocence I swear, and by my youth, 
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, 170 
And that no woman has ; nor never none 
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone. 

And so adieu, good madam ; nevermore 
Will I my master’s tears to you deplore. 

Oli. Yet come again; for thou perhaps mayst 
move 175 

That heart, which now abhors, to like his love. 

[ Exeunt. 

Scene II. [ A room in Olivia's house.] 
Enter Sib Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian. 

Sir And. No, faith, I ’ll not stay a jot longer. 

Sir To. Thy reason, dear venom, give thy 
reason. 

Fab. You must needs yield your reason, Sir 
Andrew. 5 

Sir And. Marry, I saw your niece do more 
favours to the Count’s serving-man than ever 
she bestow’d upon me. I saw’t i’ the orchard. 

Sir To. Did she see thee the while, old boy ? 
Tell me that. 10 

Sir And. As plain as I see you now. 

Fab. This was a great argument of love in 
her toward you. 

Sir And. ’S light, will you make an ass o’ me ? 

Fab. I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the 
oaths of judgement and reason. 16 

Sir To. And they have been grand-jurymen 
since before Noah was a sailor. 

Fab. She did show favour to the youth in 
your sight only to exasperate you, to awake 
your dormouse valour, to put fire in your [20 
heart, and brimstone in your liver. You should 
then have accosted her ; and with some excel¬ 
lent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should 
have bang’d the youth into dumbness. This 
was look’d for at your hand, and this was [25 
balk’d. The double gilt of this opportunity 
you let time wash off, and you are now sailed 


into the north of my lady’s opinion, where you 
will hang like an icicle on a Dutchman’s beard, 
unless you do redeem it by some laudable at¬ 
tempt either of valour or policy. 31 

Sir And. An ’t be any way, it must be with 
valour ; for policy I hate. I had as lief be a 
Brownist as a politician. 

Sir To. Why, then, build me thy fortunes 
upon the basis of valour. Challenge me the [sw 
Count’s youth to fight with him; hurt him in 
eleven places ; my niece shall take note of it; 
and assure thyself, there is no love-broker'in 
the world can more prevail in man’s commen¬ 
dation with woman than report of valour. «• 

Fab. There is no way but this, Sir Andrew. 

Sir And. Will either of you bear me a chal¬ 
lenge to him ? 

Sir To. Go, write it in a martial hand. Be [« 
curst and brief. It is no matter how witty, so 
it be eloquent and full of invention. Taunt 
him with the license of ink. If thou thou’st 
him some thrice, it shall not be amiss ; and as 
many lies as will lie in thy sheet of paper, al¬ 
though the sheet were big enough for the [so 
bed of Ware in England, set’em down. Go 
about it. Let there be gall enough in thy ink. 
Though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter. 
About it. 

Sir And. Where shall I find you ? ss 

Sir To. We ’ll call thee at the cubiculo. Go. 

[Exit Sir Andrew. 

Fab. This is a dear manakin to you, Sir 
Toby. 

Sir To. I have been dear to him, lad, some 
two thousand strong, or so. 

Fab. We shall have a rare letter from him. 
But you ’ll not deliver’t ? 

Sir To. Never trust me, then; and by all 
means stir on the youth to an answer. I think 
oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. 
For Andrew, if he were open’d, and you find 
so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot 
of a flea, I ’ll eat the rest of the anatomy. 67 

Fab. And his opposite, the youth, bears in 
his visage no great presage of cruelty. 

Enter Maria. 

Sir To. Look, where the youngest wren of 
mine comes. 71 

Mar. If you desire the spleen, and will laugh 
yourselves into stitches, follow me. Yond gull 
Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado ; 
for there is no Christian, that means to be 
saved by believing rightly, can ever believe [75 
such impossible passages of grossness. He’s in 
yellow stockings. 

Sir To. And cross-garter’d ? 79 

Mar. Most villanously; like a pedant that 
keeps a school i’ the church. I have dogg’d him 
like his murderer. He does obey every point of 
the letter that I dropp’d to betray him. He 
does smile his face into more lines than is in 
the new map with the augmentation of the [sr, 
Indies. You have not seen such a thing as’t is. 
I can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I 
know my lady will strike him. If she do, he ’ll 
smile and take’t for a great favour. 





III. IV. 


OR, WHAT YOU WILL 


249 


Sir To. Come, bring us, bring us where he 
is. [Exeunt. 90 

Scene III. [A street.] 

Enter Sebastian and Antonio. 

Seb. 1 would not by my will have troubled 
you ; 

But, since you make your pleasure of your 
pains, 

I will no further chide you. 

Ant. I could not stay behind you. My desire, 
More sharp than filed steel, did spur me 
forth, 6 

And not all love to see you, though so much 
As might have drawn one to a longer voyage, 
But jealousy what might befall your travel, 
Being skilless in these parts; which to a 
stranger, 

Unguided and unfriended, often prove 10 

Rough and unhospitable. My willing love, 

The rather by these arguments of fear, 

Set forth in your pursuit. 

Seb. My kind Antonio, 

1 can no other answer make but thanks, 

And thanks, and ever [thanks. Too] oft good 
turns is 

Are shuffl’d off with such uncurrent pay; 

But, were my worth as is my conscience firm, 
You should find better dealing. What’s to do ? 
Shall we go see the reliques of this town ? 

Ant. To-morrow, sir. Best first go see your 
lodging. 20 

Seb. I am not weary, and’t is long to night. 
I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes 
With the memorials and the things of fame 
That do renown this city. 

Ant. Would you’d pardon me. 

I do not without danger walk these streets. 26 
Once, in a sea-fight, ’gainst the Count his 
galleys 

I did some service ; of such note indeed, 

That were I ta’en here it would scarce be an¬ 
swer’d. 

Seb. Belike you slew great number of his 
people ? 

Ant. The offence is not of such a bloody 
nature, 30 

Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel 
Might well have given us bloody argument. 

It might have since been answer’d in repaying 
What we took from them, which, for traffic’s 
sake, 

Most of our city did ; only myself stood out, 35 
For which, if I be lapsed in this place, 

I shall pay dear. 

Seb. Do not then walk too open. 

Ant. It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here’s my 
purse. 

In the south suburbs, at the Elephant 
Is best to lodge. I will bespeak our diet, *0 
Whiles you beguile the time and feed your 
knowledge 

With viewing of the town. There shall you 
have me. 

Seb. Why I your purse ? 

A nt. Haply your eye shall light upon some toy 


You have desire to purchase ; and your store, 46 
I think, is not for idle markets, sir. 

Seb. I ’ll be your purse-bearer and leave you 
For an hour. 

Ant. To the Elephant. 

Seb. I do remember. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [Olivia^s garden.] 

Enter Olivia and Maria. 

Oli. [Aside.] I have sent after him ; he says 
he ’ll come. 

How shall I feast him ? What bestow of him ? 
For youth is bought more oft than begg’d or 
borrow’d. 

I speak too loud. 

Where is Malvolio ? He is sad and civil, 6 
And suits well for a servant with my fortunes. 
Where is Malvolio ? 

Mar. He’s coming, madam, but in very 
strange manner. He is, sure, possess’d, madam. 

Oli. Why, what’s the matter ? Does he 
rave ? 10 

Mar. No, madam, he does nothing but 
smile. Your ladyship were best to have some 
guard about you, if he come; for, sure, the 
man is tainted in’s wits. 

Oli. Go call him hither. 

Enter Malvolio. 

I am as mad as he, 16 
If sad and merry madness equal be. 

How now, Malvolio! 

Mai. Sweet lady, ho, ho. 

Oli. Smil’st thou ? 

I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. 20 

Mai. Sad, lady ? I could be sad. This does 
make some obstruction in the blood, this cross- 
gartering ; but what of that ? If it please the 
eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet 
is, “ Please one, and please all.” 25 

Oli. Why, how dost thou, man ? What is the 
matter with thee ? 

Mai. Not black in my mind, though yellow 
in my legs. It did come to his hands, and com¬ 
mands shall be executed. I think we do know 
the sweet Roman hand. 31 

Oli. Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio ? 

Mai. To bed! Ay, sweet heart, and I ’ll 
come to thee. 

Oli. God comfort thee ! Why dost thou smile 
so and kiss thy hand so oft ? & 

Mar. How do you, Malvolio ? 

Mai. At your request! Yes. Nightingales 

answer daws. 

Mar. Why appear you with this ridiculous 
boldness before my lady ? 41 

Mai. “Be not afraid of greatness:” ’twas 
well writ. 

Oli. What mean’st thou by that, Malvolio ? 
Mai. “ Some are born great,”— « 

Oli. Hal 

Mai. “ Some achieve greatness,” — 

Oli. What say’st thou ? 

Mai. ‘ 4 And some have greatness thrust upon 
them.” m 




25 ° 


TWELFTH NIGHT 


III. IV. 


Oli. Heaven restore thee ! 

Mai. “ Remember who commended thy yel¬ 
low stockings,” — 

Oli. Thy yellow stockings ! 

Mai. “And wish’d to see thee cross-gar- 
ter’d.” “ 

Oli. Cross-garter’d ! 

Mai. “ Go to, thou art made, if thou desir’st 
to be so: ” — 

Oli. Am I made ? 59 

Mai. “If not, let me see thee a servant 
still.” 

Oli. Why, this is very midsummer madness. 

Enter Servant. 

Ser. Madam, the young gentleman of the 
Count Orsino’s is return’d. I could hardly en¬ 
treat him back. He attends your ladyship’s 
pleasure. 65 

Oli. I ’ll come to him. [ Exit Servant. 1 Good 
Maria, let this fellow be look’d to. Where’s 
my cousin Toby ? Let some of my people have 
a special care of him. I would not have him 
miscarry for the half of my dowry. to 

[.Exeunt [Olivia and Maria]. 
Mai. 0 , ho ! do you come near me now ? No 
worse man than Sir Toby to look to me ! This 
concurs directly with the letter. She sends him 
on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to 
him, for she incites me to that in the letter. 
“ Cast thy humble slough,” says she ; “ be [tb 
opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants; 
let thy tongue tang with arguments of state; 
put thyself into the trick of singularity ; ” and 
consequently sets down the manner how ; as, a 
sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, [so 
in the habit of some sir of note, and so forth 
I have lim’d her; but it is Jove’s doing, and 
Jove make me thankful! And when she went 
away now, “ Let this fellow be looked to ” ; 
“fellow!” not Malvolio, nor after my de- [ss 
gree, but “fellow.” Why, everything adheres 
together, that no dram of a scruple, no scruple 
of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or un¬ 
safe circumstance — What can be said ? No¬ 
thing that can be can come between me and the 
full prospect of my hopes. Well, Jove, not [90 
I, is the doer of this, and he is to be thanked. 

Re-enter Maria, with Sir Toby and Fabian. 

Sir To. Which way is he, in the name of 
sanctity ? If all the devils of hell be drawn in 
little, and Legion himself possess’d him, yet 
I ’ll speak to him. .96 

Fab. Here he is, here he is. How is’t with 
you, sir ? How is ’t with you, man ? 

Mai. Go off ; I discard you. Let me enjoy 
my private. Go off. 100 

Mar. Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within 
him! Did not I tell you ? Sir Toby, my lady 
prays you to have a care of him. 

Mai. Ah, ha! Does she so ? 104 

Sir To. Go to, go to; peace, peace. We 
must deal gently with him. Let me alone. 
How do you, Malvolio ? How is’t with you ? 
What, man, defy the devil! Consider, he’s an 
enemy to mankind. 


Mai. Do you know what you say ? 110 

Mar. La you, an you speak ill of the devil, 
how he takes it at heart! Pray God he he not 
bewitch’d! 

Fab. Carry his water to the wise woman. iu 
Mar. Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow 
morning if I live. My lady would not lose him 
for more than I ’ll say. 

Mai. How now, mistress! 

Mar. O Lord! 118 

Sir To. Prithee, hold thy peace; this is not 
the way. Do you not see you move him ? Let 
me alone with him. 

Fab. No way but gentleness ; gently, gently. 
The fiend is rough, and will not be roughly 
us’d. 

Sir To. Why, how now, my bawcock! 
How dost thou, chuck ? 12# 

Mai. Sir! 

Sir To. Ay, “ Biddy, come with me.” Wkat, 
man, ’tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit 
with Satan. Hang him, foul collier ! 130 

Mar. Get him to say his prayers, good Sir 
Toby, get him to pray. 

Mai. My prayers, minx ! 

Mar. No, I warrant you, he will not hear of 
godliness. i 36 

Mai. Go, hang yourselves all! You are idle 
shallow things ; I am not of your element. 
You shall know more hereafter. [Exit. 

Sir To. Is’t possible ? 

Fab. If this were played upon a stage now, 
I could condemn it as an improbable fiction, hi 
Sir To. His very genius hath taken the in¬ 
fection of the device, man. 

Mar. Nay, pursue him now, lest the device 
take air and taint. hs 

Fab. Why, we shall make him mad indeed. 
Mar. The house will be the quieter. 

Sir To. Come, we ’ll have him in a dark 
room and bound. My niece is already in the 
belief that he’s mad. We may carry it thus, 
for our pleasure and his penance, till our [iso 
very pastime, tired out of breath, prompt us to 
have mercy on him ; at which time we will 
bring the device to the bar and crown thee for 
a finder of madmen. But see, but see. i<* 

Enter Sir Andrew. 

Fab. More matter for a May morning. 

Sir And. Here’s the challenge, read it. I 
warrant there’s vinegar and pepper in’t. 

Fab. Is’t so saucy ? 

Sir And. Ay, is’t, I warrant him. Do but 
read. 101 

Sir To. Give me. [Reads.] “Youth, what¬ 
soever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow.” 
Fab. Good, and valiant. i 64 

Sir To. [Reads.] “ Wonder not, nor admire 
not in thy mind, why I do call thee so, for I 
will show thee no reason for’t.” 

Fab. A good note. That keeps you from the 
blow of the law. i 69 

Sir To. [ Reads .] 11 Thou com’st to the lady 
Olivia, and in my sight she uses thee kindly. 
But thou liest in thy throat; that is not the 
matter I challenge thee for.” 






III. IV. 


OR, WHAT YOU WILL 


25 1 


Fab. Very brief, and to exceeding good 
sense — less. 175 

Sir To. [Beads.] “ I will waylay thee going 
home ; where if it be thy chance to kill me,” — 

Fab. Good. 

Sir To. [Beads.] “ Thou kill’st me like a 
rogue and a villain.” iso 

Fab. Still you keep o’ the windy side of the 
law ; good. 

Sir To. [Beads.] “ Fare thee well, and God 
have mercy upon one of our souls ! He may 
have mercy upon mine ; but my hope is better, 
and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as thou [iss 
usest him, and thy sworn enemy, 

Andrew Aguecheek.” 

If this letter move him not, his legs cannot. 
I ’ll give ’t him. iso 

Mar. You may have very fit occasion for’t. 
He is now in some commerce with my lady, and 
will by and by depart. 

Sir To. Go, Sir Andrew, scout me for him 
at the corner of the orchard like a bum-baily. 
So soon as ever thou seest him, draw ; and, as 
thou draw’st, swear horrible ; for it comes [ios 
to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a swagger¬ 
ing accent sharply twang’d off, gives manhood 
more approbation than ever proof itself would 
have earn’d him. Awayl 200 

Sir And. Nay, let me alone for swearing. 

[Exit. 

Sir To. Now will not I deliver his letter ; 
for the behaviour of the young gentleman gives 
him out to be of good capacity and breeding ; 
his employment between his lord and my niece 
confirms no less ; therefore this letter, being [205 
so excellently ignorant, will breed no terror in 
the youth ; he will find it comes from a clodpole. 
But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word 
of mouth, set upon Aguecheek a notable report 
of valour, and drive the gentlemanj as I [210 
know his youth will aptly receive it, into a 
most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, 
and impetuosity. This will so fright them both 
that they will kill one another by the look, like 
cockatrices. 216 

Be-enter Olivia with Viola. 

Fab. Here he comes with your niece. Give 
them way till he take leave, and presently after 
him. 

Sir To. I will meditate the while upon some 
horrid message for a challenge. # 220 

[Exeunt Sir Toby , Fabian , and 
Maria.] 

Oli. I have said too much unto a heart of 
stone, 

And laid mine honour too unchary on’t. 
There’s something in me that reproves my 
fault; .... 

But such a headstrong potent fault it is, 

That it but mocks reproof. 225 

Vio. With the same ’haviour that your pas¬ 
sion bears 

Goes on my master’s grief. . 

Oli. Here, wear this jewel for me, t is my 
picture. 

Refuse it not; it hath no tongue to vex you; 


And I beseech you come again to-morrow. 230 
What shall you ask of me that I ’ll deny, 

That honour sav’d may upon asking give ? 

Vio. Nothing but this,—your true love for 
my master. 

Oli. How with mine honour may I give him 
that 234 

Which I have given to you ? 

Vio. I will acquit you. 

Oli. Well, come again to-morrow. Fare thee 
well! 

A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell. 

[Exit.] 

Be-enter Sir Toby and Fabian. 

Sir To. Gentleman, God save thee ! 

Vio. And you, sir. 239 

Sir To. That defence thou hast, betake thee 
to ’t. Of what nature the wrongs are thou hast 
done him, I know not; but thy intercepter, full 
of despite, bloody as the hunter, attends thee 
at th e orchard-end. Dism ount thy tuck, b e yare 
in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, 
skilful, and deadly. 24* 

Vio. You mistake, sir, I am sure. No man 
hath any quarrel to me. My remembrance is 
very free and clear from any image of offence 
done to any man. 250 

Sir To. You ’ll find it otherwise, I assure 
you; therefore, if you hold your life at any 
price, betake you to your guard ; for your op¬ 
posite hath in nim what youth, strength, skill, 
and wrath can furnish man withal. 

Vio. I pray you, sir, what is he ? 250 

Sir To. He is knight, dubb’d with unhatch’d 
rapier and on carpet consideration ; but he is a 
devil in private brawl. Souls and bodies hath 
he divorc’d three ; and his incensement at this 
moment is so implacable, that satisfaction can 
be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre. 
Hobj nob, is his word ; give’t or take *t. 203 

Vio. I will return again into the house and 
desire some conduct of the lady. I am no fighter. 
I have heard of some kind of men that put 
quarrels purposely on others, to taste their 
valour. Belike this is a man of that quirk. 2«s 
Sir To. Sir, no ; his indignation derives itself 
out of a very competent injury ; therefore, get 
you on and give him his desire. Back you 
shall not to the house, unless you undertake 
that with me which with as much safety you 
might answer him ; therefore, on, or strip your 
sword stark naked; for meddle you must, 
that’s certain, or forswear to wear iron about 
you. _ < 278 

Vio. This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech 
you, do me this courteous office, as to know of 
the knight what my offence to him is. It is 
something of my negligence, nothing of my 
purpose. 280 

Sir To. I will do so. Signor Fabian, stajryou 
by this gentleman till my return. [Exit. 

Vio. Bray you, sir, do you know of this mat¬ 
ter ? . 284 

Fab. I know the knight is incens’d against 
you, even to a mortal arbitrement, but nothing 
of the circumstance more. 




252 


TWELFTH NIGHT 


III. IV. 


Vio. I beseech you, what manner of man is 
he ? 289 

Fab. Nothing of that wonderful promise, to 
read him by his form, as you are like to find 
him in the proof of his valour. He is, indeed, sir, 
the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that 
you could possibly have found in any part of 
Illyria. Will you walk towards him ? I will 
make your peace with him if I can. 296 

Vio. I shall be much bound to you for’t. Iam 
one that had rather go with sir priest than sir 
knight. I care not who knows so much of my 
mettle. [ Exeunt . soo 

Re-enter Sir Toby, with Sir Andrew. 

Sir To. Why, man, he’s a very devil; I have 
not seen such a fir ago. I had a pass with him, 
rapier, scabbard, and all, and he gives me the 
stuck in with such a mortal motion, that it is 
inevitable ; and on the answer, he pays you as 
surely as your feet hits the ground they step [305 
on. They say he has been fencer to the Sophy. 
Sir And. Fox on’t, I ’ll not meddle with him. 
Sir To. Ay, but he will not now be pacified. 
Fabian can scarce hold him yonder. sio 

Sir And. Plague on’t, an I thought he had 
been valiant and so cunning in fence, I ’d have 
seen him damn’d ere I ’d have challeng’d him. 
Let him let the matter slip, and I ’ll give him 
my horse, grey Capilet. 315 

Sir To. I ’ll make the motion. Stand here ; 
make a good show on’t. This shall end without 
the perdition of souls. [Aside.] Marry, I ’ll ride 
your horse as well as I ride you. 319 

Re-enter Fabian and Vioea. 

[To Fab.] I have his horse to take up the quar¬ 
rel. I have persuaded him the youth’s a devil. 

Fab. He is as horribly conceited of him ; and 
pants and looks pale, as if a bear were at his 
heels. 324 

Sir To. [To Vio.] There’s no remedy, sir; 
he will fight with you for’s oath sake. Marry, 
he hath better bethought him of his quarrel, 
and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking 
of ; therefore draw, for the supportance of his 
vow. He protests he will not hurt you. 330 

Vio. [Aside.] Pray God defend me ! A little 
thing would make me tell them how much I 
lack of a man. 

Fab. Give ground, if you see him furious. 334 
Sir To. Come, Sir Andrew, there’s no rem¬ 
edy ; the gentleman will, for his honour’s sake, 
have one bout with you. He cannot by the du¬ 
ello avoid it; but he has promised me, as he is 
a gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you. 
Come on ; to’t. 340 

Sir And. Pray God, he keep his oath! 

Enter Antonio. 

Vio. I do assure you, ’tis against my will. 

[They draw. 

Ant. Put up your sword. If this young gen¬ 
tleman 

Have done offence, I take the fault on me ; 

If you offend him, I for him defy you. 345 
Sir To. You, sir! Why, what are you ? 


Ant. One, sir, that for his love dares yet do 
more 

Than you have heard him brag to you he will. 

Sir To. Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am 
for you. [ They draw. 350 

Enter Officers. 

Fab. 0 good Sir Toby, hold ! Here come 
the officers. 

Sir To. I ’ll be with you anon. 

Vio. Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you 
please. 355 

Sir And. Marry, will I, sir ; and, for that I 
promis’d you, I ’ll be as good as my word. 
He will bear you easily and reins well. 

1. Off. This is the man; do thy office. 

2 . Off. Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit of 

Count Orsino. sei 

Ant. You do mistake me, sir. 

1. Off. No, sir, no jot. I know your favour 

well, 

Though now you have no sea-cap on your head. 
Take him away ; he knows I know him well. 365 
Ant. I must obey. [To Vio.] This comes 
with seeking you. 

But there’s no remedy; I shall answer it. 
What will you do, now my necessity 
Makes me to ask you for my purse r It grieves 
me 

Much more for what I cannot do for you 370 
Than what befalls myself. You stand amaz’d, 
But be of comfort. 

2 . Off. Come, sir, away. 

Ant. I must entreat of you some of that 
money. 

Vio. What money, sir ? 375 

For the fair kindness you have show’d me here, 
And, part, being prompted by your present 
trouble, 

Out of my lean and low ability 
I ’ll lend you something. My having is not 
much. 

I ’ll make division of my present with you. sso 
Hold, there’s half my coffer. 

Ant. Will you deny me now ? 

Is’t possible that my deserts to you 
Can lack persuasion ? Do not tempt my mis¬ 
ery,. 

Lest that it make me so unsound a man 
As to upbraid you with those kindnesses ssc 
That I have done for you. 

,/ Vio. I know of none, 

Nor know I you by voice or any feature. 

I hate ingratitude more in a man 
Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, 
Or any taint of vice whose strong corrup¬ 
tion 390 

Inhabits our frail blood. 

Ant. 0 heavens themselves! 

2 . Off. Come, sir, I pray you, go. 

Ant. Let me speak a little. This youth that 
you see here 

I snatch’d one half out of the jaws of death, 
Reliev’d him with such sanctity of love, 395 
And to his image, which methought did pro¬ 
mise 

Most venerable worth, did I devotion. 






IV. 1. 


OR, WHAT YOU WILL 


2 53 


1. Off. What’s that to us ? The time goes 
by; away! 

Ant. But, O, how vile an idol proves this 
god! 

Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame. 
In nature there ’s no blemish but the mind ; 401 
None can be call’d deform’d but the unkind. 
Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous evil 
Are emptv trunks o’erflourish’d by the devil. 

1. Off. The man grows mad ; away with him ! 
Come, come, sir. 405 

Ant. Lead me on. [Exit [with Officers ]. 
Vio. Methinks his words do from such pas¬ 
sion fly, 

That he believes himself ; so do not I. 

Prove true, imagination, 0 , prove true, 

That L dear brother, be now ta’en for you ! 4io 
Sir To. Come hither, knight; come hither, 
Fabian ; we ’ll whisper o’er a couplet or two of 
most sage saws. 

Vio. He nam’d Sebastian. I my brother 
know 

Yet living in my glass ; even such and so 415 
In favour was my brother, and he went 
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament, 

For him I imitate. O, if it prove, 

Tempests are kind and salt waves fresh in 
love. _ [Exit.] 

Sir To. A very dishonest paltry boy, and [420 
more a coward than a hare. His dishonesty 
appears in leaving his friend here in necessity 
and denying him ; and, for his cowardship, ask 
Fabian. 

Fab. A coward, a most devout coward, re¬ 
ligious in it. 425 

Sir And. ’Slid, I ’ll after him again and 
heat him. 

Sir To. Do ; cuff him soundly, but never 
draw thy sword. 

Sir And. An I do not, — . 430 

Fab. Come, let’s see the event. 

Sir To. I dare lay any money’t will be no¬ 
thing yet. [Exeunt. 

ACT IV 

Scene I. [Before Olivia's house.] 

Enter Sebastian and Clown. 

Clo. Will you make me believe that I am not 
sent for you ? 

Seb. Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow ; 
let me be clear of thee. 

Clo. Well held out, i’ faith ! No, I do not [5 
know you; nor I am not sent to you by my 
lady, to bid you come speak with her ; nor your 
name is not Master Cesario ; nor this is not my 
nose neither. Nothing that is so is so. 

Seb. I prithee, vent thy folly somewhere else. 
Thou know’st not me. , ” 

Clo. Vent my folly ! He has heard that word 
of some great man and now applies it to a fool. 
Vent my folly ! I am afraid this great lubber, 
the world, will prove a cockney. I prithee now, 
ungird thy strangeness and tell me what I shall 
yent to my lady. Shall I vont to her that thou 
art coming ? 18 


Seb. I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from 
me. 

There’s money for thee. If you tarry longer, 20 
I shall give .worse payment. 

Clo. By my troth, thou hast an open hand. 
These wise men that give fools money get them¬ 
selves a good report — after fourteen years’ 
purchase. 25 

Enter Sir Andrew, Sir Toby, and Fabian. 

Sir And. Now, sir, have I met you again ? 
There’s for you. 

Seb. Why, there’s for thee, and there, and 
there. Are all the people mad ? 

Sir To. Hold, sir, or I’ll throw your dag¬ 
ger o’er the house. si 

Clo. This will I tell my lady straight. I 

would not be in some of your coats for two 
pence. [Exit.] 

Sir To. Come on, sir. Hold! 

Sir And. Nay, let him alone. I ’ll go an- [35 
other way to work with him. I ’ll have an 
action of battery against him, if there be any 
law in Illyria. Though I struck him first, yet 
it’s no matter for that. 

Seb. Let go thy hand. 40 

Sir To. Come, sir, I will not let you go. 
Come, my young soldier, put up your iron ; you 
are well flesh’d. Come on. 

Seb. I will be free from thee. What wouldst 
thou now ? 

If thou dar’st tempt me further, draw thy 
sword. 45 

Sir To. What, what? Nay, then I must 
have an ounce or two of this malapert blood 
from you. 

Enter Olivia. 

Oli. Hold, Toby ! On thy life I charge thee, 
hold! 

Sir To. Madam— _ «• 

Oli. Will it be ever thus? Ungracious 
wretch, 

Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, 
Where manners ne’er were preach’d ! Out of 
my sight! 

Be not offended, dear Cesario. 

Rudesby, be gone! 

[Exeunt Sir Toby , Sir Andrew, and 
Fabian.] 

I prithee, gentle friend, 
Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway 
In this uncivil and unjust extent 
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house, 
And hear thou there how many fruitless 
pranks 

This ruffian hath botch’d up, that thou 
thereby r, ° 

Mayst smile at this. Thou shalt not choose 
but go. 

Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me. 

He started one poor heart of mine in thee. 

Seb. Wliat relish is in this ? How runs the 
stream ? 

Or I am mad, or else this is a dream. 66 

Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep. 

If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep ! 




254 


TWELFTH NIGHT 


iv. ii. 


Oli. Nay, come, I prithee. Would thou’dst 
be rul’d by me! 

Seb. Madam, I will. 

Oli. 0 , say so, and so be! 

[Exeunt. 


Scene II. [Olivia's house.] 

Enter Maria and Clown. 

Mar. Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and 
this beard. Make him believe thou art Sir To¬ 
pas the curate. Do it quickly; I ’ll call Sir 
Tobv the whilst. _ [Exit.] * 

Clo. Well, I ’ll put it on, and I will dissem¬ 
ble myself in’t; and I wornd I were the first 
that ever dissembled in such a gown. I am not 
tall enough to become the function well, nor 
lean enough to be thought a good student; but 
to be said an honest man and a good house¬ 
keeper goes as fairly as to say a careful [10 
man and a great scholar. The competitors 
enter. 

Enter Sir Toby [and Maria], 

Sir To. Jove bless thee, master Parson. 

Clo. Bonos dies , Sir Toby: for, as the old 
hermit of Prague, that never saw pen and 
ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gor- [is 
boduc, ‘‘That that is is” ; so I, being master 
Parson, am master Parson ; for, what is “ that ” 
but “ that,” and “ is ” but “ is ” ? 

Sir To. To him, Sir Topas. 20 

Clo. What, ho, I say ! Peace in this prison ! 
Sir To. The knave counterfeits well; a good 
knftY 6 « 

Mai. ( Within.) Who calls there ? 

Clo. Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit 
Malvolio the lunatic. 26 

Mai. Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, 
go to my lady. 

Clo. Out, hyperbolical fiend ! How vexest 
thou this man! Talkest thou nothing but of 
ladies ? so 

Sir To. Well said, master Parson. 

Mai. Sir Topas, never was man thus 

wronged. Good Sir Topas, do not think I am 
mad. They have laid me here in hideous 

darkness. 34 

Clo. Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee 
by the most modest terms, for I am one of 
those gentle ones that will use the devil himself 
with courtesy. Say’st thou that house is dark ? 
Mai. As hell, Sir Topas. 39 

Clo. Why, it hath bay windows transparent 
as barricadoes, and the clerestories toward the 
south north are as lustrous as ebony; and yet 
complainest thou of obstruction ? 

Mai. I am not mad, Sir Topas. I say to you, 
this house is dark. 43 

Clo. Madman, thou errest. I say, there is 
no darkness but ignorance, in which thou art 
more nuzzl’d than the Egyptians in their fog. 

Mai. I say, this house is dark as ignorance, 
though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I [eo 
say, there was never man thus abus’d. I am 
no more mad than you are. Make the trial of 
it in any constant question. 


Clo. What is the opinion of Pythagoras con¬ 
cerning wild fowl ? es 

Mai. That the soul of our grandam might 
haply inhabit a bird. 

Clo. What think’st thou of his opinion ? 
Mai. I think nobly of the soul, and no way 
approve his opinion. o» 

Clo. Fare thee well. Remain thou still in 
darkness. Thou shalt hold the opinion of Py¬ 
thagoras ere I will allow of thy wits, and fear 
to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the 
soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well. <* 

Mai. Sir Topas, Sir Topas ! 

Sir To. My most exquisite Sir Topas ! 

Clo. Nay, I am for all waters. 

Mar. Thou mightst have done this without 
thy beard and gown. He sees thee not. 70 
Sir To. To him in thine own voice, and 
bring me word how thou find’st him. I would 
we were well rid of this knavery. If he may be 
conveniently deliver’d, I would he were, for I 
am now so far in offence with my niece that 
I cannot pursue with any safety this sport to [zb 
the upshot. Come by and by to my chamber. 

Exit [with Maria], 

[Singing.] “ Hev, Robin, jolly Robin, 

Tell me how thy lady does.” 
Fool! so 

“ My lady is unkind, perdy.” 

Fool! 

“ Alas, why is she so ? ” 

Fool, I say! 

“ She loves another ” 


Clo. 


Mai. 

Clo. 

Mai. 

Clo. 

Mai. 

Clo. 

ha? 

Mai. 


Who calls, 


Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve 
well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, 
ink, and paper. As 1 am a gentleman, I will 
live to be thankful to thee for’t. 

Clo. Master Malvolio ? 00 

Mai. Ay, good fool. 

Clo. Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five 
wits ? 

Mai. Fool, there was never man so noto¬ 
riously abus’d. I am as well in my wits, fool, 
as thou art. o« 

Clo. But as well? Then you are mad in¬ 
deed, if you be no better in your wits than a 
fool. 


Mai. They have here propertied me, keep 
me in darkness, send ministers to me, asses, 
and do all they can to face me out of my 
wits. 101 

Clo. Advise you what you say ; the minister 
is here. Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the hea¬ 
vens restore ! Endeavour thyself to sleep, and 
leave thy vain bibble babble. 105 

Mai. Sir Topas! 

Clo. Maintain no words with him, good 
fellow. Who, I, sir ? Not I, sir. God buy you, 
good Sir Topas. Marry, amen. I will, sir, I 
will. 


Mai. Fool, fool, fool, I say ! m 

t Clo. Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, 
sir ? I am shent for speaking to you. 

Mai. Good fool, help me to some light and 
some paper. I tell thee, I am as well in my 
wits as any man in Illyria. 11* 





OR, WHAT YOU WILL 


2 55 


v. i. 


Clo. Well-a-day that you were, sir ! 

Mai. By this hand, I am. Good fool, some 
ink, paper, and light; and convey what I will 
set down to my lady. It shall advantage thee 
more than ever the bearing of letter did. 120 
Clo. I will help you to’t. But tell me true, 
are you not mad indeed, or do you but coun¬ 
terfeit ? 

Mai. Believe me, I am not. I tell thee true. 
Clo. Nay, I ’ll ne’er believe a madman till 
I see his brains. I will fetch you light and 
paper and ink. 127 

Mai. Fool, I ’ll requite it in the highest de¬ 
gree. I prithee, be gone. 

Clo. [Singing.] I am gone, sir, 130 

And anon, sir, 

I ’ll be with you again, 

In a trice, 

Like to the old Vice, 

Your need to sustain ; im 

Who, with dagger of lath, 

In his rage and his wrath, 
Cries, ah, ha ! to the devil, 
Like a mad lad. 

Pare thy nails, dad. 140 

Adieu, goodman devil. 

[Exit. 

Scene III. [ Olivia's garden .] 

Enter Sebastian. 

Seb. This is the air, that is the glorious sun, 
This pearl she gave me, I do feel’t and see’t; 
And though’t is wonder that enwraps me thus, 
Yet’t is not madness. Where’s Antonio, then ? 
I could not find him at the Elephant; b 

Yet there he was, and there I found this 
credit, 

That he did range the town to seek me out. 

His counsel now might do me golden service ; 
For though my soul disputes well with my 
sense, 

That this may be some error, but no madness, 
Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune 11 
So far exceed all instance, all discourse, 

That I am ready to distrust mine eyes 
And wrangle with my reason that persuades 
me 

To any other trust but that I am mad is 

Or else the lady’s mad ; yet, if’t were so, 

She could not sway her house, command her 
followers, 

Take and give back affairs and their dispatch 
With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bear- 
ing 

As I perceive she does. There’s something 
in’t 20 

That is deceivable. But here the lady comes. 

Enter Olivia and Priest. 

Oli. Blame not this haste of mine. If you 
mean well, 

Now go with me and with this holy man 
Into the chantry by ; there, before him, 

And underneath that consecrated roof, 25 

Plight me the full assurance of your faith, 


That ray most jealous and too doubtful soul 
May live at peace. He shall conceal it 
Whiles you are willing it shall come to note, 
What time we will our celebration keep 3c 
According to my birth. What do you say ? 

Seb. I ’ll follow this good man, and go with 
you ; 

And, having sworn truth, ever will be true. 

Oli. Then lead the way, good father; and 
heavens so shine 

That they may fairly note this act of mine ! 35 

[Exeunt. 

ACT V 

Scene I. [Before Olivia's house.] 

Enter Clown and Fabian. 

Fab. Now, as thou lov’st me, let me see his 
letter. 

Clo. Good Master Fabian, grant me another 
request. 

Fab. Anything. s 

Clo. Do not desire to see this letter. 

Fab. This is to give a dog and in recompense 
desire my dog again. 

Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and Lords. 

Duke. Belong you to the Lady Olivia, 
friends ? 

Clo. Ay, sir! we are some of her trap¬ 
pings. 10 

Duke. I know thee well; how dost thou, 
my good fellow ? 

Clo. Truly, sir, the better for my foes and 
the worse for my friends. 

Duke. Just the contrary; the better for 
thy friends. ie 

Clo. No, sir, the worse. 

Duke. How can that be ? 

Clo. Marry, sir, they praise me and make an 
ass of me. Now my foes tell me plainly I am 
an ass ; so that by my foes, sir, I profit in [20 
the knowledge of myself, and by my friends I 
am abused ; so that, conclusions to be as kisses, 
if your four negatives make your two affirma¬ 
tives, why then, the worse for my friends and 
the better for my foes. 20 

Duke. Why, this is excellent. 

Clo. By my troth, sir, no ; though it please 
you to be one of my friends. 

Duke. Thou shalt not be the worse for me. 
There’s gold. . 31 

Clo. But that it would be double-dealing, 
sir, I would you could make it another. 

Duke. 0 , you give me ill counsel. 

Clo. Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for 
this once, and let your flesh and blood obey 
it. > # 86 

Duke. Well, I will be so much a sinner, to 
be a double-dealer. There’s another. 

Clo. Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play; 
and the old saying is, the third pays for all. 
The triplex, sir, is a good tripping measure ; [40 
or the bells of Saint Bennet, sir, may put you 
in mind ; one, two, three. 

Duke. You can fool no more money out of 







256 


TWELFTH NIGHT 


v. i. 


me at this throw. If you will let your lady 
know I am here to speak with her, and [45 
bring her along with you, it may awake my 
bounty further. 

Clo. Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I 
come again. I go, sir, but I would not have 
you to think that my desire of having is the 
sin of covetousness ; but, as you say, sir, let [so 
your bounty take a nap, I will awake it anon. 

[Exit. 

Enter Antonio and Officers. 

Vio. Here comes the man, sir, that did 
rescue me. 

Duke. That face of liis I do remember well, 
Yet, when I saw it last, it was besmear’d ss 
As black as Vulcan in the smoke of war. 

A bawbling vessel was he captain of, 

For shallow draught and bulk unprizable, 

With which such scathful grapple did he make 
With the most noble bottom of our fleet, oo 
That very envy and the tongue of loss 
Cri’d fame and honour on him. What’s the 
matter ? 

1 . Off. Orsino, this is that Antonio 
That took the Phoenix and her fraught from 
Candy, 

And this is he that did the Tiger board, 65 
When your young nephew Titus lost his leg. 
Here in the streets, desperate of shame and 
state, 

In private brabble did we apprehend him. 

Vio. He did me kindness, sir, drew on my 
side, 

But in conclusion put strange speech upon 
me. # 70 

I know not what ’t was but distraction. 

Duke. Notable pirate! Thou salt-water 
thief ! 

What foolish boldness brought thee to their 
mercies 

Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear, 
Hast made thine enemies ? 

Ant. Orsino, noble sir, 

Be pleas’d that I shake off these names you 
give me. _ _ 7 « 

Antonio never yet was thief or pirate, 

Though I confess, on base and ground enough, 
Orsino’s enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither. 
That most ingrateful boy there by your side, so 
From the rude sea’s enrag’d and foamy mouth 
Did I redeem. A wreck past hope he was. 

His life I gave him, and did thereto add 
My love, without retention or restraint, 

All his in dedication. For his sake ss 

Did I expose myself, pure for his love, 

Into the danger of this adverse town; 

Drew to defend him when he was beset; 
Where being apprehended, his false cunning, 
Not meaning to partake with me in danger, oo 
Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance, 
And grew a twenty years removed thing 
While one would wink ; deni’d me mine own 
purse, 

Which I had recommended to his use 
Not half an hour before. 

Vio. How can this be ? os 


Duke. When came he to this town ? 

Ant. To-day, my lord ; and for three months 
before, 

No interim, not a minute’s vacancy, 

Both day and night did we keep company. 

Enter Olivia and Attendants. 

Duke. Here comes the countess; now heaven 
walks on earth. 100 

But for thee, fellow; fellow, thy words are 
madness. 

Three months this youth hath tended upon me; 
But more of that anon. Take him aside. 

Oli. What would my lord, but that he may 
not have, 

Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable ? 10s 

Cesario, you do not keep promise with me. 

Vio. Madam! 

Duke. Gracious Olivia, — 

Oli. What do you say, Cesario ? Good my 
lord, — 109 

Vio. My lord would speak ; my duty hushes 
me. 

Oli. If it be aught to the old tune, my lord, 
It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear 
As howling after music. 

Duke. Still so cruel! 

Oli. Still so constant, lord. 

Duke. What, to perverseness ? You uncivil 
lady, ns 

To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars 
My soul the faithfull’st offerings have breath’d 
out 

That e’er devotion tender’d ! What shall I do ? 
Oli. Even what it please my lord, that shall 
become him. 

Duke. Why should I not, had I the heart to 
do it, 120 

Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death, 
Kill what I love ? —a savage jealousy 
That sometime savours nobly. But hear me 
this: 

Since you to non-regardance cast my faith, 

And that I partly know the instrument 125 

That screws me from my true place in your 
favour, 

Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still; 

But this your minion, whom I know you love, 
And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly, 
Him will I tear out of that cruel eye, 130 

Where he sits crowned in his master’s spite. 
Come, boy, with me ; my thoughts are ripe in 
mischief. 

I ’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love, 

To spite a raven’s heart within a dove. 

Vio. And I, most jocund, apt, and will¬ 
ingly, > 135 

To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die. 
Oli. Where goes Cesario ? 

Vio. After him I love 

More than I love these eyes, more than my life, 
More, by all mores, than e’er I shall love wife. 
If I clo feign, you witnesses above 140 

Punish my life for tainting of my love ! 

Oli. Ay me, detested ! How am I beguil’d ! 
Vio. Who does beguile you? Who does do 
you wrong ? 





V. 1. 


OR, WHAT YOU WILL 


257 


Oli. Hast thou forgot thyself ? Is it so long? 
Call forth the holy father.. 

Duke. Come, away! 145 

Oli. Whither, my lord ? Cesario, husband, 
stay. 

Duke. Husband ! 

Oli. Ay, husband ! Can he that deny ? 

Duke. Her husband, sirrah ! 

Y*’p. > No, my lord, not I. 

, Oli. Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear 
That makes thee strangle thy propriety. 150 
Fear not, Cesario ; take thy fortunes up. 

Be that thou know’st thou art, and then thou 
art 

As great as that thou fear’st. 

Enter Priest. 

O, welcome, father! 
Father, I charge thee by thy reverence, 

Here to unfold, though lately we intended iw 
To keep in darkness what occasion now 
Reveals before ’t is ripe, what thou dost know 
Hath newly pass’d between this youth and 
me. 

Priest. A contract of eternal bond of love, 
Confirm’d by mutual joinder of your hands, ieo 
Attested by the holy close of lips, 

Strengthened by interchangement of your 
rings; 

And all the ceremony of this compact 
Seal’d in my function, by my testimony ; 

Since when, my watch natli told me, toward 
my grave 105 

I have travell’d but two hours. 

Duke. 0 thou dissembling cub! What wilt 
thou be 

When time hath sow’d a grizzle on thy case ? 
Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow, 

That thine own trip shall be thine over¬ 
throw ? 170 

Farewell, and take her ; but direct thy feet 
Where thou and I henceforth may never meet. 
Vio. My lord, I do protest — 

Oli. O, do not swear ! 

Hold little faith, though thou hast too much 
fear. 

Enter Sir Andrew. 

Sir And. For the love of God, a surgeon ! 175 
Send one presently to Sir Toby. 

Oli. What’s the matter ? 

Sir And. Has broke my head across and has 
given Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too. For the 
love of God, your help! I had rather than 
forty pound I were at home. isi 

Oli. Who has done this, Sir Andrew ? 

Sir And. The Count’s gentleman, one 
Cesario. We took him for a coward, but he’s 
the very devil incardinate. iss 

Duke. My gentleman, Cesario ? 

Sir And. ’Od’s lifelings, here he is! You 
broke my head for nothing; and that that I 
did, I was set on to do’t by Sir Toby. 

Vio. Why do you speak to me? I never 
hurt you. 100 

You drew your sword upon me without cause ; 
But I bespake you fair, and hurt you not. 


Enter Sir Toby and Clown. 

Sir And. If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, 
you have hurt me. I think you set nothing by 
a bloody coxcomb. Here comes Sir Toby [ias 
halting. You shall hear more ; but if he had not 
been in drink, he would have tickl’d you other- 
gates than he did. 

Duke. How now, gentleman! How is’t with 
yOU? ^ 200 

Sir 10. That’s all one. Has hurt me, and 
there’s the end on’t. Sot, didst see Dick sur¬ 
geon, sot ? 

Cl°. 0 , he’s drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone. 
His eyes were set at eight i’ the morning. 205 
Sir To. Then he’s a rogue, and a passy 
measures pavin.. I hate a drunken rogue. 

Oli. Away with him ! Who hath made this 
havoc with them ? 

Sir And. I ’ll help you, Sir Toby, because 
we ’ll be dress’d together. 211 

Sir To. Will you help?—an ass-head and 
a coxcomb and a knave, a thin-faced knave, a 
guli! 

Oli. Get him to bed, and let his hurt be 
look’d to. 215 

[Exeunt Clown , Fabian , Sir Toby , 
and Sir Andrew.\ 

Enter Sebastian. 

Seb. I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your 
kinsman; 

But, had it been the brother of my blood, 

I must have done no less with wit and safety. 
You throw a strange regard upon me, and by 
that 

I do perceive it hath offended you. 220 

Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows 
We made each other but so late ago. 

Duke. One face, one voice, one habit, and 
two persons, 

A natural perspective, that is and is not! 

Seb. Antonio, O my dear Antonio ! 226 

How have the hours rack’d and tortur’d me, 
Since I have lost thee! 

Ant. Sebastian are you ? 

Seb. Fear’st thou that, Antonio? 

Ant. How have you made division of your¬ 
self ? 

An apple, cleft in two, is not more twin 2; 
Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian i 
Oli. Most wonderful! 

Seb. Do I stand there? I never had a 
brother, 

Nor can there be that deity in my nature, 

Of here and everywhere. I had a sister, 235 
Whom the blind waves and surges have de¬ 
vour’d. 

Of charity, what kin are you to me ? 

What countryman ? What name ? What parent- 
age? 

Vio. Of Messaline ; Sebastian was my father; 
Such a Sebastian was my brother too ; 240 

So went he suited to his watery tomb. 

If spirits can assume both form and suit 
You come to fright us. 

Seb. A spirit I am indeed; 






258 


TWELFTH NIGHT 


v.i 


But am in that dimension grossly clad 
Which from the womb I did participate. 245 
Were you a woman, as the rest goes even, 

I should my tears let fall upon your cheek, 

And say, ‘‘Thrice welcome, drowned Viola ! ” 
Vio. My father had a mole upon his brow. 
Seb. And so had mine. aso 

Vio. And died that day when Viola from her 
birth 

Had numb’red thirteen years. 

Seb. O, that record is lively in my soul! 

He finished indeed his mortal act 
That day that made my sister thirteen years. 255 
Vio. If nothing lets to make us happy both 
But this my masculine usurp’d attire, 

Do not embrace me till each circumstance 
Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump 
That I am Viola ; which to confirm, 260 

I ’ll bring you to a captain in this town, 

Where lie my. maiden weeds ; by whose gentle 
help 

I was preserv’d to serve this noble count. 

All the occurrence of my fortune since 
Hath been between this lady and this lord. 265 
Seb. [To Olivia .] So comes it, lady, you have 
been mistook; 

But nature to her bias drew in that. 

You would have been contracted to a maid ; 
Nor are you therein, by my life, deceiv’d, 

You are betroth’d both to a maid and man. 270 
Duke. Be not amaz’d, right noble is his 
blood. 

If this be so, as yet the glass seems true, 

I shall have share in this most happy wreck. 
[To Viola.] Boy, thou hast said to me a thou¬ 
sand times 

Thou never shouldst love woman like to me. 275 
Vio. And all those sayings will I over-swear ; 
And all those swearings keep as true in soul 
As doth that orbed continent the fire 
That severs day from night. 

Duke. Give me thy hand, 

And let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds. 280 
Vio. The captain that did bring me first on 
shore 

Hath my maid’s garments. He upon some 
action- 

Is now in durance, at Malvolio’s suit, 

A gentleman, and follower of my lady’s. 

Oli. He shall enlarge him ; fetch Malvolio 
hither. 285 

And yet, alas, now I remember me, 

They say, poor gentleman, he’s much dis¬ 
tract. 

Be-enter Clown with a letter , and Fabian. 

A most extracting frenzy of mine own 
From my remembrance clearly banish’d his. 
How does he, sirrah ? 290 

Clo. Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at 

the stave’s end as well as a man in his case may 
do. Has here writ a letter to you. I should 
have given ’t you to-day morning, but as a 
madman’s epistles are no gospels, so it skills 
not much when they are deliver’d. 296 

Oli. Open ’t, and read it. 

Clo. Look then to be well edified when the 


fool delivers the madman. [Beads.] “ By the 
Lord, madam,”— 300 

Oli. How now, art thou mad ? 

Clo. No, madam, I do but read madness. 
An your ladyship will have it as it ought to be, 
you must allow Vox. 

Oli. Prithee, read i’ thy right wits. _ _ sos 

Clo. So I do, madonna ; but to read his right 
wits is to read thus; therefore perpend, my 
princess, and give ear. 

Oli. Read it you, sirrah. [To Fabian.] 309 
Fab. (Beads.) “ By the Lord, madam, you 
wrong me, and the world shall know it. Though 
you have put me into darkness and given your 
drunken cousin rule over me, yet have I the 
benefit of my senses as well as your ladyship. 
I have your own letter that induced me to the 
semblance I put on ; with the which I [315 
doubt not but to do myself much right, or you 
much shame. Think of me as you please. I 
leave my duty a little unthought of and speak 
out of my injury. 

The madly-us’d Malvolio.” 
Oli. Did he write this ? 320 

Clo. Ay, madam. 

Duke. This savours not much of distraction. 
Oli. See him deliver’d, Fabian; bring h im 
hither. [Exit Fabian.] 

My lord, so please you, these things further 
thought on, 

To think me as well a sister as a wife, 325 

One day shall crown the alliance on’t, so please 
you, 

Here at my house and at my proper cost. 

Duke. Madam, I am most apt to embrace 
your offer. 

[To Viola.] Your master quits you; and for 
your service done him, 

So much against the mettle of your sex, 39* 
So far beneath your soft and tender breeding, 
And since you call’d me master for so long, 
Here is my hand. You shall from this time be 
Your master’s mistress. 

Oli. A sister ! You are she. 

Enter Malvolio [and Fabian]. 

Duke. Is this the madman ? 

Oli. Ay, my lord, this same, ssb 

How now, Malvolio ! 

Mai. Madam, you have done me wrong, 
Notorious wrong. 

Oli. Have I, Malvolio ? No. 

Mai. Lady, you have. Pray you, peruse that 
letter; 

You must not now deny it is your hand. 

Write from it, if you can, in hand or phrase ; 340 
Or say’t is not your seal, not your invention. 
You can say none of this. Well, grant it then 
And tell me, in the modesty of honour, 

Why you have given me such clear lights of 
favour, 

Bade me come smiling and cross-garter’d to 
y°u, * 

To put on yellow stockings and to frown 
Upon Sir Toby and the lighter people ; 

And, acting this in an obedient hope, 

Why have you suffer’d me to be imprison’d, 





OR, WHAT YOU WILL 


2 59 


V. i. 


Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest, sco 
Amd made the most notorious geek and gull 
That e’er invention play’d on ? Tell me why. 

Oli. Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing, 
Though, I confess, much like the character ; 
But out of question ’t is Maria’s hand. 356 
And now I do bethink me, it was she 
First told me thou wast mad. Then cam’st in 
smiling, 

And in such forms which here were presuppos’d 
Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content. 
This practice hath most shrewdly pass’d upon 
thee; suo 

But when we know the grounds and authors of 
it, 

Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge 
Of thine own cause. 

Fab. Good madam, hear me speak, 

And let no quarrel nor no brawl to come 
Taint the condition of this present hour, 3 gc 
W hich I have wond’red at. In hope it shall 
not. 

Most freely I confess, myself and Toby 
Set this device against Malvolio here, 

Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts 
We had conceiv’d against him. Maria writ 370 
The letter at Sir Toby’s great importance, 

In recompense whereof he hath married her. 
How with a sportful malice it was follow’d 
May rather pluck on laughter than revenge, 

If that the injuries be justly weigh’d 376 

That have on both sides pass’d. 

Oli. Alas, poor fool, how have they baffl’d 
thee! 

Clo. Why, “some are born great, some 
achieve greatness, and some have greatness 
thrown upon them.” I was one, sir, in this in¬ 
terlude ; one Sir Topas, sir; but that’s all [380 
one. “ By the Lord, fool, I am not mad.” But 
do you remember? “Madam, why laugh you 
at such a barren rascal ? An you smile not, 


he’s gagg’d.” And thus the whirligig of time 
brings in his revenges. 386 

Mai. I ’ll be reveng’d on the whole pack of 
you. [Exit.] 

Oli. He hath been most notoriously abus’d. 
Duke. Pursue him, and entreat him to a 
peace; 

He hath not told us of the captain yet. 390 
When that is known and golden time convents, 
A solemn combination shall be made 
Of our dear souls. Meantime, sweet sister, 

We will not part from hence. Cesario, come ; 
For so you shall be, while you are a man ; 390 

But when in other habits you are seen, 

Orsino’s mistress and his fancy’s queen. 

[Exeunt [all, except Clown]. 

Clo. (Sings.) 

When that I was and a little tiny boy, 

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 

A foolish thing was but a toy, *00 

For the rain it raineth every day. 

But when I came to man’s estate, 

With hey, ho, &c. 

’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, 
For the rain, &c. 406 

But when I came, alas ! to wive, 

With hey, ho, &c. 

By swaggering could I never thrive, 

For the rain, &c. 

But when I came unto my beds, 

With hey, ho, &c. 

With toss-pots still had drunken heads, 

For the rain, &c. 

A great while ago the world begun, 

With hey, ho, &c. 418 

But that’s all one, our play is done, 

And we ’ll strive to please you every day. 

[Exit.] 





TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


Under the date of February 7, 160%, there was entered on the Stationers’ Register for 
James Roberts “ The Booke of Troilus and Cressida, as yt is acted by My Lo. Chamberlen’s 
men. When he hathe gotten sufficient aucthority for yt.” Though Roberts seems never to have 
got authority to issue the play, the entry gives us a later limit for the date of composition. An 
earlier limit is found in the production, about the middle of 1601, of Jonson’s Poetaster , the Pro¬ 
logue to which is alluded to in Troilus and Cressida (Prol. 23-25). The play, then, was composed 
in the end of 1601 or during 1602. 

The first edition is a quarto published in 1609 in two forms, with differing title-pages but 
identical text. The earlier title-page states that it was acted by the King’s Majesty’s Servants 
at the Globe ; the later is followed by a preface claiming that the play was “ never stal’d with the 
stage, never clapperclawed with the palms of the vulgar.” This statement is either a plain false¬ 
hood for advertising purposes, or is a quibble based on some alterations or omissions. The relation 
of the text of the First Folio to this quarto it is difficult to determine. The verbal differences 
between them, though often minute, are very numerous, and several passages found in the Folio 
are missing from the Quarto, some of which are required by the context. On the other hand, at 
least three passages need to be supplied to the Folio text from the Quarto ; and in many of the 
more minute differences the Quarto has the better reading; in some, apparently the authentic 
one. It may be conjectured with some plausibility that the copyist or printer of the Quarto did 
his work carelessly, though working from an authentic manuscript; and that the Folio version 
was set up with a different set of mistakes from another and later copy, which may have been 
revised in details by Shakespeare, or another, or both. The present text is based on the Folio, 
readings being inserted from the Quarto and later editions only when there appears to be a cor¬ 
ruption due to copyist or printer. Passages not in the Folio are enclosed in square brackets. 

From evidence based on style, metre, and comparison with sources, it is practically certain that 
the Prologue and v. vii.-x. are by another hand, and it is probable that Shakespeare’s part in y. 
iv.-vi. is confined to a few lines and phrases. These inferences are corroborated by the recurrence 
of the lines v. iii. 113-115 in y. x. 32-34, pointing to the later substitution of the present closing 
scenes. 

On account of the extraordinary vogue of the story of Troy in literature, the versions from 
which Shakespeare may have drawn hints are innumerable. The main sources, however, have 
been identified. The Troilus story is adapted from Chaucer’s poem of the same name, the char¬ 
acter of the heroine having been made somewhat lighter in accordance with the current Eliza¬ 
bethan conception of her as the essential coquette, and in order to make plausible the more rapid 
degradation necessitated by the limits of dramatic treatment. The camp scenes are based on 
Caxton s Recuyell of the historyes of Froye; and from Homer, probably in Chapman’s translation, 
he drew Hector’s challenge to a duel, the pride of Achilles, and some minor hints. The unknown 
collaborator followed Caxton much more slavishly than did Shakespeare. Whether anything 
was drawn from four or five lost early plays on similar themes cannot be determined. It has 
been thought that he was influenced by Greene’s Euphues, his Censure to Philautus in the general 
tone of his treatment of antiquity. Of the characters, Cressida and Pandarus are from Chaucer, 
Thersites and Nestor from Homer, and the warriors from Caxton. Troilus is a combination of 
Chaucer’s lover with Caxton’s heroic figure. The Shakespearean Ajax alone is undiscoverable in 
any of the older versions. This fact, along with the nature of the description of him in I. ii. 19- 
31, and its inconsistency with the Ajax of the camp scenes, has led to the conclusion that the 
character is in part a satire on Ben Jonson. Other attempts to find personal satire in the play are 
not convincing. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


[DRAMATIS PERSONAE 


Priam, King of Troy. 

Hector, j 

Troilus, 

Paris, }► his sons. 

Deiphobus, I 
Helenus, J 

Margarelon, a bastard son of Priam. 

Antenor, | Tr °j an commanders. 

Calchas, a Trojan priest, taking part with the Greeks. 
Pandarus, uncle to Cressida. 

Alexander, servant to Cressida. 

Servant to Troilus. 

Servant to Paris. 


Agamemnon, the Greek general. 

Menelaus, his brother. 

Nestor, 

Ulysses, 

Achilles, 

Ajax, 

Diomedes, 

Patroclus, 

Thersites, a deformed and scurrilous Greek. 
Servant to Diomedes. 


Greek commanders. 


Helen, wife to Menelaus. 

Andromache, wife to Hector. 

Cassandra, daughter to Priam, a prophetess. 
Cressida, daughter to Calchas. 


Trojan and Greek Soldiers, and Attendants. 


Scene : Troy , and the Greek camp before #.] 


THE PROLOGUE 

In Troy, there lies the scene. From isles of 
Greece 

The princes orgillous, their high blood chaf’d, 
Have to the port of Athens sent their ships, 
Fraught with the ministers and instruments 
Of cruel war. Sixty and nine, that wore 5 
Their crownets regal, from the Athenian bay 
Put forth toward Pnrygia; and their vow is 
made 

To ransack Troy, within whose strong immures 
The ravish’d Helen, Menelaus’ queen, 

With wanton Paris sleeps; and that’s the 
quarrel. 10 

To Tenedos they come, 

And the deep-drawing harks do there dis¬ 
gorge 

Their warlike fraughtage. Now on Dardan 
plains 

The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch h 
T heir brave pavilions. Priam’s six-gated city, 
Dardan, and Timbria, Helias, Chetas, Troien, 
And Antenorides, with massy staples 
And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts 
Spar up the sons of Troy. 

Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits, 20 
On one and other side, Troyan and Greek, 

Sets all on hazard ; and hither am I come 
A prologue arm’d, but not in confidence 
Of author’s pen or actor’s voice, but suited 
In like conditions as our argument, 25 

To tell you, fair beholders, that our play 
Leaps o’er the vaunt and firstlings of those 
broils, 

Beginning in the middle, starting thence away 
To what may be digested in a play. 

Like or find fault; do as your pleasures are, 30 
Now good or bad ;’t is but the chance of war. 


ACT I 

Scene I. [Troy. Before Priam's palace.] 

Enter Troilus [ armed] and Pandarus. 

Tro. Call here my varlet; I ’ll unarm again. 
Why should I war without the walls of 
Troy, 

That find such cruel battle here -within ? 

Each Troyan that is master of his heart, 

Let him to field ; Troilus, alas ! hath none. 0 
Pan. Will this gear ne’er be mended ? 

Tro. The Greeks are strong, and skilful to 
their strength. 

Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness 
valiant; 

But I am weaker than a woman’s tear, 

Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance, 10 
Less valiant than the virgin in the night, 

And skilless as unpractis’d infancy. 

Pan. Well, I have told you enough of this. 
For my part., I ’ll not meddle nor make no fur¬ 
ther. He that will have a cake out of the 
wheat must needs tarry the grinding. 10 

Tro. Have I not tarried ? 

Pan. Ay, the grinding ; but you must tarry 
the bolting. 

Tro. Have I not tarried ? 

Pan. Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry 
the leavening. 20 

Tro. Still have I tarried. 

Pan. Ay, to the leavening; but here’s yet 
in the word “hereafter” the kneading, the 
making of the cake, the heating of the oven, 
and the baking ; nay, you must stay the cooling 
too, or you may chance to burn your lips. 26 
Tro. Patience herself, what goddess e’er she 
be, 

Doth lesser blench at sufferance than I do. 





262 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


1. ii. 


At Priam’s royal table do I sit, 

And when fair Cressid comes into my 
thoughts, — so 

So,traitor, then she comes, when she is thence — 
jPan. Well, she look’d yesternight fairer 
than ever I saw her look, or any woman else. 
Tro. I was about to tell thee : — when my 
heart, 

As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain, 35 
Lest Hector or my father should perceive me 
I have, as when the sun doth light a storm, 
Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile. 

But sorrow, that is couch’d in seeming glad¬ 
ness, 

Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sad¬ 
ness. 40 

Pan. An her hair were not somewhat darker 
than Helen’s — well, go to ! — there were no 
more comparison between the women. But, 
for my part, she is my kinswoman ; I would 
not, as they term it, praise her ; but I would 
somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I [« 
did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra’s 
wit, but — 

Tro. 0 Pandarus ! I tell thee, Pandarus, — 
When I do tell thee, there my hopes lie 
drown’d, 

Reply not in how many fathoms deep co 

Thy lie indrench’d. I tell thee I am mad 
In Cressid’s love ; thou answer’st she is fair ; 
Pour’st in the open ulcer of my heart 
Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her 
voice; 

Handiest in thy discourse, 0, that her hand, 55 
In whose comparison all whites are ink 
Writing their own reproach, to whose soft 
seizure 

The cygnet’s down is harsh and spirit of sense 
Hard as the palm of ploughman. This thou 
tell’st me, 

As true thou tell’st me, when I say I love her ; 
But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm, 61 
Thou lay’st in every gash that love hath given 
me 

The knife that made it. 

Pan. I speak no more than truth. 

Tro. Thou dost not speak so much. 65 

Pan. Faith, I ’ll not meddle in’t. Let her be 
as she is. If she be fair, ’t is the better for her; 
an she be not, she has the mends in her own 
hands. 

Tro. Good Pandarus, how now, Pandarus ! eo 
Pan. I have had my labour for my travail; 
ill-thought on of her and ill-thought on of you ; 
gone between and between, but small thanks for 
my labour. 

Tro. What, art thou angry, Pandarus ? 
What, with me ? ts 

Pan. Because she’s kin to me, therefore 
she’s not so fair as Helen. A11 she were not kin 
to me, she would be as fair on Friday as Helen 
is on Sunday. But what care I ? I care not an 
she were a black-a-moor ; ’t is all one to me. m 
Tro. Say I she is not fair ? 

Pan. I do not care whether you do or no. 
She’s a fool to stay behind her father ; let her 
to the Greeks ; and so I ’ll tell her the next time 


I see her. For my part, I ’ll meddle nor make 
no more i’ the matter. 88 

Tro. Pandarus, — 

Pan. Not I. 

Tro. Sweet Pandarus, — 

Pan. Pray you, speak no more to me. I will 
leave all as I found it, and there an end. 

[Exit Pandarus. Sound alarum. 
Tro. Peace, you ungracious clamours! Peace, 
rude sounds! 

Fools on both sides ! Helen must needs be fair, 
When with your blood you daily paint her thus. 
I cannot fight upon this argument; 9fi 

It is too starv’d a subject for my sword. 

But Pandarus, — 0 gods, how do you plague 
me ! 

I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar, 

And he’s as tetchy to be woo’d to woo, 

As she is stubborn-chaste against all suit. 100 
Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne’s love, 

What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we ? 
Her bed is India ; there she lies, a pearl; 
Between our Ilium and where she resides, 

Let it be call’d the wild and wandering flood, 
Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar 
Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark. 

Alarum. Enter JIneas. 

AEne. How now, Prince Troilus ! wherefore 
not afield ? 

Tro. Because not there. This woman’s an¬ 
swer sorts, 

For womanish it is to be from thence. no 

What news, ^Eneas, from the field to-day ? 
AEne. That Paris is returned home and hurt. 
Tro. By whom, iEneas ? 

AEne. Troilus, by Menelaus. 

Tro. Let Paris bleed; ’tis but a scar to 
scorn; 

Paris is gor’d with Menelaus’ horn. [Alarum, ns 
AEne. Hark, what good sport is out of town 
to-day ! 

Tro. Better at home, if “ would I might ” 
were “ may.” 

But to the sport abroad. Are you bound 
thither ? 

AEne. In all swift haste. 

Tro. Come, go we then together. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. The same. A street .] 

Enter Cressida and her man [Alexander]. 

Cres. Who were those went by ? 

Alex. Queen Hecuba and Helen, 

Cres. And whither go they ? 

Alex. Up to the eastern tower, 

Whose height commands as subject all the vale, 
To see the battle. Hector, whose patience ? 

Is as a virtue fix’d, to-day was mov’d. 6 

He chid Andromache and struck his armorer, 
And, like as there were husbandry in war, 
Before the sun rose he was harness’d light, 
And to the field goes he, where every flower 
Did, as a prophet, weep what it foresaw u 
In Hector’s wrath. 

Cres. What was his cause of anger ? 






1.11. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


Alex. The noise goes, this : there is among 
the Greeks 

A lord of Troyan blood, nephew to Hector; 
They call him Ajax. 

Cres. Good ; and what of him ? 

Alex. They say he is a very man per se, is 
And stands alone. 

Cres. So do all men, unless they are drunk, 
sick, or have no legs. 

Alex. This man, lady, hath robb’d many 
beasts of their particular additions : he is as [20 
valiant as the lion, churlish as the bear, slow 
as the elephant; a man into whom nature hath 
so crowded humours that his valour is crush’d 
into folly, his folly sauced with discretion. 
There is no man hath a virtue that he hath not 
a glimpse of, nor any man an attaint but he [25 
carries some stain of it. He is melancholy with¬ 
out cause, and merry against the hair. He hath 
the joints of everything, but everything so out 
of joint that he is a gouty Briareus, many hands 
and no use, or purblind Argus, all eyes and no 
sight. 31 

Cres. But how should this man, that makes 
me smile, make Hector angry ? 

Alex. They say he yesterday cop’d Hector 
in the battle and struck him down, the disdain 
and shame whereof hath ever since kept Hector 
fasting and waking. 37 

Enter Pandarus. 

Cres. Who comes here ? 

Alex. Madam, your uncle Pandarus. 

Cres. Hector’s a gallant man. «o 

Alex. As may be in the world, lady. 

Pan. What’s that ? What’s that ? 

Cres. Good morrow, uncle Pandarus. 

Pan. Good morrow, cousin Cressid. What 
do you talk of? Good morrow, Alexander. 
How do you, cousin? When were you at 
Dium ? « 

Cres. This morning, uncle. 

Pan. What were you talking of when I 
came ? W T as Hector arm’d and gone ere ye 
came to Ilium ? Helen was not up, was she ? so 
Cres. Hector was gone, but Helen was not up. 
Pan. Even so. Hector was stirring early. 
Cres. That were we talking of, and of his 
anger. 

Pan. Was he angry ? sc 

Cres. So he says nere. 

Pan. True, he was so. I know the cause 
too. He ’ll lay about him to-day ? I can tell 
them that; and there’s Troilus will not come 
far behind him. Let them take heed of 
Troilus, I can tell them that too. «i 

Cres. What, is he angry too ? 

Pan. W T ho, Troilus ? Troilus is the better 
man of the two. 

Cres. O Jupiter ! there’s no comparison. «s 
Pan. What, not between Troilus and Hec¬ 
tor ? Do you know a man if you see him ? 

Cres. Ay, if I ever saw him before and knew 
him. 

Pan. Well, I say Troilus is Troilus. vo 

Cres. Then you say as I say ; for, I am sure, 
he is not Hector. 


2 t>3 


Pan. No, nor Hector is not Troilus in some 
degrees. 

Cres. ’T is just to each of them ; he is him¬ 
self. 7« 

Pan. Himself ! Alas, poor Troilus! I would 
he were. 

Cres. So he is. 

Pan. Condition, I had gone barefoot to 
India. 

Cres. He is not Hector. si 

Pan. Himself ! No, he’s not himself. Would 
’a were himself! Well, the gods are above; 
time must friend or end. Well, Troilus, well; 
1 would my heart were in her body. No, Hec¬ 
tor is not a better man than Troilus. so 

Cres. Excuse me. 

Pan. He is elder. 

Cres. Pardon me, pardon me. 89 

Pan. The other’s not come to ’t. You 
shall tell me another tale, when the other’s 
come to’t. Hector shall not have his wit this 
year. 

Cres. He shall not need it, if he have his 
own. 

Pan. Nor his qualities. 

Cres. No matter. 95 

Pan. Nor his beauty. 

Cres. ’T would not become him ; his own’s 
better. 

Pan. You have no judgement, niece. Helen 
herself swore the other day, that Troilus, for a 
brown favour — for so’t is, I must confess, — 
not brown neither, — 102 

Cres. No, but brown. 

Pan. ’Faith, to say truth, brown and not 
brown. 10c 

Cres. To say the truth, true and not true. 
Pan. She prais’d his complexion above 
Paris. 

Cres. Why, Paris hath colour enough. 

Pan. So he has. 109 

Cres. Then Troilus should have too much. 
If she prais’d him above, his complexion is 
higher than his. He having colour enough, and 
the other higher, is too flaming a praise for a 
good complexion. I had as !k;f Helen’s golden 
tongue had commended Troilus for a copper 
nose. ns 

Pan. I swear to you, I think Helen loves 
him better than Paris. 

Cres. Then she’s a merry Greek indeed, ns 
Pan. Nay, I am sure she does. She came to 
him the other day into the compass’d window, 
— and, you know, he has not past three or 
four hairs on his chin, — 

Cres. Indeed, a tapster’s arithmetic may 
soon bring his particulars therein to a total. 124 
Pan. Why, he is very young ; and yet will 
he, within three pound, lift as much as his 
brother Hector. 

Cres. Is he so young a man and so old a 
lifter ? 129 

Pan. But to prove to you that Helen loves 
him: she came and puts me her white hand to 
his cloven chin — 

Cres. Juno have mercy! how came it clo¬ 
ven? 





264 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


1.11. 


Pan. Why, you know, ’tis dimpled. I think 
his smiling becomes him better than any man in 
all Phrygia. is 6 

Cres. 0, he smiles valiantly. 

Pan. Does he not ? 

Cres. 0 yes, an’t were a cloud in autumn. 
Pan. Why, go to, then. But to prove to you 
that Helen loves Troilus, — 141 

Cres. Troilus will stand to the proof, if 
you ’ll prove it so. 

Pan. Troilus ! Why, he esteems her no more 
than I esteem an addle egg. 146 

Cres. If you love an addle egg as well as you 
love an idle head, you would eat chickens i’ the 
shell. 

Pan. I cannot choose hut laugh, to think 
how she tickled his chin. Indeed, she has a 
marvellous white hand, I must needs con¬ 
fess, 151 

Cres. Without the rack. 

Pan. And she takes upon her to spy a white 
hair on his chin. 

Cres. Alas, poor chin! many a wart is 
richer. 155 

Pan. But there was such laughing ! Queen 
Hecuba laugh’d that her eyes ran o’er. 

Cres. With mill-stones. 

Pan. And Cassandra laugh’d. 

Cres. But there was more temperate fire 
under the pot of her eyes. Did her eyes run 
o’er too ? i6i 

Pan. And Hector laugh’d. 

Cres. At what was all this laughing ? 

Pan. Marry, at the white hair that Helen 
spied on Troilus’ chin. 16s 

Cres. An’t had been a green hair, I should 
have laugh’d too. 

Pan. They laugh’d not so much at the hair 
as at his pretty answer. 

Cres. What was his answer ? no 

Pan. Quoth she, “ Here’s but two and fifty 
hairs on your chin, and one of them is white.” 
Cres. This is her question. 173 

Pan. That’s true; make no question of 
that. “ Two and fifty hairs,” quoth he, “ and 
one white. That white hair is my father, and 
all the rest are his sons.” “ Jupiter ! ” quoth 
she, “ which of these hairs is Paris my hus- [in 
band ? ” “ The forked one,” quoth he, “ pluck 
’t outj and give it him.” But there was such 
laughing! and Helen so blush’d, and Paris so 
chaf’d, and all the rest so laugh’d, that it 
pass’d. _ _ i82 

Cres. So let it now ; for it has been a great 
while going by. 

Pan. Well, cousin, I told you a thing yester¬ 
day ; think on’t. ise 

Cres. So I do. 

Pan. I’ll be sworn’tis true; he will weep 
you, an’t were a man born in April. 

[Sound a retreat. 
Cres. And I ’ll spring up in his tears, an 
’t were a nettle against May. 191 

Pan. Hark ! They are coming from the field. 
Shall we stand up here, and see them as they 
pass toward Ilium ? Good niece, do, sweet 
niece Cressida. 195 


Cres. At your pleasure. 

Pan. Here, here, here’s an excellent place ; 
here we may see most bravely. I ’ll tell you 
them all by their names as they pass by ; but 
mark Troilus above the rest. *00 

HSneas passes. 

Cres. Speak not so loud. 

Pan. That’s iEneas; is not that a brave 
man ? He’s one of the flowers of Troy, I can 
tell you. But mark Troilus; you shall see 
anon. 

Cres. Who’s that ? 20s 

Antenor passes. 

Pan. That’s Antenor. He has a shrewd wit, 
I can tell you, and he’s a man good enough. 
He’s one o’ the soundest judgement in Troy, 
whosoever, and a proper man of person. When 
comes Troilus? I’ll show you Troilus anon. 
If he see me, you shall see him nod at me. 211 

Cres. Will he give you the nod ? 

Pan. You shall see. 

Cres. If he do, the rich shall have more. 

Hector passes. 

Pan. That’s Hector, that, that, look you, 
that; there’s a fellow ! Go thy way, Hec- [21a 
tor! There’s a brave man, niece. O brave 
Hector ! Look how he looks ! There’s a coun¬ 
tenance ! Is’t not a brave man ? 

Cres. 0, a brave man ! 220 

Pan. Is ’a not ? It does a man’s heart good. 
Look you what hacks’are on his helmet! Look 
you yonder, do you see ? Look you there; 
there ’s no jesting ; [there’s] laying on, take’t 
off who will, as they say. There be hacks ! 225 

Cres. Be those with swords ? 

Paris passes. 

Paw. Swords! anything, he cares not; an 
the devil come to him, it’s all one. By God’s 
lid, it does one’s heart good. Yonder comes 
Paris, yonder comes Paris. Look ye yonder, [230 
niece; is’t. not a gallant man too, is’t not? 
Why, this is brave now. Who said he came 
hurt home to-day ? He’s not hurt. Why, 
this will do Helen’s heart good now, ha! 
Would I could see Troilus now ! You shall see 
Troilus anon. 236 

Cres. Who’s that ? 

Helenus passes. 

Pan. That’s Helenus. I marvel where 

Troilus is. That’s Helenus. I think he went 
not forth to-day. That’s Helenus. 240 

Cres. Can Helenus fight, uncle ? 

Pan. Helenus? no. Yes, he’ll fight indif¬ 
ferent well. I marvel where Troilus is. Hark ! 
do you not hear the people cry “Troilus”? 
Helenus is a priest. 245 

Cres. What sneaking fellow comes yonder ? 

Troilus passes. 

Pan. Where? Yonder? That’s Deiphobus. 
’T is Troilus ! There’s a man, niece ! Hem I 
Brave Troilus! the prince of chivalry/ 




I. iii. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


265 


Cres. Peace, for shame, peace ! 
Pan. Mark him ; note him. 0 hi 


250 

, O brave Troilus! 

Look well upon him, niece. Look you how his 
sword is bloodied, and his helm more hack’d 
than Hector’s, and how he looks, and how he 
goes ! O admirable youth ! he ne’er saw three 
and twenty. Go thy way, Troilus, go thy [255 
way ! Had I a sister were a grace, or a daughter 
a goddess, he should take his choice. O admir¬ 
able man ! Paris ? Paris is dirt tc him ; and, ) 
warrant, Helen, to change, would give money 
tO boot. 260 

Common Soldiers pass. 

Cres. Here come more. 

Pan. Asses, fools, dolts! chaff and bran, 
chaff and bran ! porridge after meat! I could 
live and diei’ the eyes of Troilus. Ne’er look’, 
ne’er look; the eagles are gone ; crows and 
daws, crows and daws ! I had rather be such 
a man as Troilus than Agamemnon and all 
Greece. 207 

Cres. There is among the Greeks Achilles, a 
better man than Troilus. 

Pan. Achilles 1 a drayman, a porter, a very 
camel. 271 

CjTP \VpH wall 

Pan. “Well, well!” Why, have you any 
discretion ? Have you any eyes 1 Do you know 
what a man is ? Is not birth, beauty, good 
shape, discourse, manhood, learning, gentle- [275 
ness, virtue, youth, liberality, and so forth, the 
spice and salt that season a man ? 

Cres. Ay, a minc’d man; and then to be 
bak’d with no date in the pie, for then the man’s 
date’s out. 281 

Pan. You are such another woman! One 
knows not at what ward you lie. 

Cres. Upon my back, to defend my belly; 
upon my wit, to defend my wiles ; upon my [285 
secrecy, to defend mine honesty; my mask, to 
defend my beauty; and you, to defend all these; 
and at all these wards I lie, at a thousand 
watches. 

Pan. Say one of your watches. 290 

Cres. Nay, I ’ll watch you for that; and 
that’s one of the chief est of them too. If I can¬ 
not ward what I would not have hit, I can watch 
you for telling how I took the blow ; unless 
it swell past hiding, and then it’s past watch¬ 
ing. 296 

Enter [Troilus'' s] Boy. 

You are such another ! 

Sir, my lord would instantly speak with 

Where ? 299 

At your own house ; [there he unarms 

Good boy, tell him I come. [Exit Boy.] 
he be hurt. Fare ye well, good niece. 
Adieu, uncle. 

I ’ll be with you, niece, by and by. 

To bring, uncle ? so5 

Ay, a token from Troilus. 

By the same token, you are a bawd. 

[Exit Pandarus. 


Pan. 
Boy. 
you. 
Pan. 
Boy. 
him.] 
Pan. 
I doubt 
Cres. 
Pan. 
Cres. 
Pan. 
Cres. 


Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love’s full sacri¬ 
fice, 

He offers in another’s enterprise ; 

But more in Troilus thousandfold I see sio 
Than in the glass of Pandar’s praise may be ; 
Yet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing. 
Things won are done, joy’s soul lies in the 
doing. 

That she belov’d knows nought that knows not 
this: 

I'Ton nrize the thing ungain’d more than it is. 
That she was never yet that ever knew sio 
Love got so sweet as when desire did sue. 
Therefore this maxim out of love I teach: 
Achievement is command ; ungain’d, beseech. 
Then though my heart’s content firm love doth 
bear, 320 

Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III. The Greek camp. Before Aga¬ 
memnon’s tent. ] 

Sennet. Enter Agamemnon, Nestor, Ulysses, 
Diomedes, Menelaus, with others. 

Agam. Princes, 

What grief hath set the jaundice on your 
cheeks ? 

The ample proposition that hope makes 
In all designs begun on earth below 
Fails in the promis’d largeness. Checks and 
disasters 5 

Grow in the veins of actions highest rear’d, 

As knots, by the conflux of meeting sap. 

Infect the sound pine and divert his grain 
Tortive and errant from his course of growth. 
Nor, princes, is it matter new to us 10 

That we come short of our suppose so far 
That after seven years’ siege yet Troy walls 
stand; 

Sith every action that hath gone before, 
Whereof we have record, trial did draw 
Bias and thwart, not answering the aim 15 
And that unbodied figure of the thought 
That gave’t surmised shape. Why then, you 
princes, 

Do you with cheeks abash’d behold our works, 
And think them shame ? which are indeed 
nought else 

But the protractive trials of great Jove 20 
To find persistive constancy in men ; 

The fineness of which metal is not found 
In fortune’s love ; for then the bold and coward, 
The wise and fool, the artist and unread, 

The hard and soft, seem all affin’d and kin. 25 
But, in the wind and tempest of her frown, 
Distinction, with a loud and powerful fan, 
Puffing at all, winnows the light away ; 

And what hath mass or matter, by itself 
Lies rich in virtue and unmingled. so 

Nest. With due observance of thy godlike 
seat. 

Great Agamemnon, Nestor shall apply 
Thy latest words. In the reproof of chance 
Lies the true proof of men. The sea being 
smooth, 

How many shallow bauble boats dare sail an 





266 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


i. iiL 


Upon her patient breast, making their way 
With those of nobler bulk ! 

But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage 
The gentle Thetis, and anon behold 
The strong-ribb’d bark through liquid moun¬ 
tains cut, 40 

Bounding between the two moist elements, 
Like Perseus’ horse ; where’s then the saucy 
boat 

Whose weak untimber’d sides but even now 
Co-riv ail’d greatness ? Either to harbour fled, 
Or made a toast for Neptune. Even so 
Doth valour’s show and valour’s worth divide 
In storms of fortune ; for in her ray and bright¬ 
ness 

The herd hath more annoyance by the breese 
Than by the tiger ; but when the splitting wind 
Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks, go 
A nd flies fled under shade, why, then the thing 
of courage, 

As rous’d with rage, with rage doth sympa¬ 
thize, 

And with an accent tun’d in selfsame key 
Retorts to chiding fortune. 

Ulyss. Agamemnon, 

Thou great commander, nerve and bone of 
Greece, 55 

Heart of our numbers, soul and only spirit, 

In whom the tempers and the minds of all 
Should be shut up, hear what Ulysses speaks. 
Besides the applause and approbation 
The which, [To Agamemnon ] most mighty for 

thy place and sway, eo 

[To Nestor ] And thou most reverend for thy 
stretch’d-out life, 

I give to both your speeches, which were such 
As Agamemnon and the hand of Greece 
Should hold up high in brass, and such again 
As venerable Nestor, hatch’d in silver, 65 

Should with a bond of air, strong as the axle- 
tree 

On which the heavens ride, knit all Greek 
ears 

To his experienc’d tongue, yet let it please both, 
Thou great, and wise, to hear Ulysses speak. 

Agam. Speak, Prince of Ithaca; and be’t 
of less expect 70 

That matter needless, of importless burden, 
Divide thy lips, than we are confident, 

When rank Thersites opes his mastic jaws, 

We shall hear music, wit, and oracle. 

Ulyss. Troy, yet upon his basis, had been 
down, 75 

And the great Hector’s sword had lack’d a 
master, 

But for these instances : 

The specialty of rule hath been neglected ; 
And, look, how many Grecian tents do stand 
Hollow upon this plain, so many hollow fac¬ 
tions. 80 

When that the general is not like the hive 
To whom the foragers shall all repair, 

What honey is expected ? Degree being vi- 
zarded, 

The unworthiest shows as fairly in the mask. 
The heavens themselves, the planets, and this 
centre 85 


Observe degree, priority, and place, 

Insisture, course, proportion, season, form, 
Office, and custom, in all line of order ; 

And therefore is the glorious planet Sol 
In noble eminence enthron’d and spher’d 
Amidst the other ; whose medicinable eye 
Corrects the ill aspects of planets evil, 

And posts, like the commandment of a king, 
Sans check to good and bad. But when the 


planets 

In evil mixture to disorder wander. »g 

What plagues and what portents! what mu¬ 
tiny ! 

What raging of the sea ! shaking of earth ! 
Commotion in the winds! Frights, changes, 


horrors, 

Divert and crack, rend and deracinate 
The unity and married calm of states 100 

Quite from their fixture! 0 , when degree is 
shak’d, 

Which is the ladder to all high designs, 

Then enterprise is sick ! How could communi¬ 
ties, 

Degrees in schools, and brotherhoods in cities, 
Peaceful commerce from dividable shores, 105 
The primogenitive and due of birth, 
Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels, 
But by degree, stand in authentic place ? 

Take but degree away, untune that string. 
And, hark, what discord follows ! Each thing 
meets n* 

In mere oppugnancy. The bounded waters 
Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores 
And make a sop of all this solid globe. 
Strength should be lord of imbecility, 

And the rude son should strike his father 
dead. 115 


Force should be right; or rather, right and 
wrong, 

Between whose endless jar justice resides, 
Should lose their names, and so should justice 


too. 


Then everything includes itself in power, 
Power into will, will into appetite ; 120 

And appetite, an universal wolf, 

So doubly seconded with will and power, 

Must make perforce an universal prey, 

And last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon, 
This chaos, when degree is suffocate, 125 

Follows the choking. 

And this neglection of degree is it 
That by a pace goes backward, in a purpose 
It hath to climb. The general’s disdain’d 
By him one step below, he by the next, 130 
That next by him beneath ; so every step, 
Exampled by the first pace that is sick 
Of his superior, grows to an envious fever 
Of pale and bloodless emulation ; 

And’t is this fever that keeps Troy on foot, 135 
Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length, 
Troy in our weakness stands, not in her strength. 
Nest. Most wisely hath Ulysses here dis¬ 
cover’d 

The fever whereof all our power is sick. 

Agam. The nature of the sickness found, 
Ulysses, 140 

What is the remedy ? 





TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


267 


I. iii. 


Ulyss. The great Achilles, whom opinion 
crowns 

The sinew and the forehand of our host. 
Having his ear full of his airy fame, 

Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent 145 
Lies mocking our designs. With him Patroclus 
Upon a lazy bed the livelong day 
Breaks scurril jests, 

And with ridiculous and awkward action, 
Which, slanderer, he imitation calls, iso 

He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamem¬ 
non, 

Thy topless deputation he puts on, 

And, like a strutting player, whose conceit 
Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich 
To hear the wooden dialogue and sound iss 
’Twixt his stretch’d footing and the scaffold- 
age, — 

Such to-be-pitied and o’er-wrested seeming 
He acts thy greatness in ; and when he speaks, 
’Tis like a chime a-mending, with terms un¬ 
squar’d, 

Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon 
dropp’d, wo 

Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff 
The large Achilles, on his press’d bed lolling, 
From his deep cnest laughs out a loud ap¬ 
plause ; 

Cries, “ Excellent 1 ’T is Agamemnon just. 
Now play me Nestor ; hem, and stroke thy 
beard, ies 

As he being drest to some oration.” 

That’s done, as near as the extremest ends 
Of parallels, as like as Vulcan and his wife ; 
Yet god Achilles still cries, “ Excellent! 

’Tis Nestor right. Now play him me, Patro¬ 
clus, , 170 

Arming to answer in a night alarm.” 

And then, forsooth, the faint defects of age 
Must be the scene of mirth ; to cough and spit, 
And, with a palsy fumbling on his gorget, 
Shake in and out the rivet; and at this sport ns 
Sir Valour dies ; cries, “ (X enough, Patroclus ; 
Or gi ye me ribs of steel! I shall split all 
In pleasure of my spleen.” And in this fashion, 
All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes, 
Severals and generals of grace exact,. iso 

Achievements, plots, orders, preventions, 
Excitements to the field, or speech for truce, 
Success or loss, what is or is not, serves 
As stuff for these two to make paradoxes. 

Nest. And in the imitation of these 
twain — _ 185 

Who, as Ulysses says, opinion crowns 
With an imperial voice —many are infect. 

Ajax is grown self-will’d, and bears his head 
In such a rein, in full as proud a place 
As broad Achilles ; keeps his tent like him ; i»o 
Makes factious feasts; rails on our state of 
war, 

Bold as an oracle, and sets Thersites, 

A slave whose gall coins slanders like a mint, 
To match us in comparisons with dirt, 

To weaken and discredit our exposure, i»« 
How rank soever rounded in with danger. 
Ulyss. They tax our policy, and call it cow¬ 
ardice, 


Count wisdom as no member of the war, 
Forestall prescience, and esteem no act 
But that of hand. The still and mental parts, 20* 
That do contrive how many hands shall strike 
When fitness calls them on, and know by mea¬ 
sure 

Of their observant toil the enemies’ weight, — 
Why, this hath not a finger’s dignity. 

They call this bed-work, mappery, closet- 
war ; 20s 

So that the ram that batters down the wall, 
For the great swing and rudeness of his poise, 
They place before his hand that made the en¬ 
gine, 

Or those that with the fineness of their souls 
By reason guide his execution. 210 

Nest. Let this be granted, and Achilles’ 
horse 

Makes many Thetis’ sons. [A tucket. 

Agam. What trumpet ? Look, Menelaus. 
Men. From Troy. 

Enter Eneas. 

Agam. What would you ’fore our tent ? 215 

AEne. Is this great Agamemnon’s tent, I 
pray you ? 

Agam. Even this. 

AEne. May one, that is a herald and a prince, 
Do a fair message to his kingly ears ? 

Agam. With surety stronger than Achilles’ 
arm, 22# 

’Fore all the Greekish heads, which with one 
voice 

Call Agamemnon head and general. 

AEne. Fair leave and large security. How 
may 

A stranger to those most imperial looks 
Know them from eyes of other mortals ? 

Again. How ? 

AEne. Ay. 220 

I ask, that I might waken reverence. 

And bid the cheek be ready with a blush 
Modest as Morning when she coldly eyes 
The youthful Phoebus. 230 

Which is that god in office, guiding men ? 
Which is the high and mighty Agamemnon ? 
Agam. This Troyan scorns us ; or the men of 
Troy 

Are ceremonious courtiers. 

AEne. Courtiers as free, as debonair, un¬ 
arm’d, 235 

As bending angels ; that’s their fame in peace. 
But when they would seem soldiers, they have 
galls, 

Good arms, strong joints, true swords ; and, 
Jove’s accord, 

Nothing so full of heart. But peace, .Eneas, 
Peace, Troyan ; lay thy finger on thy lips ! 240 

The worthiness of praise distains his worth, 

If that the prais’d himself bring the praise 
forth ; 

But what the repining enemy commends, 

That breath fame blows ; that praise, sole pure, 
transcends. 

A gam. Sir, you of Troy, call you yourself 

Eneas ? 24s 

AEne. Ay, Greek, that is my name. 




268 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


I. iiL 


A gam. What’s your affair, I pray you ? 
AEne. Sir, pardon; ’t is for Agamemnon’s 
ears. 

Agam. He hears nought privately that comes 
from Troy. 

AEne. Nor I from Troy come not to whisper 
him. 260 

I bring a trumpet to awake his ear, 

To set Ms sense on the attentive bent, 

And then to speak. 

Agam. Speak frankly as the wind ; 

It is not Agamemnon’s sleeping hour. 

That thou shalt know, Troyan, he is awake, 255 
He tells thee so himself. 

AEne. Trumpet, blow loud, 

Send thy brass voice through all these lazy 
tents, 

And every Greek of mettle, let him know, 
What Troy means fairly shall be spoke aloud. 

[The trumpets sound. 
We have, great Agamemnon, here in Troy 260 
A prince call’d Hector, — Priam is his father — 
Who in this dull and long-continu’d truce 
Is rusty grown ; he bade me take a trumpet, 
And to this purpose speak. Kings, princes, 
lords ! 

If there be one amongst the fair’st of Greece 205 
That holds his honour higher than his ease, 
That seeks his praise more than he fears his 
peril, 

That knows his valour, and knows not his 
fear, 

That loves his mistress more than in confession 
With truant vows to her own lips be loves, 270 
And dare avow her beauty and her worth 
In other arms than hers, — to him this chal¬ 
lenge. 

Hector, in view of Troyans and of Greeks, 

Shall make it good, or do his best to do it, 

He hath a lady, wiser, fairer, truer, 276 

Than ever Greek did compass in his arms, 

And will to-morrow with his trumpet call 
Midway between your tents and walls of Troy, 
To rouse a Grecian that is true in love. 

If any come, Hector shall honour him ; 200 

If none, he ’ll say in Troy when he retires, 

The Grecian dames are sunburnt and not worth 
The splinter of a lance. Even so much. 

Agam. This shall be told our lovers, Lord 
Aeneas. 

If none of them have soul in such a kind, 205 
We left them all at home. But we are sol¬ 
diers ; 

And may that soldier a mere recreant prove, 
That means not, hath not, or is not in love ! 

If then one is, or hath, or means to be, 209 
That one^meets Hector ; if none else, I am he. 
Nest. Tell him of Nestor, one that was a 
man 

When Hector’s grandsire suck’d : he is old 
now ; 

But if there be not in our Grecian host 
One noble man that hath one spark of fire 
To answer for his love, tell him from me 295 
I ’ll hide my silver beard in a gold beaver 
And in my vantbrace put this wither’d brawn, 
And, meeting him, will tell him that my lady 


Was fairer than his grandam, and as chaste 
As may be in the world. His youth in flood, 

I ’ll prove this truth with my three drops of 
blood. 301 

AEne. Now heavens forbid such scarcity of 
youth ! 

Ulyss. Amen. 

Agam. Fair Lord iEneas, let me touch your 
hand; 

To our pavilion shall I lead you first. 306 

Achilles shall have word of this intent; 

So shall each lord of Greece, from tent to tent. 
Yourself shall feast with us before you go 
And find the welcome of a noble foe. 

[Exeunt all but Ulysses and Nestor. 
Ulyss. Nestor! 310 

Nest. What says Ulysses ? 

Ulyss. I have a young conception in my 
brain ; 

Be you my time to bring it to some shape. 

Nest. What is’t ? 

Ulyss. This’t is: 315 

Blunt wedges rive hard knots. The seeded 
pride 

That hath to this maturity blown up 
In rank Achilles must or now be cropp’d 
Or, shedding, breed a nursery of like evil, 

To overbulk us all. 

Nest. Well, and how ? sm 

Ulyss. This challenge that the gallant Hec¬ 
tor sends, 

However it is spread in general name, 

Relates in purpose only to Achilles. 

Nest. The purpose is perspicuous even as 
substance, 

Whose grossness little characters sum up ; 02s 

And, in the publication, make no strain, 

But that Achilles, were his brain as barren 
As banks of Libya, — though, Apollo knows, 
’T is dry enough, — will, with great speed of 
judgement, 

Ay, with celerity, find Hector’s purpose 330 
Pointing on him. 

Ulyss. And wake him to the answer, think 
you ? 

Nest. Yes, ’tis most meet. Who may you 
else oppose 

That can from Hector bring his honour off, 

If not Achilles ? Though’t be a sportful com¬ 
bat, 335 

Yet in this trial much opinion dwells ; 

For here the Troyans taste our dear’st repute 
With their fin’st palate; and trust to me, 
Ulysses, 

Our imputation shall be oddly pois’d 
In this wild action ; for the success, 340 

Although particular, shall give a scantling 
Of good or bad unto the general; 

And in such indexes, although small pricks 
To their subsequent volumes, there is seen 
The baby figure of the giant mass 345 

Of things to come at large. It is suppos’d 
He that meets Hector issues from our choice ; 
And choice 2 being mutual act of all our souls, 
Makes merit her election, and doth boil, 

As’t were from forth us all, a man distill’d as* 
Out of our virtues ; who miscarrying, 





II. 1. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


269 


What heart from hence receives the conquering 
part, 

To steel a strong opinion to themselves ? 

Which entertain’d, limbs are his instruments, 
In no less working than are swords and bows 305 
Directive by the limbs. 

Ulyss. Give pardon to my speech : 

Therefore’t is meet Achilles meet not Hector. 
Let us, like merchants, show our foulest wares, 
And think, perchance, they ’ll sell; if not, 360 
The lustre of the better yet to show, 

Shall show the better. Do not consent 
That ever Hector and Achilles meet; 

For both our honour and our shame in this 
Are dogg’d with two strange followers. sec 
Nest. I see them not with my old eyes. What 
are they ? 

Ulyss. What glory our Achilles shares from 
Hector, 

Were he not proud, we all should wear with 
him. 

But he already is too insolent; 

And we were better parch in Afric sun 370 
Than in the pride and salt scorn of his eyes, 
Should he scape Hector fair. If he were foil’d, 
Why then, we did our main opinion crush 
In taint of our best man. No, make a lottery; 
And, by device, let blockish Ajax draw 375 
The sort to fight with Hector ; among ourselves 
Give him allowance as the worthier man ; 

For that will physic the great Myrmidon 
Who broils in loud applause, and make him 
fall 

His crest that prouder than blue Iris bends. 3 eo 
If the dull brainless Ajax come safe off, 

We ’ll dress him up in voices. If he fail, 

Yet go we under our opinion still 
That we have better men. But, hit or miss, 384 
Our project’s life this shape of sense assumes: 
Ajax employ’d plucks down Achilles’ plumes. 
Nest. Now, Ulysses, I begin to relish thy 
advice ; 

And I will give a taste of it forthwith 
To Agamemnon. Go we to him straight. sno 
Two curs shall tame each other ; pride alone 
Must tarre the mastiffs on, as f t were their 
bone. [ Exeunt. 

[ACT II 

Scene I. A part of the Greek camp.] 
Enter Ajax and Thersites. 

Ajax. Thersites! 

Ther. Agamemnon, how if he had boils — 
full, all over, generally ? 

Ajax. Thersites! * 

Ther. And those boils did run ? bay so : did 
not the general run then ? Were not that a 
botchy core ? 

Ajax. Dog! 

Ther. Then there would come some matter 
from him. I see none now. 10 

Ajax. Thou bitch-wolf’s son, canst thou not 
hear? Feel, then. [S<n£es him. 

Ther. The plague of Greece upon thee, thou 
mongrel beef-witted lord ! 


Ajax. Speak then, thou unsalted leaven, 
speak. I will beat thee into handsomeness. i« 
Ther. I shall sooner rail thee into wit and 
holiness ; but I think thy horse will sooner con 
an oration than thou learn a prayer without 
book. Thou canst strike, canst thou ? A red 
muirain o’ thy jade’s tricks ! 21 

Ajax. Toadstool, learn me the proclamation. 
Ther. Dost thou think I have no sense, thou 
strik’st me thus ? 

Ajax. The proclamation ! 25 

Ther. Thou art proclaim’d a fool, I think. 
Ajax. Do not, porpentine, do not; my fin¬ 
gers itch. 28 

Ther. I would thou didst itch from head to 
foot and I had the scratching of thee. I would 
make thee the loathsom’st scab in Greece. 
[When thou art forth in the incursions, thou 
strik’st as slow as another.] 

Ajax. I say, the proclamation ! 84 

Ther. Thou grumblest and railest every hour 
on Achilles, and thou art as full of envy at his 
greatness as Cerberus is at Proserpina’s beauty, 
ay, that thou bark’st at him. 

Ajax. Mistress Thersites ! 

Ther. Thou shouldst strike him. 40 

Ajax. Cobloaf! 

Ther. He would pun thee into shivers with 
his fist, as a sailor breaks a biscuit. 

Ajax. [Beating him.] You whoreson cur ! 
Ther. Do, do. *b 

Ajax. Thou stool for a witch ! 

Ther. Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witted lord ! 
Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine 
elbows; an asinego may tutor thee. Thou 
scurvy valiant ass ! thou art here but to thrash 
Troyans ; and thou art bought and sold [m 
among those of any wit, like a barbarian slave. 
If thou use to beat me, I will begin at thy heel, 
and tell what thou art by inches, thou thing of 
no bowels, thou! 

Ajax. You dog! w 

Ther. You scurvy lord ! 

Ajax. [Beating him.] You cur! 

Ther. Mars his idiot! do, rudeness; do, 
camel; do, do. «> 

Enter Achilles and Patroclvs. 

Achil. Why, how now, Ajax ! wherefore do 
you this ? How now, Thersites! what’s the 
matter, man ? 

Ther. You see him there, do you? 

Achil. Ay ; what’s the matter ? 

Ther. Nay, look upon him. 

Achil. So I do. What’s the matter? 

Ther. Nay, but regard him well. 

Achil. Well! why, I do so. 

Ther. But yet you look not well upon him ; 
for, whosomever you take him to be, he is 
Ajax. 70 

Achil. I know that, fool. 

Ther. Ay, but that fool knows not himself. 
Ajax. Therefore I beat thee. J® 

Ther. Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit 
he utters ! His evasions have ears thus long. 
I have bobb’d his brain more than he has beat 
my bones. I will buy nine sparrows for a penny, 




270 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


11 . it 


and his pia mater is not worth the ninth part 
of a sparrow. This lord, Achilles, Ajax, who 
wears his wit in his belly and his guts in his 
head, I ’ll tell you what I say of him. si 

Achil. What ? 

Ther. I say, this Ajax — 

[Ajax offers to beat him.] 
Achil. Nay, good Ajax. 

Ther. Has not so much wit — ss 

Achil. Nay, I must hold you. 

Ther. As will stop the eye of Helen’s needle, 
for whom he comes to fight. 

Achil. Peace, fool! sa 

Ther. I would have peace and quietness, hut 
the fool will not, — he there, that he. Look 
you there. 

Ajax. 0 thou damn’d cur! I shall — 

Achil. Will you set your wit to a fool’s ? 94 
Ther. No, I warrant you; for a fool’s will 
shame it. 

Patr. Good words, Thersites. 

Achil. What’s the quarrel ? 

Ajax. I hade the vile owl go learn me the 
tenour of the proclamation, and he rails upon 
me. 100 

Ther. I serve thee not. 

Ajax. Well, go to, go to. 

Ther. I serve here voluntary. 103 

Achil. Your last service was sufferance, 
’t was not voluntary; no man is beaten vol¬ 
untary. Ajax was here the voluntary, and you 
as under an impress. 107 

Ther. E’en so. A great deal of your wit, 
too, lies in your sinews, or else there be liars. 
Hector shall have a great catch, if he knock 
out either of your brains. He were as good 
crack a f ustv nut with no kernel. 112 

Achil. What, with me too, Thersites ? 

Ther. There’s Ulysses and old Nestor, whose 
wit was mouldy ere your grandsires had nails 
on their toes, yoke you like draught-oxen and 
make you plough up the war. 117 

Achil. What, what ? 

Ther. Yes, good sooth. To Achilles, to Ajax, 
to — 120 

Ajax. I shall cut out your tongue. 

Ther. ’T is no matter ; I shall speak as much 
as thou afterwards. 

Patr. No more words, Thersites ; peace ! 
Ther. I will hold my peace when Achilles’ 
bracli bids me, shall I ? 126 

Achil. There’s for you, Patroclus. 

Ther. I will see you hang’d like clodpoles ere 
I come any more to your tents. I will keep 
where there is wit stirring and leave the faction 
of fools. [Exit. 131 

Patr. A good riddance. 

Achil. Marry, this, sir, is proclaim’d through 
all our host: 

That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun, 

Will with a trumpet ’twixt our tents and 

Troy i 36 

To-morrow morning call some knight to arms 
That hath a stomach; and such a one that 
dare 

Maintain — I know not what; ’tis trash. 

Farewell. 


Ajax. Farewell. Who shall answer him ? 
Achil. I know not; ’t is put to lottery. 
Otherwise, 140 

He knew his man. 

Ajax. 0 , meaning you. I will go learn more 
of it. [Exeunt. 

[Scene II. Troy. A room in Priam's palace .] 

Enter Priam, Hector, Troirus, Paris, and 
Helenus. 

Pri. After so many hours, lives, speeches 
spent, 

Thus once again says Nestor from the Greeks : 
“ Deliver Helen, and all damage else — 

As honour, loss of time, travail, expense, 
Wounds, friends, and what else dear that is 
consum’d « 

In hot digestion of this cormorant war — 

Shall be struck off.” Hector, what say you 
to’t ? 

Hect. Though no man lesser fears the Greeks 
than I 

As far as touches my particular, 

Yet, dread Priam, io 

There is no lady of more softer bowels, 

More spongy to suck in the sense of fear, 

More ready to cry out, “ Who knows what 
follows ? ” 

Than Hector is. The wound of peace is surety, 
Surety secure ; but modest doubt is call’d ie 
The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches 
To the bottom of the worst. Let Helen go. 
Since the first sword was drawn about this 
question, 

Every tithe soul, ’mongst many thousand 
dismes, 

Hath been as dear as Helen ; I mean, of ours. 
If we have lost so many tenths of ours, 21 

To guard a thing not ours nor worth to us, 

Had it our name, the value of one ten, 

What merit’s in that reason which denies 
The yielding of her up ? 

Tro. Fie, fie, my brother! 25 

Weigh you the worth and honour of a king 
So great as our dread father in a scale 
Of common ounces ? Will you with counters 
sum 

The past proportion of his infinite, 

And buckle in a waist most fathomless 30 

With spans and inches so diminutive 
As fears and reasons ? Fie, for godly shame ! 
Hel. No marvel, though you bite so sharp at 
reasons, 

You are so empty of them. Should not our 
father 

Bear the great sway of his affairs with reasons, 
Because your speech hath none that tells him 

SO ? 36 

Tro. You are for dreams and slumbers, 
brother priest; 

You fur your gloves with reason. Here are 
your reasons: 

You know an enemy intends you harm ; 

You know a sword employ’d is perilous, 4 i 
And reason flies the object of all harm. 

Who marvels then, when Helenus beholds 





II. 11. 


TROILUS AND CRESS 1 DA 


271 


A Grecian and his sword, if he do set 
The very wings of reason to his heels 
And fly like chidden Mercury from Jove, 45 
Or like a star disorb’d ? Nay, if we talk of 
reason, 

Let’s shut our gates and sleep. Manhood and 
honour 

Should have hare hearts, would they but fat 
their thoughts 

With this cramm’d reason. Reason and respect 
Makes livers pale and lustihood deject. 00 
Hect. Brother, she is not worth what she 
doth cost 
The holding. 

Tro. What is aught, but as’t is valu’d ? 
Hect. But value dwells not in particular 
will ; 

It holds his estimate and dignity 
As well wherein’t is precious of itself w 

As in the prizer. ’T is mad idolatry 
To make the service greater than the god ; 

And the will dotes that is inclineable 
To what infectiously itself affects, 

Without some image of the affected merit, m 
Tro. I take to-day a wife, and my election 
Is led on in the conduct of my will, 

My will enkindled by mine eyes and ears, 

Two traded pilots ’twixt the dangerous shores 
Of will and judgement: how may I avoid, ss 
Although my will distaste what it elected, 

The wife I chose ? There can be no evasion 
To blench from this and to stand firm by 
honour. 

We turn not back the silks upon the merchant, 
When we have soil’d them, nor the remainder 
viands 70 

We do not throw in unrespective sieve, 

Because we now are full. It was thought meet 
Paris should do some vengeance on the Greeks. 
Your breath of full consent bellied his sails ; 
The seas and winds, old wranglers, took a truce 
And did him service ; he touch’d the ports de¬ 
sir’d, ™ 

And for an old aunt whom the Greeks held 
captive, 

He brought a Grecian queen, whose youth and 
freshness 

Wrinkles Apollo’s, and makes stale the morn¬ 
ing. 

Why keep we her? The Grecians keep our 
aunt. # 80 

Is she worth keeping ? Why, she is a pearl, 
Whose price hath launch’d above a thousand 
ships, 

And turn’d crown’d kings to merchants. 

If you ’ll avouch’t was wisdom Paris went^— 
As you must needs, for you all cried “Go, 
go,” — . 85 

If you ’ll confess he brought home noble prize — 
As you must needs, for you all clapp d your 
hands, 

And cried “ Inestimable ! ” — why do you now 
The issue of your proper wisdoms rate, 

And do a deed that fortune never did, 

Beggar the estimation which you priz’d 
Richer than sea and land ? O, theft most base, 
That we have stol’n what we do fear to keep ! 


But, thieves, unworthy of a thing so stol’n, 
That in their country did them that disgrace, w 
We fear to warrant in our native place ! 

Cas. [WithinA Cry, Troyans, cry ! 

Pri. What noise, what shriek is this ? 

Tro. ’T is our mad sister, I do know her 
voice. 

Cas. [ Within.] Cry, Troyans 1 

Hect. It is Cassandra. 100 

Enter Cassandra [raving] with her hair about 
her ears. 

Cas. Cry, Troyans, cry! Lend me ten thou¬ 
sand eyes, 

And I will fill them with prophetic tears. 

Hect. Peace, sister, peace! 

Cas. Virgins and boys, mid-age and wrinkled 
eld, 

Soft infancy, that nothing can but cry, 105 
Add to my clamour ! Let us pay betimes 
A moiety of that mass of moan to come. 

Cry, Troyans, cry ! Practise your eyes with 
tears! 

Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand. 

Our firebrand brother, Paris, burns us all. 11c 
Cry, Troyans, cry ! A Helen and a woe ! 

Cry, cry ! Troy burns, or else let Helen go. 

[Exit. 

Hect. Now, youthful Troilus, do not these 
high strains 

Of divination in our sister work 

Some touches of remorse ? Or is your blood us 

So madly hot that no discourse of reason, 

Nor fear of bad success in a bad cause, 

Can qualify the same ? 

Tro. Why, brother Hector, 

We may not think the justness of each act 
Such and no other than event doth form it, 120 
Nor once deject the courage of our minds, 
Because Cassandra’s mad. Her brain-sick 
raptures 

Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel 
Which hath our several honours all engag’d 
To make it gracious. For my private part, 125 
I am no more touch’d than all Priam’s sons ; 
And Jove forbid there should be done amongst 
us 

Such things as might off end the weakest spleen 
To fight for and maintain ! 

Par. Else might the world convince of levity 
As well my undertakings as your counsels ; 131 
But I attest the gods, your full consent 
Gave wings to my propension and cut off 
All fears attending on so dire a project. 

For what, alas, can these my single arms ? ies 
What propugnation is in one man’s valour, 

To stand the push and enmity of those 
This quarrel would excite ? Yet, I protest, 
Were I alone to pass the difficulties 
And had as ample power as I have will, 

Paris should ne’er retract what he hath done, 
Nor faint in the pursuit. 

Pri. Paris, you speak 

Like one besotted on your sweet delights. 

You have the honey still, but these the gall; 
So to be valiant is no praise at all. 

Par. Sir, I propose not merely to myself 




272 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


11 . iii. 


The pleasures such a beauty brings with it; 
But I would have the soil of her fair rape 
Wip’d off, in honourable keeping her. 

What treason were it to the ransack’d 
queen, iso 

Disgrace to your great worths and shame to 


me. 

Now to deliver her possession up 
On terms of base compulsion I Can it be 
That so degenerate a strain as this 
Should once set footing in your generous bo¬ 
soms ? 155 

There’s not the meanest spirit on our party 
Without a heart to dare or sword to draw 
When Helen is defended, nor none so noble 
Whose life were ill bestow’d or death unfam’d 
Where Helen is the subject. Then, I say, 100 
Well may we fight for her whom, we know 
well, 

The world’s large spaces cannot parallel. 

Hect. Paris and Troilus, you have both said 
well, 

And on the cause and question now in hand 
Have gloz’d, but superficially ; not much 105 
Unlike young men, whom Aristotle thought 
Unfit to hear moral philosophy. 

The reasons you allege do more conduce 
To the hot passion of distemp’red blood 
Than to make up a free determination 170 
’Twixt right and wrong, for pleasure and re¬ 
venge 

Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice 
Of any true decision. Nature craves 
All dues be rend’red to their owners: now, 
What nearer debt in all humanity 175 

Than wife is to the husband ? If this law 


Of nature be corrupted through affection, 

And that great minds, of partial indulgence 
To their benumbed wills, resist the same, 
There is a law in each well-ord’red nation iso 
To curb those raging appetites that are 
Most disobedient and refractory. 

If Helen then be wife to Sparta’s king, 

As it is known she is, these moral laws 
Of nature and of nations speak aloud iss 

To have her back return’d. Thus to persist 
In doing wrong extenuates not wrong, 

But makes it much more heavy. Hector’s opin¬ 
ion 

Is this in way of truth ; yet ne’ertheless, 

My spritely brethren, I propend to you 100 

In resolution to keep Helen still, 

For ’tis a cause that hath no mean dependence 
Upon our joint and several dignities. 

Tro. Why, there you touch’d the life of our 
design. 

Were it not glory that we more affected 105 
Than the performance of our heaving spleens, 

I would not wish a drop of Troyan blood 
Spent more in her defence. But, worthy Hec¬ 


tor, 

She is a theme of honour and renown, 

A spur to valiant and magnanimous deeds, 200 
Whose present courage may beat down our 
foes, 

And fame in time to come canonize us; 

For, I presume, brave Hector would not lose 


So rich advantage of a promis’d glory 
As smiles upon the forehead of this action 20* 
For the wide world’s revenue. 

Heel. I am yours, 

You valiant offspring of great Priam us. 

I have a roisting challenge sent amongst 
The dull and factious nobles of the Greeks 
Will strike amazement to their drowsy 
spirits. 210 

I was advertis’d their great general slept, 
Whilst emulation in the army crept. 

This, I presume, will wake him. [ Exeunt. 

[Scene III. The Greek camp. Before Achilles's 
tent.] 

Enter Thersites, solus. 

Ther. How now, Thersites! What, lost in 
the labyrinth of thy fury ! Shall the elephant 
Ajax carry it thus ? He beats me, and I rail at 
him. O, worthy satisfaction! would it were 
otherwise; that I could beat him, whilst he 
rail’d at me. ’S foot, I ’ll learn to conjure [» 
and raise devils, but I ’ll see some issue of my 
spiteful execrations. Then there’s Achilles, a 
rare enginer ! If Troy be not taken till these 
two undermine it, the walls will stand till they 
fall of themselves. O thou great thunder- [10 
darter of Olympus, forget that thou art Jove, 
the king of gods, and, Mercury, lose all the ser¬ 
pentine craft of thy cadueeus, if ye take not 
that little little less than little wit from them 
that they have, which short-arm’d ignorance [is 
itself knows is so abundant scarce, it will not 
in circumvention deliver a fly from a spider, 
without drawing their massy irons and cutting 
the web! After this, the vengeance on the 
whole camp ! or rather, the [Neapolitan] bone- 
ache ! for that, methinks, is the curse de- [20 
pendent on those that war for a placket. I have 
said my prayers, and devil Envy say Amen. 
What ho ! my Lord Achilles ! 

Enter Patroclus. 

Patr. Who’s there ? Thersites ! Good Ther¬ 
sites, come in and rail. 28 

Ther. If I could have rememb’red a gilt 
counterfeit, thou wouldst not have slipp’d out 
of my contemplation. But it is no matter; thy¬ 
self upon thyself ! The common curse of man¬ 
kind, folly and ignorance, be thine in great [30 
revenue ! Heaven bless thee from a tutor, and 
discipline come not near thee ! Let thy blood 
be thy direction till thy death, then if she 
that lays thee out says thou art a fair corse, 
I ’ll be sworn and sworn upon’t she never [35 
shrouded any but lazars. Amen. Where’s 
Achilles ? 

Patr. What, art thou devout ? Wast thou in 
prayer ? 

Ther. Ay ; the heavens hear me 1 40 

[Patr. Amen.] 

Enter Achilles. 

Achil. Who’s there ? 

Patr. Thersites, my lord. 

Achil. Where, where? Art thou come? 





II. iii. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


2 73 


Why, my cheese, ray digestion, why hast thou 
not serv’d thyself in to my table so many 
meals ? Come, what’s Agamemnon ? 46 

Ther. Thy commander. Achilles. Then tell 
me, Patroclus, what’s Achilles ? 

Patr. Thy lord, Thersites. Then tell me, I 
pray thee\ what’s thyself ? so 

Ther. Thy knower, Patroclus. Then tell me, 
Patroclus, what art thou ? 

Patr. Thou mayst tell that know’st. 

Achil. O, tell, tell. 64 

Ther. I ’ll decline the whole question. Aga¬ 
memnon commands Achilles; Achilles is my 
lord: lam Patroclus’ knower; and Patroclus 
is a fool. 

Patr. You rascal! 

Ther. Peace, fool! I have not done. oo 

Achil. He is a privileg’d man. Proceed, 
Thersites. 

Ther. Agamemnon is a fool; Achilles is a 
fool; Thersites is a fool; and, as aforesaid, 
Patroclus is a fool. cs 

Achil. Derive this ; come. 

Ther. Agamemnon is a fool to offer to com¬ 
mand Achilles ; Achilles is a fool to be com¬ 
manded of Agamemnon ; Thersites is a fool to 
serve such a fool; and Patroclus is a fool posi¬ 
tive. 70 

Patr. Why am I a fool ? 

Enter Agamemnon, Ulysses, Nestor, Dio- 
medes, Ajax, and Calchas. 

Ther. Make that demand of the Creator; 
it suffices me thou art. Look you, who comes 
here ? 

Achil. Patroclus, I’ll speak with nobody. 
Come in with me, Thersites. [Exit, n 

Ther. Here is such patchery, such juggling, 
and such knavery! All the argument is a 
cuckold and a whore ; a good quarrel to draw 
emulous factions and bleed to death upon. 
Now, the dry serpigo on the subject, and war 
and lechery confound all! [Exit.] 82 

Agam. Where is Achilles ? 

Patr. Within his tent; but ill dispos’d, my 
lord. 

Agam. Let it be known to him that we are 
Iiere. ss 

He shent our messengers, and we lay by 
Our appertainments, visiting of him. 

Let him be told so, lest perchance he think 
We dare not move the question of our place, «9 
Or know not what we are. 

Patr. I shall so say to him. 

[Exit.] 

TJlyss. We saw him at the opening of his 
tent: 

He is not sick. 02 

Ajax. Yes, lion-sick, sick of proud heart. 
You may call it melancholy, if you will favour 
the man, but,by my head, it is pride ; hut why, 
why? Let him show us the cause. A word, 
my lord. [Takes Agamemnon aside.] 

Nest. What moves Ajax thus to bay at 

him ? 

TJlyss. Achilles hath inveigled his fool from 
him. 100 


Nest. Who, Thersites ? 

TJlyss. He. 

Nest. Then will Ajax lack matter, if he 
have lost his argument. 

Ulyss. No, you see, he is his argument that 
has his argument, Achilles. io« 

Nest. All the better; their fraction is more 
our wish than their taction. But it was a 
strong composure a fool could disunite. 

Ulyss. The amity that wisdom knits not, 
folly may easily untie. 

Re-enter Patroclus. 

Here comes Patroclus. m 

Nest. No Achilles with him. 

Ulyss. The elephant hath joints, but none 
for courtesy. His legs are legs for necessity, 
not for flexure. ns 

Patr. Achilles bids me say, he is much sorry 
If anything more than your sport and pleasure 
Did move your greatness and this noble state 
To call upon him. He hopes it is no other 
But for your health and your digestion sake, 120 
An after-dinner’s breath. . 

Agam. Hear you, Patroclus. 

We are too well acquainted with these an¬ 
swers ; 

But his evasion, wing’d thus swift with scorn, 
Cannot outfly our apprehensions. 124 

Much attribute he hath, and much the reason 
Why we ascribe it to him ; yet all his virtues, 
Not virtuously of his own part beheld, 

Do in our eyes begin to lose their gloss, 

Yea, like fair fruit in an unwholesome dish, 
Are like to rot untasted. Go and tell him 130 
We came to speak with him ; and you shall not 
sin 

If you do say we think him over-proud 
And under-honest, in self-assumption greater 
Than in the note of judgement; and worthier 
than himself 

Here tend the savage strangeness he puts on, 135 
Disguise the holy strength of their command, 
And underwrite in an observing kind 
His humorous predominance ; yea, watch 
His pettish lines, his ebbs, his flows ? as if 139 
The passage and whole carriage of this action 
Rode on his tide. Go tell him this, and add, 
That if he overhold his price so much, 

We ’ll none of him ; but let him, like an engine 
Not portable, lie under this report: 

“ Bring action hither, this cannot go to war.” us 
A stirring dwarf we do allowance give 
Before a sleeping giant. Tell him so. 

Patr. I shall; and bring his answer pre¬ 
sently. [Exit.] 

Agam. In second voice we ’ll not be satis¬ 
fied ; 

We come to speak with him. Ulysses, enter 
you. [Exit Ulysses. 

Ajax. What is he more than another ? ibi 
Agam. No more than what he thinks he is. 
Ajax. Is he so much ? Do you not think he 
thinks himself a better man than I am ? 

Agam. No question. _ ibs 

Ajax. Will you subscribe his thought, and 
say he is ? 





274 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


II. iii. 


Agam. No, noble Ajax; you are as strong, 
as valiant, as wise, no less noble, much more 
gentle, and altogether more tractable. 100 

Ajax. Why should a man be proud ? How 
doth pride grow ? I know not what it is. 

Agam. Your mind is the clearer, Ajax, and 
your virtues the fairer. He that is proud eats 
up himself. Pride is his own glass, his own [105 
trumpet, his own chronicle; and whatever 
praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed 
in the praise. 

Re-enter Ulysses. 

Ajax. I do hate a proud man, as I hate the 
engendering of toads. iro 

Nest. [Aside.] Yet he loves himself. Is’t not 
strange ? 

Ulyss. Achilles will not to the field to-mor¬ 
row. 

Agam. What’s his excuse ? 

Ulyss. He doth rely on none, 

But carries on the stream of his dispose 
Without observance or respect of any, its 

In will- peculiar and in self-admission. 

Agam. Why will he not upon our fair request 
•Untent his person and share the air with us ? 
TJlyss. Things small as nothing, for request’s 
sake only, 

He makes important. Possess’d he is with 
greatness, iso 

And speaks not to himself but with a pride 
That quarrels at self-breath. Imagin’d wrath 
Holds in his blood such swoln and hot dis¬ 
course 

That ’twixt his mental and his active parts 
Kingdom’d Achilles in commotion rages 185 

And batters ’gainst itself. What should I say ? 
He is so plaguy proud that the death-tokens 
of it 

Cry “No recovery.” 

Agam. Let Ajax g-o to him. 

Dear lord, go you and greet him in his tent. 

’T is said he holds you well, and will be led 190 
At your request a little from himself. 

TJlyss. 0 Agamemnon, let it not be so ! 

We ’ll consecrate the steps that Ajax makes 
When they go from Achilles. Shall the proud 
lord 

That bastes his arrogance with his own seam 105 
And never suffers matter of the world 
Enter his.thoughts, save such as do revolve 
And ruminate himself, shall he be worshipp’d 
Of that we hold an idol more than he ? 

No, this thrice worthy and right valiant lord 200 
Must not so stale his palm, nobly acquir’d ; 

Nor, by my will, assubjugate his merit, 

As amply titled as Achilles’ is, 

By going to Achilles. 

That were to enlard his fat-already pride 205 
And add more coals to Cancer when he burns 
With entertaining great Hyperion. 

This lord go to him ! Jupiter forbid, 

And say in thunder, “ Achilles go to him.” 

Nest. [Aside to Dio.] 0 , this is well. He 
rubs the vein of him. 210 

Dio. [Aside to Nest.] And how his silence 
drinks up this applause 1 


Ajax. If I go to him, with my armed fist 
I ’ll pash him o’er the face. 

Again. 0 , no, you shall not go. 

Ajax. An ’a be proud with me, I ’ll pheese 
his pride. 215 

Let me go to him. 

TJlyss. Not for the worth that hangs upon 
our quarrel. 

Ajax. A paltry, insolent fellow ! 

Nest. How he describes himself ! 

Ajax. Can he not be sociable ? 220 

TJlyss. The raven chides blackness. 

Ajax. I ’ll let his humours blood. 

Agam. He will be the physician that should 
be the patient. 

Ajax. An all men were o’ my mind, — 225 

TJlyss. Wit would be out of fashion. 

Ajax. ’A should not bear it so, ’a should eat 
swords first. Shall pride carry it ? 

Nest. An’t would, you’d carry half. 

TJlyss. ’A would have ten shares. 230 

Ajax. I will knead him; I ’ll make him 
supple. 

Nest. He’s not yet through warm. Force 
him with praises; pour in, pour in; his ambi¬ 
tion is dry. 

Ulyss. [To Agam.] My lord, you feed too 
much on this dislike. 230 

Nest. Our noble general, do not do so. 

Dio. You must prepare to fight without 
Achilles. 

Ulyss. Why, ’t is this naming of him doth 
him harm. 

Here is a man — but ’t is before his face ; 240 

I will be silent. 

Nest. Wherefore should you so ? 

He is not emulous, as Achilles is. 

Ulyss. Know the whole world, he is as 
valiant. 

Ajax. A whoreson dog, that shall palter thus 
with us ! 

Would he were a Troyan ! 245 

Nest. What a vice were it in Ajax now, — 
Ulyss. If he were proud, — 

Dio. Or covetous of praise, — 

Ulyss. Ay, or surly borne, — 

Dio. Or strange, or self-affected ! 200 

Ulyss. Thank the heavens, lord, thou art of 
sweet composure. 

Praise him that got thee, she that gave thee 
suck ; 

Fam’d be thy tutor, and thy parts of nature 
Thrice fam’d, beyond all erudition ; 

But he that disciplin’d thy arms to fight, 255 
Let Mars divide eternity in twain, 

And give him half ; and, for thy vigour, 
Bull-bearing Milo his addition yield 
To sinewy Ajax. I will not praise thy wisdom, 
Which, like a bourn, a pale, a shore, con¬ 
fines 200 

Thy spacious and dilated parts. Here ’s Nestor; 
Instructed by the antiquary times, 

He must, he is, he cannot but be wise : 

But pardon, father Nestor, were your days 
As green as Ajax’and your brain so temper’d, 205 
You should not have the eminence of him. 

But be as Ajax. 





Hi. i. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


275 


Ajax. Shall I call you father ? 

Ulyss. Ay, my good son. 

Dio. Be rul’d by him, Lord Ajax. 

Ulyss. There is no tarrying here ; the hart 
Achilles 

Keeps thicket. Please it our great general 270 

To call together all his state of war. 

Fresh kings are come to Troy ; to-morrow 

We must with all our main of power stand fast; 

And here’s a lord, — come knights from east 
to west. 

And cull their flower, Ajax shall cope the 
best. 275 

Again. Go we to council. Let Achilles sleep : 

Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks 
draw deep. [Exeunt. 


[ACT III 

Scene I. Troy. Priam's palace.] 

Music sounds within. Enter Pandarus and a 
Servant. 

Pan. Friend, you ! pray you, a word. Do not 
you follow the young Lord Paris ? 

Serv. Ay, sir, when he goes before me. 

Pan. You depend upon him, I mean ? 

Serv. Sir, I do depend upon the lord. s 

Pan. You depend upon a noble gentleman ; 
I must needs praise him. 

Serv. The lord be praised ! 

Pan. You know me, do you not ? 

Serv. Faith, sir, superficially. 10 

Pan. Friend, know me better; I am the 
Lord Pandarus. 

Serv. I hope I shall know your honour bet¬ 
ter. 

Pan. I do desire it. 

Serv. You are in the state of grace. 15 

Pan. Grace ! Not so, friend. Honour and 
lordship are my titles. What music is this ? 

Serv. I do but partly know, sir. It is music 
in parts. _ 20 

Pan. Know you the musicians ? 

Serv. Wholly, sir. 

Pan. Who play they to ? 

Serv. To the hearers, sir. 

Pan. At whose pleasure, friend ? 25 

Serv. At mine, sir, and theirs that love 
music. 

Pan. Command, I mean, friend. 

Serv. Who shall I command, sir ? 

Pan. Friend, we understand not one another. 
I am too courtly and thou art too cunning. At 
whose request do these men play ? 31 

Serv. That’s to’t indeed, sir. Marry, sir, at 
the request of Paris my lord, who ’s there in 
person ; with him, the mortal Venus, the heart- 
blood of beauty, love’s invisible soul. as 

Pan. Who ? My cousin Cressida ? 

Serv. No, sir, Helen. Could you not find out 
that by her attributes ? 38 

Pan. It should seem, fellow, that thou hast 
not seen the Lady Cressida. I come to speak 
with Paris from the Prince Troilus. I will make 
a complimental assault upon him, for my busi¬ 
ness seethes. 43 


Serv. Sodden business ! There ’s a stew’d 
phrase indeed ! 

Enter Paris and Helen [attended]. 

Pan. Fair be to you, my lord, and to all this 
fair company ! Fair desires, in all fair measure, 
fairly guide them, especially to you, fair 
queen ! Fair thoughts be your fair pillow ! 49 

Helen. Dear lord, you are full of fair words. 
Pan. You speak your fair pleasure, sweet 
queen. Fair prince, here is good broken 
music. 62 

Par. You have broke it, cousin, and, by my 
life, you shall make it whole again ; you shall 
piece it out with a piece of your performance. 
Nell, he is full of harmony. 60 

Pan. Truly, lady, no. 

Helen. O, sir, — 

Pan. Rude, in sooth ; in good sooth, very 
rude. co 

Par. Well said, my lord ! Well, you say so 
in fits. 

Pan. I have business to my lord, dear queen. 
My lord, will you vouchsafe me a word ? 

Helen. Nay, this shall not hedge us out. 
We ’ll hear you sing, certainly. ce 

Pan. Well, sweet queen, you are pleasant 
with me. But, marry, thus, my lord : my dear 
lord and most esteemed friend, your brother 
Troilus, — 70 

Helen. My Lord Pandarus, honey-sweet 
lord, — 

Pan. Go to, sweet queen, go to : — commends 
himself most affectionately to you, — 74 

Helen. You shall not bob us out of our mel¬ 
ody. If you do, our melancholy upon your head ! 

Pan. Sweet queen, sweet queen 1 That ’s a 
sweet queen, i’ faith. 

Helen. And to make a sweet lady sad is a 
sour offence. 83 

Pan. Nay, that shall not serve your turn ; 
that shall it not, in truth, la. Nay, I care not 
for such words ; no, no. And, my lord, he de¬ 
sires you, that if the King call for him at sup¬ 
per, you will make his excuse. 88 

Helen. My Lord Pandarus, — 

Pan. What says my sweet queen, my very 
very sweet queen ? 

Par. What exploit’s in hand ? Where sups 
he to-night ? 90 

Helen. Nay, but, my lord, — 

Pan. What says my sweet queen ? My cou¬ 
sin will fall out with you. 

Helen. You must not know where he sups. 
Par. [I’ll lay my life,] with my disposer 

Cressida. 96 

Pan. No, no ; no such matter ; you are wide. 
Come, your disposer is sick. 

Par. Well, I ’ll make excuse. 

Pan. Ay, good my lord. Why should you 
say Cressida? No, your poor disposer’s sick. 101 
Par. I spy. 

Pan. You spy! what do you spy? Come, 
give me an instrument. Now, sweet queen. 
Helen. Why, this is kindly done. > i° B 
Pan. My niece is horribly in love with a 
thing you have, sweet queen. 




276 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


hi. ii. 


Helen. She shall have it, my lord, if it be 
not my Lord Paris. 

Pan. He! no, she’ll none of him. They two 
are twain. 111 

Helen. Falling in, after falling out, may 
make them three. 

Pan. Come, come, I ’ll hear no more of this ; 
I ’ll sing you a song now. us 

Helen. Ay, ay, prithee now. By my troth, 
sweet lord, tnou hast a fine forehead. 

Pan. Ay, you may, you may. 

Helen. Let thy song be love. This love will 
undo us all. 0 Cupid, Cupid, Cupid ! 120 

Pan. Love ! ay, that it shall, i’ faith. 

Par. Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but 
love. 

Pan. In good troth, it begins so. [Sing's.] 

Love, love, nothing but love, still more ! 
For, 0 , love’s bow 120 

Shoots buck and doe. 

The shaft confounds 
Not that it wounds, 

But tickles still the sore. 130 

These lovers cry Oh ! ho ! they die ! 

Yet that which seems the wound to kill, 
Doth turn oh ! ho ! to ha ! ha ! he ! 

So, dying, love lives still. 

Oh ! ho ! a while, but ha ! ha! ha ! 135 

Oh ! ho ! groans out for ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Heigh-ho ! 

Helen. In love, i’ faith, to the very tip of tne 
nose. i 3 » 

Par. He eats nothing but doves, love, and 
that breeds hot blood, and hot blood begets hot 
thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, 
and hot deeds is love. 1*3 

Pan. Is this the generation of love, — hot 
blood, hot thoughts, and hot deeds ? Why, 
they are vipers. Is love a generation of vipers ? 
Sweet lord, who’s a-field to-day ? 147 

Par. Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, 
and all the gallantry of Troy. I would fain 
have arm’d to-day, but my Nell would not 
have it so. How chance my brother Troilus 
went not ? m 

Helen. He hangs the lip at something. You 
know all, Lord Pandarus. 

Pan. Not I, honey-sweet queen. I long to 
hear how they sped to-day. You ’ll remember 
your brother’s excuse ? lee 

Par. To a hair. 

Pan. Farewell, sweet queen. 

Helen. Commend me to your niece. 

Pan. I will, sweet queen. iso 

[Exit.] Sound a retreat. 
Par. They’re come from field. Let us to 
Priam’s hall, 

To greet the warriors. Sweet Helen, I must 
woo you 

To help unarm our Hector. His stubborn 
buckles, 

With these your white enchanting fingers 
touch’d, 

Shall more obey than to the edge of steel ies 
Or force of Greekish sinews. You shall do more 


Than all the island kings, — disarm great 
Hector. 

Helen. ’T will make us proud to be his ser¬ 
vant, Paris; 

Yea, what he shall receive of us in duty 
Gives us more palm in beauty than we have, no 
Yea, overshines ourself. 

[Par.] Sweet, above thought I love thee. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. The same. Pandarus''s orchard.] 
Enter Pandarus and l'roilus's Boy [meeting]. 

Pan. How now! where’s thy master ? At 
my cousin Cressida’s ? 

Boy. No, sir; he stays for you to conduct 
him thither. 

Enter Troilus. • 

Pan. O, here he comes. How now, how 
now! s 

Tro. Sirrah, walk off. [Exit Boy.] 

Pan. Have you seen my cousin ? 

Tro. No, Pandarus. I stalk about her door, 
Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks 10 
Staying for waftage. O, be thou my Charon, 
And give me swift transportance to those fields 
Where I may wallow in the lily-beds 
Propos’d for the deserver! 0 gentle Pandarus, 
From Cupid’s shoulder pluck his painted 
wings, is 

And fly with me to Cressid ! 

Pan. Walk here i’ the orchard, I ’ll bring 
her straight. [Exit. 

Tro. I am giddy; expectation whirls me 
round. 

The imaginary relish is so sweet 20 

That it enchants my sense ; what will it be, 
When that the watery palates taste indeed 
Love’s thrice repured nectar ? Death, I fear me, 
Swooning destruction, or some joy too fine, 

Too subtle, potent, tun’d too sharp in sweetness 
For the capacity of my ruder powers. 26 

I fear it much ; and I do fear besides 
That I shall lose distinction in my joys, 

As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps 
The enemy flying. 30 

Re-enter Pandarus. 

Pan. She’s making her ready, she ’ll come 
straight. You must be witty now. She does so 
blush, and fetches her wind so short, as if she 
were frayed with a sprite. I ’ll fetch her. It 
is the prettiest villain ; she fetches her breath 
so short as a new-ta’en sparrow. [Exit. 30 
Tro. Even such a passion doth embrace my 
bosom. 

My heart beats thicker than a feverous pulse, 
And all my powers do their bestowing lose, 
Like vassalage at unawares encountering 4 * 
The eye of majesty. 

Re-enter Pandarus with Cressida. 

Pan. Come, come, what need you blush ? 
Shame’s a baby. Here she is now ; swear the 
oaths now to her that you have sworn to me. 
[Cressida draws backward.] What, are you 




hi. ii. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


2 77 


gone again ? You must be watch’d ere you [« 
be made tame, must you ? Come your ways, 
come your ways ; an you draw backward, we ’ll 

E ut you i’ the fills. Why do you not speak to 
er? Come, draw this curtain, and let’s see 
your picture. Alas the day, how loath you 
are to offend daylight! An’t were dark, [bo 
you’d close sooner. So, so; rub on, and kiss 
the mistress. How now ! a kiss in fee-farm! 
Build there, carpenter ; the air is sweet. Nay, 
you shall fight your hearts out ere I part you. 
The falcon as the tercel, for all the ducks i’ 
the river. Go to, go to. ee 

Tro. You have bereft me of all words, lady. 
Pan. Words pay no debts, give her deeds; 
but she ’ll bereave you o’ the deeds too, if she 
call your activity in question. What, billing [eo 
again ? Here ’s “ In witness whereof the parties 
interchangeably ” — Come in, come in. I ’ll go 
get a fire. [Exit.] 

Cres. Will you walk in, my lord ?* 

Tro. O Cressida, how often have I wish’d me 
thus! 66 

Cres. Wish’d, my lord ! The gods grant, — 
0 my lord! 

Tro. What should they grant ? What makes 
this pretty abruption ? What too curious dreg 
espies my sweet lady in the fountain of our 
love ? n 

Cres. More dregs than water, if my fears 
have eyes. 

Tro. Fears make devils of cherubins ; they 
never see truly. 75 

Cres. Blind fear, that seeing reason leads, 
finds safer footing than blind reason stumbling 
without fear. To fear the worst oft cures the 
worse. ™ 

Tro. O, let my lady apprehend no fear, 
all Cupid’s pageant there is presented no m 
ster. 

Cres. Nor nothing monstrous neither ? 

Tro. Nothing, but our undertakings, when 
we vow to weep seas, live in fire, eat rocks, 
tame tigers; thinking it harder for our mis¬ 
tress to devise imposition enough than for us [sb 
to undergo any difficulty imposed. This is the 
monstruosity in love, lady, that the will is in¬ 
finite and the execution confin’d, that the desire 
is boundless and the act a slave to limit. 90 
Cres. They say all lovers swear more per 
formance than they are able, and yet reserve 
an ability that they never perform, vowing 
more than the perfection of ten, and discharg¬ 
ing less than the tenth part of one. They that 
have the voice of lions and the act of hares, are 
they not monsters ? 96 

Tro. Are there such ? Such are not we. 
Praise us as we are tasted, allow us as we prove. 
Our head shall go bare till merit crown it. No 
perfection in reversion shall have a praise in 

E resent; we will not name desert before his [100 
irth, and, being born, his addition shall be 
humble. Few words to fair faith. Troilus shall 
be such to Cressid as what envy can say worst 
shall be a mock for his truth, and what truth 
can speak truest not truer than Troilus. ioe 
Cres. Will you walk in, my lord ? 


In 


Re-enter Pandarus. 

Pan. What, blushing still? Have you not 
done talking yet ? 

Cres. Well, uncle, what folly I commit, I 
dedicate to you. m 

Pan. I thank you for that; if my lord get a 
boy of you, you ’ll give him me. Be true to my 
lord ; if he flinch, chide me for it. 

Tro. You know now your hostages: your 

uncle’s word and my firm faith. m 

Pan. Nay, I’ll give my word for her too. 
Our kindred, though they be long ere they are 
wooed, they are constant being won. They are 
burs, I can tell you ; they ’ll stick where they 
are thrown. 120 

Cres. Boldness comes to me now, and brings 
me heart. 

Prince Troilus, I have lov’d you night and day 
For many weary months. 

Tro. Why was my Cressid then so hard to 
win ? 

Cres. Hard to seem won ; but I was won, my 
lord, 12s 

With the first glance that ever — pardon me — 
If I confess much, you will play the tyrant. 

I love you now ; but not, till now, so much 
But I might master it. In faith, I lie ; 

My thoughts were like unbridled children, 
grown i 3 o 

Too headstrong for their mother. See, we fools ! 
Why have I blabb’d ? Who shall be true to us, 
When we are so unsecret to ourselves ? 

But, though I lov’d you well, I woo’d you not; 
And yet, good faith, I wish’d myself a man, 135 
Or that we women had men’s privilege 
Of speaking first. Sweet, bid me hold my 
tongue, 

For in this rapture I shall surely speak 
The thing 1 shall repent. See, see, your silence, 
Cunning in dumbness, from my weakness 
draws ho 

My soul of counsel from me ! Stop my mouth. 
Tro. And shall, albeit sweet music issues 
thence. 

Pan. Pretty, i’ faith. 

Cres. My lord, I do beseech you, pardon 
me; 

’T was not my purpose, thus to beg a kiss. 145 
I am asham’d. 0 heavens ! what have I done ? 
For this time will I take my leave, my lord. 
Tro. Your leave, sweet Cressid ! 

Pan. Leave ! An you take leave till to-mor¬ 
row morning, — ibc 

Cres. Pray you, content you. 

Tro. What offends you, lady ? 

Cres. Sir, mine own company. 

Tro. You cannot shun yourself. 

Cres. Let me go and try. 

I have a kind of self resides with you ; ibb 
B ut an unkind self, that itself will leave 
To be another’s fool. Where is my wit ? 

I would be gone. I speak I know not what. 
Tro. Well know they what they speak that 
speak so wisely. 

Cres. Perchance, my lord, I shew more craft 
than love, ieo 





278 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


in. iii 


And fell so roundly to a large confession, 

To angle for your thoughts. But you are wise, 
Or else you love not, for to be wise and love 
Exceeds man’s mignt; that dwells with gods 
above. 

Tro. O that I thought it could he in a wo¬ 
man — 165 

As, if it can, I will presume in you — 

To feed for aye her lamp and flames of love, 
To keep her constancy in plight and youth, 
Outliving beauties outward, with a mind 
That doth renew swifter than blood decays ! no 
Or that persuasion could but thus convince 
me 

That my integrity and truth to you 

Might be affronted with the match and weight 

Of such a winnow’d purity in love, 

How were I then uplifted ! But, alas ! 175 

I am as true as truth’s simplicity, 

And simpler than the infancy of truth. 

Cres. In that I ’ll war with you. 

Tro. O virtuous fight, 

When right with right wars who shall be most 
right! 

True swains in love shall in the world to come 
Approve their truths by Troilus. When their 
rhymes, m 

Full of protest, of oath and big compare, 
Wants similes, truth tir’d with iteration, 

As true as steel, as plantage to the moon, 

As sun to day, as turtle to her mate, iss 

As iron to adamant, as earth to the centre, 

Yet, after all comparisons of truth, 

As truth’s authentic author to be cited, 

“ As true as Troilus ” shall crown up the 
verse, 

And sanctify the numbers. 

Cres. Prophet may you he ! 

If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, m 
When time is old and hath forgot itself, 

When waterdrops have worn the stones of 
Troy, 

And blind oblivion swallow’d cities up, 

And mighty states characterless are grated 195 
To dusty nothing, yet let memory, 

From false to false, among false maids in love, 
Upbraid my falsehood ! When they’ve said as 
false 

As air, as water, as wind, as sandy earth, 

As fox to lamb, as wolf to heifer’s calf, 200 
Pard to the hind, or stepdame to her son, 

Yea, let them say, to stick the heart of false¬ 
hood, 

“ As false as Cressid.” 203 

Pan. Go to, a bargain made ; seal it, seal it, 
I ’ll be the witness. Here I hold your hand, 
here my cousin’s. If ever you prove false one 
to another, since I have taken such pains to 
bring you together, let all pitiful goers-between 
be called to the world’s end after my name ; 
call them all Pandars. Let all constant men 
be Troiluses, all false women Cressids, and [210 
all brokers-between Pandars 1 Say, amen. 

Tro. Amen. 

Cres. Amen. 214 

Pan. Amen. Whereupon I will show you a 
chamber, whose bed, because it shall not speak 


of your pretty encounters, press it to death. 
Away ! 

And Cupid grant all tongue-tied maidens here 
Bed, chamber, Pandar to provide this gear ! 220 

[ Exeunt. 

[Scene III. The Creek camp. Before the tent 
of Achilles .] 

Enter Agamemnon, Ulysses, Diomedes, 
Nestor, [Ajax,] Menelaus, and Calchas. 
Flourish. 

Cal. Now, princes, for the service I have 
done you, 

The advantage of the time prompts me aloud 
To call for recompense. Appear it to your 
mind 

That, through the sight I bear in things to 
love, 

I have abandon’d Troy, left my possession, 6 
Incurr’d a traitor’s name, expos’d myself, 
From certain and possess’d conveniences, 

To doubtful fortunes, sequestering from me all 
That time, acquaintance, custom, and condition 
Made tame and most familiar to my nature ; 10 
And here, to do you service, am become 
As new into the world, strange, unacquainted. 
I do beseech you, as in way of taste, 

To give me now a little benefit 
Out of those many regist’red in promise, is 

Which, you say, live to come in my behalf. 
Agam. What wouldst thou of us, Troyan ? 
Make demand. 

Cal. You have a Troyan prisoner, call’d 
Antenor, 

Yesterday took:; Troy holds him very dear. 
Oft have you — often have you thanks there* 
fore — 20 

Desir’d my Cressid in right great exchange, 
Whom Troy hath still deni’d ; but this An¬ 
tenor, 

I know, is such a wrest in their affairs 
That their negotiations all must slack, 

Wanting his manage ; and they will almost 25 
Give us a prince of blood, a son of Priam, 

In change of him. Let him be sent, great 
princes, 

And he shall buy my daughter ; and her pre¬ 
sence 

Shall quite strike off all service I have done, 

In most accepted pain. 

Agam. Let Diomedes bear him. 

And bring us Cressid hither ; Calchas shall 
have 3i 

What he requests of us. Good Diomed, 
Furnish you fairly for this interchange ; 

Withal bring.word if Hector will to-morrow 
Be answer’d in his challenge : Ajax is ready, s# 
Dio. This shall I undertake ; and’t is a bur¬ 
den 

Which I am proud to bear. 

[Exeunt Diomedes [and Calchas]. 

Enter Achilles and Patroclus, and stand in 
[the door 0/] their tent. 

XJlyss. Achilles stands i’ the entrance of his 
tent. 




III. iii. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


279 


Please it our general to pass strangely by him, 
As if he were forgot; and, princes all, 40 

Lay negligent and loose regard upon him. 

I will come last. ’T is like he ’ll question me 
Why such unplausive eyes are bent on him. 

If so, I have derision medicinable 
To use between your strangeness and his 
pride, 45 

Which his own will shall have desire to drink. 
It may do good ; pride hath no other glass 
To show itself but pride, for supple knees 
Feed arrogance and are the proud man’s fees. 
Agam. We ’ll execute your purpose, and put 
on to 

A form of strangeness as we pass along, 
feo do each lord, and either greet him not, 

Or else disdainfully, which shall shake him 
more 

Than if not look’d on. I will lead the way. 
Achil. What comes the general to speak 
with me ? bb 

You know my mind, I ’ll fight no more ’gainst 
Troy. 

Agam. What says Achilles ? Would he 
aught with us ? 

Nest. Would you, my lord, aught with the 
general ? 

Achil. No. 

Nest. Nothing, my lord. 00 

Agam. The better. 

[Exeunt Agamemnon and Nestor .] 
Achil. Good day, good day. 

Men. How do you ? How do vou ? [Exit.] 
Achil. What, aoes the cuckold scorn me ? 

How now, Patroclus I bb 

Good morrow, Ajax. 

Ha? 

Good morrow. 


Ajax. 

Achil. 

Ajax. 

Achil. 

Ajax. 

Achil. 


Ay, and good next day too. 
What mean these fellows ? 


[Exit. 
Know 

they not Achilles ? 70 

Patr. They pass by strangely. They were 
used to bend, 

To send their smiles before them to Achilles, 
To come as humbly as they used to creep 
To holy altars. 

Achil. What, am I poor of late ? 

’T is certain, greatness, once fallen out with 
fortune, 78 

Must fall out with men too. What the de¬ 
clined is 

He shall as soon read in the eyes of others 
As feel in his own fall; for men, like butter¬ 
flies, 

Show not their mealy wings but to the sum¬ 


mer, 

And not a man, for being simply man, «o 

Hath any honour, but honour’d for those hon¬ 
ours 

That are without him, as place, riches, and 
favour, — 

Prizes of accident as oft as merit: 

Which when they fall, as being slippery stand- 

The love that lean’d on them as slippery too, bb 
Doth one pluck dow n another and together 
Die in the fall. But’t is not so with me ; 


Fortune and I are friends. I do enjoy 
At ample point all that I did possess, 

Save these men’s looks; who do, methinks, 
find out 99 

Something not worth in me such rich behold¬ 
ing 

As they have often given. Here is Ulysses ; 

I ’ll interrupt his reading. 

How now, Ulysses! 

Ulyss. Now, great Thetis’ son ! 

Achil. What are you reading ? 

Ulyss. A strange fellow here 

Writes me: “That man, how dearly ever 

parted, 90 

How much in having, or without, or in, 

Cannot make boast to have that which he 
hath, 

Nor feels not what he owes, but by reflection ; 
As when his virtues shining upon others 100 

Heat them and they retort that heat again 
To the first giver.” 

Achil. This is not strange, Ulysses. 

The beauty that is borne here in the face 
The bearer knows not, but commends itself 
(To others’ eyes ; nor doth the eye itself, 10s 
That most pure spirit of sense, behold itself,] 
Not going from itself ; but eye to eye oppos’d 
Salutes each other with each other’s form ; 

For speculation turns not to itself, 

Till it hath travell’d and is mirror’d there no 
Where it may see itself. This is not strange at 
all. 

Ulyss. I do not strain at the position, — 

It is familiar, — but at the author’s drift; 
Who, in his circumstance, expressly proves 
That no man is the lord of anything, us 

(Though in and of him there is much consist¬ 
ing,) 

Till he communicate his parts to others ; 

Nor doth he of himself know them for aught 
Till he behold them formed in the applause 
Where they’re extended; who, like an arch, 
reverberate no 

The voice again, or, like a gate of steel 
Fronting the sun, receives and renders back 
His figure and his heat. I was much wrapt in 
this; 

And apprehended here immediately 
The unknown Ajax. 126 

Heavens, what a man is there ! A very horse, 
That has he knows not what. Nature, what 
things there are 

Most abject in regard and dear in use ! 

What firings again most dear in the esteem 
And poor in worth! Now shall we see to¬ 
morrow — 13 » 

An act that very chance doth throw upon 
him — 

Aiax renown’d. O heavens, what some men do, 
While some men leave to do ! 

How some men creep in skittish Fortune’s hall, 
Whiles others play the idiots in her eyes ! 136 

How one man eats into another’s pride, 

While pride is fasting in his wantonness! 

To see these Grecian lords 1 — why, even al¬ 
ready 

They clap the lubber Ajax on the shoulder, 





280 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


hi. iii. 


As if his foot were on brave Hector’s breast ho 
A nd great Troy shrieking. 

Achil. I do believe it; for they pass’d by me 
As misers do by beggars, neither gave to me 
Good word nor look. What, are my deeds for¬ 
got ? 

Ulyss. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his 
back, ns 

Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, 

A great-sized monster of ingratitudes. 

Those scraps are good deeds past, which are 
devour’d 

As fast as they are made, forgot as soon 
As done. Perseverance, dear my lord, iso 

Keeps honour bright; to have done is to hang 
Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail 
In monumental mockery. Take the instant 
way; 

For honour travels in a strait so narrow, 

Where one but goes abreast. Keep then the 
path; iso 

For emulation hath a thousand sons 
That one by one pursue. If you give way, 

Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, 

Like to an ent’red tide, they all rush by 
And leave you hindmost; ieo 

Or, like a gallant horse fall’n in first rank, 

Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, 
O’er-run and trampled on. Then what they do 
in present, 

Though less than yours in past, must o’ertop 
yours; 

For Time is like a fashionable host igs 

That slightly shakes his parting guest by the 
hand, 

And with his arms outstretch’d, as he would fly, 
Grasps in the comer. Welcome ever smiles, 
And farewell goes out sighing. 0 , let not vir¬ 
tue seek 

Remuneration for the thing it was ; no 

For beauty, wit, 

High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, 
Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all 
To envious and calumniating Time. 

One touch of nature makes the whole world 
kin, 175 

That all, with one consent, praise new-born 
gawds, 

Though they are made and moulded of things 
past, 

And give to dust that is a little gilt 
More laud than gilt o’er-dusted. 

The present eye praises the present object, iso 
Then marvel not, thou great and complete 
man, 

That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax; 
Since things in motion sooner catch the eye 
Than what not stirs. The cry went once on 
thee, 

And still it might, and yet it may again, iss 
If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive 
And case thy reputation in thy tent; 

Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of 
late, 

Made emulous missions ’mongst the gods 
themselves iso 

And drave great Mars to faction. 


Achil. Of this my privacy 

I have strong reasons. 

Ulyss. But ’gainst your privacy 

The reasons are more potent and heroical. 

’T is known, Achilles, that you are in love 
With one of Priam’s daughters. 

Achil. Ha! known ! 

Ulyss. Is that a wonder ? H 6 

The providence that’s in a watchful state 
Knows almost every grain of Plutus’ gold, 
Finds bottom in the uncomprehensive deeps, 
Keeps place with thought and almost, like the 
gods, 

Do thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles. 200 
There is a mystery — with whom relation 
Durst never meddle — in the soul of state ; 
Which hath an operation more divine 
Than breath or pen can give expressure to. 

All the commerce that you have had with Troy 
As perfectly is ours as yours, my lord ; 20s 

And better would it fit Achilles much 
To throw down Hector than Polyxena. 

But it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home, 
When Fame shall in our island sound her 
trump, 210 

And all the Greekish girls shall tripping sing, 

“ Great Hector’s sister did Achilles win, 

But our great Ajax bravely beat down him.” 
Farewell, my loi'd ; I as your lover speak. 

The fool slides o’er the ice that you should 
break. [Exit.] 216 

Patr. To this effect, Achilles, have I mov’d 
you. 

A woman impudent and mannish grown 
Is not more loath’d than an effeminate man 
In time of action. I stand condemn’d for this. 
They think my little stomach to the war 220 
And your great love to me restrains you thus. 
Sweet, rouse yourself ; and the weak wanton 
Cupid 

Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold, 
And, like a dew-drop from the lion’s mane, 

Be shook to air. 

Achil. Shall Ajax fight with Hector ? 

Patr. Ay, and perhaps receive much honour 
by him. 226 

Achil. I see my reputation is at stake ; 

My fame is shrewdly gored. 

Patr. 0, then, beware ! 

Those wounds heal ill that men do give them¬ 
selves. 

Omission to do what is necessary 230 

Seals a commission to a blank of danger ; 

And danger, like an ague, subtly taints 
Even then when we sit idly in the sun. 

Achil. Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patro- 
clxis. 

I ’ll send the fool to Ajax and desire him 235 
To invite the Troyan lords after the combat 
To see us here, unarm’d. I have a woman’s 
longing, 

An appetite that I am sick withal, 

To see great Hector in his weeds of peace, 

Enter Thersites. 

To talk with him and to behold his visage, 2** 
Even to my full of view. — A labour sav’d ! 





IV. 1. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


281 


Ther. A wonder! 

Achil. What ? 

Ther. Ajax goes up and down the field, ask¬ 
ing for himself. 245 

Achil. How so ? 

Ther. He must figni, singly to-morrow with 
Hector, and is so prophetically proud of an 
heroical cudgelling that he raves in saying 
nothing. 

Achu. How can that be ? 260 


Ther. Why, he stalks up and down like a 
peacock, — a stride and a stand ; ruminates 
like an hostess that hath no arithmetic but her 
brain to set down her reckoning ; bites his lip 
with a politic regard, as who should say there 
were wit in his head, an ’t would out; and [255 
so there is, but it lies as coldly in him as fire in 
a flint, which will not show without knocking. 
The man’s undone for ever ; for if Hector break 
not his neck i’ the combat, he ’ll break’t him¬ 
self in vain-glory. He knows not me. I said, [260 
“ Good morrow, Ajax; ” and he replies, 
“ Thanks, Agamemnon.” What think you of 
this man that takes me for the general ? He’s 
grown a very land-fish, languageless, a monster. 
A plague of opinion ! A man may wear it on 
botn sides, like a leather jerkin. 266 

Achil. Thou must be my ambassador to him, 
Thersites. 

Ther. Who, I ? Why, he ’ll answer nobody ; 
he professes not answering. Speaking is for 
beggars ; he wears his tongue in’s arms. I will 

S ut on his presence; let Patroclus make his 
emands to me, you shall see the pageant of 
Ajax. 273 

Achil. To him, Patroclus. Tell him I hum¬ 
bly desire the valiant Ajax to invite the most 
valorous Hector to come unarm’d to my tent, 
and to procure safe-conduct for his person of 
the magnanimous and most illustrious six-or- 
seven-times-honoured captain-general of the 
Grecian army, Agamemnon, et cetera. Do 

280 

Jove bless great Ajax I 
Hum ! 

I come from the worthy Achilles, — 
Ha! 

Who most humbly desires you to in¬ 
vite Hector to his tent, — 286 

Ther. Hum! 

Patr. And to procure safe-conduct from 

Agamemnon. 

Ther. Agamemnon ? 290 

Ay, my lord. 

Ha! 

What say you to ’t ? 

God buy you, with all my heart. 

Your answer, sir. 295 

If to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven 
it will go one way or other. Howso¬ 
ever, he shall pay for me ere he has me. 

Patr. Your answer, sir. 

Ther. Fare you well, with all my heart. 300 
Achil. Why, but he is not in this tune, is he ? 
Ther. No, but he’s out o’ tune thus. What 
music will be in him when Hector has knock’d 
out his brains, I know not; but, I am sure, 


this. 
Patr. 
Ther. 
Patr. 
Ther. 
Patr. 


Patr. 

Ther. 

Patr. 

Ther. 

Patr. 

Ther. 

o’clock 


none, unless the fiddler Apollo get his sinews 
to make catlings on. 300 

Achil. Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him 
straight. 

Ther. Let me carry another to his horse ; for 
that ’s the more capable creature. 310 

Achil. My mind is troubled, like a fountain 
stirr’d ; 

And I myself see not the bottom of it. 

[Exeunt Achilles and Patroclus .] 
Ther. Would the fountain of your mind were 
clear again, that I might water an ass at it! 1 
had rather be a tick in a sheep than such a val¬ 
iant ignorance. [Exit.] 310 


[ACT IV 

Scene I. Troy. A street .] 

Enter , at one door. ^Eneas, with a torch; at 
another , Paris, Deiphobus, Antenor, Dio- 
medes the Grecian [and others ], with torches. 

Par. See, ho ! who is that there ? 

Dei. It is the Lord .JEneas. 

AEne. Is the prince there in person ? 

Had I so good occasion to lie long 
As you, Prince Paris, nothing but heavenly 
business 

Should rob my bed-mate of my company. 0 
Dio. That’s my mind too. Good morrow, 
Lord tineas. 

Par. A valiant Greek, ^Eneas, — take his 
hand — 

Witness the process of your speech, wherein 
You told how Diomed, a whole week by days, 
Did haunt you in the field. 

AEne. Health to you, valiant sir, 10 

During all question of the gentle truce ; 

But when I meet you arm’d, as black defiance 
As heart can think or courage execute. 

Dio. The one and other Diomed embraces. 
Our bloods are now in calm ; and, so long, 
health! 10 

But when contention and occasion meets, 

By Jove, I ’ll play the hunter for thy life 
With all my force, pursuit, and policy. 

xEne. And thou shalt hunt a lion, that will fly 
With his face backward. In humane gentle¬ 
ness, 20 

Welcome to Troy ! now, by Anchises’ life, 
Welcome, indeea ! By Venus’ hand I swear, 
No man alive can love in such a sort 
The thing he means to kill more excellently. 

Dio. We sympathize. Jove, let iEneas live, 
If to my sword his fate be not the glory, 2c 

A thousand complete courses of the sun ! 

But in mine emulous honour let him die, 

With every joint a wound, and that to-morrow ! 
sEne. We know each other well. 30 

Dio. We do; and long to know each other 
worse. 

Par. This is the most despiteful’st gentle 
greeting, 

The noblest hateful love, that e’er I heard of. 
What business, lord, so early ? 
sEne. I was sent for to the King ; but why, 
I know not. 38 




282 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


IV. ii 


Par. His purpose meets you ; ’t was to bring 
this Greek 

To Calchas’ house, and there to render him, 

For the enfreed Antenor, the fair Cressid. 

Let ’s have your company, or, if you please, 
Haste there before us. I constantly do think — 40 
Or rather, call my thought a certain know¬ 
ledge — 

My brother Troilus lodges there to-night. 

Rouse him and give him note of our approach, 
With the whole quality whereof. I fear 44 
We shall be much unwelcome. 

JEne. That I assure you. 

Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece 
Than Cressid borne from Troy. 

Par. There is no help. 

The bitter disposition of the time 
Will have it so. On, lord ; we ’ll follow you. 
uPZne. Good morrow, all. [Exit, eo 

Par. And tell me, noble Diomed, faith, tell 
me true, 

Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship. 

Who, in your thoughts, merits fair Helen 
most, 

Myself or Menelaus ? 

Dio. Both alike. 

He merits well to have her, that doth seek 
her, 66 

Not making any scruple of her soilure, 

With such a hell of pain and world of charge ; 
And you as well to keep her, that defend her, 
Not palating the taste of her dishonour, 

With such a costly loss of wealth and friends, eo 
He, like a puling cuckold, would drink up 
The lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece ; 

You, like a lecher, out of whorish loins 
Are pleas’d to breed out your inheritors. 

Both merits pois’d, each weighs no less nor 
more; ce 

But he as he, which heavier for a whore. 

Par. You are too bitter to your country¬ 
woman. 

Dio. She’s bitter to her country. Hear me, 
Paris: 

For every false drop in her bawdy veins 
A Grecian’s life hath sunk ; for every scruple 70 
Of her contaminated carrion weight, 

A Troyan hath been slain. Since she could 
speak, 

She hath not given so many good words breath 
As for her Greeks and Troyans suff’red death. 

Par. Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do, 76 
Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy ; 

But we in silence hold this virtue well, 

We ’ll not commend what we intend to sell. 

Here lies our way. [Exeunt. 

[Scene II. The same. Court of Pandarus's 
house.] 

Enter Troilus and Cressida. 

Tro. Dear, trouble not yourself ; the morn is 
cold. 

Cres. Then, sweet my lord, I ’ll call mine 
uncle down; 

He shall unbolt the gates. 

Tro, Trouble him not; l 


To bed, to bed. Sleep kill those pretty eyes, 
And give as soft attachment to thy senses c 
As infants’ empty of all thought! 

Cres. Good morrow, then. 

Tro. I prithee now, to bed. 

Cres. Are you a-weary of me ? 

Tro. 0 Cressida! but that the busy day, 
Wak’d by the lark, hath rous’d the ribald 
crows, 

And dreaming night will hide our joys no 
longer, 10 

I would not from thee. 

Cres. Night hath been too brief. 

Tro. Beshrew the witch! with venomous 
wights she stays 

As tediously as hell, but flies the grasps of 
love 

With wings more momentary-swift than 
thought. 

You will catch cold, and curse me. 

Cres. Prithee, tarry; 

You men will never tarry. is 

O foolish Cressid 1 I might have still held off, 
And then you would have tarried. Hark! 
there’s one up. 

Pan. (Within.) What,’s all the doors open 
here ? 

Tro. It is your uncle. 20 


Enter Pandarus. 


Cres. A pestilence on him! now will he be 
mocking. 

I shall have such a life ! 

Pan. How now, how now ! how go maiden¬ 
heads ? Here, you maid I where’s my cousin 
Cressid ? 26 

Cres. Go hang yourself, you naughty mock¬ 
ing uncle ! 

Y ou bring me to do — and then you flout me 
too. 


Pan. To do what? to do what? Let her 
say what. What have I brought you to do ? 
Cres. Come, come, beshrew your heart! 
You ’ll ne’er be good, 30 

Nor suffer others. 

Pan. Ha, ha! Alas, poor wretch! a poor 
capocchia ! hast not slept to-night ? Would he 
not, a naughty man, let it sleep? A bugbear 
take him ! [One knocks. 

Cres. Did not I tell you? Would he were 
knock’d i’ the head ! 35 

Who’s that at door ? Good uncle, go and see. 
My lord, come you again into my chamber. 

You smile and mock me, as if I meant naugh¬ 
tily. 

Tro. Ha, ha! 

Cres. Come, you are deceiv’d, I think of no 
such thing. [Knock. 4e 

How earnestly they knock! Pray you, come in. 
I would not for half Troy have you seen here. 

^ [Exeunt Troilus and Cressida. 

tttmi n ' ,g there ? What’s the matter ? 
Will you beat down the door? How now! 
what’s the matter ? ** 


[Enter HEneas.] 

^Ene. Good morrow, lord, good morrow. 





IV. IV. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


283 


Pan. Who’s there ? My Lord ^Eneas ! By 
my troth, 

I knew you not. What news with you so 
early ? 

ZEne. Is not Prince Troihis here ? 

Pan. Here ! What should he do here ? bo 
ZE ne. Come, he is here, my lord; do not 
deny him. 

It doth import him much to speak with me. 

Pan. Is he here, say you ? is more than I 
know, I ’ll be sworn. For my own part, I came 
in late. What should he do here ? 55 

ZEne. Who 1 — nay, then. Come, come, 
you ’ll do him wrong ere you ’re ware. You ’ll 
be so true to him, to be false to him. Do not 
you know of him, but yet go fetch him hither ; 
go. 

Re-enter Troilus. 


Tro. How now ! what’s the matter ? 60 

AEne. My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute 
you, 

My matter is so rash. There is at hand 
Paris your brother, and Deiphobus, 

The Grecian Diomed, and our Antenor 
Deliver’d to us ; and for him forthwith, es 
Ere the first sacrifice, within this hour, 

We must give up to Diomedes’ hand 
The Lady Cressida. 

Tro. Is it concluded so ? 

zEne. By Priam and the general state of 
Troy. 

They are at hand and ready to effect it. to 
Tro. How my achievements mock me 1 
I will go meet them ; and, my Lord -<Eneas, 
We met by chance ; you did not find me here. 
Ene. Good, good, my lord ; the secrets of 
nature 

Have not more gift in taciturnity. to 

[Exeunt [Troilus and Eneas]. 

Re-enter Cressida. 


Pan. Is ’t possible ? No sooner got but lost ? 
The devil take Antenor ! the young prince will 
go mad. A plague upon Antenor ! I would 
they had broke’s neck ! 

Cres. How now ! what’s the matter ? Who 
was here ? 81 

Pan. Ah, ah ! 

Cres. Why sigh you so profoundly ? Where’s 
my lord ? Gone ! Tell me, sweet uncle, what’s 
the matter ? 86 

Pan. Would I were as deep under the earth 
as I am above ! 

Cres. O the gods ! what’s the matter ? «« 

Pan. Prithee, get thee in. Would thou hadst 
ne’er been born ! I knew thou wouldst be his 
death. 0 , poor gentleman! A plague upon 
Antenor ! 

Cres. Good uncle, I beseech you, on my 
knees I beseech you, what’s the matter ? 9* 

Pan. Thou must be gone, wench, thou must 
be gone ; thou art chang’d for Antenor. Thou 
must to thy father, and be gone from Troilus. 
■T will be his death ; ’t will be his bane ; he 
cannot bear it. 99 

Cres. 0 you immortal gods ! I will not go. 


Pan. Thou must. 

Cres. I will not, uncle. I have forgot my 
father; 

I know no touch of. consanguinity ; 

No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me 

As the sweet Troilus. 0 you gods divine ! 105 

Make Cressid’s name the very crown of false¬ 
hood, 

If ever she leave Troilus! Time, force, and 
death, 

Do to this body what extremes you can ; 

But the strong base and building of my love 

Is as the very centre of the earth, no 

Drawing all things to it. I ’ll go in and weep. 

Pan. Do, do. 

Cres. Tear my bright hair and scratch my 
praised cheeks, 

Crack my clear voice with sobs and break my 
heart 

With sounding Troilus. I will not go from 
Troy. [ Exeunt. ns 


[Scene III. The same. Street before Panda- 
rus's house.] 

Enter Paris, Troilus, ^Eneas, Deiphobus 
Antenor, and Diomedes. 

Par. It is great morning, and the hour pre¬ 
fix’d 

Of her delivery to this valiant Greek 
Comes fast upon. Good my brother Troilus, 
Tell you the lady what she is to do, 

And haste her to the purpose. 

Tro. Walk into her house. 

I ’ll bring her to the Grecian presently ; 1 

And to his hand when I deliver her. 

Think it an altar, and thy brother Troilus 
A priest there offering to it his own heart. 

[Exit.] 

Par. I know what’t is to love ; 10 

And would, as I shall pity, I could help ! 
Please you walk in, my lords. [Exeunt. 


[Scene IY. The same. Pandarus's house.] 
Enter Pandarus and Cressida. 

Pan. Be moderate, be moderate. 

Cres. Why tell you me of moderation ? 

The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste, 
And violenteth in a sense as strong 
As that which causeth it. How can I moderate 
it? 

If I could temporize with my affection 
Or brew it to a weak and colder palate, 

The like allayment could I give my grief. 

My love admits no qualifying dross ; 

Enter Troilus. 


No more my grief, in such a precious loss. 10 
Pan. Here, here, here he comes. Ah, sweet 
ducks! 

Cres. O Troilus ! Troilus! [Embracing him.] 
Pan. What a pair of spectacles is here ! Let 
me embrace too. “ O heart,” as the goodly 
saying is, 18 

“ — 0 heart, heavy heart, 

Why sigh’st thou without breaking ? ” 





284 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


IV. IV. 


where he answers again, 

“ Because thou canst not ease thy smart 20 
By friendship nor by speaking.” 

There was never a truer rhyme. Let us cast 
away nothing, for we may live to have need of 
such a verse. We see it, we see it. How now, 
lambs ? 25 

Tro. Cressid, I love thee in so strain’d a 
purity 

That the bless’d gods, as angry with my fancy, 
More bright in zeal than the devotion which 
Cold lips blow to their deities, take thee from 
me. 

Cres. Have the gods envy ? 30 j 

Pan. Ay, ay, ay, ay; ’tis too plain a case. 
Cres. And is it true that I must go from 
Troy ? 

Tro. A hateful truth. 

Cres. What, and from Troilus, too ? 

Tro. From Troy and Troilus. 

Cres. Is it possible ? 

Tro. And suddenly, where injury of chance 35 
Puts back leave-taking, justles roughly by 
All time of pause, rudely beguiles our lips 
Of all rejoindure, forcibly prevents 
Our lock’d embrasures, strangles our dear vows 
Even in the birth of our own labouring 
breath. 40 

We two, that with so many thousand sighs 
Did buy each other, must poorly sell ourselves 
With the rude brevity and discharge of one. 
Injurious time now with a robber’s haste 
Crams his rich thievery up, he knows not how. 45 
As many farewells as be stars in heaven, 

With distinct breath and consign’d kisses to 
them, 

He fumbles up into a loose adieu, 

And scants us with a single famish’d kiss, 
Distasted with the salt of broken tears. so 
EEne. (Within.) My lord, is the lady ready ? 
Tro. Hark! you are call’d. Some say the 
Genius so 

Cries “ come ” to him that instantly imist die. 
Bid them have patience ; she shall come anon. 

Pan. Where are my tears ? Rain, to lay this 
wind, or my heart will be blown up by the 
root. [Exit.) 56 

Cres. I must then to the Grecians ? 

Tro. _ No remedy. 

Cres. A woeful Cressid ’mongst the merry 
Greeks ! 

When shall we see again ? 

Tro. Hear me, my love. Be thou but true of 
heart, — 60 

Cres. I true ! How now ! what wicked deem 
is this ? 

Tro. Nay, we must use expostulation kindly, 
For it is parting from us. 

I speak not “ be thou true,’' as fearing thee, 

For I will throw my glove to Death himself 65 
That there’s no maculation in thy heart; 

But “ be thou true,” say I, to fashion in 
My sequent protestation ; be thou true, 

And I will see thee. 

Cres. 0 , you shall be expos’d, my lord, to 
dangers 10 

As infinite as imminent! But I ’ll be true. 


Tro. And I ’ll grow friend with danger. 
Wear this sleeve. 

Cres. And you this glove. When shall I see 
you ? 

Tro. I will corrupt the Grecian sentinels, 

To give thee nightly visitation. « 

But yet be true. 

Cres. 0 heavens ! “ be true ” again ! 

Tro. Hear why I speak it, love. 

The Grecian youths are full of quality ; 

They ’re loving, well compos’d, with gifts of 
nature, 

Flowing and swelling o’er with arts and exer¬ 
cise. so 

How novelties may move, and parts with person, 
Alas, a kind of godly jealousy — 

Which, I beseech you, call a virtuous sin — 
Makes me afraid. 

Cres. O heavens ! you love me not. 

Tro. Die I a villain, then ! 85 

In this I do not call your faith in question 
So mainly as my merit. I cannot sing, 

Nor heel the high lavolt, nor sweeten talk, 

Nor play at subtle games ; fair virtues all, 

To which the Grecians are most prompt and 
pregnant: 90 

But I can tell that in each grace of these 
There lurks a still and dumb-discoursive devil 
That tempts most cunningly; but be not 
tempted. 

Cres. Do you think I will ? 

Tro. No. «5 

But something may be done that we will not; 
And sometimes we are devils to ourselves, 
When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, 
Presuming on their changeful potency. o« 

/Ene. (Within.) Nay, good my lord,— 

Tro. Come, k iss ; and let us part. 

Par. (Within.) Brother Troilus ! 

Tro. _ Good brother, come you hither; 

And bring iEneas and the Grecian with you. 
Cres. My lord, will you be true ? 

Tro. Who ? I ? Alas, it is my vice, my fault. 
Whiles others fish with craft for great opinion, 
I with great truth catch mere simplicity ; io« 

Whilst some with cunning gild their copper 
crowns, 

With truth and plainness I do wear mine bare. 

Enter [AEneas, Paris, Antenor, Deiphobus, 
and Diomedes]. 

Fear not my truth. The moral of my wit 
Is “plain and true ” ; there’s all the reach of 
it. no 

Welcome, Sir Diomed ! Here is the lady 
Which for Antenor we deliver you. 

At the port, lord, I ’ll give her to thy hand, 
And by the way possess thee what she is. 
Entreat her fair ; and, by my soul, fair Greek, 
If e’er thou stand at mercy of my sword, in 

Name Cressid, and thy life shall be as safe 
As Priam is in Ilion. 

Dio. Fair Lady Cressid, 

So please you, save the thanks this prince ex¬ 
pects. 

The lustre in your eye, heaven in your cheek, 120 
Pleads your fair usage ; and to Diomed 





IV. V. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


285 


You shall be mistress, and command him 
wholly. 

Tro. Grecian, thou dost not use me courte¬ 
ously. 

To shame the zeal of mv petition to thee 
In praising her. I tell thee, lord of Greece, 12s 
ohe is as far high-soaring o’er thy praises 
As thou unworthy to be call’d her servant. 

I charge thee use her well, even for my charge ; 
hor, by the dreadful Pluto, if thou dost not, 
though the great bulk Achilles be thy guard, 

I ’ll cut thy throat. 

Dio. 0 , be not mov’d, Prince Troilus. 

Let me be privileg’d by my place and mes- 
sage, 132 

To be a speaker free. When I am hence, 

1 LL answer to my lust; and know, my lord, 

I ’ll nothing do on charge. To her own worth iss 
She shall be prized ; but that you say “ Be’t 
so,”. 

I ’ll speak it in my spirit and honour, “ No.” 
Tro. Come, to the port. I’ll tell thee, 
Diomed, 

This brave shall oft make thee to hide thy 
head. 

Lady, give me your hand, and, as we walk, 140 
To our own selves bend we our needful talk. 

[Exeunt Troilus, Cressida , and Dio- 
medes .] Sound trumpet. 

Par. Hark ! Hector’s trumpet. 
xEne. How have we spent this morning ! 
The Prince must think me tardy and remiss, 
That swore to ride before him in the field. 

Par. ’T is Troilus’ fault. Come, come, to 
.field with him. [Exit. 140 

Dei. Let us make ready straight. 
xEne. Yea, with a bridegroom’s fresh alac¬ 
rity 

Let us address to tend on Hector’s heels. 

The glory of our Troy doth this day lie 
On his fair worth and single chivalry. iso 

[Exeunt.] 

[Scene V. The Greek camp. Lists set out.] 

Enter Ajax, armed; Agamemnon, Achilles, 
Patroclus, Menelaus, Ulysses, Nestor, 
etc. 

Agam. Here art thou in appointment fresh 
and fair. 

Anticipating time with starting courage. 

Give with thy trumpet a loud note to Troy, 
Thou dreadful Ajax, that the appalled air 
May pierce the head of the great combatant s 
And hale him hither. 

Ajax. Thou, trumpet, there’s my purse. 
Now crack thy lungs, and split thy brazen pipe. 
Blow, villain, till thy spher’d bias cheek 
Outswell the colic of puff’d Aquilon. 

Come, stretch thy chest, and let thy eyes spout 
blood; 10 

Thou blow’st for Hector. [Trumpet sounds.] 
Ulyss. No trumpet answers. 

Ach.il. ’T is but early days. 

Agam. Is not yond Diomed, with Calchas’ 
daughter ? 

Ulyss. ’T is he, I ken the manner of his gait; 


He rises on the toe. That spirit of his is 

In aspiration lifts him from the earth. 

[Enter Diomedes, with Cressida.] 
Again. Is this the Lady Cressid ? 

10 • Even she. 

Agam. Most dearly welcome to the Greeks, 
sweet lady. 

Nest. Our general doth salute you with a 
kiss. 

U/yss. Yet is the kindness but particular. 20 
T were better she were kiss’d in general. 

Nest. And very courtly counsel. I ’ll begin. 
So much for Nestor. 

Achil. I ’ll take that winter from your lips, 
fair lady. 

Achilles bids you welcome. 26 

Men. I had good argument for kissing once. 
Patr. But that’s no argument for kissing 
now; 

For thus popp’d Paris in his liardiment, 

LAnd parted thus you and your argument.] 
Ulyss. O deadly gall, and theme of all our 
scorns, 30 

For which we lose our heads to gild his horns ! 
Patr. The first was Menelaus’ kiss; this, 
mine. 

Patroclus kisses you. 

Men. 0 , this is trim ! 

Patr. Paris and I kiss evermore for him. 
Men. I ’ll have my kiss, sir. Lady, by your 
leave. 35 

Cres. In kissing, do you render or receive ? 
Patr. Both take and give. 

Cres. I ’ll make my match to live, 

The kiss you take is better than you give ; 
Therefore no kiss. 

Men. I ’ll give you boot, I ’ll give you three 
for one. 40 

Cres. You ’re an odd man; give even, or give 
none. 

Men. An odd man, lady ? Every man is odd. 
Cres. No, Paris is not; for you know’t is true 
That you are odd, and he is even with you. 
Men. You fillip me o’ the head. 

Cres. No, I ’ll be sworn. 

Ulyss. It were no match, your nail against 
his horn. 46 

May I, sweet lady, beg a kiss of you ? 

Cres. You may. 

Ulyss. I do desire it. 

Cres. Why, beg, then. 

Ulyss. Why then for Venus’ sake, give me 
a kiss. 

When Helen is a maid again, and his— so 

Cres. I am your debtor, claim it when’t is 
due. 

Ulyss. Never’s my day, and then a kiss of 
you. 

Dio. Lady, a word. I ’ll bring you to your 
father. [Exit with Cressida.] 

Nest. A woman of quick sense. 

Ulyss. ' Fie, fie upon her 1 

There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her 
lip, ss 

Nay, her foot speaks ; her wanton spirits look 

out 









286 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


IV. V. 


At every joint and motive of her body. 

O, these encounterers, so glib of tongue, 

That give accosting welcome ere it comes, 

And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts «o 
To every tickling reader ! set them down 
For sluttish spoils of opportunity 
And daughters of the game. 

Enter all of Troy , Hector [armed;] Paris, 
^Eneas, Helenus, [Troilus, and other Tro¬ 
jans] with Attendants. Flourish. 

All. The Troyans’ trumpet. 

Agam. Yonder comes the troop. 

AEne. Hail, all you state of Greece ! What 
shall he done es 

To him that victory commands? or do you 
purpose 

A victor shall be known ? Will you the 
knights 

Shall to the edge of all extremity 
Pursue each other, or shall be divided 
By any voice or order of the field ? 70 

Hector bade ask. 

Agam. Which way would Hector have it ? 
AEne. He cares not; he ’ll obey conditions. 
Achil. ’T is done like Hector, hut securely 
done; 

A little proudly, and great deal disprizing 
The knight oppos’d. 

AEne. If not Achilles, sir, 75 

What is your name ? 

Achil. If not Achilles, nothing. 

AEne. Therefore Achilles; but, whate’er, 
know this: 

In the extremity of great and little, 

Valour and pride excel themselves in Hector ; 
The one almost as infinite as all, so 

The other blank as nothing. Weigh him well, 
And that which looks like pride is courtesy. 
This Ajax is half made of Hector’s blood ; 

In love whereof, half Hector stays at home ; 
Half heart, half hand, half Hector comes to 
seek 85 

This blended knight, half Troyan and half 
Greek. 

Achil. A maiden battle, then ? 0,1 perceive 
you. 

• [Re-enter Diomedes.] 

Agam. Here is Sir Diomed. Go, gentle 

knight, 

Stand by our Ajax. As you and Lord HSneas 
Consent upon the order of their fight, so 

So be it; either to the uttermost, 

Or else a breath. The combatants being kin 
Half stints their strife before their strokes 
begin. [Ajax and Hector enter the lists.] 
Ulyss. They are oppos’d already. 

Agam . What Troyan is that same that looks 
so heavy ? 95 

Ulyss. The youngest son of Priam, a true 
knight, 

Not yet mature, yet matchless, firm of word, 
Speaking in deeds, and deedless in his tongue ; 
Not soon provok’d, nor being provok’d soon 
calm’d ; 

His heart and hand both open and both free ; 100 


For what he has he gives, what thinks he 
shows ; 

Yet gives he not till judgement guide his 
bounty, 

Nor dignifies an impair thought with breath ; 
Manly as Hector, but more dangerous ; 

For Hector in his blaze of wrath subscribes 105 
To tender objects, but he in heat of action 
Is more vindicative than jealous love. 

They call him Troilus, and on him erect 
A second hope, as fairly built as Hector. 

Thus says Aeneas ; one that knows the youth no 
Even to his inches, and with private soul 
Did in great Ilion thus translate him to me. 

[Alarum. [Hector and AjaxJight.] 
Agam. They are in action. 

Nest. Now, Ajax, hold thine own ! 

Tro. Hector, thou sleep’st; 

Awake thee ! ns 

Agam. His blows are well dispos’d. There, 
Ajax ! 

Dio. You must no more. [Trumpets cease. 
AEne. Princes, enough, so please you. 

Ajax. I am not warm yet; let us fight again. 
Dio. As Hector pleases. 

Hect. Why, then will I no more. 

Thou art, great lord, my father’s sister’s son, 120 
A cousin-german to great Priam’s seed. 

The obligation of our blood forbids 
A gory emulation ’twixt us twain. 

Were thy commixtion Greek and Troyan so 
That thou couldst say, “ This hand is Grecian 
all, 12s 

And this is Troyan ; the sinews of this leg 
All Greek, and this all Troy; my mother’s 
blood 

Runs on the dexter cheek, and this sinister 
Bounds in my father’s ; ” by Jove multipo- 
tent, 

Thou shouldst not hear from me a Greekish 
member 130 

Wherein my sword had not impressure made 
Of our rank feud ; but the just gods gainsay 
That any drop thou borrow’dst from thy 
mother, 

My sacred aunt, should by my mortal sword 
Be drained ! Let me embrace thee, Ajax. 135 
By him that thunders, thou hast lusty arms ! 
Hector would have them fall upon him thus. 
Cousin, all honour to thee ! 

Ajax. I thank thee, Hector. 

Thou art too gentle and too free a man. 

I came to kill thee, cousin, and bear hence 140 
A great addition earned in thy death. 

Hect. Not Neoptolemus so mirable, 

On whose bright crest Fame with her loud’st 
Oyes 

Cries, “ This is he,” could promise to himself 
A thought of added honour torn from Hector. 
AEne. There is expectance here from both 
the sides, ue 

What further you will do. 

Hect. ' We ’ll answer it: 

The issue is emhracement. Ajax, farewell. 

Aiax. If I might in entreaties find success — 
As seld I have the chance — I would desire ieo 
My famous cousin to our Grecian tents. 






iv. v. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


287 


Dio. ’Tis Agamemnon’s wish, and great 
Achilles 

Doth long to see unarm’d the valiant Hector. 

Hect. ASneas, call my brother Troilus to me, 
And signify this loving interview ios 

To the expecters of our Troyan part. 

Desire them home. Give me thy hand, my 
cousin. 

I will go eat with thee and see your knights. 


Agamemnon and the rest [come forward]. 

Ajax. Great Agamemnon comes to meet us 
here. 

Hect. The worthiest of them tell me name 
by name ; ieo 

But for Achilles, mine own searching eyes 
Shall find him by his large and portly size. 

Agam. Worthy of arms! as welcome as to 
one 

That would be rid of such an enemy. 

But that’s no welcome. Understand more 
clear, 165 

What’s past and what’s to come is strew’d 
with husks 

And formless ruin of oblivion ; 

But in this extant moment, faith and troth, 
Strain’d purely from all hollow bias-drawing, 
Bids thee, with most divine integrity, no 

From heart of very heart, great Hector, wel¬ 


come. 

Hect. I thank thee, most imperious Aga¬ 
memnon. 

Agam. [To Troilus .] My well-fam’d lord of 
Troy, no less to you. 

Men. Let me confirm my princely brother’s 
greeting. 174 

You brace of warlike brothers, welcome hither. 

Hect. Who must we answer ? 

AEne. The noble Menelaus. 

Hect. O, you, my lord ? By Mars his gaunt¬ 
let, thanks! 

Mock not, that I affect the untraded oath, 
Your quondam wife swears still by Venus’ 
glove. 

She’s well, but bade me not commend her to 
you. # 180 

Men. Name her not now, sir ; she’s a deadly 
theme. 

Hect. O, pardon ; I offend. 

Nest. I have, thou gallant Troyan, seen thee 
oft, 

Labouring for destiny, make cruel way 
Through ranks of Greekish youth, and I have 
seen thee, 185 

As hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian steed, 
And seen thee scorning forfeits and subdue- 


ments, 

When thou hast hung thy advanced sword 1’ 
the air, 

Not letting it decline on the declined, 

That I have said unto my standers by 100 

“ Lo, Jupiter is yonder, dealing life ! 

And I have seen thee pause and take thy 
breath, 

When that a ring of Greeks have hemm d thee 
Like an Olympian wrestling. This have I seen; 


But this thy countenance, still lock’d in steel, 

I never saw till now. I knew thy grandsire, 100 
And once fought with him. He was a soldier 
good; 

But, by great Mars, the captain of us all, 
Never like thee. Let an old man embrace thee ; 
And, worthy warrior, w r elcome to our tents. 200 
HZne. ’T is the old Nestor. 

Hect. Let me embrace thee, good old chron¬ 
icle, 

That hast so long walk’d hand in hand with 
Time. 

Most reverend Nestor, I am glad to clasp thee. 
Nest. I would my arms could match thee in 
contention, 205 

As they contend with thee in courtesy. 

Hect. I would they could. 

Nest. Ha! 

By this white beard, I’d fight with thee to¬ 
morrow. 

Well, welcome, welcome ! — I have seen the 
time. 210 

Ulyss. I wonder now how yonder city stands 
When we have here her base and pillar by us. 
Hect. I know your favour, Lord Ulysses, 
well. 

Ah, sir, there’s many a Greek and Troyan 
dead 

Since first I saw yourself and Diomed 215 

In Uion, on your Greekish embassy. 

Ulyss. Sir, I foretold you then what would 
ensue. 

My prophecy is but half his journey yet, 

For yonder walls, that pertly front your town, 
Yond towers, whose wanton tops do buss the 
clouds, 220 

Must kiss their own feet. 

Hect. I must not believe you. 

There they stand yet, and modestly I think 
The fall of every Phrygian stone will cost 
A drop of Grecian blood. The end crowns all, 
And that old common arbitrator, Time, 225 

Will one day end it. 

Ulyss. So to him we leave it. 

Most gentle and most valiant Hector, welcome ! 
After the general, I beseech you next 
To feast with me and see me at my tent. 

Achil. I shall forestall thee, Lord Ulysses, 
thou! wo 

Now, Hector, I have fed mine eyes on thee ; 

I have with exact view perus’d thee, Hector, 
And quoted joint by joint. 

Hect. Is this Achilles ? 

Achil. I am Achilles. 

Hect. Stand fair, I prithee ; let me look on 

tll 66 . 235 

Achil. Behold thy fill. 

Hect. Nay, I have done already. 

Achil. Thou art too brief. I will the second 
time, 

As I would buy thee, view thee limb by limb. 
Hect. O, like a book of sport thou ’It read 
me o’er; 239 

But there’s more inme than thou understands. 
Why dost thou so oppress me with thine eye ? 
Achil. Tell me, you heavens, in which part, 
of his body 




288 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


v. i. 


Shall I destroy him, whether there, or there, or 
there ? 

That I may give the local wound a name 
And make distinct the very breach whereout 
Hector’s great spirit flew. Answer me, hea¬ 
vens ! 246 

Sect. It would discredit the blest gods, proud 
man, 

To answer such a question. Stand again. 
Think’st thou to catch my life so pleasantly 
As to prenominate in nice conjecture 250 

Where thou wilt hit me dead ? 

Achil. I tell thee, yea. 

Sect. Wert thou the oracle to tell me so, 

I’d not believe thee. Henceforth guard thee 
well; 

For I ’ll not kill thee there, nor there, nor 
there ; 

But, by the forge that stithied Mars his helm, 255 
I ’ll kill thee everywhere, yea, o’er and o’er. 
You wisest Grecians, pardon me this brag. 

His insolence draws folly from my lips ; 

But I ’ll endeavour deeds to match these words, 
Or may I never — 

Ajax. Do not chafe thee, cousin ; 

And you, Achilles, let these threats alone, 261 
Till accident or purpose bring you to’t. 

You may have every day enough of Hector, 

If you have stomach. The general state, I fear, 
Can scarce entreat you to be odd with him. 260 
Sect. I pray you, let us see you in the field. 
We have had pelting wars, since you refus’d 
The Grecians’ cause. 

Achil. Dost thou entreat me, Hector ? 

To-morrow do I meet thee, fell as death ; 
To-night all friends. 

Sect. Thy hand upon that match. 

Agam. First, all you peers of Greece, go to 
my tent; 271 

There in the full convive you. Afterwards, 

As Hector’s leisure and your bounties shall 
Concur together, severally entreat him. 

Beat loud the tabourines, let the trumpets 

blow, 275 

That this great soldier may his welcome know. 

[Exeunt [all except Troilus and 
Ulysses]. 

Tro. My Lord Ulysses, tell me, I beseech 
you. 

In what place of the field doth Calchas keep ? 
Ulyss. At Menelaus’ tent, most princely 
Troilus. 

There Diomed doth feast with him to-night; 
Who neither looks on heaven nor on earth, 281 
But gives all gaze and bent of amorous view 
On the fair Cressid. 

Tro. Shall I, sweet lord, be bound to thee 
so much, 

After we part from Agamemnon’s tent, 285 

To bring me thither ? 

Ulyss. You shall command me, sir. 

As gentle tell me, of what honour was 
This Cressidain Troy ? Had she no lover there 
That wails her absence ? 

Tro. 0 , sir, to such as boasting show their 
scars 290 

A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord ? 


She was belov’d, she lov’d ; she is, and doth : 
But still sweet love is food for fortune’s tooth. 

[Exeunt. 

[ACT V 

Scene I. The Greek camp. Before the tent of 
Achilles.] 

Enter Achilles and Patroclus. 

Achil. I ’ll heat his blood with Greekisli wine 
to-night, 

Which with my scimitar I ’ll cool to-morrow. 
Patroclus, let us feast him to the height. 

Patr. Here comes Thersites. 

Enter Thersites. 

Achil. How now, thou core of envy ! 

Thou crusty batch of nature, what’s the 
news ? 5 

Ther. Why, thou picture of what thou 
seem’st, and idol of idiot-worshippers, here’s 
a letter for thee. 

Achil. From whence, fragment ? 

Ther. Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy. 
Patr. Who keeps the tent now ? u 

Ther. The surgeon’s box, or the patient’s 
wound. 

Patr. Well said, adversity ! and what need 
these tricks ? is 

Ther. Prithee, be silent, boy ; I profit not by 
thy talk. Thou art thought to be Achilles’ 
male varlet. 

Patr. Male varlet, you rogue! What’s 

that ? 19 

Ther. Why, his masculine whore. Now, the 
rotten diseases of the south, guts-griping, rup¬ 
tures, catarrhs, loads o’ gravel i’ the back, 
lethargies, cold palsies, [raw eyes, dirt-rotten 
livers, wheezing lungs, bladders full of im- 
posthume, sciaticas, limekilns i’ the palm, in¬ 
curable bone-ache, and the rivelled fee-simple 
of the tetter,] take and take again such pre¬ 
posterous discoveries! 28 

Patr. Why, thou damnable box of envy, 
thou, what mean’st thou to curse thus ? 

Ther. Do I curse thee ? 

Patr. Why, no, you ruinous butt, you whore¬ 
son indistinguishable cur, no. 33 

Ther. No! why art thou then exasperate, 
thou idle immaterial skein of sleave-silk, thou 
green sarcenet flap for a sore eye, thou tassel 
of a prodigal’s purse, thou ? Ah, how the poor 
world is pest’red with such waterflies, diminu¬ 
tives of nature! 39 

Patr. Out, gall ! 

Ther. Finch-egg ! 

Achil. My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted 
quite 

From my great purpose in to-morrow’s battle. 
Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba, 

A token from her daughter, my fair love, 45 
Both taxing me and gaging me to keep 

^at I have sworn. I will not break it. 
I all Greeks ; fail fame ; honour or go or stay ; 
My major vow lies here, this I ’ll obey. 

Come, come, Thersites, help to trim my tent; 60 




V. ll. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


289 


This night in banqueting must all he spent. 
Away, Patroclus! 

[Exeunt [Achilles and Patroclus ]. 
Ther. With too much blood and too little 
brain, these two may run mad; but, if with 
too much brain and too little blood they do, 
I ’ll be a curer of madmen. Here ’s Aga- [m 
memnon, an honest fellow enough, and one 
that loves quails; but he has not so much 
brain as ear-wax : and the goodly transforma¬ 
tion of Jupiter there, his brother the bull, the 
primitive statue and oblique memorial of [go 
cuckolds; a thrifty shoeing-horn in a chain, 
hanging at his brother’s leg, — to what form 
but that he is, should wit larded with malice 
and malice forced with wit turn him to ? To 
an ass, were nothing; he is both ass and ox : to 
an ox, were nothing ; he is both ox and ass. [es 
To be a dog, a mule, a cat, a fitchew, a toad, 
a lizard, an owl, a puttock, or a herring with¬ 
out a roe, I would not care; but to be Mene- 
laus ! I would conspire against destiny. Ask 
me not what I would be, if I were not [70 
Thersites; for I care not to be the louse of a 
lazar, so I were not Menelaus. Hoy-day! 
spirits and fires 1 

Enter Hector, [TroilusJ Ajax, Agamemnon, 
Ulysses, Nestor, [Menelaus] and Dio- 
medes, with lights. 

Agam. We go wrong, we go wrong. 

Ajax. No, yonder’tis; 

There, where we see the light. 

Hect. I trouble you. 75 

Ajax. No, not a whit. 

Re-enter Achilles. 


Ulyss. Here comes himself to guide you. 

Achil. Welcome, brave Hector; welcome, 
Princes all. . 

Agam. So now, fair Prince of Troy, I bid 
good night. 

Ajax commands the guard to tend on you. 

Hect. Thanks and good night to the Greeks 
general. 80 

Men. Good night, my lord. 

Hect. Good night, sweet Lord Menelaus. 

Ther. Sweet draught! “Sweet” quoth ’a! 

Sweet sink, sweet sewer. 

Achil. Good night and welcome, both at 
once, to those 

That go or tarry. 85 

Agam. Good night. 

[Exeunt Agamemnon and Mene¬ 
laus.} 

Achil. Old Nestor tarries, and you too, D10- 
med, 

Keep Hector company an hour or two. 

Bio I cannot, lord ; I have important busi- 


rhe tide whereof is now. Good night, great 
Hector. 90 

Hect. Give me your hand. 

Ulyss. [Aside to Troilus .] Follow his torch ; 
he goes to Calchas’ tent. 

[ ’ll keep you company. 

2y 0t Sweet sir, you honour me. 


Hect. And so, good night. 

[Exit Biomedes ; Ulysses and Troi¬ 
lus following .] 

Achil. Come, come, enter my tent. 04 

[Exeunt [ Achilles , Hector, Ajax, 
and Nestor ]. 

Ther. That same Diomed’s a false-hearted 
rogue, a most unjust knave. I will no more 
trust him when he leers than I will a serpent 
when he hisses. He will spend his mouth, and 

{ n-omise, like Brabbler the hound; but when 
le performs, astronomers foretell it. It is pro¬ 
digious, there will come some change. The [100 
sun borrows of the moon, when Diomed keeps 
his word. I will rather leave to see Hector, 
than not to dog him. They say he keeps a 
Troyan drab, and uses the traitor Calchas his 
tent. I’ll after. Nothing but lechery! All 
incontinent varlets ! [Exit. io« 

[Scene II. The same. Before Calchas'’s tent.} 
Enter Diomedes. 

Bio. What, are you up here, ho ? Speak. 
Cal. [Within.] Who calls? 

Bio. Diomed. Calchas, I think. Where’s 
your daughter ? 

Cal. [Within.] She comes to you. 

Enter Troilus and Ulysses [at a distance; 
after them , Thersites]. 

Ulyss. Stand where the torch may not dis¬ 
cover us. 6 

Enter Cressida. 

Tro. Cressid comes forth to him. 

Bio. How now, my charge ! 

Cres. Now, my sweet guardian ! Hark, a 
word with you. [Whispers.] 

Tro. Yea, so familiar ! 

Ulyss. She will sing any man at first sight. 
Ther. And any man may sing her, if he can 
take her cliff. Sne’s noted. 11 

Bio. Will you remember ? 

Cres. Remember! yes. 

Bio. Nay, but do, then : 

And let your mind be coupled with your words. 
Tro. What should she remember ? 10 

Ulyss. List. 

t Cres. Sweet honey Greek, tempt me no 
more to follv. 

Ther. Roguery! 

Bio. Nay, then, — 20 

Cres. I ’ll tell you what, — 

Bio. Foh, foh ! come, tell a pin. You are a 
forsworn — 

Cres. In faith, I cannot. What would you 
have me do ? 

Ther. A juggling trick, — to be secretly open. 
Bio. What did you swear you would bestow 
on me ? # 25 

Cres. I prithee, do not hold me to mine oath. 
Bid me do anything but that, sweet Greek. 
Bio. Good night. 

Tro. Hold, patience! 

Ulyss. How now, Troyan ! a« 

Cres. Diomed, — 





290 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


v. 11. 


Bio. No, no, good night. I ’ll be your fool 
no more. 

Tro. Thy better must. 

Cres. Hark, one word in your ear. 

Tro. 0 plague and madness! 35 

Ulyss. You are moved, Prince. Let us de¬ 
part, I pray you, 

Lest your displeasure should enlarge itself 
To wrathful terms. This place is dangerous; 
The time right deadly. I beseech you, go. so 
Tro. Behold, I pray you ! 

Ulyss. Nay, good my lord, go off ; 

You flow to great distraction. Come, my lord. 
Tro. I pray thee, stay. 

Ulyss. You have not patience ; come. 

Tro. I pray you, stay. By hell and all hell’s 
torments, 

I will not speak a word ! 

Bio. And so, good night. 

Cres. Nay, but you part in anger. 

Tro. Doth that grieve thee ? 45 

O withered truth! 

Ulyss. Why, how now, lord ! 

Tro. By Jove, 

I will be patient. 

Cres. Guardian ! Why, Greek ! 

Bio. Foh, foh ! adieu ; you palter. 

Cres. In faith, I do not. Come hither once 
again. 

Ulyss. You shake, my lord, at something. 
Will you go ? 50 

You will break out. 

Tro. She strokes his cheek ! 

Ulyss. Come, come. 

Tro. Nay, stay; by Jove, I will not speak a 
word. 

There is between my will and all offences 
A guard of patience. Stay a little while. 54 
Ther. How the devil Luxury, with his fat 
rump and potato-finger, tickles these together ! 
Pry, lechery, fry! 

Bio. But will you, then ? 

Cres. In faith, I will, la ; never trust me else. 
Bio. Give me some token for the surety of 
it. 60 

Cres. I ’ll fetch you one. [Exit. 

Ulyss. You have sworn patience. 

Tro. Fear me not, sweet lord. 

I will not be myself, nor have cognition 
Of what I feel. I am all patience. 

Re-enter Cressida. 

Ther. Now the pledge ; now, now, now ! 65 

Cres. Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve. 

Tro. 0 beauty! where is thy faith ? 

Ulyss. My lord, — 

Tro. I will be patient; outwardly I will. 

Cres. You look upon that sleeve : behold it 
well. 

He lov’d me — 0 false wench! — Give ’t me 
again. 70 

Bio. Whose was’t ? 

Cres. It is no matter, now I have’t again. 

I will not meet with you to-morrow night. 

I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more. 

Ther. Now she sharpens. Well said, whet¬ 
stone ! 75 


Bio. I shall have it. 

Cres. What, this ? 

Bio. Ay, that. 

Cres. 0 , all you gods! 0 pretty, pretty 
pledge ! 

Thy master now lies thinking in his bed 
Of thee and me, and sighs, and takes my glove, 
And gives memorial dainty kisses to it, so 
As I kiss thee. Nay, do not snatch it from me. 
He that takes that doth take my heart withal. 
Bio. I had your heart before, this follows it. 
Tro. I did swear patience. 

Cres. You shall not have it, Diomed ; faith, 
you shall not. »5 

I ’ll give you something else. 

Bio. I will have this. Whose was it ? 

Cres. It is no matter. 

Bio. Come, tell me whose it was. 

Cres. ’T was one’s that lov’d me better than 
you will. 

But, now you have it, take it. 

Bio. Whose was it ? »o 

Cres. By all Diana’s waiting-women yond, 
And by herself, I will not tell you whose. 

Bio. To-morrow will I wear it on my helm, 
And grieve his spirit that dares not challenge 
it. 

Tro. Wert thou the devil, and wor’st it on 
thy horn, 05 

It should be challeng’d. 

Cres. Well, well, ’tis done, ’tis past. And 
yet it is not; 

I will not keep my word. 

Bio. Why, then, farewell j 

Thou never shalt mock Diomed again. 

Cres. You shall not go. One cannot speak a 
word, 100 

But it straight starts vou. 

Bio. I do not like this fooling. 

Ther. Nor I, by Pluto; but that that likes 
not you pleases me best. 

Bio. What, shall I come ? The hour ? 

Cres. Ay, come : — O Jove ! — do come. — I 
shall be plagu’d. 105 

Bio. Farewell till then. [Exit Biomedes. 
Cres. Good night. I prithee, come. 

Troilus, farewell! one eye yet looks on thee, 
But with my heart the other eye doth see. 

Ah, poor our sex ! this fault in us I find, 

The error of our eye directs our mind. no 

What error leads must err ; O, then conclude 
Minds sway’d by eyes are full of turpitude. 

* [Exit. 

Ther. A proof of strength she could not pub¬ 
lish more, 

Unless she say, My mind is now turn’d whore. 
Ulyss. All’s done, my lord. 

Tro. It is. 

Ulyss. Why stay we, then ? 

Tro. To make a recordation to my soul lie 
Of eveiw syllable that here was spoke. 

But if I tell how these two did co-act, 

Shall I not lie in publishing a truth ? 

Sith yet there is a credence in my heart, iso 
An esperance so obstinately strong, 

That doth invert the attest of eyes and ears, 

As if those organs had deceptious functions, 






v. iii. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


291 


Created only to calumniate. 

Was Cressid here ? 

Ulyss. I cannot conjure, Troyan. 126 

Tro. She was not, sure. 

Ulyss. Most sure she was. 

'Tro. Why, my negation hath no taste of 
madness. 

Ulyss. Nor mine, my lord. Cressid was here 
but now. 

Tro. Let it not be believ’d for womanhood ! 
Think, we had mothers ; do not give advantage 
To stubborn critics, apt, without a theme, m 
For depravation, to square the general sex 
By Cressid’s rule. Rather think this not Cres¬ 
sid. 

Ulyss. What hath she done, Prince, that can 
soil our mothers ? 

Tro. Nothing at all, unless that this were 
she. 135 

Ther. Will he swagger himself out on’s own 
eyes? 

Tro. This she ? no, this is Diomed’s Cressida. 
If beauty have a soul, this is not she. 

If souls guide vows, if vows are sanctimony, 

If sanctimony be the gods’ delight, 140 

If there be rule in unity itself, 

This is not she. 0 madness of discourse, 

That cause sets up, with and against thyself, 
Bi-fold authority, where reason can revolt 
Without perdition, and loss assume all reason 
Without revolt: this is, and is not, Cressid. 14c 
Within my soul there doth conduce a fight 
Of this strange nature, that a thing inseparate 
Divides more wider than the sky and earth, 
And yet the spacious breadth of this division 
Admits no orifex for a point as subtle isi 

As Ariaehne’s broken woof to enter. 

Instance, O instance ! strong as Pluto’s gates ; 
Cressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven. 
Instance, 0 instance ! strong as heaven itself ; 
The bonds of heaven are slipp’d, dissolv’d, and 
loos’d; 168 

And with another knot, five-finger-tied, 

The fractions of her faith, orts of her love, 

The fragments, scraps, the bits and greasy 

relics 159 

Of her o’er-eaten faith, are bound to Diomed. 

Ulyss. May worthy Troilus be half attached 
With that which here his passion doth express ? 
Tro. Ay, Greek ; and that shall be divulged 
well 

In characters as red as Mars his heart 
Inflam’d with Venus. Never did young man 
fancy 165 

With so eternal and so fix’d a soul. 

Hark, Greek : as much as I do Cressid love, 

So much by weight hate I her Diomed. 

That sleeve is mine that he ’ll bear on his helm. 
Were it a casque compos’d by Vulcan’s skill, 
My sword should bite it. Not the dreadful 
spout 171 

Which shipmen do the hurricano call, 
Constring’d in mass by the almighty sun, 

Shall dizzy with more clamour Neptune’s ear 
In his descent than shall my prompted sword ns 
Falling on Diomed. 

Ther. He ’ll tickle it for his concupy. 


Tro. 0 Cressid ! O false Cressid ! false, false, 
false! 

Let all untruths stand by thy stained name, 
And they ’ll seem glorious. 

Ulyss. 0 , contain yourself; 

Your passion draws ears hither. m 

Enter ACneas. 

^ Ene. I have been seeking you this hour, my 
lord. 

Hector, by this, is arming him in Troy; 

Ajax, your guard, stays to conduct you home. 
Tro. Have with you, Prince. My courteous 
lord, adieu. iss 

Farewell, revolted fair ! and, Diomed, 

Stand fast, and wear a castle on thy head I 
Ulyss. I ’ll bring you to the gates. 

Tro. Accept distracted thanks. i 89 

[Exeunt Troilus , uEneas, and 
Ulysses. 

Ther. Would I could meet that rogue Dio¬ 
med ! I would croak like a raven ; I would 
bode, I would bode. Patroclus will give me 
anything for the intelligence of this whore. 
The parrot will not do more for an almond than 
he for a commodious drab. Lechery, lechery ; 
still wars and lechery ; nothing else holds fash¬ 
ion. A burning devil take them ! [Exit.] 197 

[Scene III. Troy. Before Priam’s palace.] 

Enter Hector and Andromache. 

And. When was my lord so much ungently 
temper’d 

To stop his ears against admonishment ? 
Unarm, unarm, and do not fight to-day. 

Hect. You train me to offend you; get you 
gone. 

By all the everlasting gods, I ’ll go ! s 

And. My dreams will, sure, prove ominous 
to the day. 

Hect. No more, I say. 

Enter Cassandra. 

Cas. Where is my brother Hector ? 

And. Here, sister ; arm’d, and bloody in in¬ 
tent. 

Consort with me in loud and dear petition, 
Pursue we him on knees ; for I have dream’d 
Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night it 
Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of 
slaughter. 

Cas. O, ’t is true. 

Hect. Ho ! bid my trumpet sound ! 

Cas. No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet 
brother. 

Hect. Be gone, I say ; the gods have heard 
me swear. is 

Cas. The gods are deaf to hot and peevish 
vows. 

They are polluted offerings, more abhorr’d 
Than spotted livers in the sacrifice. 

And. O, be persuaded! do not count it 
holy 

To hurt by being just. It is as lawful, 20 

For we would give much, to use violent thefts, 
And rob in the behalf of charity. 




292 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


v. Ill 


Cas. It is the purpose that makes strong the 
vow, 

But vows to every purpose must not hold. 
Unarm, sweet Hector. 

Hect. Hold you still, I say; * 

Mine honour keeps the weather of my fate. 
Life every man holds dear ; but the brave man 
Holds honour far more precious-dear than life. 

j Enter Troilus. 

How now, young man l mean’st thou to fight 
to-day ? 

And. Cassandra, call my father to persuade. 

[Exit Cassandra. 
Hect. No, faith, young Troilus; doff thy 
harness, youth ; si 

I am to-day i’ the vein of chivalry. 

Let grow thy sinews till their knots be strong, 
And tempt not yet the brushes of the war. 
Unarm thee, go, and doubt thou not, brave 
boy, 35 

I ’ll stand to-day for thee and me and Troy. 
Tro. Brother, you have a vice of mercy in 
. you, 

Which better fits a lion than a man. 

Hect. What vice is that, good Troilus ? 
Chide me for it. 

Tro. When many times the captive Grecian 
falls, 40 

Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword, 
You bid them rise, and live. 

Hect. 0 , ’t is fair play. 

Tro. Fool’s play, by heaven, Hector. 

Hect. How now ! how now ! 

Tro. For the love of all the gods, 

Let’s leave the hermit pity with our mothers, 45 
And when we have our armours buckled on, 
The venom’d vengeance ride upon our swords, 
Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from 
ruth. 

Hect. Fie, savage, fie ! 

Tro. Hector, then’t is wars. 

Hect. Troilus, I would not have you fight to¬ 
day. co 

Tro. Who should withhold me ? 

Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars 
Beckoning with fiery truncheon my retire ; 

Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees, 

Their eyes o’ergalled with recourse of tears ; cs 
Nor you, my brother, with your true sword 
drawn. 

Oppos’d to hinder me, should stop my way, 

But by my ruin. 

Re-enter Cassandra, with Priam. 

Cas. Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him 
fast; 

He is thy crutch. Now if thou lose thy stay, eo 
Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee, 
Fall all together. 

Pri. _ Come, Hector, come, go back. 

Thy wife hath dream’d ; thy mother hath had 
visions ; 

Cassandra doth foresee ; and I myself 
Am like a prophet suddenly enrapt es 

To tell thee that this day is ominous: 
Therefore, come back. 


Hect. iEneas is a-field ; 

And I do stand engag’d to many Greeks, 

Even in the faith of valour, to appear 
This morning to them. 

Pri. Ay, but thou shalt not go. 

Hect. I must not break my faith. n 

You know me dutiful; .therefore, dear sir, 

Let me not shame respect; but give me leave 
To take that course by your consent and voice, 
Which you do here forbid me, royal Priam. 75 
Cas. 0 Priam, yield not to him ! 

And. Do not, dear father. 

Hect. Andromache, I am offended with you. 
Upon the love you bear me, get you in. 

[Exit Andromache. 
Tro. This foolish, dreaming, superstitious 
girl 

Makes all these bodements. 

Cas. 0 , farewell, dear Hector ! 

Look, how thou diest! look, how thy eye turns 
pale! 

Look, how thy wounds doth bleed at many 
vents ! 

Hark, how Troy roars! how Hecuba cries 
out! 

How poor Andromache shrills her dolour forth I 
Behold, distraction, frenzy, and amazement, 
Like witless antics, one another meet. 

And all cry, Hector ! Hector’s dead ! O Hector ! 
Tro. Away ! away ! 

Cas. Farewell; yet, soft! Hector, I take my 
leave. 

Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive. »o 

[Exit. 

Hect. You are amaz’d, my liege, at her ex¬ 
claim. 

Go in and cheer the town. We ’ll forth and 
fight, 

Do deeds of praise and tell you them at night. 
Pri. Farewell! The gods with safety stand 
about thee ! 

[Exeunt severally Priam and Hec¬ 
tor.] Alarum. 

Tro. They are at it, hark ! Proud Diomed, 
believe, 05 

I come to lose my arm, or win my sleeve. 

Enter Pandarus. 

Pan. Do you hear, my lord ? Do you hear ? 
Tro. What now ? 

Pan. Here’s a letter come from yond poor 
girl. 

Tro. Let me read. 100 

Pan. A whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally 
tisiek so troubles me, and the foolish fortune 
of this girl; and what one thing, what another, 
that I shall leave you one o’ these days ; and I 
have a rheum in mine eyes too, ancl such an 
ache in my bones that, unless a man were 
curs’d, I cannot tell what to think on’t. What 
says she there ? 107 

Tro. Words, words, mere words, no matter 
from the heart; 

The effect doth operate another way. 

[Tearing the letter .] 
Go, wind, to wind, there turn and change to¬ 
gether. ' no 






V. V. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


293 


My love with words and errors still she feeds, 
But edifies another with her deeds. 

Pan. Why, but hear you ! 

Tro. Hence, broker l lackey! Ignomy and 
shame 

Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name ! ns 

[Exeunt [severally ]. 

[Scene IV. Plains between Troy and the 
Greek camp.] 

Alarum. Enter Thersites in excursion. 

Ther. Now they are clapper-clawing 1 one an¬ 
other ; I ’ll go look on. That dissembling 
abominable varlet, Diomed, has got that same 
scurvy doting foolish young knave’s sleeve of 
Troy there in his helm. I would fain see 
them meet, that that same young Troyan ass, [s 
that loves the whore there, might send that 
Greekish whoremasterly villain with the sleeve 
back to the dissembling luxurious drab, of a 
sleeveless errand. O’ the t’other side, the pol¬ 
icy of those crafty swearing rascals, that [10 
stale old mouse-eaten dry cheese, Nestor, and 
that same dog-fox, Ulysses, is not prov’d worth 
a blackberry. They set me up, in policy, that 
mongrel cur, Ajax, against that dog of as bad 
a kind, Achilles; and now is the cur Ajax [is 
prouder than the cur Achilles, and will not arm 
to-day ; whereupon the Grecians begin to pro¬ 
claim barbarism, and policy grows into an ill 
opinion. 

Enter Diomedes, Troilus [following ]. 

Soft! here comes sleeve, and the other. 

Tro. Fly not; for shouldst thou take the 
riverStyx, 20 

I would swim after. 

Bio. Thou dost miscall retire. 

I do not fly, but advantageous care 
Withdrew me from the odds of multitude. 
Have at thee! # 24 

Ther. Hold thy whore, Grecian !—now for 
thy whore, Troyan ! — now the sleeve, now the 
sleeve! [Exeunt Troilus and Diomedes 

fighting.] 

Enter Hector. 

Hect. What art thou, Greek ? Art thou for 
Hector’s match ? 

Art thou of blood and honour ? 29 

Ther. No, no, I am a rascal; a scurvy rail¬ 
ing knave ; a very filthy rogue. 

Hect. I do believe thee ; live. [Exit.] 32 
Ther. God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe 
me ; but a plague break thy neck for frighting 
me ! What’s become of the wenching rogues ? 
I think they have swallowed one another. I 
would laugh at that miracle; yet, in a sort, 
lechery eats itself. I ’ll seek them. [Exit. 38 

[Scene V. Another part of the plains.] 
Enter Diomedes and a Servant. 

Dio. Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus’ 
horse * 

Present the fair steed to my lady Cressid. 


Fellow, commend my service to her beauty; 
Tell her I have chastis’d the amorous Troyan, 
And am her knight by proof. 

Serv. I go, my lord, s 

[Exit.] 

Enter Agamemnon. 

Agam. Renew, renew 1 The fierce Polydamas 
Hath beat down Menon ; bastard Margarelon 
Hath Doreus prisoner, 

And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam, 
Upon the pashed corses of the kings 10 

Epistrophus and Cedius ; Polyxenes is slain, 
Amphimachus and Thoas deadly hurt, 
Patroclus ta’en or slain, and Palamedes 
Sore hurt and bruised. The dreadful Sagit- 
tary 

Appals our numbers. Haste we, Diomed, 1* 
To reinforcement, or we perish all. 

Enter Nestor. 

Nest. Go, bear Patroclus’ body to Achilles ; 
And bid the snail-pac’d Ajax arm for shame. 
There is a thousand Hectors in the field. 

Now here he fights on Galathe his horse, 2# 
And there lacks work ; anon he’s there afoot, 
And there they fly or die, like scaled schools 
Before the belching whale ; then is he yonder, 
And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his 
edge. 

Fall down before him like the mower’s swath. 
Here, there, and everywhere, he leaves and 
takes, . 2 « 

Dexterity so obeying appetite 
That what he will he does, and does so much 
That proof is call’d impossibility. 


Enter Ulysses. 

TJlyss. 0 , courage, courage, Princes! Great 
Achilles 30 

Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance. 
Patroclus’ wounds have rous’d his drowsy 
blood, 

Together with his mangled Myrmidons, 

That noseless, handless, hack’d and chipp’d, 
come to him, 

Crying on Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend 35 
And foams at mouth, and he is arm’d and at it, 
Roaring for Troilus, who hath done to-day 
Mad and fantastic execution, 

Engaging and redeeming of himself 

With such a careless force and forceless care *0 

As if that luck, in very spite of cunning, 

Bade him win all. 


Enter Ajax. 

Ajax. Troilus ! thou coward Troilus ! [Exit. 
Dio. Ay, there, there. 

Nest. So, so, we draw together. [Exit. 


Enter Achilles. 

Achil. Where is this Hector ? 

Come, come, thou boy-queller, show thy face; 
Know what it is to meet Achilles angry. 40 
Hector ! where’s Hector ? I will none but 
Hector. [Exeunt. 





294 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


V. VUL 


[Scene VI. Another part of the plains.] 
Enter Ajax. 

Ajax. Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show 
thy head ! 

Enter Diomedes. 

Bio. Troilus, I say ! where’s Troilus ? 

Ajax. What wouldst thou ? 

Bio. I would correct him. 

Ajax. Were I the general, thou shouldst 
have my office 

Ere that correction. Troilus, I say! what, 
Troilus! 6 

Enter Troilus. 

Tro. 0 traitor Diomed! turn thy false face, 
thou traitor, 

And pay thy life thou ow’st me for my horse ! 
Bio. Ha, art thou there ? 

Ajax. I ’ll fight with him alone. Stand, 
Diomed. 

Bio. He is my prize ; I will not look upon. io 
Tro. Come, both you cogging Greeks; have 
at you both ! [ Exeunt [.fighting]. 

Enter Hector. 

Hect. Yea, Troilus? 0 , well fought, my 
youngest brother! 

Enter Achilles. 

Achil. Now do I see thee. Have at thee, 
Hector ! 

Hect. Pause, if thou wilt. 

Achil. I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Tro¬ 
yan. io 

Be happy that my arms are out of use ; 

My rest and negligence befriends thee now, 

But thou anon shalt hear of me again ; 

Till when, go seek thy fortune. [Exit. 

Hect. Fare thee well: 

I would have been much more a fresher man, 20 
Had I expected thee. How now, my brother 1 

Re-enter Troilus. 

Tro. Ajax hath ta’en iEneas ! Shall it be ? 
No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven, 

He shall not carry him ; I ’ll be ta’en too, 

Or bring him off. Fate, hear me what I say ! 25 
I reck not though thou end my life to-day. 

[Exit. 

Enter one in [ sumptuous ] armour. 

Hect. Stand, stand, thou Greek; thou art a 
goodly mark. 

No ? Wilt thou not ? I like thy armour well; 

I ’ll frush it and unlock the rivets all, 

But I ’ll be master of it. Wilt thou not, beast, 
abide ? 30 

Why, then fly on, I ’ll hunt thee for thy hide. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene VII. Another part of the plains.] 
Enter Achilles, with Myrmidons. 

Achil. Come here about roe, you my Myr¬ 
midons : 


Mark what I say. Attend me where I wheel ; 
Strike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in 
breath; 

And when I have the bloody Hector found, 
Empale him with your weapons round about, 6 
In fellest manner execute your aims. 

Follow me, sirs, and my proceedings eye ; 

It is decreed Hector the great must die. 8 

[Exeunt. 

Enter Menelaus and Paris [fighting: then] 
Thersites. 

Ther. The cuckold and the cuckold-maker 
are at it. Now, bull ! now, dog! ’Loo, Paris, 
’loo ! Now my double-henned sparrow ! ’Loo, 
Paris, ’loo! The bull has the game; ware 
horns, ho ! [Exeunt Paris and Menelaus. 12 

Enter Bastard [Margarelon]. 

Mar. Turn, slave, and fight. 

Ther. What art thou ? 

Mar. A bastard son of Priam’s. 

Ther. I am a bastard too ; I love bastards. I 
am a bastard begot, bastard instructed, bastard 
in mind, bastard in valour, in everything ille¬ 
gitimate. One bear will not bite another, and 
wherefore should one bastard ? Take heed, [20 
the quarrel’s most ominous to us. If the son of 
a whore fight for a whore, he tempts judge¬ 
ment. Farewell, bastard. 

Mar. The devil take thee, coward ! [Exeunt. 

[Scene VIII. Another part of the plains!] 
Enter Hector. 

Hect. Most putrefied core, so fair without, 
Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life. 
Now is my day’s work done; I ’ll take good 
breath. 

Rest, sword ; thou hast thy fill of blood and 
death. 

[Puts off his helmet and hangs his 
shield behind him.] 

Enter Achilles and Myrmidons. 

Achil. Look, Hector, how the sun begins to 
set, c 

How ugly night comes breathing at his heels. 
Even with the vail and darking of the sun, 

To close the day up, Hector’s life is done. 

Hect. I am unarm’d ; forego this vantage, 
Greek. 

Achil. Strike, fellows, strike ; this is the 
man I seek. [Hector falls.] ic 

So, Ilion, fall thou! Now, Troy, sink down ! 
Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone. 
On, Myrmidons, and cry you all amain, 

“ Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain ! ” 

L 4 retreat [sounded]. 
Hark ! a retreat upon our Grecian part. is 
Myr. The Troyan trumpets sound the like, 
my lord. 

Achil. The dragon wing of night o’erspreads 
the earth. 

And, stickler-like, the armies separates. 

My half-supp’d sword, that frankly would 
have fed, 






V. x. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 


2 95 


pleas’d with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed. 

. [Sheathes his sword.] 

Come, tie his body to my horse’s tail; 21 

Along the field I will the Troyan trail. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene IX. Another part of the plains.] 
Sound retreat. Shout. 

Enter Agamemnon, Ajax, MenelauTs, Nes¬ 
tor, Diomedes, and the rest , marching. 

A gam. Hark ! hark ! what shout is that ? 

A 7 est. Peace, drums ! 

Soldiers. (Within.) Achilles! Achilles! 

Hector’s slain ! Achilles ! 

Dio. The bruit is, Hector’s slain, and by 
Achilles. 

Ajax. If it be so, yet bragless let it be ; 5 

Great Hector was a man as good as he. 

Agam. March patiently along ; let one be 
sent 

To pray Achilles see us at our tent. 

If in his death the gods have us befriended, 
Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are 
ended. [Exeunt. 10 

[Scene X. Another part of the plains.] 

Enter -Eneas, Paris, Antenor, and Deipho- 
bus. 

AEne. Stand, ho ! yet are we masters of the 
field. 

Never go home ; here starve we out the night. 
Enter Troilus. 

Tro. Hector is slain. 

All. Hector ! the gods forbid ! 

Tro. He’s dead; and at the murderer’s 
horse’s tail, 

In beastly sort, dragg’d through the shameful 
field. 5 

Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with 
speed! 

Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at 
Troy! 

I say, at once let your brief plagues be mercy, 
And linger not our sure destructions on ! 

xEne. My lord, you do discomfort all the 
host. 10 

Tro. You understand me not that tell me 
so. 

I do not speak of flight, of fear, of death, 

But dare all imminence that gods and men 
Address their dangers in. Hector is gone. 

Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba ? 15 

Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call’d, 


Go in to Troy, and say there, “Hector’s 
dead! ” 

There is a word will Priam turn to stone, 

Make wells and Niobesof the maids and wives, 
Cold statues of the youth, and, in a word, 20 
Scare Troy out of itself. But, march away. 
Hector is dead; there is no more to say. 

Stay yet. You vile abominable tents, 

Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains, 
Let Titan rise as early as he dare. 25 

I ’ll through and through you ! and, thou great- 
siz’d coward, 

No space of earth shall sunder our two hates. 

I 11 haunt thee like a wicked conscience still, 
That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy’s 
thoughts. 

Strike a free march to Troy! With comfort 
go; 30 

Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe. 

[Exeunt AEneas and Trojans.] 

[As Troilus is going out] enter [from the other 
side] Pandarus. 


Pan. But hear you, hear you ! 

Tro. Hence, broker! lackey! Ignomy and 
shame 

Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name ! 34 

[Exit. 

Pan. A goodly medicine for mine aching 
bones ! 0 world ! world ! world ! thus is the 


poor agent despis’d! 0 traitors and bawds, 
how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill 
requited ! Why should our endeavour be so de¬ 
sir’d and the per formance so loath’d? What 
verse for it ? What instance for it ? Let me 
see: 4 i 


“ Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing, 

Till he hath lost his honey and his sting; 
And being once subdu’d in armed tail, 

Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail.” 4a 

Good traders in the flesh, set this in your 
painted cloths: 

As many as be here of Pandar’s hall, 

Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar’s fall; 
Or if you cannot weep, yet give some groans, oc 
Though not for me, yet for vour aching bones. 
Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade, 
Some two months hence my will shall here be 
made. 

It should be now, but that my fear is this, 
Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss, sa 
Till then I ’ll sweat and seek about for eases, 
And at that time bequeath you my diseases. 

[Exit 







ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


The present text is based upon that of the First Folio, no earlier edition having been found. 
This lack of an early quarto is the more to be regretted, since the corruptions of the existing 
text are unusually frequent and hopeless. 

There is no certain external evidence of date. In Meres’s list there occurs the title Love 1 s 
Labour's Won, which on the whole fits this play better than it fits any Other. The only serious 
rival is The Taming of the Shretv, in which, though Petruchio wins Katherine as the result of his 
labors, the labors are hardly to be called love’s. On the other hand, Helena’s efforts and success 
stand in sufficiently clear contrast to the ineffectiveness of the King and his lords in Love's 
Labour's Lost to give point to the parallelism in title. This identification would place the 
play before 1598 ; and there are parts of the play, notably the rimed passages, which suggest 
Shakespeare’s earliest manner in comedy. As against this, there is much which points to a later 
date. The subtlety of the psychology, especially in the heroine, the frequency of passages of 
condensed expression, and the general sombreness of tone, all tend to associate the play with the 
productions of the early years of the seventeenth century. Such resemblances, however, as that 
between the Countess’s advice to Bertram (i. i. 73 - 79 ) and Polonius’s maxims to Laertes, and 
that between the devices resorted to by Helena and by Mariana in Measure for Measure , however 
interesting, are of little force in arguing questions of date. In view of these two sets of consid¬ 
erations, it is plausibly conjectured that Shakespeare may have written an early play with the 
title or sub-title of Love's Labour's Won , and have re-cast it in his maturity. It is to be observed 
that this implies a much more thorough re-writing than Love's Labour 's Lost , for example, was 
subjected to; so that, on this hypothesis, the play as we have it belongs rather to the period 
about 1602 than to the early nineties of the sixteenth century. 

The source of the main plot is the ninth Novel of the third Day of Boccaccio’s Decameron , a 
story which was most probably known to Shakespeare in the translation by Painter in his Palace 
of Pleasure ( 1566 ). The chief features of this tale are indicated in the argument prefixed by 
Painter: “ Giletta, a Phisicians doughter of Narbon, healed the Frenche Kyng of a Fistula, for 
reward wherof she demaunded Beltramo Count of Rossiglione to husband. The Counte beyng 
maried againste his will, for despite fled to Florence and loved an other. Giletta his wife, by 
pollicie founde meanes to lye with her husbande, in place of his lover; and was begotten with 
child of twoo soonnes : whiche knowen to her husbande, he received her againe, and afterwardes 
she lived in great honor and felicitie.” To the characters involved here Shakespeare added the 
Countess, Lafeu, the clown, the steward, and Parolles ; but the most essential change made by 
him was in the interpretation of the character of the heroine. The Countess and Lafeu, delight¬ 
ful and individual as they are in themselves, are dramatically important mainly for the effect 
produced on us by their warm appreciation of Helena. To render sympathetic a character play¬ 
ing such a role as Helena’s was exceedingly difficult, and it is achieved by Shakespeare by an in¬ 
sistence on her poverty (Boccaccio makes her rich), her humility, and the pathos of a passion more 
fatal than wilful. Parolles, besides affording occasion for the low comedy scenes at the French 
court and in the Florentine camp— all of which are of Shakespeare’s invention — helps to define 
the character of Bertram. The weakness of the hero implied in this undiscriminating association 
with a worthless braggart, and his boggling and lying in the elaborate denouement created by 
Shakespeare in v. iii., result in a degradation of his character which, if meant to throw our sym¬ 
pathy by contrast on Helena, comes perilously near overshooting the mark. 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


[DRAMATIS PERSONAE 


King op France. 

Duke op Florence. 

Bertram, Count of Rousillon. 

Lafeu, an old lord. 

Parolles, a follower of Bertram. 

Two French Lords. 

Steward, ) servants to the Countess of Rou- 

Lavache, a Clown, j sillon. 


A Page. 

Countess op Rousillon, mother to Bertram. 
Helena, a gentlewoman protected by the Countess. 
An old Widow of Florence. 

Diana, daughter to the Widow. 

— A ’ } neighbours and friends to the Widow. 


Lords, Officers, Soldiers, etc., French and Florentine. 


Scene: Rousillon; Paris; Florence; Marseilles .] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [Rousillon. The Count's patace.] 

Enter young Bertram, Count of Rousillon, his 
mother [the Countess of Rousillon], He¬ 
lena, and Lord Lafeu, all in black. 

Count. In delivering my son from me, I bury 
a second husband. 

Ber. And I in going, madam, weep o’er my 
father’s death anew; but I must attend his 
Majesty’s command, to whom I am now in 
ward, evermore in subjection. 0 

Laf. You shall find of the King a husband, 
madam ; you, sir, a father. He that so gen¬ 
erally is at all times good must of necessity 
hold his virtue to you, whose worthiness would 
stir it up where it wanted rather than lack it 
where there is such abundance. is 

Count. What hope is there of his Majesty’s 
amendment ? 

Laf. He hath abandon’d his physicians, 
madam, under whose practices he hath perse¬ 
cuted time with hope, and finds no other advan¬ 
tage in the process but only the losing of hope 
by time. « 

Count. This young gentlewoman had a 
father, — O, that “had”! how sad a passage 
’t is ! — whose skill was almost as great as his 
honesty; had it stretch’d so far, would have 
made nature immortal, and death should have 
play for lack of work. Would, for the King’s 
sake, he were living ! I think it would be the 
deatn of the King’s disease. 20 

Laf. How call’d you the man you speak of, 
madam? 

Count. He was famous, sir, in his profession, 
and it was his great right to be so, — Gerard de 
Narbon. si 

Laf. He was excellent indeed, madam. The 
King very lately spoke of him admiringly and 
mourningly. He was skilful enough to have 
liv’d still, if knowledge could be set up against 
mortality. 38 

Ber. What is it, my good lord, the King lan¬ 
guishes of ? 


Laf. A fistula, my lord. 

Ber. I heard not of it before. 4 * 

Laf. I would it were not notorious. Was 
this gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de 
Narbon ? 

Count. His sole child, my lord, and be¬ 
queathed to my overlooking. I have those 
hopes of her good that her education pro- [45 
mises. Her dispositions she inherits, which 
makes fair gifts fairer; for where an unclean 
mind carries virtuous qualities, there commen¬ 
dations go with pity: they are virtues and 
traitors too. In her they are the better for [50 
their simpleness : she derives her honesty and 
achieves her goodness. 

Laf. Your commendations, madam, get from 
her tears. m 

Count. ’T is the best brine a maiden can sea¬ 
son her praise in. The remembrance of her 
father never approaches her heart but the 
tyranny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from 
her cheek. No more of this, Helena ; go to, no 
more, lest it be rather thought you affect a sor¬ 
row than to have — «i 

Hel. I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have 
it too. 

Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of 
the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the 
living. 6 * 

Count. If the living be enemy to the grief, 
the excess makes it soon mortal. 

Ber. Madam, I desire your holy wishes. 

Laf. How understand we that ? 

Count. Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed 
thy father 70 

In manners, as in shape ! Thy blood and vir¬ 
tue 

Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness 
Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a 
few, 

Do wrong to none. Be able for thine enemy 
Rather in power than use, and keep thy friend 75 
Under thy own life’s key. Be check’d for 
silence, 

But never tax’d for speech. What Heaven 
more will, 




298 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


1 .1. 


That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck 
down, 

Fall on thy nead ! Farewell! My lord, 

’T is an unseason’d courtier; good my lord, so 
Advise him. 

Laf. He cannot want the best 

That shall attend his love. 

Count. Heaven bless him! Farewell, Ber¬ 
tram. [Exit.] 

Ber. [To Helena.] The best wishes that can 
be forg’d in your thoughts be servants to you ! 
Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, 

and make much of her. 87 

Laf. Farewell, pretty lady. You must hold 
the credit of your father. 

[Exeunt Bertram and Lafeu.] 
Hel. O, were that all! I think not on my 
father, 90 

And these great tears grace his remembrance 
more 

Than those I shed for him. What was he like ? 
I have forgot him. My imagination 
Carries no favour in ’t but Bertram’s. 

I am undone ! There is no living, none, 95 
If Bertram be away. ’T were all one 
That I should love a bright particular star 
And think to wed it, he is so above me. 

In his bright radiance and collateral light 
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. 100 
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself. 
The hind that would be mated by the lion 
Must die for love. ’T was pretty, though a 
plague, 

To see him every hour ; to sit and draw 
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls, 105 
In our heart’s table ; heart too capable 
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour. 

But now he’s gone, and my idolatrous fancy 
Must sanctify his reliques. Who comes here ? 

Enter Parolles. 

[Aside.] One that goes with him. I love him 
for his sake ; 110 

And yet I know him a notorious liar, 

Think him a great way fool, solely a coward ; 
Yet these fix’d evils sit so fit in him, 

That they take place, when virtue’s steely 
bones 

Looks bleak i’ the cold wind. Withal, full oft 
we see . 115 

Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly. 

Par. Save you, fair queen ! 

Hel. And you, monarch ! 

Par. No. 

Hel. And no. 120 

Par. Are you meditating on virginity ? 

Hel. Ay. You have some stain of soldier in 
you ; let me ask you a question. Man is enemy 
to virginity ; how may we barricado it against 
him ? 

Par. Keep him out. 125 

Hel. But he assails; and our virginity, 
though valiant, in the defence yet is ‘weak. 
Unfold to us some warlike resistance. 

Par. There is none. Man, sitting down be¬ 
fore you, will undermine you and blow you 
up. iso 


Hel. Bless our poor virginity from under¬ 
miners and blowers up ! Is there no military 
policy, how virgins might blow up men ? 

Par. Virginity being blown down, man will 
quicklier be blown up. Marry, in blowing 
him down again, with the breach yourselves [135 
made, you lose your city. It is not politic in 
the commonwealth of nature to preserve virgin¬ 
ity. Loss of virginity is rational increase, and 
there was never virgin got till virginity was 
first lost. That you were made of is metal [140 
to make virgins. Virginity by being once lost 
may be ten times found ; by being ever kept, it 
is ever lost. ’T is too cold a companion ; away 
with ’t! 

Hel. I will stand for’t a little, though there¬ 
fore I die a virgin. 140 

Par. There’s little can be said in’t; ’t is 
against the rule of nature. To speak on the 
part of virginity is to accuse your mothers, 
which is most infallible disobedience. He 
that hangs himself is a virgin. Virginity [iso 
murders itself, and should be buried in high¬ 
ways out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate 
offendress against nature. Virginity, breeds 
mites, much like a cheese ; consumes itself to 
the very paring, and so dies with feeding his [is6 
own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, 
proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the 
most inhibited sin in the canon. Keep it not; 
you cannot choose but lose by’t. Out with’t! 
Within ten year it will make itself two, which 
is a goodly increase, and the principal itself [100 
not much the worse. Away with’t! 

Hel. How might one do, sir, to lose it to her 
own liking ? 164 

Par. Let me see. Marry, ill, to like him 
that ne’er it likes. ’T is a commodity will lose 
the gloss with lying; the longer kept, the less 
worth. Off with’t while ’tis vendible ; answer 
the time of request. Virginity, like an old 
courtier, wears her cap out of fashion; richly 
suited, but unsuitable, — just like the [170 
brooch and the tooth-pick, which wear not 
now. Your date is better in your pie and your 
porridge than in your cheek ; and your virgin¬ 
ity, your old virginity, is like one of our French 
wither’d pears, it looks ill, it eats drily ; [its 
marry, ’t is a wither’d pear; it was formerly 
better; marry, yet ’t is a wither’d pear. Will 
you anything with it ? 

Hel. Not my virginity yet . . . 

There shall your master have a thousand loves, 
A mother and a mistress and a friend, m 

A phcenix, captain, and an enemy, 

A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign, ■ 

A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear ; 

His humble ambition, proud humility, ibb 
H is jarring concord, and his discord dulcet, 

His faith, his sweet disaster ; with a world 
Of pretty, fond, adoptious Christendoms, 

That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he — 

I know not what he shall. God send him well! 190 
The court’s a learning place, and he is one — 
Par. What one, i’ faith ? 

Hel. That I wish well. ’T is pity — 

Par. What’s pity ? 





ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


299 


I. ii. 


Hel. That wishing well had not a body in ’t, 195 
Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born, 
Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes, 
Might with effects of them follow our friends, 
And show what we alone must think, which 
never 

Returns us thanks. 200 

Enter Page. 

Page. Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for 
y°u- . [Exit.] 

Par. Little Helen, farewell. If I can re¬ 
member thee, I will think of thee at court. 

Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were born un¬ 
der a charitable star. 205 

Par. Under Mars, I. 

Hel. I especially think, under Mars. 

Par. Why under Mars ? 

Hel. The wars hath so kept you under that 
you must needs be born under Mars. ao 

Par. When he was predominant. 

Hel. When he was retrograde, I think, 
rather. 

Par. Why think you so ? 

Hel. You go so much backward when you 
fight. 

Par. That’s for advantage. 21.5 

Hel. So is running away, when fear proposes 
the safety. But the composition that your val¬ 
our and fear makes in you is a virtue of a good 
wing, and I like the wear well. 219 

Par. I am so full of businesses, I cannot an¬ 
swer thee acutely. I will return perfect cour¬ 
tier ; in the which, my instruction shall serve 
to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capable of a 
courtier’s counsel and understand what advice 
shall thrust upon thee; else thou diest in 
thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance [225 
makes thee away. Farewell! When thou hast 
leisure, say thy prayers ; when thou hast none, 
remember thy friends. Get thee a good hus¬ 
band, and use him as he uses thee. So, fare¬ 
well. . [Exit.] 2so 

Hel. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, 
Which we ascribe to heaven. The fated sky 
Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull 
Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull. 
What power is it which mounts my love so 
high, 233 

That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye ? 
The mightiest space in fortune nature brings 
To join like likes and kiss like native things. 
Impossible be strange attempts to those 239 

That weigh their pains in sense and do suppose 
What hath been cannot be. Who ever strove 
To show her merit, that did miss her love ? 

The King’s disease — my project may deceive 
me, 

But my intents are fix’d and will not leave me. 

[Exit. 

[Scene II. Paris. The King's palace.] 

Flourish of cornets. Enter the King of France, 
with letters , [Lords] and divers attendants. 

King. The Florentines and Senoys are by 
the ears, 


Have fought with equal fortune, and continue 
A braving war. 

1 . Lord. So ’tis reported, sir. 

King. Nay, f tis most credible. We here re¬ 
ceive it 

A certainty, vouch’d from our cousin Austria, 0 
With caution that the Florentine will move us 
For speedy aid ; wherein our dearest friend 
Prejudicates the business, and would seem 
To have us make denial. 

1 . Lord. His love and wisdom, 

Approv’d so to your Majesty, may plead io 
For amplest credence. 

Kitw. * He hath arm’d our answer, 
And Plorence is denied before he comes. 

Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see 
The Tuscan service, freely have they leave 
To stand on either part. 

2 . Lord. It well may serve is 

A nursery to our gentry, who are sick 

For breathing and exploit. 

King. What’s he comes here ? 


Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles. 


1 . Lord. It is the Count Rousillon, my good 
lord, 

Young Bertram. 

King. Youth, thou bear’st thy father’s face. 
Frank nature, rather curious than in hast*, 20 
Hath well compos’d thee. Thy father’s moral 
parts 

Mayst thou inherit too ! Welcome to Paris. 
Ber. My thanks and duty are your Majesty’s. 
King. I would I had that corporal soundness 


now, 

As when thy father and myself in friendship 25 
First tried our soldiership ! He did look far 
Into the service of the time, and was 
Discipled of the bravest. He lasted long; 

But on us both did haggish age steal on 
And wore us out of act. It much repairs me 30 
To talk of your good father. In his youth 
He had the wit which I can well observe 
To-day in our young lords ; but they may jest 
Till their own scorn return to them unnoted 
Ere they can hide their levity in honour 35 
So like a courtier. Contempt nor bitterness 
Were in his pride or sharpness ; if they were, 
His equal had awak’d them, and his honour, 
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when 
Exception bid him speak, and at this time 40 
His tongue obey’d his hand. Who were below 
him 

He us’d as creatures of another place, 

And bow’d his eminent top to their low ranks, 
Making them proud of his humility, 

In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man 45 
Might be a copy to these younger times; 
Which, followed well, would demonstrate them 
now 

But goers backward. 

Ber. His good remembrance, sir, 

Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb. 
So in approof lives not his epitaph so 

As in your royal speech. 

King. Would I were with him ! He would 
always say — 







300 


ALL *S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


i. m 


Methinks I hear him now ! His plausive words 
He scatter’d not in ears, but grafted them, 

To grow there and to bear,— “Let me not 
live,” — 6 g 

Thus his good melancholy oft began, 

On the catastrophe and heel of pastime, 

When it was out, — “ Let me not live,” quoth 
he, 

“ After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff 
Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses 
All but new things disdain ; whose judgements 
are ei 

Mere fathers of their garments; whose con¬ 
stancies 

Expire before their fashions.” This he wish’d ; 
I after him do after him wish too, 

Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home, sg 
I quickly were dissolved from my hive, 

To give some labourers room. 

2 . Lord. You ’re loved, sir ; 

They that least lend it you shall lack you 
first. 

King. I fill a place, I know’t. How long is’t, 
Count, 

Since the phvsieian at your father’s died ? 70 

He was much fam’d. 

Ber. Some six months since, my lord. 

King. If he were living, I would try him yet. 
Lend me an arm ; the rest have worn me out 
With several applications. Nature and sickness 
Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, Count; 75 
My son’s no dearer. 

Ber. Thank your Majesty. 

[Exeunt. Flourish. 

[Scene III. Bousillon. The Count's palace.] 
Enter Countess, Steward, and Clown. 

Count. I will now hear. What say you of 
this gentlewoman ? 

Stew. Madam, the care I have had to even 
your content, I wish might be found in the 
calendar of my past endeavours ; for then we 
wound our modesty and make foul the clear¬ 
ness of our deservings, when of ourselves we 
publish them. 7 

Count. What does this knave here ? Get you 
gone, sirrah. The complaints I have heard of 
ou I do not all believe. ’T is my slowness that 
do not, for I know you lack not folly to com¬ 
mit them, and have ability enough to make 
such knaveries yours. 13 

Clo. ’T is not unknown to you, madam, I am 
a poor fellow. 

Count. Well, sir. 10 

Clo. No, madam, ’t is not so well that I am 
poor, though many of the rich are damn’d ; 
but, if I may have your ladyship’s good will to 
go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do 
as we may. 21 

Count. Wilt thou needs be a beggar ? 

Clo. I do beg your good will in this case. 
Count. In what case ? 24 

Clo. In Isbel’s case and mine own. Service 
is no heritage ; and I think I shall never have 
the blessing of God till I have issue o’ my body; 
for they say barnes are blessings. 


Count. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt 
marry. < . 29 

Clo. My poor body, madam, requires it. I 
am driven on by the flesh ; and he must needs 
go that the devil drives. 

Count. Is this all your worship’s reason ? 

Clo. Faith, madam, I have other holy rea¬ 
sons, such as they are. as 

Count. May the world know them ? 

Clo. I have been, madam, a wicked crea¬ 
ture, as you and all flesh and blood are ; and, 
indeed, I do marry that I may repent. 

Count. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wick¬ 
edness. *1 

Clo. I am out o’ friends, madam; and I 
hope to have friends for my wife’s sake. 

Count. Such friends are thine enemies, 
knave. 44 

Clo. Y’ are shallow, madam, in great friends; 
for the knaves come to do that for me which I 
am aweary of. He that ears my land spares my 
team and gives me leave to in the crop. If I be 
his cuckold, he’s my drudge. He that com¬ 
forts my wife is the cherisher of my flesh and 
blood ; he that cherishes my flesh and blood [«o 
loves my flesh and blood ; he that loves my 
flesh and blood is my friend; ergo, he that 
kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be 
contented to be what they are, there were no 
fear in marriage; for young Charbon the [sg 
puritan and old Poysam the papist, howsom- 
e’er their hearts are sever’d in religion, their 
heads are both one; they may joul horns to¬ 
gether, like any deer i’ the herd. 

Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth’d and 
calumnious knave ? 6 i 

Clo. A prophet I, madam ; and I speak the 
truth the next way : 

“ For I the ballad will repeat, 

Which men full true shall find : 6 s 

Your marriage comes by destiny, 

Your cuckoo sings by kind.” 

Count. Get you gone, sir ; I ’ll talk with you 
more anon. 

Stew. May it please you, madam, that he bid 
Helen come to you. Of her I am to speak. 71 
Count. Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would 
speak with her ; Helen, I mean. 

Clo. [Sfnfirs.] 

“Was this fair face the cause, quoth she, 
Why the Grecians sacked Troy ? 75 

Fond done, done fond, . . . 

Was this King Priam’s joy ? 

With that she sighed as she stood. 

With that she sighed as she stood, 

And gave this sentence then ; so 

Among nine bad if one be good, 

Among nine bad if one be good, 

There’s yet one good in ten.” 

Count. What, one good in ten ? You corrupt 
the song, sirrah. sg 

Clo. One good woman in ten, madam ; which 
is a purifying o’ the song. Would God would 
serve the world so all the year! We’d find 




ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


3 OT 


I. iii. 


no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the 

{ >arson. One in ten, quoth ’a! An we might 
lave a good woman born but o’er every [»o 
blazing star, or at an earthquake, ’t would 
mend the lottery well; a man may draw his 
heart out, ere ’a pluck one. 

Count. You ’ll be gone, sir knave, and do as 
I command you. 95 

Clo. That man should be at woman’s com¬ 
mand, and yet no hurt done ! Though honesty 
be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will 
wear the surplice of humility over the black 
gown of a big heart. I am going, forsooth. 
The business is for Helen to come hither. 101 

[Exit. 

Count. Well, now. 

Stew. I know, madam, you love your gentle¬ 
woman entirely. 104 

Count. Faith, I do. Her father bequeath’d 
her to me; and she herself, without other ad¬ 
vantage, may lawfully make title to as much 
love as she finds. There is more owing her than 
is paid, and more shall be paid her than she ’ll 
demand. 109 

Stew. Madam, I was very late more near her 
than I think she wish’d me. Alone she was, 
and did communicate to herself her own words 
to her own ears • she thought, I dare vow for 
her, they touch’d not any stranger sense. Her 
matter was, she lov’d your son. Fortune, she 
said, was no goddess, that had put such [us 
difference betwixt their two estates; Love no 
god, that would not extend his might, only 
where qualities were level; [Diana no] queen 
of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight 
surpris’d, without rescue in the first assault [120 
or ransom afterward. This she deliver’d in the 
most bitter t.onch of sorrow that e’er I heard 
virgin exclaim in ; which I held my duty speed¬ 
ily to acquaint you withal; sithence, in the 
loss that may happen, it concerns you some¬ 
thing to know it. 126 

Count. You have discharg’d this honestly; 
keep it to yourself. Many likelihoods inform’d 
me of this before, which hung so tottering in the 
balance that I could neither believe nor mis¬ 
doubt. Pray you, leave me. Stall this in your 
bosom ; and I thank you for your honest care. 
I will speak with you further anon. 133 

[Exit Steward. 

Enter Helena. 

Even so it was with me when I was young. 

If ever we are nature’s, these are ours. This 
thorn _ i 36 

Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong; 

Our blood to us, this to our blood is born. 

It is the show and seal of nature’s truth, 
Where love’s strong passion is impress’d in 
youth. 

By our remembrances of days foregone, no 
Such were our faults, or then we thought them 
none. 

Her eye is sick on’t; I observe her now. 

Hel. What is your pleasure, madam ? 

Count. You know, Helen, 

I am a mother to you. 


Hel. Mine honourable mistress. 

Count. Nay, a mother. 145 

Why not a mother ? When I said “ a mother,” 
Methought you saw a serpent. What’s in 
“ mother,” 

That you start at it ? I say, I am your mother ; 
And put you in the catalogue of those 
That were enwombed mine. ’T is often seen 150 
Adoption strives with nature, and choice breeds 
A native slip to us from foreign seeds. 

You ne’er oppress’d me with a mother’s groan, 
Yet I express to you a mother’s care. 

God’s mercy, maiden ! does it curd thy blood 166 
To say I am thy mother ? What’s the matter, 
That this distempered messenger of wet, 

The many-colour’d Iris, rounds thine eye ? 
Why ? That you are my daughter ? 

Hel. That I am not. 

Count. I say, I am your mother. 

Hel. Pardon, madam; 

The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother. iei 
I am from humble, he from honoured name; 

No note upon my parents, his all noble. 

My master, my dear lord he is ; and I 

His servant live, and will his vassal die. lee 

He must not be my brother. 

Count. Nor I your mother ? 

Hel. You are my mother, madam ; would 
you were, — 

So that my lord your son were not my brother, — 
Indeed my mother! Or were you both our 
mothers, 

I care no more for than I do for heaven, no 
So I were not his sister. Can’t no other, 

But, I your daughter, he must be my brother ? 
Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daugh¬ 
ter-in-law. 

God shield you mean it not! daughter and 
mother 

So strive upon your pulse. What, pale again ? its 
M y fear hath catch’d your fondness. Now I see 
The mystery of your loneliness, and find 
Your salt tears’ head. Now to all sense’t is 
gross 

You love my son. Invention is asham’d, 
Against the proclamation of thy passion, iso 
To say thou dost not: therefore tell me true ; 
But tell me then, ’tis so ; for, look, thy cheeks 
Confess it, the one to the other ; and thine eyes 
See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours 
That in their kind they speak it. Only sin 186 
And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue, 

That truth should be suspected. Speak, is’t so ? 
If it be so, you have wound a goodly clew ; 

If it be not, forswear ’t. Howe’er, I charge 
thee, 

As heaven shall work in me for thine avail, iso 
To tell me truly. 

Hel. Good madam, pardon me ! 

Count. Do you love my son ? 

Hel. Your pardon, noble mistress ! 

Count. Love yoii my son ? 

Hel. Do not you love him, madam ? 

Count. Go not about; my love hath in’t a 
bond. 

Whereof the world takes note. Come, come, 
disclose ws 




3° 2 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


ii. L 


The state of your affection ; for your passions 
Have to the full appeach’d. 

Hel. Then, I confess, 

Here on my knee, before high heaven and you, 
That before you, and next unto high heaven, 

I love your son. 200 

My friends were poor, but honest; so ’s my love. 
Be not offended ; for it hurts not him 
That he is lov’d of me. I follow him not 
By any token of presumptuous suit; 

Nor would I have him till I do deserve him ; 205 
Yet never know how that desert should be. 

I know I love in vain, strive against hope ; 

Yet in this captious and intenible sieve 

I still pour in the waters of my love 

And lack not to lose still. Thus, Indian-like, 210 

Religious in mine error, I adore 

The sun, that looks upon his worshipper, 

But knows of him no more. My dearest madam, 
Let not your hate encounter with my love 
For loving where you do ; but if yourself, 215 
Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth, 

Did ever in so true a flame of liking 
Wish chastely and love dearly, that your Dian 
Was both herself and love, 0 , then, give pity 
To her, whose state is such that cannot 
choose 220 

But lend and give where she is sure to lose ; 
That seeks not to find that her search implies, 
But riddle-like lives sweetly where she dies ! 

Count. Had you not lately an intent, — speak 
truly, — 224 

To go to Paris ? 

Hel. Madam, I had. 

Count. Wherefore ? Tell true. 

Hel. I will tell truth ; by grace itself I swear. 
You know my father left me some prescriptions 
Of rare and prov’d effects, such as his reading 
And manifest experience had collected 
For general sovereignty ; and that he will’d me 
In heedfull’st reservation to bestow them, 231 
As notes, whose faculties inclusive were 
More than they were in note. Amongst the rest, 
There is a remedy approv’d set down. 

To cure the desperate languishings whereof 2 sb 
T he King is render’d lost. 

Count. This was your motive 

For Paris, was it ? Speak. 

Hel. My lord your son made me to think of 
this, 

Else Paris and the medicine and the King 
Had from the conversation of my thoughts 240 
Haply been absent then. 

Count. But think you, Helen, 

If you should tender your supposed aid, 

He would receive it ? He and his physicians 
Are of a mind ; he, that they cannot help him, 
They, that they cannot help. How shall they 
credit 245 

A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools, 
Embowell’d of their doctrine, have left off 
The danger to itself ? 

Hel. There’s something in’t, 

More than my father’s skill, which was the 
greatest 

Of his profession, that his good receipt 250 
Shall for my legacy be sanctified 


By the luckiest stars in heaven; and, would 
your honour 

But give me leave to try success, I’d venture 
The well-lost life of mine on his Grace’s cure 
By such a day and hour. 

Count. Dost thou believe’t? 

Hel. Ay, madam, knowingly. 266 

Count. Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave 
and love, 

Means and attendants, and my loving greetings 
To those of mine in court. I ’ll stay at home 
And pray God’s blessing into thy attempt. 260 
Be gone to-morrow ; and be sure of this, 

What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT II 

[Scene I. Paris. The King's palace .] 

Flourish of cornets. Enter the King, with divers 
young Lords taking leave for the Florentine 
war; Bertram and Parolles. 

King. Farewell, young lords ! these warlike 
principles 

Do not throw from you ; and you, my lords, 
farewell! 

Share the advice betwixt you. If both g-ain all, 
The gift doth stretch itself as’t is receiv’d, 
And is enough for both. 

1 . Lord. ’T is our hope, sir, s 

After well ent’red soldiers, to return 

And find your Grace in health. 

King. No, no, it cannot be ; and yet my heart 
Will not confess he owes the malady 
That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young 
lords! 10 

Whether I live or die, be you the sons 
Of worthy Frenchmen. Let higher Italy, — 
Those bated that inherit but the fall 
Of the last monarchy, — see that you come 
Not to woo honour, but to wed it. When 16 
The bravest questant shrinks, find what you 
seek, 

That fame may cry you loud. I say, farewell. 

2 . Lord. Health, at your bidding, serve 

your Majesty! 

King. Those girls of Italy, take heed of 
them. 

They say our French lack language to deny 2# 
If they demand. Beware of being captives 
Before you serve. 

Both. Our hearts receive your warnings. 
King. Farewell. Come hither to me. 

[Exit, attended.'] 

1 . Lord. 0 my sweet lord, that you will 

stay behind us ! 

Par. ’T is not his fault, the spark. 

2 . Lord. O, ’t is brave wars I 

Par. Most admirable! I have seen those 

wars. 26 

Ber. I am commanded here, and kept a coil 
with 

“ Too young ” and “ the next year ” and “’t is 
too early.” 

Par. An thy mind stand to ’t, boy, steal 
away bravely. 






ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


ii. i. 


3°3 


Ber. I shall stay here the forehorse to a 
smock, 30 

Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry, 

Till honour be bought up and no sword worn 
But one to dance with 1 By heaven, I ’ll steal 
away. 

1 . Lord. There’s honour in the theft. 

Par. Commit it, Count. 

2. Lord. I am your accessary ; and so fare¬ 

well. 36 

Ber. I grow to you, and our parting is a 
tortur’d body. 

1 . Lord, I arewell, captain. 

2 . Lord. Sweet Monsieur Parolles I so 

Par. Noble heroes, my sword and yours are 

kin. Good sparks and lustrous, a word, good 
metals : you shall find in the regiment of the 
Spinii one Captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an 
emblem of war, here on his sinister cheek, — it 
was this very sword entrench’d it; — say to him, 
I live ; and observe his reports for me. « 

1 . Lord. We shall, noble captain. 

[Exeunt Lords.] 

Par. Mars dote on you for his novices ! What 
will ye do ? 

Ber. Stay, the King I 60 

[Re-enter the King.] 

Par. [To Ber. ] Use a more spacious cere¬ 
mony to the noble lords; you have restrain’d 
yourself within the list of too cold an adieu. 
Be more expressive to them ; for they wear 
themselves in the cap of the time, there do 
muster true gait, eat, speak, and move [ee 
under the influence of the most receiv’d star ; 
and though the devil lead the measure, such 
are to be followed. After them, and take a 
more dilated farewell. 

Ber. And I will do so. 60 

Par. Worthy fellows; and like to prove 
most sinewy swordmen. 

[Exeunt [Bertram and Parolles], 

Enter Lafeu. 

Laf. [Kneeling.] Pardon, my lord, for me 
and for my tidings. 

King. I ’ll fee thee to stand up. 

Laf. Then here’s a man stands, that has 
brought his pardon. 66 

I would you had kneel’d, my lord, to ask me 
mercy, 

And that at my bidding you could so stand up. 

King. I would I had, so I had broke thy 
pate, 

And ask’d thee mercy for’t. 

Laf. Good faith, across ; but, my good lord, 
’t is thus: , 70 

Will you be cur’d of your infirmity ? 

King. No. 

Laf. 0 , will you eat no grapes, my royal fox ? 
Yes, but you will my noble grapes, an if 
My royal fox could reach them. I have seen a 
medicine 76 

That’s able to breathe life into a stone, 
Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary 
With spritely fire and motion; whose simple 
touch 


Is powerful to araise King Pepin, nay, 

To give great Charlemain a pen in’s hand e* 
Ana write to her a love-line. 

King. What her is this ? 

Laf. Why, Doctor She! My lord, there’s 
one arriv’d. 

If you will see her. Now, by my faith and 
honour, 

If seriously I may convey my thoughts 
In this my light deliverance, I have spoke ss 
With one that, in her sex, her years, profession, 
Wisdom, and constancy, hath amaz’d me more 
Than I aare blame my weakness. Will you see 
her, — 

For that is her demand, — and know her busi¬ 
ness ? 

That done, laugh well at me. 

King. Now, good Lafeu, 

Bring in the admiration, that we with thee 
May spend our wonder too, or take off thine 
By wondering how thou took’st it. 

Laf. Nay, I ’ll fit you. 

And not be all day neither. [Exit.] 

King. Thus he his special nothing ever pro¬ 
logues. 

[Re-enter Lafeu.] 

Laf. Nay, come your ways. 

Enter Helena. 

King. This haste hath wings indeed. 

Laf. Nay, come your ways. 

This is his Majesty ; say your mind to him. 

A traitor you do look like, but such traitors 
His Majesty seldom fears. I am Cressid’s uncle, 
That dare leave two together ; fare you well. 

[Exit. 

King. Now, fair one, does your business 
follow us ? 

Hel. Ay, my good lord. 

Gerard de Narbon was my father ; 

In what he did profess, well found. 

King. I knew him. 

Hel. The rather will I spare my praises 
towards him ; ioe 

Knowing him is enough. On’s bed of death 
Many receipts he gave me ; chiefly one,. 
Which, as the dearest issue of his practice, 

And of his old experience the only darling, no 
He bade me store up, as a triple eye, 

Safer than mine own two, more dear. I have so; 
And, hearing your high Majesty is touch’d 
With that malignant cause wherein the honour 
Of my dear father’s gift stands chief in power, 
I come to tender it and my appliance «« 

With all bound humbleness. 

King. We thank you, maiden ; 

But may not be so credulous of cure, 

When our most learned doctors leave us, and 
The congregated college have concluded 12a 
That labouring art can never ransom Nature 
From her inaidable estate ; I say we must not 
So stain our judgement or corrupt our hope, 

To prostitute our past-cure malady 
To empirics, or to dissever so 12s 

Our great self and our credit, to esteem 
A senseless help when help past sense we deem. 





3 ° 4 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


ii. H. 


Hel. My duty then shall pay me for my pains. 
I will no more enforce mine office on you ; 
Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts 
A modest one, to bear me back again. 131 

King. I cannot give thee less, to be call’d 
grateful. 

Thou thought’st to help me, and such thanks 
I give 

As one near death to those that wish him live ; 
But what at full I know, thou know’st no part, 
I knowing all my peril, thou no art. 136 

Hel. What I can do can do no hurt to try, 
Since you set up your rest ’gainst remedy. 

He that of greatest works is finisher 
Oft does them by the weakest minister: 140 

So holy writ in babes hath judgement shown, 
When judges have been babes ; great floods 
have flown 

From simple sources, and great seas have dried 
When miracles have by the greatest been 
denied. 

Oft expectation fails, and most oft there i« 
Where most it promises ; and oft it hits 
Where hope is coldest and despair most fits. 
King. I must not hear thee ; fare thee well, 
kind maid ! 

Thy pains not us’d must by thyself be paid. 
Proffers not took reap thanks for their reward. 

Hel. Inspired merit so by breath is barr’d. 

It is not so with Him that all things knows 
As’t is with us that square our guess by shows; 
But most it is presumption in us when 
The help of Heaven we count the act of men. 
Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent; is 6 

Of Heaven, not me, make an experiment. 

I am not an impostor that proclaim 
Myself against the level of mine aim ; 

But know I think and think I know most sure 
My art is not past power nor you past cure. 101 
King. Art thou so confident ? Within what 
space 

Hop’st thou my cure ? 

Hel.' The great’st grace lending grace, 
Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring 
Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring, ies 

Ere twice in murk and occidental damp 
Moist Hesperus hath quench’d her sleepy lamp, 
Or four and twenty times the pilot’s glass 
Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass, 
What is infirm from your sound parts shall fly, 
Health shall live free and sickness freely die. 

Upon thy certainty and confidence 172 
What dar’st thou venture ? 
a H e Tax of impudence, 
A strumpet’s boldness, a divulged shame, 
Traduc’d by odious ballads, my maiden’s 
name 176 

Sear’d otherwise; nay, worse of worst extended, 
With vilest torture let my life be ended. 

King. Methinks in thee some blessed spirit 
doth speak 

His powerful sound within an organ weak ; 

And what impossibility would slay iso 

In common sense, sense saves another way. 

Thy life is dear ; for all that life can rate 
Worth name of life in thee hath estimate,— 
Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, all 


That happiness and prime can happy call: iss 
Thou this to hazard needs must intimate 
Skill infinite or monstrous desperate. 

Sweet practiser, thy physic I will try. 

That ministers thine own death if I die. 

Hel. If I break time ? or flinch in property 
Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die, m 

And well deserv’d. Not helping, death’s my 
fee; 

But, if I help, what do you promise me ? 

King. Make thy demand. 

Hel. But will you make it even ? 

King. Ay, by my sceptre and my hopes of 
heaven. ws 

Hel. Then slialt thou give me with thy 
kingly hand 

What husband in thy power I will command j 
Exempted be from me the arrogance 
To choose from forth the royal blood of France, 
My low and humble name to propagate 200 
With any branch or image of thy state ; 

But such a one, thy vassal, whom I know 
Is free for me to ask, thee to bestow. 

King. Here is my hand ; the premises ob¬ 
serv’d, 

Thy will by my performance shall be serv’d. 20s 
So make the choice of thy own time, for I, 

Thy resolv’d patient, on thee still rely. 

More should I question thee, and more I 
must, — 

Though more to know could not be more to 
trust, — 

From whence thou cam’st, how tended on ; but 
rest 210 

Unquestion’d welcome and undoubted blest. 
Give me some help here, ho ! If thou proceed 
As high as word, my deed shall match thy 
deed. [Flourish. Exeunt. 

[Scene II. Rousillon. The Count's palace .] 

Enter Countess and Clown. 

Count. Come on, sir; I shall now put you to 
the height of your breeding. 

Clo. I will show myself highly fed and 
lowly taught. I know my business is but to 
the court. 4 

Count.. To the court! Why, what place make 
you special, when you put off that with such 
contempt ? But to the court! 

Clo. Truly, madam, if God have lent a man 
any manners, he may easily put it off at court. 
He that cannot make a leg, put off’s cap, kiss 
his hand and say nothing, has neither leg, [10 
hands, lip, nor cap ; and indeed such a fellow, 
to say precisely, were not for the court. But 
for me, I have an answer will serve all men. 

Count. Marry, that’s a bountiful answer 
that fits all questions. ie 

Clo. It is like a barber’s chair that fits all 
buttocks, the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, 
the brawn buttock, or any buttock. 

Count. Will your answer serve fit to all 
questions ? n 

Clo. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of 
an attorney, as your French crown for your 
taffeta punk, as Tib’s rush for Tom’s fore' 





ii. iii. 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


305 


finger, as a pancake for Shrove Tuesday, a 
morris for Mayday, as the nail to his hole, [2c 
the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding quean to 
a wrangling knave, as the nun’s lip to the 
friar’s mouth, nay, as the pudding to his skin. 

Count. Have you, I say, an answer of such 
fitness for all questions ? 3 i 

Clo. From below your duke to beneath your 
constable, it will fit any question. 

Count. It must be an answer of most mon¬ 
strous size that must fit all demands. 35 

Clo. But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the 
learned should speak truth of it. Here it is, 
and all that belongs to ’t. Ask me if I am a 
courtier : it shall do you no harm to learn. 39 
Count. To be young again, if we could, I will 
be a fool in question, hoping to be the wiser by 
your answer. I pray you, sir, are you a cour¬ 
tier ? 

Clo. O Lord, sir ! — There’s a simple putting 
off. More, more, a hundred of them. « 

Count. Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that 
loves you. 

Clo. 0 Lord, sir! — Thick, thick, spare not 


me. 

Count. I think, sir, you can eat none of this 
homely meat. « 

Clo. 0 Lord, sir ! — Nay, put me to’t, I war¬ 
rant you. 

Count. You were lately whipp’d, sir, as I 
think. 

Clo. 0 Lord, sir! — Spare not me. 63 

Count. Do you cry, u O Lord, sir ! ” at your 
whipping, and “spare not me”? Indeed your 
“ O Lord, sir ! ” is very sequent to your whip¬ 
ping ; you would answer very well to a whip¬ 
ping, if you were but bound to’t. # 58 

Clo. I ne’er had worse luck in my life in my 
“OLord, sir I” I see things may serve long, 
but not serve ever. 

Count. I play the noble housewife with the 
time, 

To entertain ’t so merrily with a fool. 

Clo. 0 Lord, sir ! — Why, there ’t serves well 


again. 

Count. An end, sir. To your business I 
Helen this, 

And urge her to a present answer back. 
Commend me to my kinsmen and my son. 

This is not much. 

Clo. Not much commendation to them. 
Count- Not much employment for you. 
understand me ? 

Clo. Most fruitfully ; I am there before my 
tfaount. Haste you again. [Exeunt [ severally ]. 


Give 


You 


r ScENE III. Paris. The King's palace .] 
Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles. 

Laf. They say miracles are past; and we 
have our philosophical persons, to make mod¬ 
ern and familiar, things supernatural and cause¬ 
less. Hence is it that we make trifles of terrors, 
ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge, 
when we should submit ourselves to an unknown 
fear. 


Par. Why, ’t is the rarest argument of won¬ 
der that hath shot out in our latter times. 

Per. And so’t is. 

Laf. To be relinquish’d of the artists, — 10 

Par. So I say ; both of Galen and Paracelsus. 
Laf. Of all the learned and authentic fel¬ 
lows, — 

Par. Right; so I say. v 

Laf. That gave him out incurable, — 

Par. Why, there’t is ; so say I too. 

Laf. Not to be help’d, — 

Par. Right; as’t were a man assured of a — 
Laf. Uncertain life, and sure death. 20 

Par. Just, you say well; so would I have said. 
Laf. I may truly say, it is a novelty to the 
world. 

Par. It is, indeed ; if you will have it in 
showing, you shall read it m — what do ye call 
there ? 20 

Laf. A showing of a heavenly effect in an 
earthly actor. 

Par. That’s it; I would have said the very 
same. 

Laf. Why, your Dauphin is not lustier. 
’Fore me, I speak in respect— 32 

Par. Nay, ’tis strange, ’tis very strange, 
that is the brief and the tedious of it; and he’s 
of a most f acinorous spirit that will not acknow¬ 
ledge it to be the — 

Laf. Very hand of Heaven. 

Par. Ay, so I say. 88 

Laf. I11 a most weak — 

Par. And debile minister, great power, great 
transcendence; which should, indeed, give us 
a further use to be made than alone the recov¬ 
ery of the King, as to be — 

Laf. Generally thankful. <3 

Enter King, Helena, and Attendants. 

Par. I would have said it; you say well. 
Here comes the King. 

Laf. Lustig , as the Dutchman says. I ’ll 
like a maid the better, whilst I have a tooth in 
my head. Why, he’s able to lead her a coranto. 
Par. Mort du vinaigre! is not this Helen ? so 
Laf. ’Fore God, I think so. 

King. Go, call before me all the lords in court. 
Sit, my preserver, by thy patient’s side ; 

And with this healthful hand, whose banish’d 
sense 

Thou hast repeal’d, a second time receive 
The confirmation of my promis’d gift, 

Which but attends thy naming. 

Enter three or four Lords. 

Fair maid, send forth thine eye. This youthful 
parcel 

Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing, 

O’er whom both sovereign power and father’s 
voice 60 

I have to use. Thy frank election make ; 

Thou hast power to choose, and they none to 
forsake. 

Hel. To each of you one fair and virtuous 
mistress 

Fall, when Love please ! Marry, to each but 
one! 






3°6 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


II. iii. 


Laf. I ’d give bay Curtal and his furniture, 
My mouth no more were broken than these 
boys’, ee 

And writ as little beard. 

King. Peruse them well. 

Not one of those but had a noble father. 

Hel. Gentlemen, 

Heaven hath through me restor’d the King to 
health. 70 

All. We understand it, and thank Heaven 
for you. 

Hel. I am a simple maid, and therein wealth¬ 
iest, 

That I protest I simply am a maid. 

Please it your Majesty, I have done already. 
The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me, 76 
“ We blush that thou shouldst choose ; but, be 
refus’d, 

Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever, 
We ’ll ne’er come there again.” 

King. Make choice and see, 

Who shuns thy love shuns all his love in me. 

Hel. Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly, so 
And to imperial Love, that god most high, 

Do my sighs stream. Sir, will you hear my 
suit ? 

1 . Lord. And grant it. 

Hel. Thanks, sir ; all the rest is mute. 

Laf. I had rather be in this choice than 
throw ames-ace for my life. ss 

Hel. The honour, sir, that flames in your 
fair eyes, 

Before I speak, too threateningly replies. 

Love make your fortunes twenty times above 
Her that so wishes and her humble love ! 

2. Lord. No better, if you please. 

Hel. My wish receive, 

Which great Love grant! and so, I take my 
leave. 91 

Laf. Do all they deny her ? An they were 
sons of mine, I ’d have them whipp’d ; or I 
would send them to the Turk, to make eunuchs 
of. 

Hel. Be not afraid that I your hand should 
take ; 

I ’ll never do you wrong for your own sake. 90 
Blessing upon your vows ! and in your bed 
Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed ! 

Laf. These boys are boys of ice, they ’ll none 
have her. Sure, they are bastards to the Eng¬ 
lish ; the French ne’er got ’em. 101 

Hel. You are too young, too happy, and too 
good, 

To make yourself a son out of my blood. 

4. Lord. Fair one, I think not so. 104 

Laf. There’s one grape yet; I am sure thy 
father drunk wine : — but if thou be’st not an 
ass, I am a youth of fourteen. I have known 
thee already. 

Hel. [To Bertram .] I dare not say I take 
you ; but I give 

Me and my service, ever whilst I live, no 

Into your guiding power. This is the man. 

King. Why, then, young Bertram, take her; 
she ’s thy wife. 

Ber. My wife, my liege ! I shall beseech your 
Highness, 


In such a business give me leave to use 
The help of mine own eyes. 

King. Know’st thou not, Bertram, 111 

What she has done for me ? 

Ber . Yes, my good lord ; 

But never hope to know why I should marry 
her. 

King. Thou know’st she has rais’d me from 
my sickly bed. 

Ber. But follows it, my lord, to bring me 
down 

Must answer for your raising ? I know her 
well; 120 

She had her breeding at my father’s charge. 

A poor physician’s daughter my wife ! Disdain 
Rather corrupt me ever ! 

King. ’T is only title thou disdain’st in her, 
the which 

I can build up. Strange is it that our bloods, 12s 
Of colour, weight, and heat, pour’d all to¬ 
gether, 

Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off 

In differences so mighty. If she be 

All that is virtuous, save what thou dislik’st, 

A poor physician’s daughter, thou dislik’st 130 
Of virtue for the name. But do not so. 

From lowest place when virtuous things pro¬ 
ceed. 

The place is dignified by the doer’s deed. 

Where great additions swell’s, and virtue none, 
It is a dropsied honour. Good alone 13s 

Is good, without a name. Vilen ess is so ; 

The property by what it is should go, 

Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair ; 

In these to nature she’s immediate heir, 

And these breed honour. That is honour’s 
scorn, 

Which challenges itself as honour’s born m 
And is not like the sire. Honours thrive, 

When rather from our acts we them derive 
Than our foregoers. The mere word’s a slave 
Debauch’d on every tomb, on every grave i« 
A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb 
Where dust and damn’d oblivion is the tomb 
Of honour’d bones indeed. What should be 
said ? 

If thou canst like this creature as a maid, 

I can create the rest. Virtue and she ieo 

Is her own dower; honour and wealth from 
me. 

Ber. I cannot love her, nor will strive to 
do’t. 

King. Thou wrong’st thyself, if thou shouldst 
strive to choose. 

Hel ._ That you are well restor’d, my lord, 

I’m glad. 

Let the rest go. 15J 

King. My honour’s at the stake ; which to 
defeat, 

I must produce my power. Here, take her 
hand, 

Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift; 

I hat dost in vile misprision shackle up 
My love and her desert; that canst not dream, 
We, poising us in her defective scale, m 

Shall weigh thee to the beam, that wilt not 
know, 







II. iii. 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


3°7 


It is in us to plant thine honour -where 
We please to have it grow. Cheek thy con¬ 
tempt ; 

Obey our will, which travails in thy good ; ice 
Believe not thy disdain, hut presently 
Do thine own fortunes that obedient right 
Which both thy duty owes and our power 
claims; 

Or I will throw thee from my care for ever 
Into the staggers and the careless lapse no 
Of youth and ignorance ; both my revenge and 
hate 

Loosing upon thee, in the name of justice, 
Without all terms of pity. Speak ; thine answer. 

Ber. Pardon, my gracious lord ; for I submit 
My fancy to your eyes. When I consider 175 
What great creation and what dole of honour 
Flies where you bid it, I find that she, which 
late 

Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now 
The praised of the King ; who, so ennobled, 

Is as ’t were born so. 

King. Take her by the hand, wo 

And tell her she is thine ; to whom I promise 
A counterpoise, if not to thy estate 
A balance more replete. 

Ber. I take her hand. 

King. Good fortune and the favour of the 
King 

Smile upon this contract; whose ceremony iss 
Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief, 
And be perform’d to-night. The solemn feast 
Shall more attend upon the coming space, 
Expecting absent friends. As thou lov’st her, 
Thy love’s to me religious ; else, does err. 100 
[Exeunt all but Lafeu and Parolles , 
who stay behind , commenting of 
this wedding. 

Laf. [Advancing.] Do you hear, monsieur ? 
A word with you. 

Par. Your pleasure, sir ? 

Laf. Your lord and master did well to make 
his recantation. 196 

Par. Recantation ! My lord ! My master ! 
Laf. Ay ; is it not a language I speak ? 

Par. A most harsh one, and not to be under¬ 
stood without bloody succeeding. My master! 
Laf. Are you companion to the Count Rou- 

201 

To any count, to all counts, to what is 


sillon ? 
Par. 


man. 

Laf. To what is count’s man. Count’s master 
is of another style. 206 

Par. You are too old, sir ; let it satisfy you, 
you are too old. 

Laf. I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man; 
to which title age cannot bring thee. 209 

Par. What I dare too well do, I dare not do. 

Laf. I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to 
be a pretty wise fellow. Thou didst make tol¬ 
erable vent of thy travel; it might pass: yet 
the scarfs and the bannerets about thee did 
manifoldly dissuade me from believing thee a 
vessel of too great a burden. I have now [216 
found thee. When I lose thee again, I care 
not; yet art thou good for nothing but taking 
up, and that thou ’rt scarce worth. 


Par. Hadst thou not the privilege of anti¬ 
quity upon thee, — 221 

Laf. Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, 
lest thou hasten thy trial: which if — Lord 
have mercy on thee for a hen ! So, my good 
window of lattice, fare thee well! Thy case¬ 
ment I need not open, for I look through thee. 
Give me thy hand. 227 

Par. My lord, you give me most egregious 
indignity. 

Laf. Ay, with all my heart; and thou art 
worthy of it. 231 

Par. I have not, my lord, deserv’d it. 

Laf. Yes, good faith, every dram of it; and 
I will not bate thee a scruple. 

Par. Well, I shall be wiser. * 3 « 

Laf. Ev’n as soon as thou canst, for thou hast 
to pull at a smack o’ the contrary. If ever thou 
be’st bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt 
find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. I 
have a desire to hold my acquaintance with 
thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say 
in the default, he is a man I know. 242 

Par. My lord, you dome most insupportable 
vexation. 

Laf. I would it were hell-pains for thy sake, 
and my poor doing eternal; for doing I am past, 
as I will by thee, in what motion age will give 
me leave. [Exit. 248 

Par. Well, thou hast a son shall take this 
disgrace off me, scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord! 
Well, I must be patient; there is no fettering 
of authority. I ’ll beat him, by my life, if lean 
meet him with any convenience, an he were 
double and double a lord. I ’ll have no more 
pity of his age than I would have of — I ’ll beat 
him, an if I could but meet him again. 25a 

Re-enter Lafef. 


Laf. Sirrah, your lord and master’s married; 
there’s news for you. You have a new mistress. 

Par. I most unfeignedly beseech your lord- 
ship to make some reservation of your wrongs. 
He is my good lord ; whom I serve above is my 
master. 261 

Laf. Who ? God ? 

Par. Ay, sir. 

Laf. The devil it is that’s thy master. Why 
dost thou garter up thy arms o’ this fashion ? 
Dost make hose of thy sleeves ? Do other ser¬ 
vants so ? Thou wert best set thy lower [2m 
part where thy nose stands. By mine honour, 
if I were but two hours younger, I’d beat thee. 
Methinks, thou art a general offence, and every 
man should beat thee. I think thou wast cre¬ 
ated for men to breathe themselves upon 
thee. 

Par. This is hard and undeserved measure, 
my lord. . r 

Laf. Go to, sir ; you were beaten in Italy [275 
for picking a kernel out of a pomegranate. You 
are a vagabond and no true traveller. You are 
more saucy with lords and honourable person¬ 
ages than the commission of your birth and vir¬ 
tue gives you heraldry. You are not worth an¬ 
other word, else I’d call you kl^ye. I leave 
you. t Exit. 281 




3°8 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


II. V. 


Re-enter Bertram. 

Par. Good, very good ; it is so then. Good, 
very good ; let it be conceal’d awhile. 

Ber. Undone, and forfeited to cares forever! 
Par. What’s the matter, sweetheart ? 285 

Ber. Although before the solemn priest I 
have sworn, 

I will not bed her. 

Par. What, what, sweetheart ? 

Ber. 0 my Parolles, they have married me ! 
I ’ll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her. 290 
Par. France is a dog-hole, and it no more 
merits 

The tread of a man’s foot. To the wars! 

Ber. There’s letters from my mother ; what 
the import is, I know not yet. 

Par. Ay, that would be known. To the 
wars, my boy, to the wars 1 295 

He wears his honour in a box unseen, 

That hugs his kicky-wicky here at home, 
Spending his manly marrow in her arms, 
Which should sustain the bound and high 
curvet 

Of Mars’s fiery steed. To other regions ! 300 

France is a stable, we that dwell in’t jades, 
Therefore, to the war! 

Ber. It shall be so. I’ll send her to my 
house, 

Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, 

And wherefore I am fled ; write to the King 305 
That which I durst not speak. His present gift 
Shall furnish me to those Italian fields 
Where noble fellows strike. War is no strife 
To the dark house and the detested wife. 

Par. Will this capriccio hold in thee ? Art 
sure ? 

Ber. Go with me to my chamber, and advise 
me. 311 

I ’ll send her straight away. To-morrow 
I ’ll to the wars, she to her single sorrow. 

Par. Why, these balls bound ; there’s noise 
in it. ’T is hard ! 

A young man married is a man that’s 

marr’d; 315 

Therefore away, and leave her bravely ; go. 
The King has done you wrong; but, hush, 
’t is so. [Exeunt. 

[Scene IV. Paris. The King's palace .] 
Enter Helena and Clown. 

Hel. My mother greets me kindly. Is she 
well ? 

Clo. She is not well, but yet she has her 
health. She’s very merry, but yet she is not 
well; but thanks be given, she’s very well and 
wants nothing i’ the world ; but yet she is not 
well. e 

Hel. If she be very well, what does she ail, 
that she’s not very well ? 

Clo. Truly, she’s very well indeed, but for 
two things. 

Hel. What two things ? 10 

Clo. One, that she’s not in heaven, whither 
God send her quickly ! the other, that she’s in 
earth, from whence God send her quickly ! 


Enter Parolles. 

Par. Bless you, my fortunate lady ! 

Hel. I hope, sir, I have your good will to 
have mine own good fortunes. i« 

Par. You had my prayers to lead them on ; 
and to keep them on, have them still. O, my 
knave, how does my old lady ? 

Clo. Ho that you had her wrinkles and I her 
money, I would she did as you say. 21 

Par. Why, I say nothing. 

Clo. Marry, you are the wiser man; for 
many a man’s tongue shakes out his master’s un¬ 
doing. To say nothing, to do nothing, to know 
nothing, and to have nothing, is to be a great 
part of your title ; which is within a very little 
of nothing. ** 

Par. Away ! thou ’rt a knave. 

Clo. You should have said, sir, before a 
knave thou ’rt a knave ; that’s, before me 
thou ’rt a knave. This had been truth, sir. 31 
Par. Go to, thou art a witty fool; I have 
found thee. 

Clo. Did you find me in yourself, sir, or 
were you taught to find me ? The search, 
sir, was profitable ; and much fool may you [3s 
find in you, even to the world’s pleasure and 
the increase of laughter. 

Par. A good knave, i’ faith, and well fed. 
Madam, my lord will go away to-night; *< 

A very serious business calls on him. 

The great prerogative and rite of love, 

Which, as your due, time claims, he does 
acknowledge; 

But puts it off to a compell’d restraint; 

Whose want, and whose delay, is strew’d with 
sweets, 4a 

Which they distil now in the curbed time, 

To make the coming hour o’erflow with joy 
And pleasure drown the brim. 

Hel. What’s his will else ? 

Par. That you will take your instant leave o’ 
the King, 

And make this haste as your own good proceed- 
ing, . si 

Strength’ned with what apology you think 
May make it probable need. 

Hel. What more commands he V 

Par. That, having this obtain’d, you pre¬ 
sently 

Attend his further pleasure. 

Hel. In everything I wait upon his will. m 
Par. I shall report it so. [Exit Parolles. 
Hel. I pray you. 

Come, sirrah. [Exeunt. 

[Scene V. Paris. The King's palace.] 

Enter Lafeu and Bertram. 

Laf. But I hope your lordship thinks not him 
a soldier. 

Ber. Yes, my lord, and of very valiant ap* 
proof. 

Laf. You have it from his own deliverance. 
Ber. And by other warranted testimony. 1 
Laf '. Then my dial goes not true. I took this 
lark for a bunting. 




III. 1. 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


3 ° 9 


Ber. I do assure you, my lord, he is very 
great in knowledge and accordingly valiant. » 
Laf. I have then sinn’d against his experience 
and transgress’d against his valour ; and my 
state that way is dangerous, since I cannot yet 
find in my heart to repent. Here he comes. I 
pray you, make us friends; I will pursue the 
amity. is 

Enter Parolles. 

Par. [To Bertram .] These things shall he 
done, sir. 

Laf. Pray you, sir, who’s his tailor ? 

Par. Sir? 

Laf. O, I know him well, I, sir; he, sir, ’s 
a good workman, a very good tailor. 21 

Ber. [Aside to Par.] is she gone to the King ? 
Par. She is. 

Ber. Will she away to-night ? 

Par. As you ’ll have her. 2s 

Ber. I have writ my letters, casketed my 
treasure, 

Given order for our horses ; and to-night, 
When I should take possession of the bride, 
End ere I do begin. 29 

Laf. A good traveller is something at the 
latter end of a dinner ; but one that lies three 
thirds and uses a known truth to pass a thou¬ 
sand nothings with, should be once heard and 
thrice beaten. God save you, captain. 84 

Ber. Is there any unkindness between my 

lord and you, monsieur ? 

Par. 1 know not how I have deserved to run 
into my lord’s displeasure. 38 

Laf. You have made shift to run into’t, 
boots and spurs and all, like him that leap’d 
into the custard ; and out of it you ’ll run again, 
rather than suffer question for your residence. 

Ber. It may be you have mistaken him, my 
lord. 44 

Laf. And shall do so ever, though I took him 
at’s prayers. Fare you well, my lord ; and be¬ 
lieve this of me, there can be no kernel in this 
light nut: the soul of this man is his clothes. 
Trust him not in matter of heavy consequence ; 
I have kept of them tame, and know their na¬ 
tures. Farewell, monsieur ! I have spoken [eo 
better of you than you have or will to deserve at 
my hand ; but we must do good against evil. 

[Exit.] 

Par. An idle lord, I swear. 

Ber. I think so. 55 

Par. Why, do you not know him ? 

Ber. Yes, I do know him well, and common 
speech 

Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog. 

Enter Helena. 

Hel. I have, sir, as I was commanded from 
you, 

Spoke with the King and have procur’d his 
leave _ # 60 

For present parting ; only he desires 
Some private speech with you. 

Ber. I shall obey his will. 

You must not marvel, Helen, at my course, 
Which holds not colour with the time, nor does 


The ministration and required office ss 

On my particular. Prepar’d I was not 
For such a business ; therefore am I found 
So much unsettled. This drives me to entreat 
you 

That presently you take your way for home, 
And rather muse than ask why I entreat you; 70 
For my respects are better than they seem. 

And my appointments have in them a need 
Greater than shows itself at the first view 
To you that know them not. This to my 
mother : [Giving a letter.] 

’T will be two days ere I shall see you, so 7* 
I leave you to your wisdom. 

Hel. Sir, I can nothing say, 

But that I am your most obedient servant, — 
Ber. Come, come, no more of that. 

Hel. And ever shall 

With true observance seek to eke out that 
Wherein toward me my homely stars have 
fail’d so 

To equal my great fortune. 

Ber. Let that go. 

My haste is very great. Farewell; hie home. 
Hel. Pray, sir, your pardon. 

Ber. Well, what would you say ? 

Hel. I am not worthy of the wealth I owe, 
Nor dare I say’t is mine, and yet it is ; «b 

But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal 
What law does vouch mine own. 

Ber. What would you have ? 

Hel. Something ; and scarce so much. No¬ 
thing, indeed. 

I would not tell you what I would, my lord. 
Faith, yes! # »« 

Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kiss. 
Ber. I pray you, stay not, but in haste to 
horse. 

Hel. I shall not break your bidding, good my 
lord. 

Ber. Where are my other men ? 

Hel. Monsieur, farewell! [Exit. « 4 

Ber. Go thou toward home, where I will 
never come 

Whilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum. 
Away, and for our flight. 

Par. Bravely, coragio! 

[Exeunt.] 

ACT III 

[Scene I. Florence. The DuJce's palace.] 

Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, the 
two French Lords, with a troop of soldiers. 

Duke. So that from point to point now have 
you heard 

The fundamental reasons of this war, 

Whose great decision hath much blood let forth 
And more thirsts after. 

1 . Lord. Holy seems the quarrel 

Upon your Grace’s part; black and fearful s 
On the opposer. 

Duke. Therefore we marvel much our cousin 
France 

Would in so just a business shut his bosom 
Against our borrowing prayers. 




3 l ° 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


hi. 11. 


1 . Lord. Good ray lord, 

The reasons of our state I cannot yield 10 

But like a common and an outward man 
That the great figure of a council frames 

By self-unable motion ; therefore dare not 
Say what I think of it, since I have found 
Myself in my incertain grounds to fail 
As often as I guess’d. 

Duke. Be it his pleasure. 

2. Lord. But I am sure the younger of our 

nature, 

That surfeit on their ease, will day by day 
Come here for physic. 

Duke. Welcome shall they be; 

And all the honours that can fly from us 20 
Shall on them settle. — You know your places 
well; 

When better fall, for your avails they fell. 
To-morrow to the field. [ Flourish. [ Exeunt .] 

[Scene II. Rousillon. The Count's palace.] 
Enter Countess and Clown. 

Count. It hath happen’d all as I would have 
had it, save that he comes not along with her. 

Clo. By my troth, I take my young lord to be 
a very melancholy man. 

Count. By what observance, I pray you ? 5 

Clo. Why, he will look upon his boot and 
sing ; mend the ruff and sing; ask questions 
and sing ; pick his teeth and sing. I know a 
man that had this trick of melancholy sold a 
goodly manor for a song. 10 

Count. Let me see what he writes, and when 
he means to come. _ [ Opening a letter.] 

Clo. I have no mind to Isbel since I was at 
court. Our old ling and our Isbels o’ the coun¬ 
try are nothing like your old ling and your Is¬ 
bels o’ the court. The brains of my Cupid’s [is 
knock’d out, and I begin to love, as an old man 
loves money, with no stomach. 

Count. What have we here ? 

Clo. E’en that you have there. [Exit. 20 

[Count. Reads] a letter. “I have sent you a 
daughter-in-law ; she hath recovered the King, 
and undone me. I have wedded her, not bedded 
her; and sworn to make the ‘ not ’ eternal. 
You shall hear I am run away: know it before 
the report come. If there be breadth enough [25 
in the world, I will hold a long distance. My 
duty to you. 

Your unfortunate son, 

Bertram.” 

This is not well, rash and unbridled boy, 30 
To fly the favours of so good a king, 

To pluck his indignation on thy head 
By the misprising of a maid too virtuous 
For the contempt of empire. 

Re-enter Clown. 

Clo. 0 madam, yonder is heavy news within 
between two soldiers and my young lady! 36 

Count. What is the matter ? 

Clo. Nay, there is some comfort in the news, 
some comfort. Your son will not be kill’d so 
soon as I thought he would. 

Count. Why should he be kill’d ? u 


Clo. So say I, madam, if he run away, as I 
hear he does. The danger is in standing to’t. 
That’s the loss of men, though it be the get¬ 
ting of children. Here they come will tell you 
more ; for my part, I only hear your son was 
run away. [Exit.] « 

Enter Helena and the two French Lords. 


1. Lord. Save you, good madam. 

Eel. Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone. 

2. Lord. Do not say so. 

Count. Think upon patience, pray you. 
Gentlemen, 

I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief, 
That the first face of neither, on the start, 

Can woman me unto’t. Wnere is my son, I 
pray you ? 

2. Lord. Madam, he’s gone to serve the 
Duke of Florence. 

We met him thitherward ; for thence we came, 
And, after some dispatch in hand at court, ee 
Thither we bend again. 

Eel. Look on his letter, madam ; here’s my 
passport. 

[Reads.] ‘‘ When thou canst get the ring upon 
my finger which never shall come off, and show 
me a child begotten of thy body that I am [si 
father to, then call me husband; but in such 
a ‘ then ’ I write a ‘ never.’ ” 

This is a dreadful sentence. 

Count. Brought you this letter, gentlemen ? 

1. Lord. Ay, madam ; 

And for the contents’ sake are sorry for our 

pains. ea 

Count. I prithee, lady, have a better cheer ; 
If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine, 

Thou robb’st me of a moiety. He was my son ; 
But I do wash his name out of my blood, 70 
And thou art all my child. Towards Florence 
is he ? 

2. Lord. Ay, madam. 

Count. And to be a soldier ? 

2. Lord. Such is his noble purpose; and, 
believe ’t, 

The Duke will lay upon him all the honour 
That good convenience claims. 

Count. Return you thither ? 

1. Lord. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing 
of speed. it 

Eel. [Reads.] “ Till I have no wife, I have 
nothing in France.” 

’T is bitter. 

Count. Find you that there ? 

. Ay, madam. 

1 . Lord. ’T is but the boldness of his hand, 
haply, which his heart was not consenting to. so 
Count.' Nothing in. France, until he have no 
wife ! 

There’s nothing here that is too good for him 
But only she ; and she deserves a lord 
That twenty such rude boys might tend upon 
And call her hourly mistress. Who was with 
him ? gs 

1. Lord. A servant only, and a gentleman 
Which I have sometime known. 

Count. Parolles, was it not ? 

1. Lord. Ay, my good lady, he. 







in. iv. 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


3 ” 


Count. A very tainted fellow, and full of 
wickedness. 

My son corrupts a well-derived nature bo 

With his inducement. 

1. Lord. Indeed, good lady, 

The fellow has a deal of that too much, 

Which holds him much to have. 

Count. You ’re welcome, gentlemen. 

I will entreat you, when you see my son, 95 

To tell him that his sword can never win 
The honour that he loses. More I ’ll entreat you 
Written to bear along. 

2. Lord. We serve you, madam, 

In that and all your worthiest affairs. 

Count. Not so, but as we change our courte¬ 
sies. 100 

Will you draw near ? 

[Exeunt [Countess and Lords]. 
Hel. “ Till I have no wife, I have nothing in 
France.” 

Nothing in France, until he has no wife ! 

Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in 
France ; 

Then hast thou all again. Poor lord ! is’t I 105 
That chase thee from thy country and expose 
Those tender limbs of thine to the event 
Of the none-sparing war ? And is it I 
That drive thee from the sportive court, where 
thou 

Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark no 
Of smoky muskets ? O you leaden messengers, 
That ride upon the violent speed of fire, 

Fly with false aim ; move the still-peering air, 
That sings with piercing ; do not touch my lord. 
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there ; ns 
Whoever charges on his forward breast, 

I am the caitiff that do hold him to’t; 

And, though I kill him not, I am the cause 
His death was so effected. Better ’t were 
I met the ravin lion when he roar’d 120 

With sharp constraint of hunger; better’t were 
That all the miseries which nature owes 
Were mine at once. No, come thou home, 
Rousillon, 

Whence honour but of danger wins a scar, 

As oft it loses all. I will be gone. 12s 

My being here it is that holds thee hence. 

Shall 1 stay here to do’t ? No, no, although 
The air of paradise did fan the house 
And angels offic’d all. I will be gone, 

That pitiful rumour may report my flight, 130 
To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, 
day ! 

For with the dark, poor thief, I ’ll steal aw \ 

[Exit 

[Scene III. Florence. Before the Duke's 
palace .] 

Flourish. Enter thk Duke of Florence, Ber¬ 
tram, Parolles, Soldiers , drum and trum¬ 
pets. 

Duke. The general of our horse thou art; 
and we, 

Great in our hope, lay our best love and cre¬ 
dence 

Upon thy promising fortune. 


Ber. Sir, it is 

A charge too heavy for my strength, but yet 
We ’ll strive to bear it for your worthy sake e 
To the extreme edge of hazard. 

Duke. Then go thou forth; 

And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm, 

As thy auspicious mistress! 

Ber. This very day, 

Great Mars, I put myself into thy file. 

Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall 
prove i« 

A lover of thy drum, hater of love. 

[Exeunt omnes. 

[Scene IV. Rousillon. The Count's palace.] 

Enter Countess and Steward. 

Count. Alas ! and would you take the letter 
of her ? 

Might you not know she would do as she has 
done, 

By sending me a letter ? Read it again. 

Reads] letter. 

“ I am Saint Jaques’ pilgrim, thither gone. 

Ambitious love hath in me so offended, c 
That barefoot plod I the cold ground upon, 
With sainted vow my faults to have amended. 
Write, write, that from the bloody course of 
war 

My dearest master, your dear son, may hie. 
Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far 10 
His name with zealous fervour sanctify. 

His taken labours bid him me forgive. 

I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth 
From courtly friends, with camping foes to live. 
Where death and danger dogs the heels of 
worth. 15 

He is too good and fair for death and me, 
Whom I myself embrace, to set him free.” 
[County Ah, what sharp stings are in her 
mildest w ords! 

Rinaldo, you did never lack advice so much, 

As letting her pass so. Had I spoke with her, 

I could have well diverted her intents, 21 

Which thus she hath prevented. 

Stew. Pardon me, madam ; 

If I had given you this at over-night, 

She might have been o’erta’en ; and yet she 
writes, 

Pursuit would be but vain. 

Count. What angel shall 25 

Bless this unworthy husband ? He cannot 
thrive, 

Unless her prayers, whom Heaven delights to 
hear 

And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath 
Of greatest justice. Write, write, Rinaldo, 

To this unworthy husband of his wife. a« 

Let every word weigh heavy of her worth 
That he does weigh too light. My greatest 
grief, 

Though little he do feel it, set down sharply. 
Dispatch the most convenient messenger. 

When haply he shall hear that she is gone, ss 
He will return ; and hope I may that she, 
Hearing so much, will speed her foot again, 

Led hither by pure love, Which of them both 









3 12 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


hi. v. 


Is dearest to me, I have no skill in sense 
To make distinction. Provide this messen¬ 
ger. _ _ 40 

My heart is heavy and mine age is weak ; 

Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me 
speak. [ Exeunt. 


[Scene V. Florence. Without the walls.] A 
tucket afar off. 


Enter an old Widow of Florence , her daughter. 
[Diana.,] Violent a, and Mariana, with 
other Citizens. 


Wid. Nay, come; for if they do approach 
the city, we shall lose all the sight. 

Dia. They say the French count has done 
most honourable service. 4 

Wid. It is reported that he has taken their 
great’st commander; and that with his own 
hand he slew the Duke’s brother. [Tucket.] We 
have lost our labour ; they are gone a contrary 
way. Hark ! you may know by their trumpets. 9 
Mar. Come, let’s return again, and suffice 
ourselves with the report of it. Well, Diana, 
take heed of this French earl. The honour of a 
maid is her name, and no legacy is so rich as 
honesty. 14 

Wid. I have told my neighbour how you have 
been solicited by a gentleman his companion. 

Mar. I know that knave, hang him ! one 
Parolles ; a filthy officer he is in those sugges¬ 
tions for the young earl. Beware of them, 
Diana ; their promises, enticements, oaths, to¬ 
kens, and all these engines of lust, are not [20 
the things they go under. Many a maid hath 
been seduced by them ; and the misery is, ex¬ 
ample, that so terrible shows in the wreck of 
maidenhood, cannot for all that dissuade suc¬ 
cession, but that they are limed with the twigs [25 
that threatens them. I hope I need not to ad¬ 
vise you further ; but I hope your own grace 
will keep you where you are, though there were 
no further danger known but the modesty 
which is so lost. so 

Dia. You shall not need to fear me. 


Enter Helena [disguised like a Pilgrim], 

Wid. I hope so. Look, here eomes a pilgrim. 
I know she will lie at my house ; thither they 
send one another. I ’ll question her. God save 
you, pilgrim ! whither are you bound ? 3# 

Hel. To Saint Jaques le Grand. 

Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you ? 
Wid. At the Saint Francis here beside the 
port. 

Hel. Is this the way ? JA march afar. 40 
Wid. Ay, marry, is’t. Hark you I they 
come this way. 

If you will tarry, holy pilgrim, 

But till the troops come by, 

I will conduct you where you shall be lodg’d ; 
The rather, for I think I know your hostess 45 
As ample as myself. 

Hel. Is it yourself ? 

Wid. If you shall please so, pilgrim. 

Hel. I thank you, and will stay upon your 

leisure. 


Wid. You came, I think, from France ? 

Hel. I did so. 

Wid. Here you shall see a countryman of 
yours so 

That has done worthy service. 

Hel. His name, I pray you. 

Dia. The Count Rousillon. Know you such 
a one ? 

Hel. But by the ear, that hears most nobly 
of him. 

His face I know not. 

Dia. Whatsome’er he is, 

He’s bravely taken here. He stole from 
France, es 

As ’t is reported, for the King had married 
him 

Against his liking. Think you it is so ? 

Hel. Ay, surely, mere the truth. I know 
his lady. 

Dia. There is a gentleman that serves the 
Count 

Reports but coarsely of her. 

Hel. What’s his name ? 00 

Dia. Monsieur Parolles. 

Hel. O, I believe with him. 

In argument of praise, or to the worth 
Of the great Count himself, she is too mean 
To have her name repeated. All her deserving 
Is a reserved honesty, and that es 

I have not heard examin’d. 

Dia. Alas, poor lady ! 

’T is a hard bondage to become the wife 
Of a detesting lord. 

Wid. Ay, right! Good creature, wheresoe’er 
she is. 

Her heart weighs sadly. This young maid 
might do her 70 

A shrewd turn, if she pleas’d. 

Hel. Hoav do you mean ? 

May be the amorous Count solicits her 
In the unlawful purpose. 

Wid. He does indeed ; 

And brokes with all that can in such a suit 
Corrupt the tender honour of a maid. 75 

But she is arm’d for him and keeps her guard 
In honestest defence. 

Drum and colours. Enter Bertram, Pa¬ 
rolles, and the whole army. 

Mar. The gods forbid else ! 

Wid. So, now they come. 

That is Antonio, the Duke’s eldest son ; 

That, Escalus. 

Hel. Which is the Frenchman ? 

Dia. He, 

That with the plume ; ’t is a most gallant 

fellow. si 

I would he lov’d his wife. If he were honester 
He were much goodlier. Is’t not a handsome 
gentleman ? 

Hel. I like him well. 

Dia. ’T is pity he is not honest. Yond’s that 
same knave ss 

That leads him to these places. Were I his 

lady, 

I would poison that vile rascal. 

Hel. Which is he ? 





III. vi. 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


Dia. That jack-an-apes with scarfs. Why is 
he melancholy ? 

Hel. Perchance he ’s hurt i’ the battle. oo 

Par. Lose our drum ! Well. 

Mar. He’s shrewdly vex’d at something. 
Look, he has spied us. 

Wid. Marry, hang you ! 

Mar. And your courtesy, for a ring-car¬ 
rier ! [. Exeunt [Bertram , Parolles , and 

army]. 95 

Wid. The troop is past. Come, pilgrim, I 
will bring you 

Where you shall host. Of enjoin’d penitents 
There’s four or five, to great Saint Jaques 
bound, 

Already at my house. 

Hel. I humbly thank you. 

Please it this matron and this gentle maid 100 
To eat with us to-night, the charge and thank¬ 
ing 

Shall be for me ; and, to requite you further, 

I will bestow some precepts of this virgin 
Worthy the note. 

Both. We ’ll take your offer kindly. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene YI. Camp before Florence.] 

Enter Bertram and the French Lords, as at 
first. 

1. Lord. Nay, good my lord, put him to’t; 
let him have his way. 

2. Lord. If your lordship find him not a hild- 
ing, hold me no more in your respect. 

1 . Lord. On my life, my lord, a bubble. 

Ber. Do you think I am so far deceived in 
him ? # 7 

1 . Lord. Believe it, my lord, in mine own 

direct knowledge, without any malice, but to 
speak of him as my kinsman, he’s a most 
notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an 
hourly promise-breaker, the owner of no one 
good quality worthy your lordship’s entertain¬ 
ment. # 13 

2. Lord. It were fit you knew him, lest, re 
posing too far in his virtue, which he hath not, 
he might at some great and trusty business in 
a main danger fail you. 

Ber. I wo*uld I knew in what particular 
action to try him. # 19 

2. Lord. None better than to let him fetch 
off his drum, which you hear him so confidently 
undertake to do. 

1 . Lord. I, with a troop of Florentines, will 
suddenly surprise him ; such I will have, whom 
I am sure he knows not from the enemy. We 
will bind and hoodwink him so, that hej 25 
shall suppose no other but that he is carried 
into the leaguer of the adversaries, when we 
bring him to our own tents. Be but your lordship 
present at his examination ; if he do not, for 
the promise of his life and in the highest [30 
compulsion of base fear, offer to betray you and 
deliver all the intelligence in his power against 
you, and that with the divine forfeit of his soul 
upon oath, never trust my judgement in any¬ 
thing. 85 


3 T 3 


2. Lord. O, for the love of laughter, let him 
fetch his drum; he says he has a stratagem 
for’t. When your lordship sees the bottom of 
his success in’t, and to what metal this counter¬ 
feit lump of ore will be melted, if you give him 
not John Drum’s entertainment, your inclining 
cannot be removed. Here he comes. 42 

Enter Parolles. 

1 . Lord. [Aside to Ber.] 0 , for the love of 
laughter, hinder not the honour of his design. 
Let him fetch off his drum in any hand. 45 

Ber. How now, monsieur! this drum sticks 
sorely in your disposition. 

2. Lord. A pox on’t, let it go ; ’t is but a 

drum. 49 

Par. “ But a drum ” ! is’t “ but a drum ” ? 
A drum so lost! There was excellent command, 
— to charge in with our horse upon our own 
wings, and to rend our own soldiers ! 53 

2. Lord. That was not to be blam’d in the 
command of the service ; it was a disaster of 
war that Caesar himself could not have pre¬ 
vented, if he had been there to command. 67 
Ber. Well, we cannot greatly condemn our 
success. Some dishonour we had in the loss of 
that drum ; but it is not to be recovered. 

Par. It might have been recovered. 01 

Ber. It might; but it is not now. 

Par. It is to be recovered. But that the 
merit of service is seldom attributed to the true 
and exact performer, I would have that drum 
or another, or “ hie jacetf «« 

Ber. Why, if you have a stomach, to’t, mon¬ 
sieur : if you think your mystery in stratagem 
can bring this instrument of honour again into 
his native quarter, be magnanimous in the [70 
enterprise and go on ; I will grace the attempt 
for a worthy exploit. If you speed well in it, 
the Duke shall both speak of it, and extend to 
you what further becomes his greatness, even 
to the utmost syllable of your worthiness. 76 
Par. By the hand of a soldier, I will under¬ 
take it. 

Ber. But you must not now slumber in it. 
Par. I ’ll about it this evening ; and I will 
presently pen down my dilemmas, encourage [so 
myself in my certainty, put myself into my mor¬ 
tal preparation ; and by midnight look to hear 
further from me. 

Ber. May I be bold to acquaint his Grace you 
are gone about it ? . 85 

Par. I know not what the success will be, my 
lord ; but the attempt I vow. 

Ber. I know thou ’rt valiant; and, to the 
possibility of thy soldiership, will subscribe for 

thee. Farewell. 99 

Par. I love not many words. [Exit. 

1. Lord. No more than a fish loves water. 

Is not this a strange fellow, my lord, that so 
confidently seems to undertake this business, 
which he knows is not to be done ; damns him¬ 
self to do, and dares better be damn’d than to 
do’t ? 96 

2 . Lord. You do not know him, my lord, as 
we do. Certain it is, that he will steal him¬ 
self into a man’s favour and for a week escape 




ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


IV. 1. 


3H 


a great deal of discoveries ; but when you find 
him out, you have him ever after. 101 

Ber. Why, do you think he will make no 
deed at all of this that so seriously he does ad¬ 
dress himself unto ? io* 

1. Lord. None in the world ; but return with 
an invention and clap upon you two or three 

robable lies. But we have almost emboss’d 
im; you shall see his fall to-night; for in¬ 
deed he is not for your lordship’s respect. ion 

2. Lord. We’ll make you some sport with 
the fox ere we case him. He was first smok’d 
by the old lord Lafeu. When his disguise and 
he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall find 
him ; which you shall see this very night. n* 

1. Lord. I must go look my twigs. He shall 

be caught. 

Ber. Your brother he shall go along with 
me. 

2. Lord. As’t please your lordship. I’ll leave 

you. [Exit.] 

Ber. Now will I lead you to the house, and 
show you 

The lass I spoke of. 

1 . Lord. But you say she’s honest. 

Ber. That’s all the fault. I spoke with her 
but once 120 

And found her wondrous cold ; but I sent to her, 
By this same coxcomb that we have i’ the 
wind, 

Tokens and letters which she did re-send ; 

And this is all I have done. She’s a fair crea¬ 
ture : 

Will you go see her ? 

1 . Lord. With all my heart, my lord. 125 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene VII. Florence. The Widow's house.] 
Enter Helena and Widow. 

Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not she, 
I know not how I shall assure you further, 

But I shall lose the grounds I work upon. 

Wid. Though my estate be fallen, I was 
well born, 

Nothing acquainted with these businesses, s 
And would not put my reputation now 
In any staining act. 

Hel. Nor would I wish you. 

First, give me trust, the Count he is my hus¬ 
band ; 

And what to your sworn counsel I have spoken 
Is so from word to word ; and then you cannot, 
By the good aid that I of you shall borrow, 11 
Err in bestowing it. 

Wid. I should believe you ; 

For you have show’d me that which well ap¬ 
proves 

You ’re great in fortune. 

Hel. Take this purse of gold, 

And let me buy your friendly help thus far, us 
Which I will over-pay andpay again 
When I have found it. The Count he wooes 
your daughter, 

Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty, 
Resolves to carry her. Let her, in fine, consent 
As we ’ll direct her how’t is best to bear it, 30 


Now his important blood will nought deny 
That she ’ll demand. A ring the County wears, 
That downward hath succeeded in his house 
From son to son, some four or five descents 
Since the first father wore it. This ring he 
holds ... 86 

In most rich choice ; yet in his idle fire, 

To buy his will, it would not seem too dear, 
Howe’er repented after. 

Wid. Now I see 

The bottom of your purpose. _ 29 

Hel. You see it lawful, then. It is no more 
But that your daughter, ere she seems as won, 
Desires this ring ; appoints him an encounter; 
In fine, delivers me to fill the time, 

Herself most chastely absent. After this, 

To marry her, I ’ll add three thousand 
crowns 

To what is past already. 

Wid. I have yielded. 

Instruct my daughter how she shall persever, 
That time and place with this deceit so lawful 
May prove coherent. Every night he comes 
With musics of all sorts and songs compos’d 40 
To her unworthiness. It nothing steads us 
To chide him from our eaves, for he persists 
As if his life lay on’t. 

Hel. Why then to-night 

Let us assay our plot; which, if it speed, 

Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed 45 

And lawful meaning in a lawful act, 

Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact. 

But let’s about it. [Exeunt.] 

ACT IV 

[Scene I. Without the Florentine camp.] 

Enter First French Lord, with five or six other 
Soldiers in ambush. 

1 . Lord. He can come no other way but by 
this hedge-corner. When you sally upon him, 
speak what terrible language you will. Though 
you understand it not yourselves, no matter; 
for we must not seem to understand him, unless 
some one among us, whom we must produce for 
an interpreter. 7 

1 . Sold. Good captain, let me be the inter¬ 
preter. 

1 . Lord. Art not acquainted with him ? 
Knows he not thy voice ? 11 

1 . Sold. No, sir, I warrant you. 

1 . Lord. But what linsey-woolsey hast thou 
to speak to us again ? 

1 . Sold. E’en such as you speak to me. in 

1 . Lord. He must think us some band of 
strangers i’ the adversary’s entertainment. 
Now he hath a smack of all neighbouring lan¬ 
guages, therefore we must every one be a man 
of his own fancy ; not to know what we speak 
one to another, so we seem to know, is to [20 
know straight our purpose : choughs’ language, 
gabble enough, and good enough. As for you, 
interpreter, you must seem very politic. But 
couch, ho ! here he comes, to beguile two hours 
in a sleep, and then to return and swear the lies 
he forges. aa 





IT. il. 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


3 i 5 


Enter Parolles. 

Par. Ten o’clock : within these three hours 
’t will be time enough to go home. What shall I 
say I have done ? It must be a very plausive in¬ 
vention that carries it. They begin to smoke 
me, and disgraces have of late knock’d too [so 
often at my door. I find my tongue is too fool¬ 
hardy ; but my heart hath the fear of Mars be¬ 
fore it and of his creatures, not daring the re¬ 
ports of my tongue. 

1 . Lord. [Aside, in ambush .] This is the first 
truth that e’er thine own tongue was guilty of. 36 
Par. What the devil should move me to un¬ 
dertake the recovery of this drum, being not 
ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I 
had no such purpose ? I must give myself some 
hurts, and say I got them in exploit. Yet [40 
slight ones will not carry it. They will say, 
“Came you off with so little?” And great 
ones I dare not give. Wherefore, what’s the in¬ 
stance ? Tongue, I must put you into a butter- 
woman’s mouth and buy myself another of [46 
Bajazet’s mule, if you prattle me into these 
perils. 

1 . Lord. Is it possible he should know what 
he is, and be that he is ? 49 

Par. I would the cutting of my garments 
would serve the turn, or the breaking of my 
Spanish sword. 

1 . Lord. We cannot afford you so. 

Par. Or the baring of my beard ; and to say 
it was in stratagem. 55 

1 . Lord. ’T would not do. 

Par. Or to drown my clothes, and say I was 
stripp’d. 

1 . Lord. Hardly serve. 

Par. Though I swore I leap’d from the win¬ 
dow of the citadel— ei 

1 . Lord. How deep ? 

Par. Thirty fathom. 

1 . Lord. Three great oaths would scarce 
make that be believed. es 

Par. I would I had anv drum of the enemy’s. 
I would swear I recover’d it. 

1 . Lord. You shall hear one anon. 

Par. A drum now of the enemy’s, — 

[Alarum within. 
1 . Lord. Throca movousus, cargo , cargo , 
cargo. n 

All. Cargo , cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, 
cargo. 

Par. O, ransom, ransom ! do not hide mine 
eyes. [They seize and blindfold him.] 

1 . Sold. Bosko thromuldo boskos. 75 

Par. 1 know you are the Muskos’ regiment, 
And I shall lose my life for want of language. 

If there be here German, or Dane, low Dutch, 
Italian, or French, let him speak to me ; I ’ll 79 
Discover that which shall undo the Florentine. 

1 . Sold. Boskos vauvado: I understand thee, 
and can speak thy tongue. Kerelybonto, sir, be¬ 
take thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards 
are at thy bosom. 

Par. 0 ! as 

1 . Sold. 0 , pray, pray, pray ! Manka revania 
dulche. 


1 . Lord. Oscorbidulchos volivorco. 

1 . Sold. The general is content to spare thee 
yet; . 89 

And, hoodwink’d as thou art, will lead thee on 
To gather from thee. Haply thou mayst inform 
Something to save thy life. 

Par. 0 , let me live I 

And all the secrets of our camp I ’ll show, 
Their force, their purposes; nay, I ’ll speak 
that 

Which you will wonder at. 

1 . Sold. But wilt thou faithfully ? 

Par. If I do not, damn me. se 

1 . Sold. Acordo linta. 

Come on ; thou art granted space. 

[Exit [with Parolles guarded ]. A 
short alarum within. 

1 . Lord. Go, tell the Count Rousillon, and 

my brother, 

We have caught the woodcock, and will keep 
him muffled 100 

Till we do hear from them. 

2 . Sold. Captain, I will. 

1 . Lord. ’A will betray us all unto ourselves: 
Inform on that. 

2 . Sold. So I will, sir. 

1 . Lord. Till then I ’ll keep him dark and 
safely lock’d. [Exeunt. 105 

[Scene II. Florence. The Widow's house.] 
Enter Bertram and the maid called Diana. 

Ber. They told me that your name was Fon- 
. tibell. 

Dia. No, my good lord, Diana. 

Ber. Titled goddess, 

And worth it, with addition! But, fair soul, 

In your fine frame hath love no quality ? 

If the quick fire of youth light not your mind, 
You are no maiden, but a monument. e 

When you are dead, you should be such a one 
As you are now, for you are cold and stern ; 
And now you should be as your mother was 
When your sweet self was got. 10 

Dia. She then was honest. 

Ber. So should you be. 

Dia. No; 

My mother did but duty ; such, my lord, 

As you owe to your wife. 

Ber. No more o’ that. 

I prithee, do not strive against my vows. 

I was compell’d to her; but I love thee 1* 
By love’s own sweet constraint, and will for 
ever 

Do thee all rights of service. 

Dia. Ay, so you serve ris 

Till we serve you ; but when you have our 
roses, 

You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves, 
And mock us with our bareness. 

Ber. How have I sworn ! 

Dia. ’T is not the many oaths that makes 
the truth, n 

But the plain single vow that is vow’d true. 
What is not holy, that we swear not by, 

But take the High’st to witness ; then, pray 
you, tell me, 







316 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


IV. iii. 


If I should swear by Jove’s great attributes 25 
I lov’d you dearly, would you believe my oaths, 
When I did love you ill ? This has no holding, 
To swear by Him whom I protest to love, 

That I will work against Him ; therefore your 
oaths 

Are words and poor conditions, but unseal’d, 30 
At least in my opinion. 

Ber. Change it, change it! 

Be not so holy-cruel. Love is holy, 

And my integrity ne’er knew the crafts 
That you do charge men with. Stand no more 
off, 

But give thyself unto my sick desires, 35 

Who then recovers. Say thou art mine, and 
ever 

My love as it begins shall so persever. _ 

Dia. I see that men make rope’s in such a 
scarre 

That we ’ll forsake ourselves. Give me that 
ring. 

Ber. I ’ll lend it thee, my dear ; but have no 
power 40 

To give it from me. 

Dia. Will you not, my lord ? 

Ber. It is an honour longing to our house, 
Bequeathed down from many ancestors, 

Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world 
In me to lose. 

Dia. Mine honour’s such a ring, 45 

My chastity’s the jewel of our house, 
Bequeathed down from many ancestors, 

Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world 
In me to lose. Thus your own proper wisdom 
Brings in the champion Honour on my part, eo 
Against your vain assault. 

Ber. Here, take my ring ! 

My house, mine honour, yea, my life, be thine, 
And I ’ll be bid by thee. 

Dia. When midnight comes, knock at my 
chamber-window. 

I ’ll order take my mother shall not hear. 55 
Now will I charge you in the band of truth, 
When you have conquer’d my yet maiden bed, 
Remain there but an hour, nor speak to me. 
My reasons are most strong, and you shall know 
them 

When back again this ring shall be deliver’d ; 
And on your finger in the night I ’ll put ei 
Another ring, that what in time proceeds 
May token to the future our past deeds. 

Adieu, till then ; then, fail not. You have won 
A wife of me, though there my hope be done, es 
Ber. A heaven on earth I have won by woo¬ 
ing thee. _ [Exit.] 

Dia. For which live long to thank both Hea¬ 
ven and me ! 

You may so in the end. 

My mother told me just how he would woo, 

As if she sat in’s heart. She says all men to 
H ave the like oaths. He had sworn to marry 
me 

When his wife’s dead ; therefore I ’ll lie with 
him 

When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so 
braid, 

Marry that will, I live and die a maid. 


Only in this disguise I think’t no sin « 

To cozen him that would unjustly win. [Exit. 

[Scene III. The Florentine camp.] 

Enter the two French Lords and some two or three 
Soldiers. 

2. Lord. You have not given him his mother’s 
letter ? 

1. Lord. I have deliver’d it an hour since. 

There is something in’t that stings his nature ; 
for on the reading it he chang’d almost into 
another man. # 6 

2. Lord. He has much worthy blame laid 

upon him for shaking off so good a wife and so 
sweet a lady. 9 

1. Lord. Especially he hath incurred the 

everlasting displeasure of the King, who had 
even tun’d his bounty to sing happiness to him. 
I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell 
darkly with you. 14 

2. Lord. When you have spoken it, ’t is dead, 
and I am the grave of it. 

1. Lard. He hath perverted a young gentle¬ 
woman here in Florence, of a most chaste re¬ 
nown ; and this night he fleshes his will in the 
spoil of her honour. He hath given her his [20 
monumental ring, and thinks himself made in 
the unchaste composition. 

2. Lord. Now, God delay our rebellion ! As 

we are ourselves, what things are we ! 24 

1. Lord. Merely our own traitors. And as in 

the common course of all treasons, we still see 
them reveal themselves, till they attain to their 
abhorr’d ends, so he that in this action contrives 
against his own nobility, in his proper stream 
o’erflows himself. 30 

2. Lord. Is it not meant damnable in us, to 
be trumpeters of our unlawful intents? We 
shall not then have his company to-night ? 

1. Lord. Not till after midnight; for he is 

dieted to his hour. 36 

2. Lord. That approaches apace. I would 

gladly have him see his company anatomiz’d, 
that he might take a measure of his own judge¬ 
ments, wherein so curiously he had set this 
counterfeit. 48 

1. Lord. We will not meddle with him till he 
come, for his presence must be the whip of the 
other. 

2. Lord. In the mean time, what hear you of 

these wars ? a 

1. Lord. I hear there is an overture of peace. 

2. Lord. Nay, I assure you, a peace con¬ 
cluded. 

1. Lord. What will Count Rousillon do then ? 

Will he travel higher, or return again into 
France ? bi 

2. Lord. I perceive, by this demand, you are 
not altogether of his council. 

1. Lord. Let it be forbid, sir ; so should I be 

a great deal of his act. es 

2. Lord. Sir, his wife some two months since 
fled from his house. Her pretence is a pilgrim¬ 
age to Saint Jaques le Grand ; which holy un¬ 
dertaking with most austere sanctimony she 
accomplish’d; and, there residing, the ten- [eo 




IV. iii. 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


3 i 7 


derness of her nature became as a prey to her 
grief ; in fine, made a groan of her last breath, 
and now she sings in heaven. 

1. Lord. How is this justified ? m 

2. Lord. The stronger part of it by her own 
letters, which makes her story true, even to the 
point of her death. Her death itself, which 
could not he her office to say is come, was faith¬ 
fully confirm’d by the rector of the place. 

1. Lord. Hath the Count all this intelli¬ 
gence ? 

2. Lord. Ay, and the particular confirma¬ 
tions, point from point, to the full arming of 
the verity. 

1. Lord. I am heartily sorry that he ’ll be 

glad of this. 75 

2. Lord. How mightily sometimes we make 
us comforts of our losses ! 

1. Lord. And how mightily some other times 

we drown our gain in tears ! The great dignity 
that his valour hath here acquir’d for him shall 
at home be encount’red with a shame as am¬ 
ple* . 8a 

2. Lord. The web of our life is of a mingled 
arn, good and ill together: our virtues would 
e proud, if our faults whipp’d them not; and 

our crimes would despair, if they were not 
cherish’d by our virtues. 87 

Enter a Messenger. 

How now ! where’s your master? 

Mess. He met the Duke in the street, sir, 
of whom he hath taken a solemn leave. His 
lordship will next morning for France. The [so 
Duke hath offered him letters of commenda¬ 
tions to the King. 

1. Lord. They shall be no more than needful 
there, if they were more than they can com¬ 
mend. 

Enter Bertram. 

2. Lord. They cannot be too sweet for the 

King’s tartness. Here’s his lordship now. How 
now, my lord ! is’t not after midnight ? 97 

Ber. I have to-night dispatch’d sixteen busi¬ 
nesses, a month’s length a-piece, by an abstract 
of success. I have congied with the Duke, 
done my adieu with his nearest; buried a [100 
wife, mourn’d for her ; writ to my lady mother 
I am returning; entertain’d my convoy ; and 
between these main parcels of dispatch effected 
many nicer needs. The last was the greatest, 
but that I have not e«ded yet. 100 

1. Lord. If the business be of any difficulty, 
and this morning your departure hence, it re¬ 
quires haste of your lordship. 109 

Ber. I mean, the business is not ended, as 
fearing to hear of it hereafter. But shall we 
have this dialogue between the fool and the 
soldier? Come^ bring forth this counterfeit 
module, has deceiv’d me, like a double-mean¬ 
ing prophesier. 115 

1. Lord. Bring him forth. Has sat i’ the 

stocks all night, poor gallant knave. 

Ber. No matter ; his heels have deserv’d it, 
in usurping his spurs so long. How does he carry 
himself ? 120 


1. Lord. I have told your lordship already, 
the stocks carry him. But to answer you as 
you would be understood, he weeps like a 
wench that had shed her milk. He hath con¬ 
fess’d himself to Morgan, whom he supposes to 
be a friar, from the time of his remembrance [125 
to this very instant disaster of his setting i’ the 
stocks ; and what think you he hath confess’d ? 

Ber. Nothing of me, has ’a ? m 

1. Lord. His confession is taken, and it shall 
be read to his face. If your lordship be in’t, as 
I believe you are, you must have the patience 
to hear it. 

Enter Parolles with [First Soldier as] his 
Interpreter. 

Ber. A plague upon him ! Muffled ! He can 
say nothing of me. Hush ! hush ! 135 

2. Lord. Hoodman comes ! Portotartarossa. 

1. Sold. He calls for the tortures. What will 

you say without ’em ? 

Par. I will confess what I know without con¬ 
straint. If ye pinch me like a pasty, I can say 
no more. 

1. Sold. Bosko chimurco. 

2. Lord. Boblibindo chicurmurco. 

1. Sold. You are a merciful general. Our 
general bids you answer to what I shall ask 
you out of a note. 1 *# 

Par. And truly, as I hope to live. 

1. Sold. [Reads.] “First demand of him 
how many horse the Duke is strong.” What 
say you to that ? «o 

Par. Five or six thousand ; but very weak 
and unserviceable. The troops are all scat¬ 
tered, and the commanders very poor rogues, 
upon my reputation and credit and as I hope to 
live. 164 

1. Sold. Shall I set down your answer so ? 

Par. Do : I ’ll take the sacrament on’t, how 

and which way you will. 

Ber. All’s one to him. What a past-saving 
slave is this ! # 159 

2. Lord. You’re deceiv’d, my lord ; this is 

Monsieur Parolles, the gallant militarist,— 
that was his own phrase, — that had the whole 
theoric of war in the knot of his scarf, and the 
practice in the chape of his dagger. i«* 

1. Lord. I will never trust a man again for 
keeping his sword clean, nor believe he can 
have everything in him by wearing his apparel 
neatly. 

1. Sold. Well, that’s set down. i89 

Par. Five or six thousand horse, I said, — 

I will say true, — or thereabouts, set down, for 
I ’ll speak truth. 

2. Lord. He’s very near the truth in this. 

Ber. But I con him no thanks for’t, in the 

nature he delivers it. 175 

Par. Poor rogues, I pray you, say. 

1. Sold. Well, that’s set down. 

Par. I humbly thank you, sir. A truth’s a 
truth ; the rogues are marvellous poor. 179 

1. Sold. [Reads.] “ Demand of him, of what 
strength they are a-foot.” What say you to 
that ? 

Par. By my troth, sir, if I were to live this 




3*8 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


IV. iii. 


present hour, I will tell true. Let me see : — 
Spurio, a hundred and fifty; Sebastian, so 
many ; Corambus, so many • Jaques, so many ; 
Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowiek, and Gratii, [iss 
two hundred fifty each; mine own company ^ 
Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred 
fifty each ; so that the muster-file, rotten and 
sound, upon my life, amounts not to fifteen 
thousand poll; half of the which dare not [is>o 
shake the snow from off their cassocks, lest 
they shake themselves to pieces. 

Ber. What shall be done to him ? 194 

2. Lord. Nothing, but let him have thanks. 
Demand of him my condition, and what credit 
I have with the Duke. 

1. Sold. Well, that’s set down. 

[Reads.] ‘* You shall demand of him, whether 
one Captain Dumain be i’ the camp, a French¬ 
man ; what his reputation is with the Duke ; [200 
what his valour, honesty, and expertness in 
wars ; or whether he thinks it were not possi¬ 
ble, with well-weighing sums of gold, to corrupt 
him to a revolt.” What say you to this? 
What do you know of it ? 206 

Par. I beseech you, let me answer to the 
particular of the inter’gatories. Demand them 
singly. 208 

1. Sold. Do you know this Captain Dumain ? 

# Par. I know him. ’A was a botcher’s ’pren¬ 
tice in Paris, from whence he was whipp’d for 
getting the shrieve’s fool with child, — a dumb 
innocent, that could not say him nay. 214 

Ber. Nay, by your leave, hold your hands ; 
though I know his brains are forfeit to the next 
tile that falls. 

1. Sold. Well, is this captain in the Duke of 

Florence’s camp ? 219 

Par. Upon my knowledge, he is, and lousy. 

2. Lord. Nay, look not so upon me ; we shall 
hear of your lordship anon. 

1. Sold. What is his reputation with the 
Duke ? 224 

Par. The Duke knows him for no other but 
a poor officer of mine; and writ to me this 
other day to turn him out o’ the band. I think 
I have his letter in my pocket. 

1. Sold. Marry, we ’ll search. 229 

Par. In good sadness, I do not know. 

Either it is there, or it is upon a file with the 
Duke’s other letters in my tent. 

1. Sold. Here’t is ; here’s a paper. Shall I 
read it to you ? 

Par. I do not know if it be it or no. 236 
Ber. Our interpreter does it well. 

2. Lord. Excellently. 

1. Sold. [jReaefe.] “ Dian, the Count’s a fool, 
and full of gold,” — 

Par. That is not the Duke’s letter, sir; that 
is an advertisement to a proper maid in [240 
Florence, one Diana, to take heed of the allure¬ 
ment of one Count Rousillon, a foolish idle boy, 
but for all that very ruttish. I pray you, sir, 
put it up again. 243 

1. Sold. Nay, I’ll read it first, by your 
iavour. 

Par. My meaning in’t, I protest, was very 
honest in the behalf of the maid; for I knew 1 


the young Count to be a dangerous and lascivi¬ 
ous boy, who is a whale to virginity and de¬ 
vours up all the fry it finds. 2 s« 

Ber. Damnable both-sides rogue ! 

1. Sold. [Reads.] 

“ When he sweai's oaths, bid him drop gold, 
and take it; 

After he scores, he never pays the score. 

Half won is match well made ; match, and well 
make it; 

He ne’er pays after-debts, take it before ; 255 
And say a soldier, Dian, told thee this, 

Men are to mell with, boys are not to kiss; 

For count of this, the Count’s a fool, I know it, 
Who pays before, but not when he does owe it. 

Thine, as he vow’d to thee in thine ear, 200 

Parolles.” 

Ber. He shall be whipp’d through the army 
with this rhyme in’s forehead. 

1. Lord. This is your devoted friend, sir, the 
manifold linguist and the armipotent soldier. 205 

Ber. I could endure anything before but a 
cat; and now he’s a cat to me. 

1. Sold. I perceive, sir, by our general’s 
looks, we shall be fain to hang you. 26 # 

Par. My life, sir, in any case: not that I am 
afraid to die; but that, my offences being 
many, I would repent out the remainder of na¬ 
ture. Let me live, sir, in a dungeon, i’ the 
stocks, or anywhere, so I may live. 274 

1. Sold. We ’ll see what may be done, so you - 

confess freely; therefore, once more to this 
Captain Dumain. You have answer’d to his 
reputation with the Duke, and to his valour ; 
what is his honesty ? 279 

Par. He will steal, sir, an egg out of a clois¬ 
ter. For rapes and ravishments he parallels 
Nessus. He prof esses-not keeping of oaths; in 
breaking ’em he is stronger than Hercules ; he 
will lie, sir, with such volubility, that you would 
think truth were a fool. Drunkenness is his 
best virtue, for he will be swine drunk, and [285 
in his sleep he does little harm, save to his bed¬ 
clothes about him ; but they know his condi¬ 
tions and lay him in straw. I have but little 
more to say, sir, of his honesty. He has every¬ 
thing that an honest man should not have ; [290 
what an honest man should have, he has no¬ 
thing. 

2. Lord. I begin to love him for this. 

Ber. For this description of thine honesty? 
A pox upon him for me, he’s more and more a 
cat. 295 

1. Sold. What say you to his expertness in 
war ? 

Par. Faith, sir, has led the drum before the 
English tragedians. To belie him, I will not, 
and more of his soldiership I know not; except, 
in that country he had the honour to be the [300 
officer at a place there called Mile-end, to in¬ 
struct for the doubling of files. I would do the 
man what honour I can, but of this I am not 
certain. 804 

2. Lord. He hath out-viliain’d villainy so far, 
that the rarity redeems him. 

Ber. A pox on him, he’s a cat still. 

1. Sold. His qualities being at this poo* price. 





IV. Y. 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


3i9 


I need not to ask you if gold will corrupt him 
to revolt. 310 

Par. Sir, for a quart d'tcu he will sell the 
fee-simple of his salvation, the inheritance of 
it; and cut the entail from all remainders, and 
a perpetual succession for it perpetually. 314 

1 . Sold. What’s his brother, the other Cap¬ 
tain Dumain ? 

1 . Lord. Why does he ask him of me ? 

1 . Sold. What’s he ? 318 

Par. E’en a crow o’ the same nest; not al¬ 
together so great as the first in goodness, but 
greater a great deal in evil. He excels his 
brother for a coward, yet his brother is reputed 
one of the best that is. In a retreat he outruns 
any lackey; marry, in coming on he has the 
cramp. 324 

1 . Sold. If your life be saved, will you un¬ 
dertake to betray the Florentine ? 

Par. Ay, and the captain of his horse, Count 
Rousillon. 

1 . Sold. I ’ll whisper with the general, and 
know his pleasure. 330 

Par. [Aside.] I’ll no more drumming; a 
plague of all drums ! Only to seem to deserve 
well, and to beguile the supposition of that las¬ 
civious young boy the Count, have I run into 
this danger. Yet who would have suspected an 
ambush where I was taken ? 333 

1 . Sold. There is no remedy, sir, but you 
must die. The general says, you that have so 
traitorously discover’d the secrets of your army 
and made such pestiferous reports of men 
very nobly held, can serve the world for no [340 
honest use; therefore you must die. Come, 
headsman, off with his head. 

Par. O Lord, sir, let me live, or let me see 
my death! 340 

1 . Sold. That shall you, and take vour leave 
of all your friends. [ Unblinding him.] So, look 
about you. Know you any here ? 

Ber. Good morrow, noble captain. 349 

1 . Lord. God bless you, Captain Parolles. 

2 . Lord. God save you, noble captain. 

1 . Lord. Captain, what greeting will you to 

my Lord Lafeu ? I am for France. 333 

2 . Lord. Good captain, will you give me a 

copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalf 
of the Count Rousillon ? An I were not a very 
coward, I’d compel it of you ; but fare you 
well. IExeunt [Bertram and Lords]. 

1 . Sold. You are undone, captain, all but 
your scarf ; that has a knot on’t yet. 339 

Par. Who cannot be crush’d with a plot ? 

1 . Sold. If you could find out a country 
where but women were that had received so 
much shame, you might begin an impudent na¬ 
tion. Fare ye well, sir; I am for France too. 
We shall speak of you there. 335 

[Exit [with Soldiers]. 
Par. Yet am I thankful. If my heart were 
great, 

’T would burst at this. Captain I ’ll be no more ; 
But I will eat and drink, and sleep as soft 
As captain shall. Simply the thing I am 
Shall make me live. Who knows himself a 
braggart, 370 


Let him fear this ; for it will come to pass 
That every braggart shall be found an ass. 
Rust, sword ! cool, blushes! and, Parolles, live 
Safest in shame! Being fool’d, by foolery 
thrive ! 

There’s place and means for every man alive. 

I ’ll after them. [Exit. 373 

[Scene IV. Florence. The Widow's house.] 

Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana. 

Hel. That you may well perceive I have not 
wrong’d you, 

One of the greatest in the Christian world 
Shall be my surety; ’fore whose throne ’t is 
needful, 

Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel. 

Time was, I did him a desired office, « 

Dear almost as his life ; which gratitude 
Through flinty Tartar’s bosom would peep 
forth, 

And answer, thanks. I duly am inform’d 
His Grace is at Marseilles, to which place 
We have convenient convoy. You must know, te 
I am supposed dead. The army breaking, 

My husband hies him home; where, Heaven 
aiding. 

And by the leave of my good lord the King, 
We ’ll be before our welcome. 

Wid. Gentle madam, 

You never had a servant to whose trust « 
Your business was more welcome. 

Hel. Nor you, mistress, 

Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labour 
To recompense your love. Doubt not but Hea¬ 
ven 

Hath brought me up to be your daughter’s 
dower, 

As it hath fated her to be my motive 20 

And helper to a husband. But, O strange men ! 
That can such sweet use make of what they 
hate, 

When saucy trusting of the cozen’d thoughts 
Defiles the pitchy night; so lust doth play 
With what it loathes for that which is away. 25 
But more of this hereafter. You, Diana, 

Under my poor instructions yet must suffer 
Something in my behalf. 

Dia. Let death and honesty 

Go with your impositions, I am yours 
Upon your will to suffer. 

Hel. _ Yetj I pray you. 30 

But with the word the time will bring on sum¬ 
mer, 

When briers shall have leaves.as well as thorns, 
And be as sweet as sharp. We must away. 

Our waggon is prepar’d, and time revives us. 
All’s well that ends well! Still the fine’s the 
crown; _ ac 

Whate’er the course, the end is the renown. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene V. Rousillon. The Count's palace.] 
Enter Countess, Lafeu, and Clown. 

Laf. No, no, no, your son was misled with a 
snipt-taffeta fellow there, whose villanous saf- 




3 20 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


v. L 


fron would have made all the unbak’d and 
doughy youth of a nation in his colour. Your 
daughter-in-law had been alive at this hour, 
and your son here at home, more advanc’d by 
the King than by that red-tail’d humble-bee I 
speak of. t 

Count. I would I had not known him. It was 
the death of the most virtuous gentlewoman 
that ever Nature had praise for creating. If 
she had partaken of my flesh, and cost me the 
dearest groans of a mother, I could not have 
owed her a more rooted love. 13 

Laf. ’T was a good lady, ’t was a good lady. 
We may pick a thousand salads ere we light on 
such another herb. is 

Clo. Indeed, sir, she was the sweet-marjoram 
of the salad, or rather, the herb of grace. 

Laf. They are not [salad] herbs, you knave ; 
they are nose-herbs. 20 

Clo. I am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir; I 
have not much skill in grass. 

Laf. Whether dost thou profess thyself a 
knave or a fool ? 

Clo. A fool, sir, at a woman’s service, and a 
knave at a man’s. 26 

Laf. Your distinction? 

Clo. I would cozen the man of his wife and 
do his service. 

Laf. So you were a knave at his service, in¬ 
deed. 31 

Clo. And I would give his wife my bauble, 
sir, to do her service. 

Laf. I will subscribe for thee, thou art both 
knave and fool. 35 

Clo. At your service. 

Laf. No, no, no. 

Clo. Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can 
serve as great a prince as you are. 

Laf. Who’s that ? A frenchman ? 40 

_ Clo. Faith, sir, ’a has an English name ; but 
his fisnomy is more hotter in France than there. 
Laf. What prince is that ? 

Clo. The black prince, sir ; alias, the prince 
of darkness ; alias, the devil. 45 

Laf. Hold thee, there’s my purse. I give 
thee not this to suggest thee from thy master 
thou talk’st of. Serve him still. 48 

Clo. I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always 
loved a great fire ; and the master I speak of 
ever keeps a good fire. But, sure, he is the 
prince of the world ; let his nobility remain in’s 
court. I am for the house with the narrow 
gate, which I take to be too little for pomp [53 
to enter. Some that humble themselves may ; 
but the many will be too chill and tender, and 
they ’ll be for the flowery way that leads to the 
broad gate and the great fire. 38 

Laf. Go thy ways, I begin to be aweary of 
thee ; and I tell thee so before, because I would 
not fall out with thee. Go thy ways. Let my 
horses be well look’d to, without any tricks. 62 
Clo. If I put any tricks upon ’em, sir, they 
shall be jades’ tricks ; which are their own right 
by the law of nature. [ Exit. 

Laf. A shrewd knave and an unhappy. 66 
Count. So ’a is. My lord that’s gone made 
himself much sport out of him. By his au¬ 


thority he remains here, which he thinks is a 
patent for his sauciness; and, indeed, he has 
no pace, but runs where he will. n 

Laf. I like him well; ’t is not amiss. And I 
was about to tell you, since I heard of the 
good lady’s death and that my lord your son 
was upon his return home, I moved the King 
my master to speak in the behalf of my 
daughter; which, in the minority of them [tb 
both, his Majesty, out of a self-gracious re¬ 
membrance, did first propose. His Highness 
hath promis’d me to do it; and, to stop up the 
displeasure he hath conceived against your son, 
there is no fitter matter. How does your lady¬ 
ship like it ? 82 

Count. With very much content, my lord; 
and I wish it happily effected. 

Laf. His Highness comes post from Mar¬ 
seilles, of as able body as when he number’d 
thirty. ’A will be here to-morrow, or I am de¬ 
ceiv’d by him that in such intelligence hath 
seldom fail’d. 88 

Count. It rejoices me, that I hope I shall see 
him ere I die. I have letters that my son will 
be here to-night. I shall beseech your lordship 
to remain with me till they meet together. 

Laf. Madam, I was thinking with what 
manners I might safely be admitted. »4 

Count. You need but plead your honourable 
privilege. 

Laf. Lady, of that I have made a bold 
charter ; but I thank my God it holds yet. »» 

Re-enter Clown. 

Clo. 0 madam, yonder’s my lord your son 
with a patch of velvet on ’s face. Whether 
there be a scar under’t or no, the velvet knows ; 
but’t is a goodly patch of velvet. His left cheek 
is a cheek of two pile and a half, but his right 
cheek is worn bare. m 

Laf . A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a 
g °rv llv £ ry ? f ] lonour ; so belike is that. 

Clo. But it is your carbonado’d face. 

Laf. Let us go see your son, I pray you. I 
long to talk with the young noble soldier. 109 
v °* Eaith, there’s a dozen of ’em, with 
” ne * iats an( ^ mos t courteous feathers 
which bow the head and nod at every man. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT V 

[Scene I. Marseilles. A street.) 

Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana, with two 
Attendants. 

Mel. But this exceeding posting day and night 
Must wear your spirits low ; we cannot help it: 
But since you have made the days and nights 
as one, 

To wear your gentle limbs in my affairs, 

Be bold you do so grow in my requital s 

Enter a Gentle A stringer. 

As nothing can unroot you. In happy time ! 
This man may help me to his Majesty’s ear. 

If he would spend his power. God save you, sir. 





v. iii. 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


321 


Gent. And you. 

Hel. Sir, I have seen you in the court of 
France. 10 

Gent. I have been sometimes there. 

Hel. I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen 
From the report that goes upon your goodness ; 
And therefore, goaded with most sharp occa¬ 
sions, 

Which lay nice manners by, I put you to ib 
T he use of your own virtues, for the which 
I shall continue thankful. 

Gent. What’s your will ? 

Hel. That it will please you 
To give this poor petition to the King, 

And aid me with that store of power you have 
To come into his presence. 21 

Gent. The King’s not here. 

Hel. Not here, sir! 

Gent. Not, indeed. 

He hence remov’d last night, and with more 
haste 

Than is his use. 

Wid. Lord, how we lose our pains ! 

Hel. All’s well that ends well yet, 25 

Though time seem so adverse and means unfit. 
I do beseech you, whither is he gone ? 

Gent. Marry, as I take it, to Kousillon, 
Whither I am going. 

Hel. I do beseech you, sir, 

Since you are like to see the King before me, so 
Commend the paper to his gracious hand, 
Which I presume shall render you no blame 
But rather make you thank your pains for it. 

I will come after you with what good speed 
Our means will make us means. 

Gent. This I ’ll do for you. 

Hel. And you shall find yourself to be well 
thank’d, 36 

Whate’er falls more. We must to horse again. 
Go, go, provide. [Exeunt.] 

[Scene II. Rousillon. Inner court of the 
Count's palace.] 

Enter Clown and Parolles. 

Par. Good Master Lavache, give my Lord 
Lafeu this letter. I have ere now, sir, been 
better known to you, when I have held famili¬ 
arity with fresher clothes ; but I am now, sir, 
muddied in Fortune’s mood, and smell some¬ 
what strong of her strong displeasure. « 

Clo. Truly, Fortune’s displeasure is but slut¬ 
tish, if it smell so strongly as thou speak’st of. 
I will henceforth eat no fish of Fortune’s but¬ 
tering. Prithee, allow the wind. 10 

Par. Nay, you need not to stop your nose, 
sir ; I spake but by a metaphor. 

Clo. Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink. I 
will stop my nose ; or against any man’s meta¬ 
phor. Prithee, get thee further. « 

Par. Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper. 
Clo. Foh! prithee, stand away. A paper 
from Fortune’s close-stool to.give to a noble¬ 
man 1 Look, here he comes himself. 19 

Enter Lafeu. 

Here is a purr of Fortune’s, sir, or of Fortune’s 


cat, — but not a musk-cat, — that has fallen 
into the unclean fishpond of her displeasure, 
and, as he says, is muddied withal. Pray you, 
sir, use the carp as you may ; for he looks like 
a poor, decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally [24 
knave. I do pity his distress in my similes of 
comfort and leave him to your lordship. 

[Exit.] 

Par. My lord, I .am a man whom Fortune 
hath cruelly scratch’d. 20 

Laf. And what would you have me to do ? 
’T is too late to pare her nails now. Wherein 
have you play’d the knave with Fortune, that, 
she should scratch you, who of herself is a good 
lady and would not have knaves thrive long 
under her ? There ’s a quart d'tcu for you. Let 
the justices make you and Fortune friends ; [35 
I am for other business. 

Par. I beseech your honour to hear me one 
single word. 

Laf. You beg a single penny more. Come, 
you shall ha’ ’t; save your word. 40 

Par. My name, my good lord, is Parolles. 

Laf. You beg more than word, then. Cox 
my passion! give me your hand. How does 
your drum ? 

Par. O my good lord, you were the first that 
found me ! 4 « 

Laf. Was I, in sooth? And I was the first 
that lost thee. 

Par. It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in 
some grace, for you did bring me out. eo 

Laf. Out upon thee, knave 1 Dost thou put 
upon me at once both the office of God and the 
devil ? one brings thee in grace and the other 
brings thee out. [Trumpets sound .] The King'3 
coming ; I know by his trumpets. Sirrah, [sb 
inquire further after me. I had talk of you last 
night. Though you are a fool and a knave, you 
shall eat; go to, follow. 

Par. I praise God for you. [Exeunt.] 

[Scene III. Rousillon. The Count's palace.] 

Flourish. Enter King, Countess, Lafeu, the 
two French Lords, with Attendants. 

King. We lost a jewel of her, and our esteem 
Was made much poorer by it; but your son, 

As mad in folly, lack’d the sense to know 
Her estimation home. 

Count. ’T is past, my liege ; 

And I beseech your Majesty to make it & 

Natural rebellion, done i’ the blaze of youth ; 
When oil and fire, too strong for reason’s force, 
O’erbears it and burns on. 

King. My honour’d lady, 

I have forgiven and forgotten all; * 

Though my revenges were high bent upon him, 
And watch’d the time to shoot. 

Laf. This I must say 

But first I beg my pardon, the young lord 
Did to his Majesty, his mother, and his lady 
Offence of mighty note ; but to himself 
The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife 1* 
Whose beauty did astonish the survey 
Of richest eyes, whose words all ears took cap¬ 
tive, 






322 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


v. iil 


Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn’d to 
serve 

Humbly call’d mistress. 

King. Praising what is lost 

Makes the remembrance dear. Well, call him 
hither; . . 20 

We are reconcil’d, and the first view shall kill 
All repetition. Let him not ask our pardon. 
The nature of his great offence is dead, 

And deeper than oblivion we do bury 
The incensing relics of it. Let him approach, 25 
A stranger, no offender ; and inform him 
So ’tis our will he should. 

1 . Lord. I shall, my liege. 

[Exit.] 

King. What says he to your daughter ? Have 
you spoke ? 

Laf. All that he is hath reference to your 
Highness. 

King. Then shall we have a match. I have 
letters sent me 30 

That sets him high in fame. 

Enter Bertram. 

Laf. He looks well on’t. 

King. I am not a day of season, 

For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail 
In me at once. But to the brightest beams 34 
Distracted clouds give way, so stand thou forth ; 
The time is fair again. 

Ber. My high-repented blames, 

Dear sovereign, pardon to me. 

King. All is whole ; 

Not one word more of the consumed time. 

Let’s take the instant by the forward top ; 

For we are old, and on our quick’st decrees <o 
The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time 
Steals ere we can effect them. You remember 
The daughter of this lord ? 

Ber. Admiringly, my liege. At first 
I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart 45 
Durst make too bold a herald of my tongue, 
Where the impression of mine eye infixing, 
Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me, 
Which warp’d the line of every other favour, 
Scorn’d a fair colour, or express’d it stolen, so 
Extended or contracted all proportions 
To a most hideous object. Thence it came 
That she whom all men prais’d and whom my¬ 
self, 

Since I have lost, have lov’d, was in mine eye 
The dust that did offend it. 

King. Well excus’d, 55 

That thou didst love her, strikes some scores 
away 

From the great compt; but love that comes too 
late, 

Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, 

To the great sender turns a sour offence, 
Crying, “ That’s good that’s gone.” Our rash 
faults 60 

Make trivial price of serious things we have, 
Not knowing them until we know their grave. 
Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust, 
Destroy our friends and after weep their dust. 
Our own love waking cries to see what’s done. 
While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon, ee 


Be this sweet Helen’s knell, and now forget 
her. 

Send forth your amorous token for fair Maud¬ 
lin. 

The main consents are had ; and here we ’ll 
stay 

To see our widower’s second marriage-day, 20 
Which better than the first, 0 dear Heaven, 
bless! 

Or, ere they meet, in me, 0 nature, cease ! 

Laf. Come on, my son, in whom my house’s 
name 

Must be digested, give a favour from you 
To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter, « 
That she may quickly come. [ Bertram gives a 
ring. ] By my old beard, 

And every hair that’s on’t, Helen, that’s dead, 
Was a sweet creature ; such a ring as this, 

The last that e’er I took her leave at court, 

I saw upon her finger. 

Ber. Hers it was not. so 

King. Now, pray you, let me see it; for mine 


eye, 

While I was speaking, oft was fasten’d to’t. 
This ring was mine ; and, when I gave it Helen, 
I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood 
Necessitied to help, that by this token ss 

I would relieve her. Had you that craft, to 
reave her 

Of what should stand her most ? 

Ber. My gracious sovereign, 

Howe’er it pleases you to take it so, 

The ring was never hers. 

Count. . Son, on my life, . 

I have seen her wear it; and she reckon’d it oo 
At her life’s rate. 

Laf. I am sure I saw her wear it. 

Ber. You are deceiv’d, my lord, she never 
saw it. 

In Florence was it from a casement thrown me. 
Wrapp’d in a paper, which contain’d the name 
Of her that threw it. Noble she was, and 
thought 96 

I stood engag’d ; but when I had subscrib’d 
To mine own fortune, and inform’d her fully 
I could not answer in that course of honour 
As she had made the overture, she ceas’d 
In heavy satisfaction and would never 100 

Receive the ring again. 

King. Plutus himself, 

That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine, 
Hath not in nature’s mystery more science 
Than I have in this ring. ’T was mine, ’t was 
Helen’s, 

Whoever gave it you. Then, if you know 10s 
That you are well acquainted with yourself, 
Confess’t was hers, and by what rough enforce¬ 
ment 

You got it from her. She call’d the saints to 
surety 

That she would never put it from her finger, 
Unless she gave it to yourself in bed, 110 

Where you have never come, or sent it us 
Upon her great disaster. 

Ber. She never saw it. 

King. Thou speak’st it falsely, as I love mine 
honour; 




v. iii. 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


3 2 3 


And mak’st conjectural fears to come into me, 
Which I would fain shut out. If it should 
prove ns 

That thou art so inhuman, — ’t will not prove 
so ; — 

And yet I know not: thou didst hate her deadly, 
And she is dead ; which nothing, but to close 
Her eyes myself, could win me to believe, 

More than to see this ring. Take him away. 120 
[Guards seize Bertram.] 
My fore-past proofs, howe’er the matter fall, 
Shall tax my fears of little vanity, 

Having vainly fear’d too little. Away with 
him! 

We ’ll sift this matter further. 

Her. If you shall prove 

This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy 120 
Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence, 
Where yet she never was. [Exit, guarded.] 

Enter a Gentleman. 


King. I am wrapp’d in dismal thinkings. 
Gent. Gracious sovereign, 

Whether I have been to blame or no, I know 
not. 

Here’s a petition from a Florentine, 130 

Who hath for four or five removes come short 
To tender it herself. I undertook it, 
Vanquish’d thereto by the fair grace and speech 
Of the poor suppliant, who by this I know 
Is here attending. Her business looks in her 135 
With an importing visage ; and she told me, 

In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern 
Your Highness with herself. 

[King. Beads] a letter. “ Upon his many pro¬ 
testations to marry me when his wife was dead, 
I blush to say it, he won me. Now is the [ho 
Count Rousillon a widower ; his vows are for¬ 
feited to me, and my honour’s paid to him. 
He stole from Florence, taking no leave, and I 
follow him to his country for justice. Grant it 
me, 0 king ! In you it best lies. Otherwise [hs 
a seducer flourishes, and a poor maid is undone. 

Diana Capilet.” 

Laf. I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and 
toll for this. I ’ll none of him. 

King. The heavens have thought well on 
thee, Lafeu, no 

To bring forth this discovery. Seek these 
suitors. 

Go speedily and bring again the Count. 

I am afeard the life of Helen, lady, 

Was foully snatch’d. 

Count. Now, justice on the doers! 

Re-enter Bertram [guarded]. 


King. I wonder, sir, sith wives are monsters 
to you, ns 

And that you fly them as you swear them lord- 
ship, 

Yet you desire to marry. What woman’s that ? 
Enter Widow and Diana. 


Dia. I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine, 
Derived from the ancient Capilet. 

My suit, as I do understand, you know, no 
And therefore know how far I may be pitied. 


Wid. I am her mother, sir, whose age and 
honour 

Both suffer under this complaint we bring, 
And both shall cease, without your remedy. 
King. Come hither, Count; do you know 
these women ? ice 

Ber. My lord, I neither can nor will deny 
But that I know them. Do they charge me 
further? 

Dia. Why do you look so strange upon your 
wife ? 

Ber. She’s none of mine, my lord. 

Dia. If you shall marry, 

You give away this hand, and that is mine ; 170 
You give away heaven’s vows, and those are 
mine; 

You give away myself, which is known mine ; 
For I by vow am so embodied yours, 

That she which marries you must marry me, 
Either both or none. 176 

Laf. Your reputation comes too short for my 
daughter; you are no husband for her. 

Ber. My lord, this is a fond and desperate 
creature, 

Whom sometime I have laugh’d with. Let 
your Highness 

Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour is# 
Than for to think that I would sink it here. 
King. Sir, for my thoughts, you have them 
ill to friend 

Till your deeds gain them. Fairer prove your 
honour 

Than in my thought it lies. 

Dia. Good my lord, 

Ask him upon his oath, if he does think 186 
He had not my virginity. 

King. What say’st thou to her ? 

Ber. She’s impudent, my lord, 

And was a common gamester to the camp. 

Dia. He does me wrong, my lord ; if I were 
so, 

He might have bought me at a common price. 
Do not believe him. 0 , behold this ring, m 
Whose high respect and rich validity 
Did lack a parallel; yet for all that 
He gave it to a commoner o’ the camp, 

If I be one. 

Count. He blushes, and’t is hit. 10s 

Of six preceding ancestors, that gem, 

Conferr’d by testament to the sequent issue, 
Hath it been owed and worn. This is his wife ; 
That ring’s a thousand proofs. 

King. Metliought you said 

You saw one here in court could witness it. 20* 
Dia. I did, my lord, but loath am to produce 
So bad an instrument. His name’s Parolles. 
Laf. I saw the man to-day, if man he be. 
King. Find him, and bring him hither. 

[Exit an attendant.] 
Ber. What of him r 

He’s quoted for a most perfidious slave, 206 
With all the spots o’ the world tax’d and de¬ 
bauch’d, 

Whose nature sickens but to speak a truth. 

Am I or that or this for what he ’ll utter, 

That will speak anything ? 

King. ©he hath that ring of yours. 







3 2 4 


ALL *S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


v. iii. 


Ber. I think she has. Certain it is I lik’d 
her, 210 

And boarded her i’ the wanton way of youth. 
She knew her distance and did angle for me, 
Madding my eagerness with her restraint, 

As all impediments in fancy’s course 
Are motives of more fancy ; and, in fine, 215 
Her infinite cunning, with her modern grace, 
Subdu’d me to her rate. She got the ring ; 

And I had that which any inferior might 
At market-price have bought. 

Dia. I must he patient. 

You, that have turn’d off a first so noble wife, 
May justly diet me. I pray you yet, — 221 

Since you lack virtue, I will lose a husband, — 
Send for your ring, I will return it home, 

And give me mine again. 

Ber. I have it not. 

King. What ring was yours, I pray you ? 
Dia. Sir, much like 

The same upon your finger. 226 

King. Know you this ring ? This ring was 
his of late. 

Dia. And this was it I gave him, being abed. 
King. The story then goes false, you threw 
it him 

Out of a casement. 

Dia. I have spoke the truth. 230 

Enter Parolles. 

Ber. My lord, I do confess the ring was hers. 
King. You boggle shrewdly, every feather 
starts you. 

Is this the man you speak of ? 

Dia. Ay, my lord. 

King. Tell me, sirrah, but tell me true, I 
charge you, 

Not fearing the displeasure of your master, 235 
Which on your just proceeding I ’ll keep off, 

By him and by this woman here what know 
you? 

Par. So please your Majesty, my master hath 
been an honourable gentleman. Tricks he hath 
had in him, which gentlemen have. 240 

King. Come, come, to the purpose. Did he 
love this woman ? 

Par. Faith, sir, he did love her ; but how ? 
King. How, I pray you ? 

Par. He did love her, sir, as a gentleman 
loves a woman. 246 

King. How is that ? 

Par. He lov’d her, sir, and lov’d her not. 
King. As thou art a knave, and no knave. 
What an equivocal companion is this I 250 

Par. I am a poor man, and at your Majesty’s 
command. 

Laf. He’s a good drum, my lord, but a 
naughty orator. 

Dia. Do you know he promis’d me mar¬ 
riage ? 255 

Par. Faith, I know more than I ’ll speak. 
King. But wilt thou not speak all thou 
know’st ? 

Par. Yes, so please your Majesty. I did go 
between them, as I said ; but more than that, 
he lov’d her; for indeed he was mad for her, 
and talk’d cf Satan and of Limbo and of [280 


Furies and I know not what. Yet I was in that 
credit with them at that time that I knew 
of their going to bed, and of other motions, 
as promising her marriage, and things which 
would derive me ill will to speak of; there- [255 
fore I will not speak w’hat I know. 

King. Thou hast spoken all already, unless 
thou canst say they are married. But thou art 
too fine in thy evidence ; therefore stand aside. 
This ring, you say, was yours ? 

Dia. Ay, my good lord. 

King. Where did you buy it ? Or who gave 
it you ? 272 

Dia. It was not given me, nor I did not buy it. 
King. Who lent it you ? 

Dia. It was not lent me neither. 

King. Where did you find it, then ? 

Dia. I found it not. 

King. If it were yours by none of all these 
ways, 276 

How could you give it him ? 

Dia. I never gave it him. 

Laf. This woman’s an easy glove, my lord ; 
she goes off and on at pleasure. 

King. This ring was mine ; I gave it his first 
wife. 280 

Dia. It might be yours or hers, for aught I 
know. 

King. Take her away ; I do not like her now. 
To prison with her; and away with him. 

Unless thou tell’st me where thou hadst this 
ring, 284 

Thou diest within this hour. 

Dia. I ’ll never tell you. 

King. Take her away. 

Dia. I ’ll put in bail, my liege. 

King. I think thee now some common cus¬ 
tomer. 

Dia. By Jove, if ever I knew man, ’t was you. 
King. Wherefore hast thou accus’d him all 
this while ? 

Dia. Because he’s guilty, and he is not 
guilty. 290 

He knows I am no maid, and he ’ll swear to’t: 
I ’ll swear I am a maid, and he knows not. 
Great king, I am no strumpet, by my life ; 

I am either maid, or else this old man’s wife. 
King. She does abuse our ears. To prison 
with her! 295 

Dia. Good mother, fetch my bail. Stay, 

* royal sir, [Exit Widow. \ 

The jeweller that owes the ring is sent for, 

And he shall surety me. But for this lord. 

Who hath abus’d me, as he knows himself, 
Though yet he never harm’d me, here I quit 
him. 300 

He knows himself my bed he hath defil’d, 

And at that time he got his wife with child. 
Dead though she be, she feels her young one 
kick. 

So there’s my riddle: one that’s dead is quick ; 
And now behold the meaning. 

Berenter Widow, with Helena. 

King. Is there no exorcist 

Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes ? 300 

Is’t real that I see ? 





Epi. 


ALL *S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


325 


Hel. No, my good lord ; 

’T is but the shadow of a wife you see, 

The name and not the thing. 

Ber. Both, both. 0 , pardon ! 

Hel. 0 my good lord, when 1 was like this 
maid, 310 

I found you wondrous kind. There is your 
ring; 

And, look you, here’s your letter. This it says: 

“ When from my finger you can get this ring 
And are by me with child,” etc. 

This is done. 

Will you be mine, now you are doubly won ? 315 
Ber. If she, my liege, can make me know 
this clearly, 

I ’ll love her dearly, ever, ever dearly. 

Hel. If it appear not plain and prove untrue, 

Deadly divorce step between me and you ! 

0 my dear mother, do I see you living ? 320 

Laf. Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep 
anon. 

[To Parolles .] Good Tom Drum, lend me a 
handkercher. So, 

I thank thee ; wait on me home, I ’ll make 
sport with thee. 

Let thy courtesies alone, they are scurvy ones. 


King. Let us from point to point this story 
know, 328 

To make the even truth in pleasure flow. 

[To Diana.] If thou be’st yet a fresh un¬ 
cropped flower, 

Choose thou thy husband, and I’ll pay thy 
dower; 

For I can guess that by thy honest aid 
Thou kept’st a wife herself, thyself a maid. s*o 
Of that and all the progress, more and less, 
Resolvedly more leisure shall express. 

All yet seems well; and if it end so meet, 

The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. 

[Flourish. 

[EPILOGUE] 

[King.] The king’s a beggar, now the play 
is done. sss 

All is well ended, if this suit be won, 

That you express content; which we will pay, 
With strife to please you, day exceeding day. 
Ours be your patience then, and yours our 
parts; 

Your gentle hands lend us, and take our 
hearts. [Exeunt omnes. 340 




MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


The date most generally agreed on for the composition of Measure for Measure is 1603 - 4 , and 
though external evidence is even more scanty than usual, internal evidence tends to corroborate 
this conjecture. The entry in the Revels accounts of a performance on December 26 , 1604 , 
is a forgery, but is founded on a good guess. Barksted’s Myrrha ( 1607 ) contains an apparent 
reminiscence of the simile in n. iv. 24 - 26 , and thus affords a later limit. The lines in I. i. 68-73 
and ii. iv. 27-30 may have been written in allusion to James I’s attitude towards the populace, 
and, if so, place the play soon after his accession in 1603 . Similarities in tone, in metre, and in 
details of thought, to All ’s Well and Hamlet all tend in the same direction. 

There is no trace of the play’s having been printed before 1623 , and the present text is based 
on the far from perfect version in the First Folio. 

Stories containing the central situation of Measure for Measure , the perfidy of Angelo, are com. 
mon in European literature. The direct source, however, of Shakespeare’s play is clearly to be 
found in the double drama of Promos and Cassandra , written by George Whetstone before he 
left England in 1578 , the plot of which he later threw into narrative form in his Heptameron oj 
Civil Discourses ( 1582 ). Whetstone’s source seems to have been the fifth novel of the tenth day 
in the Hecatommithi of Giraldi Cinthio, who dramatized the same story in his Epitia. There if 
no evidence of Shakespeare’s having used any version of the story but Whetstone’s drama, except 
that in the Heptameron the narrator of the tale is a Madam Isabella, the identity of whose nams 
with that of Shakespeare’s heroine may point to his having seen the book. 

The scene of Whetstone’s comedy is Julio in Hungary, governed by Promos as representativt 
of Corvinus, King of Bohemia. The society of this city is described as seething with moral cor¬ 
ruption, a picture transferred by Shakespeare to Vienna. But the typical characters chosen tfc 
represent this society are all re-created in Measure for Measure, Pompey alone bearing some re¬ 
semblance to a prototype, the Rosko of Whetstone. The function of the King in the older play 
is practically confined to the redressing of wrongs in the last act, so that the Duke’s disguise as 
a monk, all his activity in the intrigue, and his final offer of marriage to Isabella, are Shake¬ 
speare’s. The Deputy in Whetstone is honest in his severity before he sees Isabella, but the subtle 
portrayal of his austere Puritanism, so carefully made in the earlier scenes of the present play, 
is altogether absent. Shakespeare spares him the additional villainy of a false promise of mar¬ 
riage in his attempt to seduce the heroine, and also the cruelty of ordering the head of her 
brother to be sent to her. 

The most profound change is in the creation of the role of Mariana. In the older forms of 
the story, the main heroine yields to the Deputy, who is forced to marry her at the end. But for 
such an Isabella as Shakespeare conceived, this fate was clearly impossible. So the device of 
substitution, which Shakespeare had used in All ’s Well, was again employed, and a much loftier 
type of character made possible for the heroine. This elevation appears in all the great scenes, 
in her argument on mercy and justice, in her immediate rejection of Angelo’s proposal, and in 
her scorn for her brother’s weakness, — all of which are found in Whetstone in a crude form. 
It is suggestive of the level of Whetstone’s Cassandra that considerations of reputation play a 
great part in the discussion between brother and sister. The first appearance of Isabella in 
Shakespeare is as a novice about to enter a sisterhood; the last is as the prospective bride of the 
Duke. Neither of these is in Whetstone; and the first may be regarded as indicating Shake¬ 
speare’s view of the essential ideal quality in Isabella’s character, the second as a concession to 
the convention of the happy ending. It is perhaps significant that she does not explicitly accept 
the Duke’s proposal. 

The increased delicacy of characterization is seen again in the brother. His first sound reaction 
in horror against Angelo’s infamous proposal is wholly Shakespearean, and serves to place him 
on a plane which, in spite of his later cowardice, makes it possible to conceive him as Isabella’a 
brother. The Provost is a development of Whetstone’s gaoler; but Escalus is a creation of 
Shakespeare’s, serving as a foil to the severity of Angelo. 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


[DRAMATIS PERSONAE] 

Vincentio, the Duke. 

Angelo, the Deputy. 

Escalus, an ancient Lord. 

Claudio, a young gentleman. 

Lucio, a fantastic. 

Two other like gentlemen. 

Provost. 

Peter^’ } two friars. 

A Justice.] 

Yarrius.] 

[Lords, Officers, Citizens, Boy, and Attendants.] 
Scene : Vienna. 


Elbow, a simple constable. 

Froth, a foolish gentleman. 

[Pompey,] clown [servant to Mistress Overdone]. 
Abhorson, an executioner. 

Barnardine, a dissolute prisoner. 

Isabella, sister to Claudio. 

Mariana, betrothed to Angelo. 

Juliet, beloved of Claudio. 

Francisca, a nun. 

Mistress Overdone, a bawd. 


ACT I 

Scene I. [An apartment in the Duke's palace .] 
Enter Duke, Escalus, Lords [ and Attendants], 

Duke. Escalus. 

Escal. My lord. 

Duke. Of government the properties to un¬ 
fold 

Would seem in me to affect speech and dis¬ 
course, 

Since I am put to know that your own science « 
Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice 
My strength can give you. Then no more re¬ 
mains, 

But that to your sufficiency .... 

.as your worth is able, 

And let them work. The nature of our people, 10 
Our city’s institutions, and the terms 
For common justice, you ’re as pregnant in 
As art and practice hath enriched any 
That we remember. There is our commission. 
From which we would not have you warp. Call 
hither, is 

I say, bid come before us Angelo. 

[Exit an attendant.] 

What figure of us think you he will bear ? 

For you must know, we have with special soul 
Elected him our absence to supply, 

Lent him our terror, dress’d him with our love, 
And given his deputation all the organs *1 
Of our own power. What think you of it ? 

Escal. If any in Vienna be of worth 
To undergo such ample grace and honour, 

It is Lord Angelo. 

Enter Angelo. 

Duke. Look where he comes, sb 

Ang. Always obedient to your Grace’s will, 

I come to know your pleasure. 

Duke. Angelo, 

There is a kind of character in thy life, 

That to the observer doth thy history 


Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings s« 
Are not thine own so proper as to waste 
Thyself upon tliy virtues, they on thee. 

Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, 
Not light them for themselves ; for if our vir¬ 
tues 

Did not go forth of us, ’t were all alike so 

As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely 
touch’d 

But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends 
The smallest scruple of her excellence 
But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines 
Herself the glory of a creditor, 40 

Both thanks and use. But I do bend my speech 
To one that can my part in him advertise. 

Hold therefore, Angelo: 

In our remove be thou at full ourself. 

Mortality and mercy in Vienna « 

Live in thy tongue and heart. Old Escalus, 
Though first in question, is thy secondary. 

Take thy commission. 

Ana. Now, good my lord, 

Let there be some more test made of my metal 
Before so noble and so great a figure eo 

Be stamp’d upon it. 

Duke. No more evasion. 

We have with a leaven’d and prepared choice 
Proceeded to you ; therefore take your honours. 
Our haste from hence is of so quick condition 
That it prefers itself and leaves unquestion’d 65 
Matters of needful value. We shall write to 
y° u , 

As time and our concernings shall importune, 
How it goes with us, and do look to know 
What doth befall you here. So, fare you well. 
To the hopeful execution do I leave you «« 
Of your commissions. 

Ang. Yet give leave, my lord, 

That we may bring you something on the way. 

Duke. My haste may not admit it; 

Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do 
With any scruple. Your scope is as mine own, «* 
So to enforce or qualify the laws 





328 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


1 .11. 


As to your soul seems good. Give me your hand; 
I ’ll privily away. I love the people, 

But do not like to stage me to their eyes. 
Though it do well, I do not relish well 70 

Their loud applause and Aves vehement; 

Nor do I think the man of safe discretion 
That does affect it. Once more, fare you well. 
Ang. The heavens give safety to your pur¬ 
poses ! 

Escal. Lead forth and bring you back in 
happiness! 75 

Dulce. I thank you. Fare you well. [Exit. 
Escal. I shall desire you, sir, to give me 
leave 

To have free speech with you ; and it concerns 
me 

To look into the bottom of my place. 

A power I have, but of what strength and na¬ 
ture 80 

I am not yet instructed. 

Ang. ’T is so with me. Let us withdraw to¬ 
gether, 

And we may soon our satisfaction have 
Touching that point. 

Escal. I ’ll wait upon your honour. [ Exeunt. 

Scene II. [A street .] 

Enter Lucio and two other Gentlemen. 

Lucio. If the Duke with the other dukes 
come not to composition with the King of Hun¬ 
gary, why then all the dukes fall upon the 
King. 

1 . Gent. Heaven grant us its peace, but not 

the King of Hungary’s ! 6 

2 . Gent. Amen. 

Lucio. Thou conclud’st like the sanctimoni¬ 
ous pirate, that went to sea with the Ten Com¬ 
mandments, but scrap’d one out of the table. 

2 . Gent. “ Thou shalt not steal ” ? 10 

Lucio. Ay, that he raz’d. 

2 . Gent. Why, ’t was a commandment to 
command the captain and all the rest from their 
functions; they put forth to steal. There’s 
not a soldier of us all, that, in the thanksgiving 
before meat, do relish the petition well that 
prays for peace. 17 

2 . Gent. I never heard any soldier dislike it. 
Lucio. I believe thee ; for I think thou never 
wast where grace was said. 20 

2 . Gent. No ? A dozen times at least. 

2 . Gent. What, in metre ? 

Lucio. In any proportion or in any language. 
2 . Gent. I think, or in any religion. 24 

Lucio. Ay, why not ? Grace is grace, despite 
of all controversy; aSj for example, thou thy¬ 
self art a wicked villain, despite of all grace. 

2 . Gent. Well, there went but a pair of shears 
between us. 

Lucio. I grant; as there may between the 
lists and the velvet. Thou art the list. si 

2 . Gent. And thou the velvet. Thou art good 
velvet; thou’rt a three-pil’d piece, I warrant 
thee. I had as lief be a list of an English ker¬ 
sey as be pil’d, as thou art pil’d, for a French 
velvet. Do I speak feelingly now ? 36 

Lucio. I think thou dost; and, indeed, with 


most painful feeling of thy speech. I will, out 
of thine own confession, learn to begin thy 
health ; but, whilst I live, forget to drink after 
thee. 40 

2 . Gent. I think I have done myself wrong, 
have I not ? 

2 . Gent. Yes, that thou hast, whether thou 
art tainted or free. 44 

Enter Bawd [Mistress Overdone]. 

Lucio. Behold, behold, where Madam Miti¬ 
gation comes! I have purchas’d as many dis¬ 
eases under her roof as come to — 

2 . Gent. To what, I pray ? 

Lucio. Judge. « 

2 . Gent. To three thousand dolours a year. 

2 . Gent. Ay, and more. 

Lucio. A French crown more. 

2 . Gent. Thou art always figuring diseases in 
me ; but thou art full of error ; I am sound. 54 
Lucio. Nay, not as one would say, healthy; 
but so sound as things that are hollow. Thy 
bones are hollow ; impiety has made a feast of 
thee. 

2 . Gent. How now ! which of your hips has 
the most profound sciatica ? 59 

Mrs. Ov. Well, well; there ’s one yonder 
arrested and carried to prison was worth five 
thousand of you all. 

2 . Gent. Who’s that, I pray thee ? 

Mrs. Ov. Marry, sir, that’s Claudio, Signior 
Claudio. eg 

2 . Gent. Claudio to prison ? ’T is not so. 

Mrs. Ov. Nay, but I know’t is so. I saw 
him arrested, saw him carried away; and, 
which is more, within these three days his head 
to be chopp’d off. 70 

Lucio. But, after all this fooling, I would 

not have it so. Art thou sure of this ? 

Mrs. Ov. I am too sure of it; and it is for 
getting Madam Julietta with child. n 

Lucio. Believe me, this may be. He promis’d 
to meet me two hours since, and he was ever 
precise in promise-keeping. 

2 . Gent. Besides, you know, it draws some¬ 
thing near to the speech we had to such a pur¬ 
pose. 79 

2 . Gent. But, most of all, agreeing with the 
proclamation. 

Lucio. Away ! let’s go learn the truth of it. 

[Exeunt [Lucio and Gentlemen ]. 
Mrs. Ov. Thus, what with the war, what 
with the sweat, what with the gallows, and what 
with poverty, I am custom-shrunk. 85 

Enter Clown [Pompey], 

How now ! what’s the news with you ? 

Pom. Yonder man is carried to prison. 

Mrs. Ov. Well; what has he done ? 

Pom. A woman. 

Mrs. Ov. But what’s his offence ? »o 

Pom. Groping for trouts in a peculiar river. 
Mrs. Ov. What, is there a maid with child 
by him ? 

Pom. No, but there ’s a woman with maid by 
him. You have not heard of the proclamation, 
have you ? fle 




MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


3*9 


I. iii. 


Mrs. Ov. What proclamation, man ? 

Pom. All houses in the suburbs of Vienna 
must be pluck’d down. 

Mrs. Ov. And what shall become of those in 
the city ? ioi 

Pom. They shall stand for seed. They had 
gone down too, but that a wise burgher put in 
for them. 

Mrs. Ov. But shall all our houses of resort 
in the suburbs be pull’d down ? ioe 

Pom. To the ground, mistress. 

Mrs. Ov. Why, here’s a change indeed in the 
commonwealth ! What shall become of me ? 

Pom. Come, fear not you; good counsellors 
lack no clients. Though you change your 
place, you need not change your trade. I ’ll [no 
be your tapster still. Courage ! there will be 
pity taken on you. You that have worn your 
eyes almost out in the service, you will be con¬ 
sidered. no 

Mrs. Ov. What’s to do here, Thomas tap¬ 
ster ? Let’s withdraw. 

Pom. Here comes Signior Claudio, led by 
the provost to prison ; and there’s Madam Ju¬ 
liet. [Exeunt. 

Enter Provost, Claudio, Juliet, and Offi¬ 
cers. 

Claud. Fellow, why dost thou show me thus 
to the world ? 120 

Bear me to prison, where I am committed. 

Prov. I do it not in evil disposition, 

But from Lord Angelo by special charge. 

Claud. Thus can the demigod authority 
Make us pay down for our offence by weight 12c 
The words of heaven: on whom it will, it will; 
On whom it will not, so ; yet still’t is just. 

[Re-enter Lucio and two Gentlemen.] 

Lucio. Why, how now, Claudio! whence 

comes this restraint ? 

Claud. From too much liberty, my Lucio, 
liberty. 

As surfeit is the father of much fast, iso 

So every scope by the immoderate use 
Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue, 
Like rats that ravin down their proper bane, 

A thirsty evil; and when we drink we die. 134 

Lucio. If I could speak so wisely under an 
arrest, I would send for certain of my creditors; 
and yet, to say the truth, I had as lief have the 
foppery of freedom as the morality of imprison¬ 
ment. What’s thy offence, Claudio ? 

Claud. What but to speak of would offend 
again. 140 

Lucio. What, is’t murder ? 

Claud. No. 

Lucio. Lechery? 

Claud. Call it so. 

Prov. Away, sir ! you must go. 1 46 

Claud. One word, good friend. Lucio, a word 
with you. 

Lucio. A hundred, if they’ll do you any 
good. 

Is lechery so look’d after ? 

Claud. Thus stands it with me : upon a true 
contract 


I got possession of Julietta’s bed. ieo 

You know the lady; she is fast my wife, 

Save that we do the denunciation lack 
Of outward order. This we came not to, 

Only for propagation of a dower 
Remaining in the coffer of her friends, we 

From whom we thought it meet to hide our love 
Till time had made them for us. But it chances 
The stealth of our most mutual entertainment 
With character too gross is writ on Juliet. 
Lucio. With child, perhaps ? 

Claud. Unhappily, even so. 

And the new deputy now for the Duke— iei 
Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness, 
Or whether that the body public be 
A horse whereon the governor doth ride, 

Who, newly in the seat, that it may know i 65 
He can command, lets it straiglitfeel the spur ; 
Whether the tyranny be in his place, 

Or in his eminence that fills it up, 

I stagger in: — but this new governor 
Awakes me all the enrolled penalties 1™ 

Which have, like unscour’d armour, hung by 
the wall 

So long that nineteen zodiacs have gone round 
And none of them been worn ; and, for a 
name, 

Now puts the drowsy and neglected act 
Freshly on me. ’T is surely for a name. 175 
Lucio. I warrant it is ; and thy head stands 
so tickle on thy shoulders that a milkmaid, if 
she be in love, may sigh it off. Send after the 
Duke and appeal to him. 

Claud. I have done so, but he’s not to be 
found. iso 

I prithee, Lucio, do me this kind service. 

This day my sister should the cloister enter 
And there receive her approbation. 

Acquaint her with the danger of my state ; 
Implore her, in my voice, that she make 
friends i 88 

To the strict deputy; bid herself assay him. 

I have great hope in that; for in her youth 
There is a prone and speechless dialect, 

Such as move men ; beside, she hath prosper¬ 
ous art 

When she will play with reason and discourse, 
And well she can persuade. 

Lucio. I pray she may ; as well for the en¬ 
couragement of the like, which else would 
stand under grievous imposition, as for the 
enjoying of thy life, who I would be sorry 
should be thus foolishly lost at a game of tick- 
tack. I ’ll to her. i 9 « 

Claud. I thank you, good friend Lucio. 
Lucio. Within two hours. 

Claud. Come, officer, away ! 

[Exeunt. 

Scene [III. A monastery .] 

Enter Duke and Friar Thomas. 

Duke. No, holy father; throw away that 
thought. 

Believe not that the dribbling dart of love 
Can pierce a complete bosom. Why I desire 
thee 





33° 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


i. iv. 


To give me secret harbour, hath a purpose 
More grave and wrinkled than the aims and 
ends 

Of burning youth. 

Fri. T. May your Grace speak of it ? 

Duke. My holy sir, none better knows than 
you 

How 1 have ever lov’d the life removed, 

And held in idle price to haunt assemblies 
Where youth, and cost, and witless bravery 
keeps. io 

I have deliver’d to Lord Angelo, 

A man of stricture and firm abstinence. 

My absolute power and place here in Vienna, 
And he supposes me travell’d to Poland ; 

For so I have strew’d it in the common ear, is 
And so it is receiv’d. Now, pious sir, 

You will demand of me why I do this. 

Fri. T. Gladly, my lord. 

Duke. We have strict statutes and most bit¬ 
ing laws, 

The needful bits and curbs to headstrong 
steeds, 20 

Which for this nineteen years we have let slip ; 
Even like an o’ergrown lion in a cave, 

That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fa¬ 
thers, 

Having bound up the threatening twigs of 
birch, 

Only to stick it in their children’s sight 25 
For terror, not to use, in time the rod 
[Becomes] more mock’d than fear’d ; so our 
decrees, 

Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead, 

And liberty plucks justice by the nose, 

The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart 3 » 
Goes all decorum. 

Fri. T. It rested in your Grace 

To unloose this tied-up justice when you 
pleas’d : 

And it in you more dreadful would have 
seem’d 

Than in Lord Angelo. 

Duke. I do fear, too dreadful. 

Sith’t was my fault to give the people scope, ss 
’T would be my tyranny to strike and gall 
them 

For what I bid them do ; for we bid this be 
done, 

When evil deeds have their permissive pass 
And not the punishment. Therefore indeed, 
my father, 

I have on Angelo impos’d the office ; 40 

Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike 
home, 

And yet my nature never in the sight 
To do it slander. And to behold his sway, 

I will, as ’twere a brother of your order, 

Visit both prince and people; therefore, I 
prithee, *6 

Supply me with the habit and instruct me 
How I may formally in person bear me 
Like a true friar. Moe reasons for this action 
At our more leisure shall I render you ; 

Only, this one: Lord Angelo is precise, 00 

Stands at a guard with envy, scarce confesses 
Thai his blood flows, or that his appetite 


Is more to bread than stone; hence shall we 
see, 

If power change purpose, what our seemers be. 

[Exeunt 

Scene [IV. A nunnery .] 

Enter Isabella and Francisca, a Nun. 

Isab. And have you nuns no farther privi¬ 
leges ? 

Fran. Are not these large enough ? 

Isab. Yes, truly. I speak not as desiring 
more, 

But rather wishing a more strict restraint 4 
Upon the sisterhood, the votaries of Saint Clare. 
Lucio. ( Within.) Ho ! Peace be in this place I 
Isab. Who’s that which calls ? 

Fran. It is a man’s voice. Gentle Isabella, 
Turn you the key, and know his business of 
him. 

You may, I may not; you are yet unsworn. 
When you have vow’d, you must not speak with 
men 1# 

But in the presence of the prioress ; 

Then, if you speak, you must not show your 
face, 

Or, if you show your face, you must not speak. 
He calls again ; I pray you, answer him. 

[Exit. 

Isab. Peace and prosperity! Who is’t that- 
calls ? i* 

[Enter Lucio.] 

Lucio. Hail, virgin, if you be, as those cheek- 
roses 

Proclaim you are no less ! Can you so stead me 
As bring me to the sight of Isabella, 

A novice of this place and the fair sister 
To her unhappy brother Claudio ? 20 

Isab. Why her unhappy brother ? let me ask, 
The rather for I now must make you know 
I am that Isabella and his sister. 

Lucio. Gentle and fair, your brother kindly 
greets you. 

Not to be weary with you, he’s in prison. 25 
Isab. Woe me ! for what ? 

Lucio. For that which, if myself might be 
his judge, 

He should receive his punishment in thanks. 

He hath got his friend with child. 

Isab. Sir, make me not your story. 

Lucio. It is true. 

I would not — though ’t is my familiar sin 31 
With maids to seem the lapwing and to jest, 
Tongue far from heart—play with all virgins 
so. 

I hold you as a thing enskied and sainted, 

By your renouncement an immortal spirit, 3 s 
And to be talk’d with in sincerity, 

As with a saint. 

Isab. You do blaspheme the good in mocking 
me. 

Lucio.' Do not believe it. Fewness and truth, 
’t is thus: 

Your brother and his lover have embrac’d. 40 
As those that feed grow full, as blossoming time 
That from the seedness the bare fallow brings 





MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


33i 


11 . i. 


To teeming foison, even so her plenteous womb 
Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry. 

Isab. Some one with child by him ? My 
cousin Juliet ? « 

Lucio. Is she your cousin ? 

Isab. Adoptedly; as school-maids change 
their names 

By vain though apt affection. 

Lucio. She it is. 

Isab. 0 , let him marry her. 

Lucio. This is the point. 

The Duke is very strangely gone from hence ; bo 
B ore many gentlemen, myself being one, 

In hand, in hope of action; but we do learn 
By those that know the very nerves of state, 
His givings-out were of an infinite distance 
From his true-meant design. Upon his place, bs 
A nd with full line of his authority, 

Governs Lord Angelo, a man whose blood 
Is very snow-broth, one who never feels 
The wanton stings and motions of the sense, 
But doth rebate and blunt his natural edge eo 
With profits of the mind, study, and fast. 

He — to give fear to use and liberty, 

Which have for long run by the hideous law, 
As mice by lions — hath pick’d out an act, 
Under whose heavy sense your brother’s life bb 
F alls into forfeit; he arrests him on it; 

And follows close the rigour of the statute, 

To make him an example. All hope is gone, 
Unless you have the grace by your fair prayer 
To soften Angelo. And that’s my pith to 

Of business ’twixt you and your poor brother. 
Isab. Doth he so seek his life ? 

Lucio. Has censur’d him 

Already ; and, as I hear, the Provost hath 
A warrant for his execution. 

Isab. Alas ! what poor ability’s in me to 
T o do him good ? 

Lucio. Assay the power you have. 

Isab. My power ? Alas, I doubt — 

Lucio. Our doubts are traitors, 

And makes us lose the good we oft might win 
By fearing to attempt. Go to Lord Angelo, 
And let him learn to know, when maidens sue so 
Men give like gods; but when they weep and 
kneel, 

All their petitions are as freely theirs 
As they themselves would owe them. 

Isab. I ’ll see what I can do. 

Lucio. But speedily. 

Isab. I will about it straight, »« 

No longer staying but to give the Mother 
Notice of my affair. I humbly thank you. 
Commend me to my brother. Soon at night 
I ’ll send him certain word of my success. 
Lucio. I take my leave of you. 

Isab. Good sir, adieu. 90 

[Exeunt. 

ACT II 

Scene I. [A hall in Angelo's house.] 

Enter Angelo, Escalus, a Justice, and Ser¬ 
vants. 

Ang. We must not make a scarecrow of the 
law, 


Setting it up to fear the birds of prey, 

And let it keep one shape, till custom make it 
Their perch and not their terror. 

Escal. Ay, but yet 

Let us be keen, and rather cut a little, b 

Than fall, and bruise to death. Alas, this gen¬ 
tleman 

Whom I would save had a most noble father! 
Let but your honour know, 

Whom 1 believe to be most strait in virtue, 
That, in the working of your own affections, 10 
Had time coher’d with place or place with wish- 

^ in £’ 

Or that the resolute acting of your blood 
Could have attain’d the effect of your own pur¬ 
pose, 

Whether you had not sometime in your life 
Err’d in this point which now you censure him, 
And pull’d the law upon you. io 

Ang. ’T is one thing to be tempted, Escalus, 
Another thing to fall. I not deny, 

The jury, passing on the prisoner’s life, 

May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two 20 
Guiltier than him they try. What’s open made 
to justice, 

That justice seizes. What knows the laws 
That thieves do pass on thieves? ’Tis very 
pregnant, 

The jewel that we find, we stoop and take’t 
Because we see it; but what we do not see 20 
We tread upon, and never think of it. 

You may not so extenuate his offence 
For I have had such faults; but rather tell me, 
When I, that censure him, do so offend, 29 
Let mine own judgement pattern out my death, 
And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die. 

Enter Provost. 

Escal. Be it as your wisdom will. 

Ang. Where is the Provost ? 

Prov. Here, if it like your honour. 

Ang. See that Claudio 

Be executed by nine to-morrow morning. 

Bring him his confessor, let him be prepar’d ; ss 
For that’s the utmost of his pilgrimage. 

[Exit Provost .] 

Escal. [Aside.] Well, Heaven forgive him! 
and forgive us all! 

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall. 

Some run from brakes of vice, and answer none ; 
And some condemned for a fault alone. 40 

Enter Elbow, Froth, Clown [Pompey, and] 
Officers. 

Elb. Come, bring them away. If these be 
good people in a commonweal that do nothing 
but use their abuses in common houses, I know 
no law. Bring them away. 44 

Ang. How now, sir! What’s your name? 
and what’s the matter ? 

Elb. If it please your honour, I am the poor 
Duke’s constable, and my name is Elbow. I 
do lean upon justice, sir, and do bring in here 
before your good honour two notorious bene¬ 
factors. 50 

Ang. Benefactors? Well, what benefactors 
are they ? Are they not malefactors ? 




332 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


ii. i. 


Elb. If it please your honour, I know not 
well what they are; but precise villains they 
are, that I am sure of ; and void of all profana¬ 
tion in the world that good Christians ought to 
have. _ 56 

Escal. This comes off well. Here’s a wise 
officer. 

Ang. Go to; what quality are they of ? 
Elbow is your name ? Why dost thou not, speak, 
Elbow ? 

Pom. He cannot, sir ; he’s out at elbow, si 
Ang. What are you, sir ? 

Elb. He, sir ! A tapster, sir ; parcel-bawd ; 
one that serves a had woman, whose house, sir, 
was, as they say, pluck’d down in the suburbs ; 
and now she professes a hot-house, which, I 
think, is a very ill house too. 67 

Escal. How know you that ? 

Elb. My wife, sir, whom I detest before 
Heaven and your honour, — ?o 

Escal. How ? Thy wife ? 

Elb. Ay, sir; whom, I thank Heaven, is an 
honest woman, — 

Escal. Dost thou detest her therefore ? 74 

Elb. I say, sir, I will detest myself also, as 
well as she, that this house, if it be not a bawd’s 
house, it is pity of her life, for it is a naughty 
house. 78 

Escal. How dost thou know that, consta- 
bie ? 

Elb. Marry, sir, by my wife ; who, if she had 
been a woman cardinally given, might have 
been accus’d in fornication, adultery, and all 
uncleanliness there. 

Escal. By the woman’s means ? 84 

Elb. Ay, sir, by Mistress Overdone’s means ; 
hut as she spit in his face, so she defi’d 
him. 

Pom. Sir, if it please your honour, this is 
not so. 

Elb. Prove it before these varletshere, thou 
honourable man ; prove it. 

Escal. Do you hear how he misplaces ? so 
Pom. Sir, she came in great with child, and 
longing, saving your honour’s reverence, for 
stew’d prunes. Sir, we had but two in the 
house, which at that very distant time stood, 
as it were, in a fruit-dish, a dish of some three¬ 
pence. Your honours have seen such dishes: 
they are not china dishes, but very good 
dishes, — 97 

Escal. Go to, go to ; no matter for the dish, 
sir. 

Pom. No, indeed, sir, not of a pin ; yoix are 
therein in tne right. But to the point. As I 
say, this Mistress Elbow, being, as I say, with 
child, and being great-bellied, and longing, as 
I said, for prunes ; and having but two in [102 
the dish, as I said, Master Froth here, this very 
man, having eaten the rest, as I said, and, as 
I say, paying for them very honestly ; for, as 
you know, Master Froth, I could not give you 
three-pence again. 107 

Froth. No, indeed. 

Pom. Very well; you being then, if you be 
rememb’red, cracking the stones of the foresaid 
prunes, — 111 


Froth. Ay, so I did indeed. 

Pom. Why, very well. I telling you then, if 
you be rememb’red, that such a one and such 
a one were past cure of the thing you wot of, 
unless they kept very good diet, as I told 
you, — 116 

Froth. All this is true. 

Pom. Why, very well, then, — 

Escal. Come, you are a tedious fool. To the 
purpose. What was done to Elbow’s wife, that 
he hath cause to complain of ? Come me to 
what was done to her. 722 

Pom. Sir, your honour cannot come to that 
yet. 

Escal. No, sir, nor I mean it not. 

Pom. Sir, but you shall come to it, by your 
honour’s leave. And, I beseech you, look into 
Master Froth here, sir; a man of fourscore 
pound a year ; whose father died at Hallow¬ 
mas. Was ’t not at Hallowmas, Master 
Froth ? i2« 

Froth. All-hallond eve. 

Pom. Why, very well; I hope here he truths. 
He, sir, sitting, as I say, in a lower chair, sir; 
’t was in the Bunch of Grapes, where indeed 
you have a delight to sit, have you not ? 134 

Froth. I have so ; because it is an open room 
and good for winter. 

Pom. Why, very well, then ; I hope here be 
truths. 

Ang. This will last out a night in Russia, 
When nights are longest there. I ’ll take my 
leave, 140 

And leave you to the hearing of the cause, 
Hoping you ’ll find good cause to whip them 
aH. 

Escal. I think no less. Good morrow to your 
lordship. [ Exit Angelo. 

Now, sir, come on. What was done to Elbow’s 
wife, once more ? 145 

Pom. Once, sir ? There was nothing done to 
her once. 

Elb. I beseech you, sir, ask him what this 
man did to my wife. 

Pom. I beseech your honour, ask me. iso 

Escal. Well, sir; what did this gentleman 
to her ? 

Pom. I beseech you, sir, look in this gentle¬ 
man’s face.. Good Master Froth, look upon his 
honour; ’tis for a good purpose. Doth your 

honour mark his face ? iso 

Escal. Ay, sir, very well. 

Pom. Nay, I beseech you, mark it well. 
Escal. Well, I do so. 

Pom. Doth your honour see any harm in his 
face ? i 6 i 

Escal. Why, no. 

Pom. I ’ll be suppos’d upon a hook, his face 
is the worst thing about him. Good, then; if 
his face be the worst thing about him, how 
could Master Froth do the constable’s wife any 
harm ? I would know that of your honour. 107 
Escal. He’s in the right. Constable, what 
say you to it ? 

Elb. First, an it like you, the house is a re- 
spected house ; next, this is a respected fellow ; 
and his mistress is a respected woman. 171 





II. 1. 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


333 


Pom. By this hand, sir, his wife is a more 
respected person than any of us all. 

Elb. Varlet, thou liest! Thou liest, wicked 
varlet! The time is yet to come that she was 
ever respected with man, woman, or child. 177 
Pom. Sir, she was respected with him before 
he married with her. 

Escal. Which is the wiser here, Justice or 
Iniquity ? Is this true ? i»i 

Elb. 0 thou caitiff ! 0 thou varlet! O thou 
wicked Hannibal! I respected with her before 
I was married to her ! If ever I was respected 
with her, or she with me, let not your worship 
think me the poor Duke’s officer. Prove this, 
thou wicked Hannibal, or I ’ll have mine action 
of battery on thee. 188 

Escal. If he took you a box o’ the ear, you 
might have your action of slander too. 

Elb. Marry, I thank your good worship for 
it. What is’t your worship’s pleasure I shall 
do with this wicked caitiff r i »3 

Escal. Truly, officer, because he hath some 
offences in him that thou wouldst discover if 
thou couldst, let him continue in his courses 
till thou know’st what they are. 197 

Elb. Marry, I thank your worship for it. 
Thou seest, thou wicked varlet, now, what’s 
qome upon thee. Thou art to continue now, 
thou varlet: thou art to continue. 201 

Escal. Where were you born, friend ? 

Froth. Here in Vienna, sir. 

Escal. Are you of fourscore pounds a year ? 
Froth. Yes, an’t please you, sir. 205 

Escal. So. What trade are you of, sir ? 
Pom. A tapster ; a poor widow’s tapster. 
Escal. Your mistress’ name ? 

Pom. Mistress Overdone. 

Escal. Hath she had any more than one 
husband ? 211 

Pom. Nine, sir ; Overdone by the last. 
Escal. Nine ! Come hither to me, Master 
Froth. Master Froth, I would not have you 
acquainted with tapsters; they will draw you, 
Master Froth, and you will hang them. Get you 
gone, and let me hear no more of you. 217 

Froth. I thank your worship. For mine own 
part, I never come into any room in a tap- 
house, but I am drawn in. 220 

Escal. Well, no more of it, Master Froth. 
Farewell. [Exit Frotfu] Come you hither to 
me, Master tapster. What’s your name, Mas¬ 
ter tapster ? 224 

Pom. Pompey. 

Escal. What else ? 

Pom. Bum, sir. 227 

Escal. Troth, and your bum is the greatest 
thing about you, so that in the beastliest sense 
you are Pompey the Great. Pompey, you are 
partly a bawd, Pompey, howsoever you colour 
it in being a tapster, are you not ? Come, tell 
me true ; it shall be the better for you. 233 
Pom. Truly, sir, I am a poor fellow that 
would live. # 

Escal. How would you live, Pompey ? By 
being a bawd ? What do you think of the 
trade, Pompey ? Is it a lawful trade ? 23s 

Pom. If the law would allow it, sir. 


Escal. But the law will not allow it, Pom¬ 
pey ; nor it shall not be allowed in Vienna. 241 
Pom. Does your worship mean to geld and 
splay all the youth of the city ? 

Escal. No, Pompey. 244 

Pom. Truly, sir, in my poor opinion, they 
will to’t then. If your worship will take order 
for the drabs and the knaves, you need not to 
fear the bawds. 

Escal. There is pretty orders beginning, I 
can tell you. It is but heading and hanging. 200 
Pom. If you head and hang all that offend 
that way but for ten year together, you ’ll be 
glad to give out a commission for more heads. 
If this law hold in Vienna ten year, I ’ll rent 
the fairest house in it after three-pence a day. 
If you live to see this come to pass, say Pompey 
told you so. 257 

Escal. Thank you, good Pompey; and, in 
requital of your prophecy, hark you : I advise 
you, let me not find you before me again upon 
any complaint whatsoever ; no, not for [200 
dwelling where you do. If I do, Pompey, I 
shall beat you to your tent, and prove a shrewd 
Caesar to you; in plain dealing, Pompey, I 
shall have you whipt. So, for this time, Pom¬ 
pey, fare you well. 2cc 

Pom. I thank your worship for your good 
counsel ; [aside] but I shall follow it as the flesh 
and fortune shall better determine. 

Whip me ? No, no ; let carman whip his jade ; 
The valiant heart’s not whipt out of his 
trado. [Exit. 270 

Escal. Come hither to me, Master Elbow ; 
come hither, Master constable. How long have 
you been in this place of constable ? 

Elb. Seven year and a half, sir. 274 

Escal. I thought, by the readiness in the 
office, you had continued in it sometime. You 
say, seven years together ? 

Elb. And a half, sir. 2-8 

Escal. Alas, it hath been great pains to you. 
They do you wrong to put you so oft upon’t. 
Are there not men in your ward sufficient to 
serve it ? 

Elb. Faith, sir, few of any wit in such mat¬ 
ters. As they are chosen, they are glad to 
choose me for them. I do it for some piece of 
money, and go through with all. 285 

Escal. Look you bring me in the names of 
some six or seven, the most sufficient of your 
parish. 

Elb. To your worship’s house, sir ? 

Escal. To my house. Fare you well. 

[Exit Elbow.] 

What’s o’clock, think you ? 290 

Just. Eleven, sir. 

Escal. I pray you home to dinner with me. 
Just. I humbly thank you. 

Escal. It grieves me for the death of Claudio ; 
But there’s no remedy. 295 

Just. Lord Angelo is severe. 

Escal. It is but needful. 

Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so ; 

Pardon is still the nurse of second woe. 

But yet, —poor Claudio ! There is no remedy. 
Come, sir. [Exeunt, soo 




334 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


II. ii. 


Scene II. [Another room in the same.] 
Enter Provost and a Servant. 

Serv. He’s hearing of a cause ; he will come 
straight. 

I ’ll tell him of you. 

Prov. Pray you, do. 

[Exit Servant .] 
I’ll know 

His pleasure ; may be he will relent. Alas, 

He hath but as offended in a dream ! 

All sects, all ages smack of this vice ; and he s 
To die for’t! 

Enter Angelo. 

Ang. Now, what’s the matter, Provost ? 
Prov. Is it your will Claudio shall die to¬ 
morrow ? 

Ang. Did not I tell thee yea? Hadst thou 
not order ? 

Why dost thou ask again ? 

Prov. Lest I might be too rash. 

Under your good correction, I have seen 10 
When, after execution, judgement hath 
Repented o’er his doom. 

Ang. Go to ; let that be mine. 

Do you your office, or give up your place, 

And you shall well be spar’d. 

Prov. I crave your honour’s pardon. 

What shall be done, sir, with the groaning 
Juliet ? 1 5 

She’s very near her hour. 

Ang. Dispose of her 

To some more fitter place, and that with speed. 

[Re-enter Servant.] 

Serv. Here is the sister of the man con¬ 
demn’d 

Desires access to you. 

Ang. Hath he a sister ? 

Prov. Ay, my good lord; a very virtuous 
maid, 20 

A.nd to be shortly of a sisterhood, 

If not already. 

Ang. Well, let her be admitted. 

[Exit Servant .] 

See you the fornicatress be remov’d. 

Let her have needful, but not lavish, means ; 
There shall be order for’t. 

Enter Isabella and Lucio. 

Prov. God save your honour! 

Ang. Stay a little while. [To Isab.] You ’re 
welcome ; what’s your will ? 20 

Isab. I am a woeful suitor to your honour, 
Please but your honour hear me. 

Ang. Well; what’s your suit ? 

Isab. There is a vice that most I do abhor, 
And most desire should meet the blow of 
justice; so 

For which I would not plead, but that I must; 
For which I must not plead, but that I am 
At war ’twixt will and will not. 

Ang. Well; the matter ? 

Isab. I have a brother is condemn’d to die. 

I do beseech you, let it be his fault, ss 

And not my brother. 


Prov. [Aside.'] Heaven give thee moving 
graces! 

Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor 
of it ? 

Why, every fault’s condemn’d ere it be done. 
Mine were the very cipher of a function, 

To fine the faults whose fine stands in record, 40 
And let go by the actor. 

Isab. 0 just but severe law I 

I had a brother, then. Heaven keep your 
honour! 

Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] Give ’t not o er so. 
To him again, entreat him, 

Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown. 
You are too cold. If you should need a pin, *5 
You could not with more tame a tongue desire 
it. 

To him, I say ! 

Isab. Must he needs die ? 

Ang. Maiden, no remedy. 

Isab. Yes ; I do think that you might pardon 
him, 

And neither heaven nor man grieve at the 
mercy. 60 

Ang. I will not do’t. 

Isab. But can you, if you would ? 

Ang. Look, what I will not, that I cannot do. 
Isab. But might you do’t, and do the world 
no wrong, 

If so your heart were touch’d with that remorse 
As mine is to him ? 

Ang. He’s sentenc’d ; ’t is too late. 

Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] You are too cold, ee 
Isab. Too late ? Why, no, I, that do speak a 
word, 

May call it back again. Well, believe this, 

No ceremony that to great ones longs, «> 

Not the king’s crown, nor the deputed sword, 
The marshal’s truncheon, nor the judge’s robe. 
Become them with one half so good a grace 
As mercy does. 

If he had been as you and you as he. 

You would have slipt like him ; but he, like 
you, 

Would not have been so stern. 

Ang. Pray you, be gone. 

Isab. I would to heaven I had your potency. 
And you were Isabel! Should it then be thus ? 
No ; I would tell what’t were to be a judge. 
And what a prisoner. 

Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] Ay, touch him; 

there’s the vein. 70 

Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law. 
And you but waste your words. 

Isab. Alas, alas! 

Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once ; 
And He that might the vantage best have took 
Found out the remedy. How would you be, w 
If He, which is the top of judgement, should 
But judge you as you are ? O, think on that; 
And mercy then will breathe within your lips, 
Like man new made. 

Ang. Be you content, fair maid. 

It is the law, not I condemn your brother. »• 
Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son, 

It should be thus with him. He must die to¬ 
morrow. 







II. 1L 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


335 


J 


Isab. To-morrow ! 0 , that’s sudden ! Spare 
him, spare him I 

He’s not prepared for death. Even for our 
kitchens 

We kill the fowl of season. Shall we serve 
Heaven ss 

With less respect than we do minister 
To our gToss selves ? Good, good my lord, be¬ 
think you: 

Who is it that hath died for this offence ? 

There ’s many have committed it. ' 

Lucio. [Aside to Uab.]i AyftfRl said. 

Ang. The law hath n< i beeA deattylnough it 
hath slept. >il b e r mV »o 

Those many had not darUtfcUido that evil, 

If [but] the first that did the edict infringe 
Had answer’d for his deed iow ’t is awake, 
Takes note of what isdou* ,ari<l, like a prophet, 
Looks in a glass thafcsb'ou kvhat future evils, 
Either new, or bv new-conceiv’d, 

And so in progadV- td b'Chatch’d and born, 

Are now tuhav- aotfawcossive degrees, 

Hut, ere jjiey live, to end. 

Isab. i Yet show some pity. 

Ang. I fihow it most of all when I show jus- 
tMpb,vjuf for ioo 

For tbfeafLpity Chose I do not know, 

WWjpri ^ flMB Bg’d offence would after gall; 
Aadp 4 &<MVi right that, answering one foul 

Livo:s not to act another. Be satisfied. 

bother dies to-morrow. Be content. ios 
Isab So you must be the first that gives this 
sentence, 

he, that suffers. 0 , it is excellent 
have a giant’s strength ; but it is tyrannous 
‘o use it like a giant. 

■ Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] That’s well said. 

B Isab. Could great men thunder no 

As Jove himself does, Jove would ne’er be 
quiet; 

BTor every pelting, petty officer 
[Would use his heaven for thunder, 

[llothing but thunder ! Merciful Heaven, n« 
[Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt 
Splits the unwedgeable and gnarled oak 
ffhan the soft myrtle ; but man, proud man, 
B)ress’d in a little brief authority, 

•lost ignorant of what he’s most assur’d, 

His glassy essence, like an angry ape, no 

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
As makes the angels weep; who, with our 
spleens, 

Would all themselves laugh mortal, 
i Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] O, to him, to him, 
wench ! he will relent. 

He’s coming ; I perceive’t. 

‘ Prov. [Aside.] Pray Heaven she win him ! 

! Isab. We cannot weigh our brother with our- 

I self. . i 2 ® 

Great men may jest with saints; ’t is wit in 
them, 

But in the less foul profanation. 

Lucio. Thou ’rt i’ the right, girl. More o’ that. 
\ Isab. That in the captain’s but a choleric 
word, 

Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. 


Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] Art avis’d o’ that? 
More on’t. 

Ang. Why do you put these sayings upon 
me ? 

Isab. Because authority, though it err like 
others, 

Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself, iss 

That skins the vice o’ the top. Go to your 
bosom ; 

Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth 
know 

That’s like my brother’s fault. If it confess 
A natural guiltiness such as is his, 

Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue ho 
A gainst my brother’s life. 

Ang. [Aside.] She speaks, and’t is 

Such sense, that my sense breeds with it.— Fare 
you well. 

Isab. Gentle my lord, turn back. 

Ang. I will bethink me. Come again to-mor¬ 
row. 

Isab. Hark how I ’ll bribe you. Good my 
lord, turn back. us 

Ang. How ! bribe me ? 

Isab. Ay, with such gifts that Heaven shall 
share with you. 

Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] You had marr’d all 
else. 

Isab. Not with fond shekels of the tested 
gold, 

Or stones whose rates are either rich or poor ico 
As fancy values them ; but with true prayers 
That shall be up at heaven and enter there 
Ere sun-rise, prayers from preserved souls, 
From fasting maids whose minds are dedicate 
To nothing temporal. 

Ang. Well, come to me to-morrow. 

Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] Go to; ’t is well. 

Away! lee 

Isab. Heaven keep your honour safe ! 

Ang. [Aside.] Amen! 

For I am that way going to temptation, 

Where prayers cross. 

Isab. At what hour to-morrow 

Shall I attend your lordship ? 

Ang. At any time ’fore noon. i« 

Isab. ’Save your honour! 

[Exeunt Isabella , Lucio , and Pro¬ 
vost.] 

Ang. From tnee, even from thy virtue. 

What’s this, what’s this ? Is this her fault or 
mine ? 

The tempter or the tempted, who sins most? 
Ha! 

Not she, nor doth she tempt; but it is I i« 
That, lying by the violet in the sun, 

Do as the carrion does, not as the flower, 
Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be 
That modesty may more betray our sense 
Than woman’s lightness ? Having waste ground 
enough, 170 

Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary 
And pitch our evils there ? 0 , fie, fie, fie ! 
What dost thou, or what art thou, Angelo? 
Dost thou desire her foully for those things 
That make her good ? 0 , let her brother live ! 
Thieves for their robbery have authority 





336 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


II. IV. 


When judges steal themselves. What, do I love 
her, 

That I desire to hear her speak again 
And feast upon her eyes ? What is’t I dream 
on ? 

O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, iso 
With saints dost bait thy hook ! Most dangerous 
Is that temptation that doth goad us on 
To sin in loving virtue. Never could the strum¬ 
pet, 

With all her double vigour, art and nature, 
Once stir my temper ; but this virtuous maid 
Subdues me quite. Ever till now, iso 

When men were fond, I smil’d and wond’red 
how. \JExit. 

Scene III. [A room in a prison.] 

Enter [ severally ] Duke [disguised as a friar] 
and Provost. 

Duke. Hail to you, Provost! so I think you 
are. 

Prov. I am the Provost. What’s your will, 
good friar ? 

Puke. Bound by my charity and my blest 
order, 

I come to visit the afflicted spirits 
Here in the prison. Do me the common right o 
To let me see them and to make me know 
The nature of their crimes, that I may minister 
To them accordingly. 

Prov. I would do more than that, if more 
were needful. 

Enter Juliet. 

Look, here comes one ; a gentlewoman of mine, 
Who, falling in the flames of her own youth, u 
Hath blister’d her report. She is with child ; 
And he that got it, sentenc’d ; a young man 
More fit to do another such offence 
Than die for this. is 

Duke. When must he die ? 

Prov. As I do think, to-morrow. 

I have provided for you. Stay awhile, 

[To Juliet.] 

And you shall be conducted. 

Duke. Repent you, fair one, of the sin you 
carry ? 

Jul. I do; and bear the shame most pa¬ 
tiently. 20 

Duke. I ’ll teach you how you shall arraign 
your conscience, 

And try your penitence, if it be sound 
Or hollowly put on. 

Jul. I ’ll gladly learn. 

Duke. Love you the man that wrong’d you ? 

Jul. Yes, as I love the woman that wrong’d 
him. 25 

Duke. So then it seems your most offenceful 
act 

Was mutually committed ? 

Jul. Mutually. 

Duke. Then was your sin of heavier kind 
than his. 

Jul. I do confess it, and repent it, father. 

Duke. ’T is meet so, daughter ; but lest you 
do repent, 30 


As that the sin hath brought you to this shame, 
Which sorrow is always towards ourselves, not 
heaven, 

Showing we would not spare heaven as we love 
it, 

But as we stand in fear, — 

Jul. I do repent me, as it is an evil, 35 

And take the shame with joy. 

Duke., stiff- There rest. 

Your partflrfijy as I hear, must die to-morrow, 

A nd i 1 am rroipg .with instruction to him. 

Gracgo/vrith • SW, lienedicite ! _ . [Exit. 

Jul. Mutfeilmiesniorrow 1 0 injurious law, 40 
That respites, mrd'life whose very comfort 
Is still a djBHHk 
Prov. • rdft bu’T is pity of him. 

' 'fMb [ Exeunt . 

• mob 

Scene IV [A notxviirtaAngelo' s house.] 


Ei% 

Ang. When I would! 


I think 

and pray > oJ ,evii 

To several subjects. Iloaveti hath my empty 
words, TtiworitijL 

Whilst my invention, hearing not .my, Jipngue, 
Anchors on Isabel ; Heaven 
As if I did but only chew his 
And in my heart the strong and sweM 5 ngbt^w»i 
Of my conception. The stated whereo n 

Is like a good thing, being often reaaWB 
Grown sear’d and tedious ; yea, my gra’ 

Wherein — let no man hear me — 

pride, ' '“•‘6 Jr 

Could I with boot change for an idle plume, V 
Which the air beats for vain. O place, 0 forrlH 
How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit, ^ 
Wrench awe from fools and tie the wiser souls 
To thy false seeming ! Blood, thou art blood. 

Let’s write good angel on the devil’s horn ; 

’T is not the devil’s crest. 

Enter a Servant. 



»>• 


How now ! who’s there ? ■ 
Serv. One Isabel, a sister, desires access to I 
you. I 

Ang. Teach her the way. [Exit Serv.] O I 
heavens! 

Why does my blood thus muster to my heart, 2o ; ! 

Making both it unable for itself, 

And dispossessing all my other parts 

Of necessary fitness ? 

So play the foolish throngs with one that 
swoons ; 

Come all to help him, and so stop the air 25 1 

By which he should revive ; and even so 

The general subject to a well-wish’d king 

Quit their own part, and in obsequious fond¬ 
ness 

Crowd to his presence, where their untaught 
love 

Must needs appear offence. 

Enter Isabella. 

How now, fair maid ? 
Isab. I am come to know your pleasure, si 






II. IV. 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


337 


Ang. That you might know it, would much 
better please me 

Than to demand what’t is. Your brother can¬ 
not live. 

Isab. Even so. Heaven keep your honour ! 

Ang. Yet may he live a while ; and, it may 
be, M 

As long as you or I. Yet he rnqst die. 

Isab. Under your sentence ? 

Ang. Yea. 

Isab. When, I beseech you ? that in his re¬ 


prieve, 

Longer or shorter, he may be so fitted 40 

That his soul sicken not. 

Ang. Ha! fie, these filthy vices! It were as 
good 

To pardon him that hath from nature stolen 
A man already made, as to remit 
Their saucy sweetness that do coin Heaven’s 
image 46 

In stamps that are forbid. ’T is all as easy 
Falsely to take away a life true made 
As to put metal in restrained means 
To make a false one. 

Isab. ’T is set down so in heaven, but not in 
earth. eo 

Ang. Say you so ? Then I shall pose you 
quickly. 

Which had you rather, that the most just law 
Now took your brother’s life ; or, to redeem 
him, 

Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness 
As she that he hath stain’d ? 

Isab. Sir, believe this, 

I had rather give my body than my soul. ea 

Ang . I talk not of your soul; our compell’d 
sins 

, Stand more for number than for accompt'. 

Isab. How say you ? 

Ang. Nay, I’ll not warrant that; for I can 
speak 

Against the thing I say. Answer to this: eo 

I, now the voice of the recorded law, 

Pronounce a sentence on your brother’s life. 
Might there not be a charity in sin 
To save this brother’s life ? 

Isab. _ Please you to do’t, 

I ’ll take it as a peril to my soul, eo 

It is no sin at all, but charity. 

Ang. Pleas’d you to do’t at peril of your soul, 
Were equal poise of sin and charity. 

Isab. That I do beg his life, if it be sin, 
Heaven let me bear it! You granting of my 
suit, to 

If that be sin, I ’ll make it my morn prayer 
To have it added to the faults of mine, 

And nothing of your answer. 

Ang. Nay, but hear me ; 

Your sense pursues not mine. Either you are 
ignorant, 

Or seem so craftily ; and that’s not good. 76 
Isab. Let me be ignorant, and in nothing 
good, 

But graciously to know I am no better. 

Ang. Thus wisdom wishes to appear most 
bright 

When it doth tax itself; as these black masks 


Proclaim an ensliield beauty ten times louder so 
Than beauty could, displayed. But mark me : 
To be received plain, I ’ll speak more gross. 
Your brother is to die. 

Isab. So. 

Ang. And his offence is so, as it appears, 86 
Accountant to the law upon that pain. 

Isab. True. 

Ang. Admit no other way to save his life, — 
As I subscribe not that, nor any other, 

But in the loss of question, — that you, his 
sister, so 

Finding yourself desir’d of such a person, 
Whose credit with the judge, or own great 
place, 

Could fetch your brother from the manacles 
Of the all-building law ; and that there were 
No earthly mean to save him, hut that either »o 
You must lay down the treasures of your body 
To this supposed, or else to let him suffer ; 
What would you do ? 

Isab. As much for my poor brother as my¬ 
self : 

That is, were I under the terms of death, ioo 
The impression of keen whips I’d wear as ru¬ 
bies, 

And strip myself to death, as to a bed 
That, longing, have been sick for, ere I’d yield 
My body up to shame. 

Ang. Then must your brother die. 

Isab. And’t were the cheaper way. 105 
Better it were a brother died at once, 

Than that a sister, by redeeming him, 

Should die for ever. 

Ang. Were not you then as cruel as the sen¬ 
tence 

That you have slander’d so ? no 

Isab. Ignomy in ransom and free pardon 
Are of two houses. Lawful mercy 
Is nothing kin to foul redemption. 

Ang. You seem’d of late to make the law a 
tyrant; 

And rather prov’d the sliding of your brother uc 
A merriment than a vice. 

Isab. O, pardon me, my lord. It oft falls 
out, 

To have what we would have, we speak not 
what w'e mean. 

I something do excuse the thing I hate, 

For his advantage that I dearly love. 120 

Ang. We are all frail. 

Isab. Else let my brother die, 

If not a fedary, but only he 
Owe and succeed this weakness. 

Ang. Nay, women are frail too. 

Isab. Ay, as the glasses where they view 
themselves; 12s 

Which are as easy broke as they make forms. 
Women! Help, Heaven! men their creation 
mar 

In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times 
frail; 

For we are soft as our complexions are, 12' 
And credulous to false prints. 

Ang. I think it well; 

And from this testimony of your own sex, — 
Since I suppose we are made to be no stronger 







33« 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


hi. i. 


Than faults may shake our frames,—let me 
he bold. 

I do arrest your words. Be that you are, 

That is, a woman ; if you be more, you ’re 
none; 

If you be one, as you are well express’d 
By all external warrants, show it now, 

By putting on the destin’d livery. 

Isab. I have no tongue but one ; gentle my 
lord, 

Let me entreat you speak the former lan¬ 
guage. wo 

Ang. Plainly conceive, I love you. 

Isab. My brother did love Juliet, 

And you tell me that he shall die for it.. 

Ang. He shall not, Isabel, if you give me 
love. 

Isab. I know your virtue hath a license 
in’t, 

Which seems a little fouler than it is, 

To pluck on others. 

Ang. Believe me, on mine honour, 

My words express my purpose. 

Isab. Ha ! little honour to be much believ’d, 
And most pernicious purpose ! Seeming, seem¬ 
ing ! 160 

I will proclaim thee, Angelo. Look for’t! 

Sign me a present pardon for my brother, 

Or with an outstretch’d throat I ’ll tell the 
world aloud 
What man thou art. 

Ang. Who will believe thee, Isabel ? 

My unsoil’d name, the austereness of my life, ise 
My vouch against you, and my place i’ tne state, 
Will so your accusation overweigh, 

That you shall stifle in your own report 
And smell of calumny. I have begun, 

And now I give my sensual race the rein. ieo 
Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite ; 

Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes 
That banish what they sue for; redeem thy 
brother 

By yielding up thy body to my will; 

Or else he must not only die the death, 166 
But thy unkindness shall his death draw out 
To lingering sufferance. Answer me to-morrow, 
Or, by the affection that now guides me most, 

I ’ll prove a tyrant to him. As for you, 

Say what you can, my false o’erweighs your 
true. . [Exit, ito 

Isab. To whom should I complain? Did I 
tell this, 

Who would believe me ? 0 perilous mouths, 
That bear in them one and the self-same tongue, 
Either of condemnation or approof ; 

Bidding the law make curtsy to their will; its 
H ooking both right and wrong to the appetite, 
To follow as it draws ! I ’ll to my brother. 
Though he hath fallen by prompture of the 
blood, 

Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour 
That, had he twenty heads to tender down i»o 
On twenty bloody blocks, he’d yield them up, 
Before his sister should her body stoop 
To such abhorr’d pollution. 

Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die ; 
More than our brother is our chastity. «6 


I ’ll tell him yet of Angelo’s request, 

And fit his mind to death, for his soul’s rest. 

[Exit. 

ACT III 

Scene I. [A room in the prison .] 

Enter Duke [ disguised as before ,] Claudio, and 
Provost. 

Duke. So then you hope of pardon from Lord 
Angelo ? 

Claud. The miserable have no other medicine 
But only hope. 

I’ve hope to live, and am prepar’d to die. 
Duke. Be absolute for death ; either death 
or life * 

Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with 
life: 

If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing 
That none but fools would keep. A breath 
thou art, 

Servile to all the skyey influences, 

That dost this habitation where thou keep’st io 
Hourly afflict. Merely, thou art Death’s fool; 
For him thou labour’st by thy flight to shun 
And yet runn’st toward him still. Thou art not 
noble ; 

For all the accommodations that thou bear’st 
Are nurs’d by baseness. Thou ’rt by no means 
valiant ; i* 

For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork 
Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep, 

And that thou oft provok’st ; yet grossly fear’st 
Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not 
thyself; 

For thou exist’st on many a thousand grains 20 
That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not; 
For what thou hast not, still thou striv’st to get, 
And what thou hast, forget’st. Thou art not 
certain ; 

For thy complexion shifts to strange effects, 24 
After the moon. If thou art rich, thou ’rt poor ; 
For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, 
Thou bear’st thy heavy riches but a iourney, 
And Death unloads thee. Friend hast thou 
none; 

For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire, 
The mere effusion of thy proper loins, so 

Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum, 

For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth 
nor age, 

But, as it were, an after-dinner’s sleep, 
Dreaming on both ; for all thy blessed youth 
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms 3s 
Of palsied Eld ; and when thou art old and rich, 
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor 
beauty, 

To make thy riches pleasant. What’s yet in 
this 

That bears the name of life ? Yet in this life 
Lie hid moe thousand deaths; yet death we 
fear, 40 

That makes these odds all even. 

Claud. * I humbly thank you. 

To sue to live, I find I seek to die ; 

And, seeking death, find life. Let it come on. 






in. i. 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


339 


Isab. \Wkhin^\ What, ho! Peace here; grace 
and good company! 

Prov. Who’s there ? Come in ; the wish de¬ 
serves a welcome. *o 

Duke. Dear sir, ere long I ’ll visit you again. 
Claud. Most holy sir, I thank you. 

Enter Isabella. 

Isab. My business is a word or two with 
Claudio. 

Prov. And very welcome. Look, signior, 
here’s your sister. 

Duke. Provost, a word with you. «o 

Prov. As many as you please. 

Duke. Bring me to hear them speak, where 
I may be conceal’d. 

[Exeunt Duke and Provost .] 
Claud. Now, sister, what’s the comfort ? 
Isab. Why, 

As all comforts are ; most good, most good in¬ 
deed. w 

Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven, 

Intends you for his swift ambassador, 

Where you shall be an everlasting leiger ; 
Therefore your best appointment make with 
speed, 60 

To-morrow you set on. 

Claud. Is there no remedy ? 

Isab. None but such remedy as, to save a 
head, 

To cleave a heart in twain. 

Claud. But is there any ? 

Isab. Yes, brother, you may live. 

There is a devilish mercy in the judge, es 

If you ’ll implore it, that will free your life, 
But fetter you till death. 

Claud. Perpetual durance ? 

Isab. Ay, just; perpetual durance, a re¬ 
straint, 

Though all the world’s vastidity you had, 

To a determin’d scope. 

Claud. But in what nature ? to 

Isab. In such a one as, you consenting to’t, 
Would bark your honour from that trunk you 
bear, 

And leave you naked. 

Claud. Let me know the point. 

Isab. O, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I 
quake, 

Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain, n 
And six or seven winters more respect 
Than a perpetual honour. Dar’st thou die ? 

The sense of death is most in apprehension; 
And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, 

In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great so 
As when a giant dies. 

Claud. Why give you me this shame ? 

Think you I can a resolution fetch 
From flowery tenderness ? If I must die, 

I will encounter darkness as a bride, 

And hug it in mine arms. 86 

Isab. There spake my brother; there my 
father’s grave 

Did utter forth a voice. Yes, thou must die. 
Thou art too noble to conserve a life 
In base appliances. This outward-sainted 
deputy, 


Whose settled visage and deliberate word o« 
Nips youth i’ the head and follies doth emmew 
As falcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil; 

His filth within being cast, he would appear 
A pond as deep as hell. 

Claud. The prenzie Angelo! 

Isab. O, ’t is the cunning livery of hell, oe 
The damned’st body to invest and cover 
In prenzie guards ! Dost thou think, Claudio ? 
If I would yield him my virginity, 

Thou mightst be freed. 

Claud. 0 heavens ! it cannot be. 

Isab. Yes, he would give ’t thee, from this 
rank offence, ioo 

So to offend him still. This night’s the time 
That I should do what I abhor to name, 

Or else thou diest to-morrow. 

Claud. Thou shalt not do’t. 

Isab. 0 , were it but my life, 

I ’d throw it down for your deliverance iob 
As frankly as a pin. 

Claud. Thanks, dear Isabel. 

Isab. Be ready, Claudio, for your death to¬ 
morrow. 

Claud. Yes. Has he affections in him, 

That thus can make him bite the law by the 
nose, 

When he would force it ? Sure, it is no sin ; no 
Or of the deadly seven it is the least. 

Isab. Which is the least ? 

Claud. If it were damnable, he being so wise, 
Why would he for the momentary trick 
Be perdurably fin’d ? 0 Isabel! lie 

Isab. What says my brother ? 

Claud. Death is a fearful thing. 

Isab. And shamed life a hateful. 

Claud. Ay, but to die, and go we know not 
where ; 

To lie in cold obstruction and to rot; 

This sensible warm motion to become 120 

A kneaded clod, and the delighted spirit 
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside 
In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice; 

To be imprison’d in the viewless winds, 

And blown with restless violence round about 
The pendent world; or to be — worse than 
worst — 126 

Of those that lawless and incertain thought 
Imagine howling, — ’t is too horrible ! 

The weariest and most loathed worldly life 
That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment iso 
Can lay on nature is a paradise 
To what we fear of death. 

Isab. Alas, alas! 

Claud. Sweet sister, let me live. 

What sin you do to save a brother’s life, 

Nature dispenses with the deed so far 
That it becomes a virtue. 

Isab. O you beast! 

0 faithless coward ! 0 dishonest wretch ! 

Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice ? 

Is’t not a kind of incest, to take life 
From thine own sister’s shame ? What should I 
think ? i« 

Heaven shield my mother play’d my father 
fair! 

For such a warped slip of wilderness 





340 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


hi. i 


Ne’er issu’d from his blood. Take my defiance ! 
Die, perish ! Might but my bending down 
Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed. 

I ’ll pray a thousand prayers for thy death, 

No word to save thee. 

Claud. Nay, hear me, Isabel. 

Isab. 0 , fie, fie, fie ! 

Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade. 

Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd ; 160 

’T is best that thou diest quickly. 

Claud. O hear me, Isabella ! 

[Re-enter Duke.] 

Duke. Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but 
one word. 

Isab. What is your will ? 153 

Duke. Might you dispense with your leisure, 

I would by and by have some speech with you. 
The satisfaction I would require is likewise 
your own benefit. 

Isab. I have no superfluous leisure ; mv stay 
must be stolen out of other affairs ; but I will 
attend you a while. [Walks apart.] ieo 

Duke. Son, I have overheard what hath pass’d 
between you and your sister. Angelo had never 
the purpose to corrupt her; only he hath made 
an assay of her virtue to practise his judgement 
with the disposition of natures. She, having 
the truth of honour in her, hath made him [165 
that gracious denial which he is most glad to re¬ 
ceive. I am confessor to Angelo, and I know this 
to be true ; therefore prepare yourself to death. 
Do not satisfy your resolution with hopes that 
are fallible; to-morrow you must die. Go to 
your knees and make ready. 172 

Claud. Let me ask my sister pardon. I am so 
out of love with life that I will sue to be rid of it. 

Duke. Hold you there! Farewell. [ Exit 
Claudio .] Provost, a word with you ! 

[Re-enter Provost.] 

Prov. What’s your will, father ? its 

Duke. That now you are come, you will be 
gone. Leave me a while with the maid. My 
mind promises with my habit no loss shall touch 
her by my company. 

Prov. In good time. 183 

[Exit [Provost. Isabella comes for¬ 
ward ]. 

Duke. The hand that hath made you fair 
hath made you good ; the goodness that is cheap 
in beauty makes beauty brief in goodness ; but 
grace, being the soul of your complexion, shall 
keep the body of it ever fair. The assault 
that Angelo hath made to you, fortune hath [iss 
convey’d to my understanding ; and, but that 
frailty hath examples for his falling, I should 
wonder at Angelo. How will you do to content 
this substitute, and to save your brother ? iss 

Isab. I am now going to resolve him. I had 
rather my brother die by the law than my son 
should be unlawfully born. But, O, how much 
is the good Duke deceiv’d in Angelo ! If ever 
he return and I can speak to him, I will open 
my lips in vain, or discover his government. 199 

Duke. That shall not be much amiss; yet, 
as the matter now stands, he will avoid your 


accusation ; he made trial of you only. There¬ 
fore fasten your ear on my advisings. To the 
love I have in doing good a remedy presents it¬ 
self. I do make myself believe that you may 
most uprighteously do a poor wronged lady [20s 
a merited benefit, redeem your brother from 
the angry law, do no stain to your own gracious 
person, and much please the absent Duke, if 
peradventure he shall ever return to have hear¬ 
ing of this business. 21 ’ 

Isab. Let me hear you speak farther. I have 
spirit to do anything that appears not foul in 
the truth of my spirit. 214 

Duke. Virtue is bold, and goodness never 
fearful. Have you not heard speak of Mariana, 
the sister of Frederick, the great soldier who 
miscarried at sea ? 

Isab. I have heard of the lady, and good 
words went with her name. 220 

Duke. She should this Angelo have married ; 
was affianced to her by oath, and the nuptial 
appointed; between which time of the contract 
and limit of the solemnity, her brother Freder¬ 
ick was wreck’d at sea, having in that per¬ 
ished vessel the dowry of his sister. But [228 
mark how heavily this befell to the poor gen¬ 
tlewoman. There she lost a noble and renowiied 
brother, in his love toward her ever most kind 
and natural; with him, the portion and sinew 
of her fortune, her marriage-dowry ; with both, 
her combinate husband, this well-seeming An¬ 
gelo. 232 

Isab. Can this be so ? Did Angelo so leave 
her ? 

Duke. Left her in her tears, and dried not 
one of them with his comfort; swallowed his 
vows whole, pretending in her discoveries of 
dishonour; in few, bestow’d her on her own 
lamentation, which she yet wears for his sake ; 
and he, a marble to her tears, is washed with 
them, but relents not. 239 

Isab. What a merit were it in death to take 
this poor maid from the world ! What corrup¬ 
tion in this life, that it will let this man live ! 
But how out of this can she avail ? 243 

Duke , It is a rupture that you may easily 
heal; and the cure of it not only saves your bro¬ 
ther, but keeps you from dishonour in doing it. 
Isab. Show me how, good father. 247 

Duke. This forenamed maid hath yet in her 

the continuance of her first affection ; his unjust 
unkindness, that in all reason should have [250 
quenched her love, hath, like an impediment 
in the current, made it more violent and un¬ 
ruly. Go you to Angelo ; answer his requiring 
with a plausible obedience ; agree with his de¬ 
mands to the point; only refer yourself to this 
advantage, first, that your stay with him [251-. 
may not be long ; that the time may have all 
shadow and silence in it; and the place answer 
to convenience. This being granted in course, — 
and now follows all, — we shall advise this 
wronged maid to stead up your appoint- [20* 
ment, go in your place. If the encounter ac¬ 
knowledge itself hereafter, it may compel him 
to her recompense; and here, by this is your 
brother saved, your honour untainted, the poor 







in. ii. 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


34i 


Mariana advantaged, and the corrupt deputy [200 
sealed. The maid will I frame and make fit for 
his attempt. If you think well to carry this as 
you may, the doubleness of the benefit defends 
the deceit from reproof. What think you of 

it ? 269 

Isab. The image of it gives me content al¬ 
ready ; and I trust it will grow to a most pros¬ 
perous perfection. 272 

Duke. It lies much in your holding up. 
Haste you speedily to Angelo. If for this night 
he entreat you to his bed, give him promise of 
satisfaction. I will presently to Saint Luke’s; 
there, at the moated grange, resides this de¬ 
jected Mariana. At that place call upon me ; 
and dispatch with Angelo, that it may be 
quickly. 279 

Isab. I thank you for this comfort. Fare you 
well, good father. [ Exit [Isabella and Duke], 

[Scene II. The street before the prison.] 

Enter [on one side , Duke, disguised as before; 
on the other,] Elbow, ana Officers with 

Clown [Pompey] . 

Elb. Nay, if there be no remedy for it but 
that you will needs buy and sell men and women 
like beasts, we shall have all the world drink 
brown and white bastard. 

Duke. O heavens ! what stuff is here ? s 

Pom. ’T was never merry world since, of two 
usuries, the merriest was put down, and the 
worser allow’d by order of law a furr’d gown 
to keep him warm; and furr’d with fox and 
lambskins too, to signify that craft, being richer 
than innocency, stands for the facing. n 

Elb. Come your way, sir. ’Bless you, good 
father friar. 

Duke. And you, good brother father. What 
offence hath this man made you, sir ? is 

Elb. Marry, sir, he hath offended the law ; 
and, sir, we take him to be a thief too, sir, for 
we have found upon him, sir, a strange pick- 
lock, which we have sent to the deputy. 

Duke. Fie, sirrah! a bawd, a wicked 
bawd! 20 

The evil that thou causest to be done, 

That is thy means to live. Do thou but think 
What’t is to cram a maw or clothe a back 
From such a filthy vice ; say to thyself, 

From their abominable and beastly touches 26 
I drink, I eat, array myself, and live. 

Canst tnou believe thy living is a life, 

So stinkingly depending ? Go mend, go mend. 

Pom. Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir ; 
but yet, sir. I would prove — 80 

Duke. Nay, if the devil have given thee 
proofs for sin, 

Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, of¬ 
ficer. 

Correction and instruction must both work 
Ere this rude beast will profit. 84 

Elb. He must before the deputy, sir ; he has 
given him warning. The deputy cannot abide 
a whoremaster. If he be a whoremonger, and 
comes before him, he were as good go a mile on 
his errand. 


Duke. That we were all, as some would seem 
to be, 40 

Free from our faults, as faults from seeming, 
free! 

Enter Lucio. 

Elb. His neck will come to your waist, — a 
cord, sir. 

Pom. I spy comfort; I cry bail. Here’s a 
gentleman and a friend of mine. 44 

Lucio. How now, noble Pompey ! What, at 
the wheels of Caesar ? Art thou led in triumph ? 
What, is there none of Pygmalion’s images, 
newly made woman, to be had now, for put¬ 
ting the hand in the pocket and extracting it 
clutch’d ? What reply, ha ? What say’st thou 
to this tune, matter, and method ? Is’t not [so 
drown’d i’ the last rain, ha ? What say’st 
thou, Trot ? Is the world as it was, man ? 
Which is the way ? Is it sad, and few words ; 
or how ? The trick of it ? s- 

Duke. Still thus, and thus ; still worse ! 
Lucio. How doth my dear morsel, thy mis¬ 
tress ? Procures she still, ha ? 

Pom. Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her 
beef, and she is herself in the tub. 

Lucio. Why, ’t is good ; it is the right of it; 
it must be so. Ever your fresh whore and your 
powder’d bawd ; an unsliunn’d consequence ; it 
must be so. Art going to prison, Pompey ? 
Pom. Yes, faith, sir. 64 

Lucio. Why, ’tis not amiss, Pompev. Fare¬ 
well. Go, say I sent thee thither. For debt, 
Pompey ? or how ? 

Elb. For being a bawd, for being a bawd. e& 
Lucio. Well, then, imprison him. If imprison¬ 
ment be the due of a bawd, why, ’t is his right. 
Bawd is he doubtless, and of antiquity too; 
bawd-born. Farewell, good Pompey. Com¬ 
mend me to the prison, Pompey. You will turn 
good husband now, Pompey ; you will keep the 
house. . . 74 

Pom. I hope, sir, your good worship will be 
my bail. 

Lucio. No, indeed, will I not, Pompey ; it is 
not the wear. I will pray, Pompey, to increase 
your bondage. If you take it not patiently, 
why, your mettle is the more. Adieu, trusty 
Pompey. ’Bless you, friar. 

Duke. And you. 

Lucio. Does Bridget paint still, Pompey, ha ? 
Elb. Come your ways, sir ; come. 

Pom. You will not bail me, then, sir ? 85 

Lucio. Then, Pompey, nor now. What news 
abroad, friar ? what news ? 

Elb. Come your ways, sir ; come. 

Lucio. Go to kennel, Pompey; go. [Exeunt 
Elbow , Pompey , and Officers.] What neAvs, 
friar, of the Duke ? 91 

Duke. I know none. Can you tell me of 

? 

ucio. Some say he is with the Emperor of 
Russia ; other some, he is in Rome ; but where 
is he, think you ? 95 

Duke. I know not where ; but wheresoever, 
I wish him well. 

Lucio. It was a mad fantastical trick of him 





342 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


hi. u. 


to steal from the state, and usurp the beggary 
he was never born to. Lord Angelo dukes it 
well in his absence; he puts transgression 
to’t. . , 101 

Duke. He does well in’t. 

Lucio. A little more lenity to lechery would 
do no harm in him. Something too crabbed that 
way, friar. . , 

Duke. It is too general a vice, and severity 
must cure it. ... „ 107 

Lucio. Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a 
great kindred, it is well allied ; but it is im¬ 
possible to extirp it quite, friar, till eating and 
drinking be put down. They say this Angelo 
was not made by man and woman after this 
downright way of creation. Is it true, think 
you ? 113 

Duke. How should he be made, then ? 

Lucio. Some report a sea-maid spawn’d him ; 
some, that he was begot between two stock¬ 
fishes. But it is certain that when he makes 
water his urine is congeal’d ice ; that I know to 
be true : and he is a motion generative ; that’s 
infallible. 119 

Duke. You are pleasant, sir, and speak apace. 
Lucio. Why, what a ruthless thing is this in 
him, for the rebellion of a codpiece to take away 
the life of a man ! Would the Duke that is ab¬ 
sent have done this ? Ere he would have hang’d 
a man for the getting a hundred bastards, he 
would have paid for the nursing a thousand. [12s 
He had some feeling of the sport; he knew the 
service, and that instructed him to mercy. 

Duke. I never heard the absent Duke much 
detected for women. He was not inclin’d that 
way. 

Lucio. 0 , sir, you are deceiv’d. isi 

Duke. ’T is not possible. 

Lucio. Who, not the Duke ? Yes, your beg¬ 
gar of fifty ; and his use was to put a ducat in 
her clack-dish. The Duke had crotchets in 

him. He would be drunk too ; that let me in¬ 
form you. 136 

Duke. You do him wrong, surely. 

Lucio. Sir, I was an inward of his. A shy 
fellow was the Duke ; and I believe I know the 
cause of his withdrawing. 1*0 

Duke. What, I prithee, might be the cause ? 
Lucio. No, pardon; ’t is a secret must be 
lock’d within the teeth and the lips. But this 
I can let you understand, the greater file of 
the subject held the Duke to be wise. mb 

Duke. Wise ! Why, no question but he was. 
Lucio. A very superficial, ignorant, unweigh¬ 
ing fellow. 

Duke. Either this is envy in you, folly, or 
mistaking. The very stream of his life and the 
business he hath helmed must upon a war¬ 
ranted need give him a better proclamation, [ibi 
L et him be but testimonied in his own bring- 
ings-forth, and he shall appear to the envious 
a scholar, a statesman, and a soldier. Therefore 
you speak unskilfully ; or if your knowledge 
be more it is much dark’ned in your malice. 157 
Lucio. Sir, I know him, and I love him. 
Duke. Love talks with better knowledge, 
and knowledge with dearer love. 


Lucio. Come, sir, I know what I know. 
Duke. I can hardly believe that, since you 
know not what you speak. But, if ever the 
Duke return, as our prayers are he may, let 
me desire you to make your answer before him. 
If it be honest you have spoke, you have cour¬ 
age to maintain it. I am bound to call upon 
you ; and, I pray you, your name ? 168 

Lucio. Sir, my name is Lucio ; well known 
to the Duke. 

Duke. He shall know you better, sir, if 1 
may live to report you. 

Lucio. I fear you not. # 178 

Duke. 0 , you hope the Duke will return no 
more ; or you imagine me too unhurtful an op¬ 
posite. But indeed I can do you little harm ; 
you ’ll forswear this again. 777 

Lucio. I ’ll be hang’d first ; thou art de¬ 
ceiv’d in me, friar. But no more of this. 
Canst thou tell if Claudio die to-morrow or 
no? 184 

Duke. Why should he die, sir ? 

Lucio. Wliy ? For filling a bottle with a tun- 
dish. I would the Duke we talk of were re¬ 
turn’d again. This ungeniturM agent will un¬ 
people the province with continency. Sparrows 
must not build in his house-eaves, because [i»s 
they are lecherous. The Duke yet would have 
dark deeds darkiv answered ; he would never 
bring them to light. Would he were return’d ! 
Marry, this Claudio is condemned for untruss¬ 
ing. Farewell, good friar; I prithee, pray [m 
for me. The Duke, I say to thee again, would 
eat mutton on Fridays. He’s now past it; yet 
(and I say ’t to thee) he would mouth with a 
beggar, though she smelt brown bread and 
garlic. Say that I said so. Farewell. [Exit. 195 
Duke. No might nor greatness in mortal¬ 
ity 

Can censure scape ; back-wounding calumny 
The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong 
Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue ? 
But who comes here ? 200 


Enter Escalus, Provost, and [Officers, with] 
Bawd [Mistress Overdone], 

Escal. Go ; away with her to prison ! 

Mrs. Ov. Good my lord, be good to me; 
your honour is accounted a merciful man. 
Good my lord ! 2*4 

Escal. Double and treble admonition, and 

still forfeit in the same kind! This would 
make mercy swear and play the tyrant. 

Prov. A bawd of eleven years’ continuance, 
may it please your honour. 209 

Mrs. Ov. My lord, this is one Lucio’s infor¬ 
mation against me. Mistress Kate Keepdown 
was with child by him in the Duke’s time. He 
promis’d her marriage. His child is a year and 
a quarter old, come Philip and Jacob. I have 
kept it myself, and see how he goes about to 
abuse me ! 215 

Escal. That fellow is a fellow of much 
license ; let him be call’d before us. Away 
with her to prison! Go to; no more words. 
[Exeunt Officers with Mistress Ov.] Provost, my 
brother Angelo will not be alter’d; Claudio 







iv. i. 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


343 


must die to-morrow. Let him be furnish’d [mo 
with divines, and have all charitable prepara¬ 
tion. If my brother wrought by my pity, it 
should not be so with him. 

Prov. So please you, this friar hath been 
with him, and advis’d him for the entertain¬ 
ment of death. »*« 

Escal. Good even, good father. 

Duke. Bliss and goodness on you ! 

Escal. Of whence are you ? 

Duke. Not of this country, though my chance 
is now mo 

To use it for my time. I am a brother 
Of gracious order, late come from the See 
In special business from his Holiness. 

Escal. What news abroad i’ the world ? 234 

Duke. None, but that there is so great a 
fever on goodness, that the dissolution of it 
must cure it. Novelty is only in request; and 
it is as dangerous to be aged in any kind of 
course, as it is virtuous to be constant in any 
undertaking. There is scarce truth enough 
alive to make societies secure ; but security [240 
enough to make fellowships accurst. Much 
upon this riddle runs the wisdom of the world. 
This news is old enough, yet it is every day’s 
news. I pray you, sir, of what disposition was 
the Duke ? 245 

Escal. One that, above all other strifes, con¬ 
tended especially to know himself. 

Duke. What pleasure was he given to ? 248 

Escal. Rather rejoicing to see another merry, 
than merry at anything which profess’d to 
make him rejoice; a gentleman of all temper¬ 
ance. But leave we him to his events, with a 
prayer they may prove prosperous ; and let me 
desire to know how you find Claudio prepar’d. 
I am made to understand that you have lent 
him visitation. 266 

Duke. He professes to have received no sin¬ 
ister measure from his judge, but most will¬ 
ingly humbles himself to the determination of 
justice ; yet had he framed to himself, by the 
instruction of his frailty, many deceiving prom¬ 
ises of life, which I by my good leisure have dis¬ 
credited to him, and now is he resolv’d to die. 262 
Escal. You have paid the heavens your func¬ 
tion, and the prisoner the very debt of your 
calling. I have labour’d for the poor gentleman 
to the extremest shore of my modesty ; but my 
brother justice have I found so severe, that he 
hath forc’d me to tell him he is indeed Jus¬ 
tice. . 268 

Duke. If his own life answer the straitness 
of his proceeding, it shall become him well; 
wherein if he chance to fail, he hath sentenc’d 
himself. . . . 

Escal. I am going to visit the prisoner, b are 
you well. 278 

Duke. Peace be with you ! 

[.Exeunt Escalus and Provost.] 
He who the sword of heaven will bear 
Should be as holy as severe ; 

Pattern in himself to know, 

Grace to stand, and virtue go ; 

More nor less to others paying 

Than by self-offences weighing. **° 


Shame to him whose cruel striking 
Kills for faults of his own liking ! 

Twice treble shame on Angelo, 

To weed my vice and let his grow ! 

O, what may man within him hide, *«s 
Though angel on the outward side ! 

How may likeness made in crimes, 

Making practice on the times, 

To draw with idle spiders’ strings 

Most ponderous and substantial things! 200 

Craft against vice I must apply. 

With Angelo to-night shall lie 
His old betrothed but despised ; 

So disguise shall, by the disguised, 

Pay with falsehood false exacting, 205 
And perform an old contracting. [Exit. 


ACT IV 

Scene I. [The moated grange at St. Luke’s.] 
Enter Mariana, and Boy singing. 

Song. 

Take, 0 , take those lips away, 

That so sweetly were forsworn; 

And those eyes, the break of day, 

Lights that do mislead the morn ; 

But my kisses bring again, bring again j s 
Seals of love, but seal’d in vain, seal’d in vain. 

Enter Duke [disguised as before ]. 

Mart. Break off thy song, and haste thee 
quick away. 

Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice 
Hath often still’d my brawling discontent. 

[Exit Boy.] 

I cry you mercy, sir; and well could wish 10 
You had not found me here so musical. 

Let me excuse me, and believe me so, 

My mirth it much displeas’d, but pleas’d my 
woe. 

Duke. ’T is good; though music oft hath 
such a charm n 

To make bad good, and good provoke to harm. 
I pray you, tell me, hath anybody inquir’d for 
me here to-day ? Much upon this time have 
I promis’d here to meet. 

Mari. You have not been inquir’d after. I 
have sat here all day. 20 

Enter Isabella. 

Duke. I do constantly believe you. The time 
is come even now. I shall crave your forbear¬ 
ance a little. May be I will call upon you anon, 
for some advantage to yourself. 

Mari. I am always bound to you. [Exit. 
Duke. Very well met, and well come. 

What is the news from this good deputy ? 

Isab. He hath a garden circummur’d with 
brick, 

Whose western side is with a vineyard back’d, 
And to that vineyard is a planched gate, * 
That makes his opening with this bigger key. 
This other doth command a little door 
Which from the vineyard to the garden leads i 
There have I made my promise 




344 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


IV. n. 


Upon the heavy middle of the night ss 

To call upon him. 

Duke. But shall you on your knowledge find 
this way ? 

Isab. I have ta’en a due and wary note 
upon ’t. 

With whispering and most guilty diligence, 

In action all of precept, he did show me *o 
The way twice o’er. 

Duke. Are there no other tokens 

Between you ’greed concerning her observance ? 
Isab. No, none, but only a repair i’ the 
dark; 

And that I have possess’d him my most 
stay 

Can be but brief ; for I have made him know « 
I have a servant comes with me along, 

That stays upon me, whose persuasion is 
I come about my brother. 

Duke. ’T is well borne up. 

I have not yet made known to Mariana 
A word of this. What, ho ! within ! come forth ! 

Re-enter Mariana. 


I pray you, be acquainted with this maid ; si 
She comes to do you good. 

Isab. I do desire the like. 

Duke. Do you persuade yourself that I re¬ 
spect you ? 

Mari. Good friar, I know you do, and have 
found it. 

Duke. Take, then, this your companion by 
the hand, es 

Who hath a story ready for your ear. 

I shall attend your leisure ; but make haste ; 
The vaporous night approaches. 

Mari. Will’t please you walk aside ? 

[.Exeunt [Mariana and Isabella], 

Duke. O place and greatness! millions of 
false eyes eo 

Are stuck upon thee. Volumes of report 
Run with these false and most contrarious 
quests 

Upon thy doings ; thousand escapes of wit 
Make thee the father of their idle dream 
And rack thee in their fancies. 


Re-enter Mariana and Isabella. 


Welcome, how agreed ? 

Isab. She ’ll take the enterprise upon her, 
father, 66 

If you advise it. 

Duke. It is not my consent, 

But my entreaty too. 

Isab. Little have you to say 

When you depart from him, but, soft and 
low, 

“ Remember now my brother.” 

Mari. Fear me not. to 

Duke. Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at 
all. 


He is your husband on a pre-contract: 

To bring you thus together, ’t is no sin, 

Sith that the justice of your title to him 
Doth flourish the deceit. Come, let us go. 75 
Our corn’s to reap, for yet our tilth’s to sow. 

[Exeunt. 


Scene II. [A room in the prison.] 

Enter Provost and Clown [Pompey]. 

Prov. Come hither, sirrah. Can you cut off a 
man’s head ? 

Pom. If the man be a bachelor, sir, I can ; 
but if he be a married man, he’s his wife’s 
head, and I can never cut off a woman’s head, s 
Prov. Come, sir, leave me your snatches, and 
yield me a direct answer. To-morrow morning 
are to die Claudio and Barnardine. Here is in 
our prison a common executioner, who in his of¬ 
fice lacks a helper. If you will take it on you [io 
to assist him, it shall redeem you from your 
gyves ; if not, you shall have your full time of 
imprisonment, and your deliverance with an 
unpitied whipping, for you have been a notori¬ 
ous bawd. is 

Pom. Sir, I have been an unlawful bawd time 
out of mind ; but yet I will be content to be a 
lawful hangman. I would be glad to receive 
some instruction from my fellow partner. 

Prov. What, ho ! Abhorson! Where’s Ab- 
horson, there ? 21 

Enter Abhorson. 

Abhor. Do you call, sir ? 

Prov. Sirrah, here’s a fellow will help you 
to-morrow in your execution. If you think it 
meet, compound with him by the year, and 
let him abide here with you ; if not, use him [25 
for the present and dismiss him. He cannot 
plead his estimation with you; he hath been a 
bawd. 

Abhor. A bawd, sir ? Fie upon him ! he will 
discredit our mystery. 30 

Prov. Go to, sir; you weigh equally. A 
feather will turn the scale. [Exit. 

Pom. Pray, sir, by your good favour,—for 
surely, sir, a good favour you have, but that 
you have a hanging look, — do you call, sir, 
your occupation a mystery ? aa 

Abhor. Ay, sir ; a mystery. 

Pom. Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a 
mystery ; and your whores, sir, being members 
of my occupation, using painting, do prove my 
occupation a mystery ; but what mystery there 
should be in hanging, if I should be hang’d, I 
cannot imagine. 43 

Abhor. Sir, it is a mystery. 

Pom. Proof? 

Abhor. Every true man’s apparel fits your 
thief. If it be too little for your thief, your 
true man thinks it big enough; if it be too big 
for your thief, your thief thinks it little enough; 
so every true man’s apparel fits your thief, so 

Re-enter Provost. 

Prov. Are you agreed ? 

Pom. Sir, I will serve him, for I do find your 
hangman is a more penitent trade than your 
bawd ; he doth oftener ask forgiveness. 54 
Prov. You, sirrah, provide your block and 
your axe to-morrow four o’clock. 

Abhor. Come on, bawd, I will instruct thee 
in my trade. Follow. m 

Pom. I do desire to learn, sir; and I hope, 






IV. 11. 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


345 


if you have occasion to use me for your own 
turn, you shall find me yare ; for truly, sir, for 
your kindness I owe you a good turn. [Exit. 
Prov. Call hither Barnardine and Claudio. 

[Exit Abhorson .] 
The one has my pity ; not a jot the other, 64 
Being a murderer, though he were my brother. 

Enter Claudio. 

Look, here’s the warrant, Claudio, for thy 
death. 

’T is now dead midnight, and by eight to-mor¬ 
row 

Thou must be made immortal. Where’s Bar¬ 
nardine ? 

Claud. As fast lock’d up in sleep as guiltless 
labour 

When it lies starkly in the traveller’s bones. 70 
He will not wake. 

Prov. Who can do good on him ? 

Well, go, prepare yourself. [Knocking within.] 
But, hark, what noise ? 

Heaven give your spirits comfort! [Exit Clau¬ 
dio.] By and by. 

I hope it is some pardon or reprieve 
For the most gentle Claudio. 

Enter Duke [disguised as before]. 

Welcome, father. 
Duke. The best and wholesomest spirits of 
the night to 

Envelop you, good Provost! Who call’d here 
of late ? 

Prov. None, since the curfew rung. 

Duke. Not Isabel ? 

Prov. No. 

Duke. They will, then, ere’t be long. 

Prov. What comfort is for Claudio ? so 

Duke. There’s some in hope. 

Prov. It is a bitter deputy. 

Duke. Not so, not so ; his life is parallel’d 
Even with the stroke and line of his great jus¬ 
tice. 

He doth with holy abstinence subdue 
That in himself which he spurs on his power so 
To qualify in others. Were he meal’d with 
that 

Which he corrects, then were he tyrannous; 
But this being so, lie’s just. 

[Knocking within.] 
Now are they come. 
[Exit Provost.] 

This is a gentle Provost: seldom when 

The steeled gaoler is the friend of men. no 

[Knocking within.] 
How now ! what noise ? That spirit’s possess’d 
with haste 

That wounds the unsisting postern with these 
strokes. 

[Re-enter Provost.] 

Prov. There he must stay until the officer 
Arise to let him in. He is call’d up. 

Duke. Have you no countermand for Claudio 
yet, 95 

But he must die to-morrow ? 

Prov. None, sir, none. 


Duke. As near the dawning, Provost, as it 
is, 

You shall hear more ere morning. 

Prov. Happily 

You something know, yet I believe there comes 
No countermand ; no such example have we. ioo 
Besides, upon the very siege of justice 
Lord Angelo hath to the public ear 
Profess’d the contrary. 

Enter a Messenger. 

This is his lordship’s man. 

[Duke.] And here comes Claudio’s pardon. 

Mes. [Giving a paper.] My lord hath sent [ios 
you this note ; and by me this further charge, 
that you swerve not from the smallest article 
of it, neither in time, matter, or other circum¬ 
stance. Good morrow; for, as I take it, it is 
almost day. 

Prov. 1 shall obey him. [Exit Messenger.] no 

Duke. [Aside.] This is his pardon, purchas’d 
by such sin 

For which the pardoner himself is in. 

Hence hath offence his quick celerity, 

When it is borne in high authority. 

When vice makes mercy, mercy’s so extended, 
That for the fault’s love is the offender 
friended. no 

Now, sir, what news ? 

Prov. I told you. Lord Angelo, belike 
thinking me remiss in mine office, awakens 
me with this unwonted putting-on; methinks 
strangely, for he hath not us’d it before. 121 

Duke. Pray you, let’s hear. 

[Prov. Reads] the letter. 

“ Whatsoever you may hear to the contrary, 
let Claudio be executed by four of the clock ; 
and in the afternoon Barnardine. For my bet¬ 
ter satisfaction, let me have Claudio’s head [126 
sent me by five. Let this be duly performed, 
with a thought that more depends on it than 
we must yet deliver. Thus fail not to do your 
office, as you will answer it at your peril.” iso 
What say you to this, sir ? 

Duke. What is that Barnardine who is to be 
executed in the afternoon ? 

Prov. A Bohemian born, but here nurs’d up 
and bred; one that is a prisoner nine years 
old. 135 

Duke. How came it that the absent Duke 
had not either deliver’d him to his liberty or 
executed him ? I have heard it was ever his 
manner to do so. 130 

Prov. His friends still wrought reprieves for 
him ; and, indeed, his fact, till now in the gov¬ 
ernment of Lord Angelo, came not to an un¬ 
doubtful proof. 

Duke. It is now apparent ? m 

Prov. Most manifest, and not denied by 

himself. 

Duke. Hath he borne himself penitently in 
prison ? How seems he to be touch’d ? ns 

Prov. A man that apprehends death no more 
dreadfully but as a drunken sleep ; careless, 
reckless, and fearless of what’s past, present, 
or to come; insensible of mortality, and des¬ 
perately mortal. 





346 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


iv. iii. 


Duke. He wants advice. is* 

Prov. He will hear none. He hath evermore 
had the liberty of the prison; give him leave 
to escape hence, he would not; drunk many 
times a day, if not many days entirely drunk. 
We have very oft awak’d him, as if to carry 
him to execution, and show’d him a seeming 
warrant for it; it hath not moved him at all. i6i 
Duke. More of him anon. There is written 
in your brow, Provost, honesty and constancy. 
If I read it not truly, my ancient skill beguiles 
me ; but, in the boldness of my cunning, I will 
lay myself in hazard. Claudio, whom here [iss 
you have warrant to execute, is no greater for¬ 
feit to the law than Angelo who hath sentenc’d 
him. To make you understand this in a mani¬ 
fested effect, I crave but four days’ respite ; for 
the which you are to do me both a present and 
a dangerous courtesy. 172 

Prov. Pray, sir, in what ? 

Duke. In the delaying death. 

Prov. Alack, how may I do it, having the 
hour limited, and an express command, under 
penalty, to deliver his head in the view of 
Angelo ? I may make my case as Claudio’s, to 
cross this in the smallest. 179 

Duke. By the vow of mine order I warrant 
you, if my instructions may be your guide. Let 
this Barnardine be this morning executed, and 
his head borne to Angelo. 

Prov. Angelo hath seen them both, and will 
discover the favour. iss 

Duke. O, death’s a great disguiser, and you 
may add to it. Shave the head, and tie the 
beard ; and say it was the desire of the penitent 
to be so bar’d before his death. You know the 
course is common. If anything fall to you upon 
this, more than thanks and good fortune, by 
the saint whom I profess, I will plead against 
it with my life. 193 

Prov. Pardon me, good father; it is against 
my oath. 

Duke. Were you sworn to the Duke, or to 
the deputy ? 197 

Prov. To him, and to his substitutes. 

Duke. You will think you have made no 
offence, if the Duke avouch the justice of your 
dealing ? 

Prov. But what likelihood is in that ? 202 

Duke. Not a resemblance, but a certainty. 
Yet since I see you fearful, that neither my 
coat, integrity, nor persuasion can with ease 
attempt you, I will go further than I meant, to 
pluck all fears out of you. Look you, sir, here 
is the hand and seal of the Duke. You know 
the character, I doubt not; and the signet is 
not strange to you. 209 

Prov. I know them both. 

Duke. The contents of this is the return of 
the Duke. You shall anon over-read it at your 
pleasure; where you shall find, within these 
two days he will be here. This is a thing that 
Angelo knows not; for he this very day re¬ 
ceives letters of strange tenour, perchance [215 
of the Duke’s death, perchance entering into 
some monastery, but, by chance, nothing of 
what is here writ. Look, the unfolding star 


calls up the shepherd. Put not yourself into 
amazement how these things should be. All [220 
difficulties are but easy when they are known. 
Call your executioner, and off with Barnardine’s 
head. I will give him a present shrift and ad¬ 
vise him for a better place. Yet you are 
amaz’d, but this shall absolutely resolve you. 
Come away ; it is almost clear dawn. 226 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. [Another room in the same.] 
Enter Clown [Pompey], 

Pom. I am as well acquainted here as I was 
in our house of profession. One would think it 
were Mistress Overdone’s own house, for here 
be many of her old customers. First, here’s 
young Master Rash. He’s in for a commod¬ 
ity of brown paper and old ginger, nine-score [s 
and seventeen pounds ; of which ne made five 
marks, ready money. Marry, then ginger was 
not much in request, for the old womfen were 
all dead. Then is there here one Master Ca¬ 
per, at the suit of Master Three-pile the mer- [10 
eer, for some four suits of peach-colour’d satin, 
which now peaches him a beggar. Then have 
we here young Dizzy, and young Master Deep- 
vow, and Master Copper-spur, and Master 
Starve-lackey the rapier and dagger man, [is 
and young Drop-heir that killed lusty Pud¬ 
ding, and Master Forthlight the tilter, and 
brave Master Shooty the great traveller, and 
wild Half-can that stabb’d Pots, and, I think, 
forty more; all great doers in our trade, and 
are now “ for the Lord’s sake.” si 

Enter Abhorson. 

Abhor. Sirrah, bring Barnardine hither. 

Pom. Master Barnardine ! You must rise and 
be hang’d. Master Barnardine ! 

Abhor. What, ho, Barnardine ! 2s 

Par. {Within.) A pox o’your throats ! Who 
makes that noise there ? \Yhat are you ? 

Pom. Your friends, sir ; the hangman. You 
must be so good, sir, to rise and be put to 
death. 

Bar. [Within.] Away, you rogue, away! I 
am sleepy. 31 

Abhor. Tell him he must awake, and that 
quickly too. 

Pom. Pray, Master Barnardine, awake till 
you are executed, and sleep afterwards. 33 

Abhor. Go in to him, and fetch him out. 

Pom. He is coming, sir, he is coming. I hear 
his straw rustle. 

Enter Barnardine. 

Abhor. Is the axe upon the block, sirrah ? 

Pom. Very ready, sir. 40 

Bar. How now, Abhorson ? W T hat’s the 
news with you ? 

Abhor. Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap 
into your prayers ; for, look you, the warrant’s 
come. 45 

Bar. You rogue, I have been drinking all 

night; I am not fitted for’t. 

Pom. 0 , the better, sir ; for he that drinks 





MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


347 


IV. iii. 


all night, and is hanged betimes in the morn¬ 
ing, may sleep the sounder all the next day. bo 

Enter Duke [disguised as before ]. 

Abhor . Look you, sir ; here comes your 
ghostly father. Do we jest now, think you ? 

Duke. Sir, induced by my charity, and hear¬ 
ing how hastily you are to depart, I am come 
to advise you, comfort you, and pray with you. 

Bar. Friar, not I. I have been drinking [f >6 
hard all night, and I will have more time to pre- 
ppe me, or they shall beat out my brains with 
billets. I will not consent to die this day, that’s 
certain. 

Duke. O, sir, you must; and therefore I be¬ 
seech you 80 

Look forward on the journey you shall go. 

Bar. I swear I will not die to-day for any 
man’s persuasion. 

Duke. But hear you. 64 

Bar. Not a word. If you have anything to 

say to me, come to my ward ; for thence will 
not I to-day. [Exit. 

Re-enter Provost. 

Duke. Unfit to live or die, 0 gravel heart! 
After him, fellows ; bring him to the block. 

[Exeunt Abhor son and Pompey.\ 
Prov. Now sir, how do you find the pris¬ 
oner ? 70 

Duke. A creature unprepar’d, unmeet for 
death ; 

And to transport him in the mind he is 
Were damnable. 

Prov. Here in the prison, father, 

There died this morning of a cruel fever 
One Ragozine, a most notorious pirate, tb 

A man of Claudio’s years ; his beard and head 
Just of his colour. What if we do omit 
This reprobate till he were well inclin’d, 

And satisfy the deputy with the visage 
Of Ragozine, more like to Claudio ? eo 

Duke. 0 , ’t is an accident that Heaven pro¬ 
vides ! 

Dispatch it presently. The hour draws on 
Prefix’d by Angelo. See this be done, 

And sent according to command, whiles I 
Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die. 85 
Prov. This shall be done, good father, pre¬ 
sently. 

But Barnardine must die this afternoon ; 

And how shall we continue Claudio^ 

To save me from the danger that might come 
If he were known alive? 

Duke. Let this be done. bo 

Put them in secret holds, both Barnardine 
And Claudio. 

Ere twice the sun hath made his journal greet¬ 
ing 

To the under generation, you shall find 
Your safety manifested. 

Prov. I am your free dependant. bb 

Duke. Quick, dispatch, and send the head to 
Angelo. [Exit Provost. 

Now will I write letters to Angelo, — 

The Provost, he shall bear them, — whose con¬ 
tents 


Shall witness to him I am near at home, 

And that, by great injunctions, I am bound too 
To enter publicly. Him 1 ’ll desire 
To meet me at the consecrated fount 
A league below the city ; and from thence, 

By cold gradation and well-balanc’d form, 

We shall proceed with Angelo. iob 

Re-enter Provost. 

Prov. Here is the head ; I ’ll carry it myself. 
Duke. Convenient is it. Make a swift return ; 
For I would commune with you of such things 
That want no ear but yours. 

Prov. I ’ll make all speed. 

[Exit. 

Isab. (Within.) Peace, lw, be here ! no 
Duke. The tongue of Isabel. She’s come to 
know 

If yet her brother’s pardon be come hither. 

But I will keep her ignorant of her good. 

To make her heavenly comforts of despair, 
When it is least expected. 

Enter Isabella. 


Isab. Ho, by your leave ! 

Duke. Good morning to you, fair and gra¬ 
cious daughter. ns 

Isab. The better, given me by so holy a man. 
Hath vet the deputy sent my brother’s pardon ? 
Duke. He hath releas’d him, Isabel, from 
the world. 

His head is off and sent to Angelo. 120 

Isab. Nay, but it is not so. 

Duke. It is no other. Show your wisdom, 
daughter, 

In your close patience. 

Isab. 0,1 will to him and pluck out his eyes ! 
Duke. You shall not be admitted to his 
sight. i2B 

Isab. Unhappy Claudio ! Wretched Isabel ! 
Injurious world! Most damned Angelo ! 

Duke. This nor hurts him nor profits you a 
jot. 

Forbear it therefore; give your cause to heaven. 
Mark what I say, which you shall find 130 
By every syllable a faithful verity. 

The Duke comes home to-morrow ; — nay, dry 
your eyes; — 

One of our covent, and his confessor, 

Gives me this instance. Already he hath car¬ 
ried 

Notice to Escalus and Angelo, 135 

Who do prepare to meet him at the gates, 
There to give up their power. If you can, pace 
your wisdom 

In that good path that I would wish it go, 

And you shall have your bosom on this wretch, 
Grace of the Duke, revenges to your heart, no 
And general honour. 

Isab. I am directed by you. 

Duke. This letter, then, to Friar Peter give ; 
’T is that he sent me of the Duke’s return. 
Say, by this token, I desire his company 
At Mariana’s house to-night. Her cause and 
yours ns 

I ’ll perfect him withal, and he shall bring you 
Before the Duke, and to the head of Angelo 







348 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


IV. vi. 


Accuse him home and home. For my poor self, 
I am combined by a sacred vow 
And shall be absent. Wend you with this 
letter. _ ieo 

Command these fretting waters from your eyes 
With a light heart. Trust not my holy order, 
If I pervert your course. Who’s here ? 

Enter Lucio. 

Lucio. Good even. Friar, where’s the Pro¬ 
vost ? ... 165 

Duke. Not within, sir. 

Lucio. 0 pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine 
heart to see thine eyes so red. Thou must be 
patient. I am fain to dine and sup with water 
and bran ; I dare not for my head fill my 
belly ; one fruitful meal would set me to ’t. [ieo 
But they say the Duke will be here to-morrow. 
By my troth, Isabel, I lov’d thy brother. If 
the old fantastical Duke of dark corners had 
been at home, he had lived. [ Exit Isabella .] ics 
Luke. Sir, the Duke is marvellous little be¬ 
holding to your reports; but the best is, he 
lives not in them. 

Lucio. Friar, thou knowest not the Duke so 
well as I do. He’s a better woodman than thou 
tak’st him for. in 

Duke. Well, you’ll answer this one day. 
Fare ye well. 

Lucio. Nay, tarry ; I ’ll go along with thee. 
I can tell thee pretty tales of the Duke. its 
Duke. You have told me too many of him 
already, sir, if they be true ; if not true, none 
were enough. 

Lucio. I was once before him for getting a 
wench with child. iso 

Duke. Did you such a thing ? 

Lucio. Yes, marry, did I; but I was fain to 
forswear it. They would else have married me 
to the rotten medlar. is 4 

Duke. Sir, your company is fairer than hon¬ 
est. Rest you well. 

Lucio. By my troth, I ’ll go with thee to the 
lane’s end. If bawdy talk offend you, we ’ll 
have very little of it. Nay, friar, I am a kind 
of burr ; I shall stick. [ Exeunt. i»o 

Scene IY. [A room in Angelo's house.] 
Enter Angelo and Escalus. 

Escal. Every letter he hath writ hath dis- 
vouch’d other. 

Ang. In most uneven and distracted man¬ 
ner. His actions show much like to madness ; 
pray Heaven his wisdom be not tainted 1 And 
why meet him at the gates, and redeliver our 
authorities there ? i 

Escal. I guess not. 

Ang. And why should we proclaim it in an 
hour before his entering, that if any crave re¬ 
dress of injustice, they should exhibit their 
petitions in the street ? 12 

Escal. He shows his reason for that: to have 
a dispatch of complaints, and to deliver us from 
devices hereafter, which shall then have no 
power to stand against us. 10 

Ang. Well, I beseech you, let it be pro¬ 


claim’d betimes i’ the morn. I ’ll call you at 
your house. Give notice to such men of sort 
and suit as are to meet him. 20 

Escal. I shall, sir. Fare you well. 

[Exit Escalus. 

Ang. Goodnight. 

This deed unshapes me quite, makes me un¬ 
pregnant 

And dull to all proceedings. A deflow’red 
maid! 

And by an eminent body that enforc’d 20 

The law against it! But that her tender shame 
Will not proclaim against her maiden loss. 

How might she tongue me! Yet reason dares 
her no; 

For my authority bears a credent bulk, 

That no particular scandal once can touch 30 
But it confounds the breather. He should have 
liv’d, 

Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous 
sense, 

Might in the times to come have ta’en revenge, 
By so receiving a dishonour’d life 
With ransom of such shame. W T ould yet he had 
lived! 35 

Alack, when once our grace we have forgot, 
Nothing goes right; we would, and we would 
not. [Exit. 

Scene V. [Fields without the town.] 

Enter Duke [in his own habit,] and Frias 
Peter. 

Duke. These letters at fit time deliver me. 

[Giving letters.] 

The Provost knows our purpose and our plot. 
The matter being afoot, keep ycur instruction, 
And hold you ever to our special drift, 

Though sometimes you do blench from this to 
that, r, 

As cause doth minister. Go call at Flavius’ 
house, 

And tell him where I stay. Give the like notice 
To Valentinus, Rowland, and to Crassus, 

And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate. 
But send me Flavius first. 

Fri. P. It shall be speeded well. 

[Exit.] 

Enter Varrius. 

Duke. I thank thee, Varrius; thou hast 
made good haste: 11 

Come, we will walk. There’s other of oui 
friends 

Will greet us here anon, my gentle Varrius. 

[Exeunto 

Scene VI. [Street near the city gate.] 

Enter Isabella and Mariana. 

Isab. To speak so indirectly I am loath. 

I would say the truth ; but to accuse him so, 
That is your part. Yet I am advis’d to do it; 
He says, to veil full purpose. 

Mari. Be rul’d by him. 

Isab. Besides, he tells me that, if peradven- 
ture 6 





V. 1. 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


349 


He speak against me on the adverse side, 

I should not think it strange ; for ’tis a physic 
That’s bitter to sweet end. 

Enter Friar Peter. 

Mari. I would Friar Peter — 

Isab. 0 , peace ! the friar is come. 

Fri. P. Come, I have found you out a stand 
most fit, io 

Where you may have such vantage on the 
Duke, 

He shall not pass you. Twice have the trum¬ 
pets sounded, 

The generous and gravest citizens 

Have hent the gates, and very near upon 14 

The Duke is entering ; therefore, hence, away ! 

[Exeunt. 

ACT V 

Scene I. [The city gate.] 

Enter Duke, Varrius, Lords, Angelo, Esca- 
lus, Lucio, [Provost, Officers, and] Citizens, 
at several doors. 

Puke. My very worthy cousin, fairly met! 
Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to see 
you. 

J Escal | Ha PPy return be to your royal Grace ! 

Duke. Many and hearty thankings to you 
both. 

We have made inquiry of you, and we hear b 
S uch goodness of your justice, that our soul 
Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks, 
Forerunning more requital. 

Ana. You make my bonds still greater. 
Duke. 0 , your desert speaks loud ; and I 
should wrong it, 

To lock it in the wards of covert bosom, io 
When it deserves, with characters of brass, 

A lorted residence ’gainst the tooth of time 
And razure of oblivion. Give me your hand, 
And let the subject see, to make them know 
That outward courtesies would fain proclaim 
Favours that keep within. Come, Escalus, ie 
You must walk by us on our other hand ; 

And good supporters are you. 

Enter Friar Peter and Isabella. 

Fri. P. Now is your time. Speak loud and 
kneel before him. 

Isab. Justice, O royal Duke ! Vail your re¬ 
gard _ 20 

Upon a wrong’d, I would fain have said, a 
maid ! 

O worthy Prince, dishonour not your eye 
By throwing it on any other object 
Till you have heard me in my true complaint 
And given me justice, justice, justice, justice ! 25 
Duke. Relate your wrongs. In what ? By 
whom ? Be brief. 

Here is Lord Angelo shall give you justice: 
Reveal yourself to him. 

Isab. 0 worthy Duke, 

You bid me seek redemption of the devil. 

Hear me yourself ; for that which I must speak 


Must either punish me, not being believ’d, si 
Or wring redress from you. Hear me, 0 hear 
me, here! 

Ang. My lord, her wits, I fear me, are not 
firm. 

She hath been a suitor to me for her brother, 
Cut off by course of justice, — 

Isab. By course of justice ! 

Ang. And she will speak most bitterly and 
strange. 3g 

Isab. Most strange, but yet most truly, will 
I speak. 

That Angelo’s forsworn, is it not strange ? 
That Angelo’s a murderer, is’t not strange ? 
That Angelo is an adulterous thief, 4 o 

An hypocrite, a virgin-violator, 

Is it not strange and strange ? 

Duke. Nay, it is ten times strange. 

Isab. It is not truer he is Angelo 
Than this is all as true as it is strange. 

Nay, it is ten times true ; for truth is truth 45 
To the end of reckoning. 

Duke. _ Away with her ! Poor soul, 
She speaks this in the infirmity of sense. 

Isab. 0 Prince, I conjure thee, as thou 
believ’st 

There is another comfort than this world, 

That thou neglect me not, with that opinion bo 
T hat I am touch’d with madness! Make not 
impossible 

That which but seems unlike. ’T is not im¬ 
possible 

But one, the wicked’st caitiff on the ground, 
May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute 
As Angelo. Even so may Angelo, bg 

In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms, 

Be an arch-villain. Believe it, royal Prince ! 

If he be less, he’s nothing ; but he’s more, 

Had I more name for badness. 

Duke. By mine honesty, 

If she be mad, — as I believe no other, — eo 
Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense, 
Such a dependency of thing on thing, 

As e’er I heard in madness. 

Isab. 0 gracious Duke, 

Harp not on that, nor do not banish reason 
For inequality ; but let your reason serve 65 
To make the truth appear where it seems hid, 
And hide the false seems true. 

Duke. Many that are not mad 

Have, sure, more lack of reason. What would 
you say ? 

Isab. I am the sister of one Claudio 
Condemn’d upon the act of fornication to 

To lose his head ; condemn’d by Angelo. 

I, in probation of a sisterhood, 

Was sent to by my brother ; one Lucio 
As then the messenger, — 

Lucio. That’s I, an’t like your Grace. 

I came to her from Claudio, and desir’d her 75 
To try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo 
For her poor brother’s pardon. 

Isab. That’s he indeed. 

Duke. You were not bid to speak. 

Lucio. No, my good lord ; 

Nor wish’d to hold my peace. 

Duke. I wish you now, then. 





3So 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


v. 1 . 


Pray you, take note of it; and when you have so 
A business for yourself, pray Heaven you then 
Be perfect. 

Lucio. I warrant your honour. 

Duke. The warrant’s for yourself; take heed 
to ’t. 

Isab. This gentleman told somewhat of my 
tale,— 

Lucio. Right. _ «« 

Duke. It may be right, but you are i’ the 
wrong 

To speak before your time. Proceed. 

Isab. I went 

To this pernicious caitiff deputy, — 

Duke. That’s somewhat madly spoken. 

Isab. Pardon it; 

The phrase is to the matter. »o 

Duke. Mended again. The matter ; proceed. 
Isab. In brief, to set the needless process by, 
How I persuaded, how I pray’d, and kneel’d, 
How he refell’d me, and how I repli’d, — 

For this was of much length, — the vile con¬ 
clusion 06 

I now begin with grief and shame to utter. 

He would not, but by gift of my chaste body 
To his concupiscible intemperate lust, 

Release my brother ; and, after much debate- 
ment, 

My sisterly remorse confutes mine honour, ioo 
And I did yield to him; but the next morn 
betimes, 

His purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant 
For my poor brother’s head. 

Duke. This is most likely ! 

Isab. 0 , that it were as like as it is true ! 
Duke. By heaven, fond wretch, thou know’st 
not what thou speak’st, ios 

Or else thou art suborn’d against his honour 
In hateful practice. First, his integrity 
Stands without blemish. Next, it imports no 
reason 

That with such vehemency he should pursue 
Faults proper to himself. If he had so of¬ 
fended, no 

He would have weigh’d thy brother by himself, 
And not have cut him off. Some one hath set 
you on. 

Confess the truth, and say by whose advice 
Thou cam’st here to complain. 

Isab. And is this all ? 

Then, O you blessed ministers above, ns 

Keep me in patience, and with ripened time 
Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up 
In countenance! Heaven shield your Grace 
from woe, 

As I, thus wrong’d, hence iinbelieved go ! 

Duke. I know you’d fain be gone. An of¬ 
ficer ! __ 120 

To prison with her ! Shall we thus permit 
A blasting and a scandalous breath to fall 
On him so near us? This needs must be a 
practice. 

Who knew of your intent and coming hither ? 
Isab. One that I would were here, Friar 
Lodowick. no 

Duke. A ghostly father, belike. Who knows 
that Lodowick ? 


Lucio. My lord, I know him ; ’t is a meddling 
friar. 

I do not like the man. Had he been lay, my 
lord, 

For certain words he spake against your Grace 
In your retirement, I had swing’d him 
soundly. no 

Duke. Words against me! This’s a good 
friar, belike! 

And to set on this wretched woman here 
Against our substitute ! Let this friar be found. 
Lucio. But yesternight, my lord, she and 
that friar, 

I saw them at the prison. A saucy friar, iw 
A very scurvy fellow. 

Fri. P. Blessed be your royal Grace ! 

I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard 
Your royal ear abus’d. First, hath this woman 
Most wrongfully accus’d your substitute, n# 
Who is as free from touch or soil with her 
As she from one ungot. 

Duke. We did believe no less. 

Know you that Friar Lodowick that she speaks 
oi? 

Fri. P. I know him for a man divine and 
holy; 

Not scurvy, nor a temporary meddler, 

As he’s reported by this gentleman ; 

And, on my trust, a man that never yet 
Did, as he vouches, misreport your Grace. 
Lucio. My lord, most villanously; believe it. 
Fri. P. Well, he in time may come to clear 
himself; ieo 

But at this instant he is sick, my lord, 

Of a strange fever. Upon his mere request, 
Being come to knowledge that there was com¬ 
plaint 

Intended ’gainst Lord Angelo, came I hither, 
To speak, as from his mouth, what he doth 
know im 

Is true and false ; and what he with his oath 
And all probation will make up full clear, 
Whensoever he’s convented. First, for this 
woman, 

To justify this worthy nobleman. 

So vulgarly and personally accus’d, ieo 

Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes, 

Till she herself confess it. 

Duke. Good friar, let’s hear it. 

[Isabella is carried off'guarded.] 
Do you not smile at this, Lord Angelo ? 

O heaven, the vanity of wretched fools ! 

Give us some seats. Come, cousin Angelo ; im 
I n this I ’ll be impartial. Be you judge 
Of your own cause. Is this the witness, friar ? 

Enter Mariana [veiled]. 

First, let her show her face, and after speak. 
Mari. Pardon, my lord ; I will not show my 

face 

Until my husband bid me. m* 

Duke. What, are you married ? 

Mari. No, my lord. 

Duke. Are you a maid ? 

Mari. No, my lord. 

Duke. A widow, then ? its 

Mari. Neither, my lord. 




V. 1. 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


35i 


Duke. Why, you are nothing then: neither 
maid, widow, nor wife ? 

Lucio. My lord, she may be a punk ; for 
many of them are neither maid, widow, nor 
wife. iso 

Duke. Silence that fellow. I would he had 
some cause 

To prattle for himself. 

Lucio. Well, my lord. 

Mari. My lord, I do confess I ne’er was mar¬ 
ried ; 

And I confess besides I am no maid. ise 

I have known my husband ; yet my husband 
Knows not that ever he knew me. 

Lucio. He was drunk then, my lord ; it can 
be no better. 

Duke. For the benefit of silence, would thou 
Wert so too ! m 

Lucio. Well, my lord. 

Duke. This is no witness for Lord Angelo. 
Mari. Now I come to ’t, my lord. 

She that accuses him of fornication, u>6 

In self-same manner doth accuse my husband, 
And charges him, my lord, with such a time 
When I ’ll depose I had him in mine arms 
With all the effect of love. 

Ang. Charges she moe than me ? 

Mari. Not that I know. 

Duke. No ? You say your husband. 201 

Mari. Why, just, my lord, and that is An¬ 
gelo, 

Who thinks he knows that he ne’er knew my 
body, 

But knows he thinks that he knows Isabel’s. 
Ang. This is a strange abuse. Let’s see thy 
face. _ 206 

Mari. My husband bids me ; now I will un¬ 
mask. [ Unveiling .] 

This is that face, thou cruel Angelo, 

Which once thou swor’st was worth the looking 
on ; 

This is the hand which, with a vow’d contract, 
Was fast belock’d in thine ; this is the body 
That took away the match from Isabel, 211 
And did supply thee at thy garden-house 
In her imagin’d person. 

Duke. Know you this woman ? 

Lucio. Carnally, she says. 

Duke. Sirrah, no more ! 

Lucio. Enough, my lord. 218 

Ang. My lord, I must confess I know this 
woman; 

And five years since there was some speech of 
marriage 

Betwixt myself and her ; which was broke 
off, 

Partly for that her promised proportions 
Came short of composition, but in chief 220 
For that her reputation was disvalued 
In levity : since which time of five years 
I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard 
from her, 

Upon my faith and honour. 

Mari. Noble Prince, 

As there comes light from heaven and words 
from breath, 226 

As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue, 


I am affianc’d this man’s wife as strongly 
As words could make up vows ; and, my good 
lord. 

But Tuesday night last gone in’s garden-house 
He knew me as a wife. As this is true, 230 
Let me in safety raise me from my knees ; 

Or else for ever be confixed here, 

A marble monument! 

Ang. I did but smile till now. 

Now, good my lord, give me the scope of jus¬ 
tice. 

My patience here is touch’d. I do perceive 23s 
These poor informal women are no more 
But instruments of some more mightier mem¬ 
ber 

That sets them on. Let me have way, my lord, 
To find this practice out. 

Duke. Ay, with my heart; 

And punish them unto your height of plea¬ 
sure. 240 

Thou foolish friar, and thou pernicious woman, 
Compact with her that’s gone, think’st thou 
thy oaths, 

Though they would swear down each particular 
saint, 

Were testimonies against his worth and credit 
That ’s seal’d in approbation ? You, Lord 
Escalus, 246 

Sit with my cousin. Lend him your kind pains 
To find out this abuse, whence’t is deriv’d. 
There is another friar that set them on ; 

Let him be sent for. 

Fri. P. Would he were here, my lord, for he 
indeed 260 

Hath set the women on to this complaint. 

Your provost knows the place where he abides, 
And he may fetch him. 

Duke. Go, do it instantly. 

[Exit Provost .] 

And you, my noble and well-warranted cousin, 
Whom it concerns to hear this matter forth, 255 
Do with your injuries as seems you best. 

In any chastisement. I for a while will leave 
you ; 

But stir not you till you have well determin’d 
Upon these slanderers. 

Escal. My lord, we ’ll do it throughly. 280 

[Exit Duke. 

Signior Lucio, did not you say you knew that 
Friar Lodowick to be a dishonest person ? 

Lucio. Cucullus non facit monachum : honest 
in nothing but in his clothes; and one that 
hath spoke most villanous speeches of the 
Duke. 266 

Escal. We shall entreat you to abide here 
till he come and enforce them against him. 
We shall find this friar a notable fellow. 

Lucio. As any in Vienna, on my word. *»» 

Escal. Call that same Isabel here once again ; 
I would speak with her. [Exit an attendant .] 
Pray you, my lord, give me leave to question ; 
you shall see how 1 ’ll handle her. 

Lucio. Not better than he, by her own report. 
Escal. Say you ? 276 

Lucio. Marry, sir, I think, if you handled 
her privately, she would sooner confess. Per¬ 
chance, publicly, she ’ll be asham’d. 




35 2 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


v. 1. 


Re-enter [Officers with] Isabella ; and Provost 
with the Duke [in his friar's habit]. 

Escal. I will go darkly to work with her. 
Lucio. That’s the way, for women are light 
at midnight. 28i 

Escal. Come on, mistress. Here’s a gentle¬ 
woman denies all that you have said. 

Lucio. My lord, here comes the rascal I spoke 
of ; here with the Provost. 285 

Escal. In very good time. Speak not you to 
him till we call upon you. 

Lucio. Mum. 

Escal. Come, sir, did you set these women 
on to slander Lord Angelo? They have con¬ 
fess’d you did. 291 

Duke. ’T is false. 

Escal. How ! know you where you are ? 
Duke. Respect to your great place ! and let 
the devil 

Be sometime honour’d for his burning throne ! 
Where is the Duke ? ’T is he should hear me 
speak. 296 

Escal. The Duke’s in us ; and we will hear 
you speak. 

Look you speak justly. 

Duke. Boldly, at least. But, O, poor souls, 
Come you to seek the lamb here of the fox ? 300 
Good night to your redress ! Is the Duke gone ? 
Then is your cause gone too. The Duke’s un¬ 
just 

Thus to retort your manifest appeal, 

And put your trial in the villain’s mouth 
Which here you come to accuse. 305 

Lucio. This is the rascal; this is he I spoke 
of. 

Escal. Why, thou unreverend and unhal¬ 
lowed friar, 

Is’t not enough thou hast suborn’d these wo¬ 
men 

To accuse this worthy man, but, in foul mouth 
And in the witness of his proper ear, 310 

To call him villain, and then to glance from him 
To the Duke himself, to tax him with injustice ? 
Take him hence ; to the rack with him 1 We ’ll 
touse you 

Joint by joint, but we will know his purpose. 
What, “ unjust ” ! 

Duke. Be not so hot. The Duke 315 

Dare no more stretch this finger of mine than he 
Dare rack his OAvn. His subject am I not, 

Nor here provincial. My business in this state 
Made me a looker on here in Vienna, 

Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble 
Till it o’er-run the stew ; laws for all faults, 321 
But faults so countenanc’d, that the strong 
statutes 

Stand like the forfeits in a barber’s shop, 

As much in mock as mark. 

Escal. Slander to the state ! Away with him 
to prison 1 325 

Ang. * What can you vouch against him, Sig- 
nior Lucio ? 

Is this the man that you did tell us of ? 

Lucio. ’T is he, my lord. Come hither, good- 
man bald-pate. Do you know me ? 329 

Duke. I remember you, sir, by the sound of 


your voice. I met you at the prison, in the ab¬ 
sence of the Duke. 

Lucio. O, did you so ? And do you remember 
what you said of the Duke ? 

Duke. Most notedly, sir. S 35 

Lucio. Do you so, sir ? And was the Duke a 
fleshmonger, a fool, and a coAvard, as you then 
reported him to be ? 

Duke. You must, sir, change persons with 
me, ere you make that my report. You, in¬ 
deed, spoke so of him, and much more, much 
worse. 341 

Lucio. 0 thou damnable fellow! Did not I 
pluck thee by the nose for thy speeches ? 

Duke. I protest I love the Duke as I love 
myself. 

Ang. Hark, hoAV the villain would close now, 
after his treasonable abuses! 347 

Escal. Such a fellow is not to be talk’d withal. 
Away with him to prison 1 Where is the Pro¬ 
vost ? Away Avith him to prison ! Lay bolts 
enough upon him. Let him speak no more. 
Away with those giglots too, and with the other 
confederate companion! 353 

[The Provost lays hands on the Duke.] 

Duke. Stay, sir; stay awhile. 

Ang. What, resists he? Help him, Lucio. 

. Lucio. Come, sir ; come, sir ; come, sir ; foh, 
sir ! Why, you bald-pated, lying rascal, you 
must be hooded, must you ? SIioav your knave’s 
visage, with a pox to you! Show your sheep- 
biting face, and be hang’d an hour! Will’t 
not off ? [ Pulls off the friar's hood.] 300 

Duke. Thou art the first knave that e’er 
mad’st a duke. 

First Provost, let me bail these gentle three. 
[To Lucio.] Sneak not aAvay, sir; for the friar 
and you 

Must have a w’ord anon. Lay hold on him. 

Ijucio. This may prove worse than hanging. 

Duke. [To Escalus.] What you have spoke 
I pardon. Sit you doAvn ; 366 

We ’ll borrow place of him. Sir, [ taking Ange¬ 
lo's seat] by your leave. 

Hast thou or word, or wit, or impudence, 

That yet can do thee office ? If thou hast, 

Rely upon it till my tale be heard, 370 

And hold no longer out. 

Ang. 0 my dread lord, 

I should be guiltier than my guiltiness, 

To think I can be undiscernible, 

When I perceive your Grace, like power divine, 
Hath look’d upon my passes. Then, good 
Prince, 375 

No longer session hold upon my shame, 

But let my trial be mine own confession. 
Immediate sentence, then, and sequent death 
Is all the grace I beg. 

Duke. Come hither, Mariana. 

Say, wast thou e’er contracted to this woman ? 

Ang. I was, my lord. 38 i 

Duke. Go take her hence, and marry her in¬ 
stantly. 

Do you the office, friar ; which consummate, 
Return him here again. Go with him, Provost. 

[Exeunt [ Angelo , Mariana , Friar 
Peter , and Provost]. 






V. l. 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


353 


Escal. My lord, I am more amaz’d at his 
dishonour 385 

Than at the strangeness of it. 

Duke. Come hither, Isabel. 

Your friar is now your prince. As I was then 
Advertising and holy to your business, 

Not changing heart with habit, I am still 
Attorney’d at your service. 

Isab. O, give me pardon, 390 

That I, your vassal, have employ’d and pain’d 
Your unknown sovereignty! 

Duke. You are pardon’d, Isabel; 

And now, dear maid, be you as free to us. 
Your brother’s death, 1 know, sits at your 
heart ; 

And you may marvel why I obscur’d myself, 
Labouring to save his life, and would not 
rather 39a 

Make rash remonstrance of my hidden power 
Than let him so be lost. O most kind maid, 

It was the swift celerity of his death, 

Which I did think with slower foot came on, 400 
That brain’d my purpose. But, peace be with 
him! 

That life is better life, past fearing death, 
Than that which lives to fear. Make it your 
comfort, 

So happy is your brother. 

Re-enter Angelo, Mariana, Friar Peter, 
and Provost. 

Isab. I do, my lord. 

Duke. For this new-married man approach¬ 
ing here, 40c 

Whose salt imagination yet hath wrong’d 
Your well defended honour, you must pardon 
For Mariana’s sake; but as he adjudg’d your 
brother, — 

Being criminal, in double violation 

Of sacred chastity and of promise-breach 410 

Thereon dependent, for your brother’s life, — 

The very mercy of the law cries out 

Most audible, even from his proper tongue, 

“ An Angelo for Claudio, death for death ! ” 
Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers 
leisure; 415 

Like doth quit like, and Measure still for Mea¬ 
sure. 

Then, Angelo, thy fault’s thus manifested : 
Which, though thou wouldst deny, denies tnee 
vantage. 

We do condemn thee to the very block 
Where Claudio stoop’d to death, and with like 
haste. 420 

Away with him! 

Mari. O my most gracious lord, 

I hope you will not mock me with a husband. 
Duke. It is your husband mock’d you with 
a husband. 

Consenting to the safeguard of your honour, 

I thought your marriage fit; else imputation, 425 
For that he knew you, might reproach your life 
And choke your good to come. For his posses¬ 
sions, 

Although by confiscation they are ours, 

We do instate and widow you withal, 

To buy you a better husbafid. 


Mari. 0 my dear lord, 

I crave no other, nor no better man. 431 

Duke. Never crave him ; we are definitive. 
Mari. Gentle my liege, — [Kneeling.] 

Duke. You do but lose your labour. 

Away with him to death! [To Lucio .] Now, 
sir, to you. 

Mari. 0 my good lord ! Sweet Isabel, take 
my part! 435 

Lend me your knees, and all my life to come 
I ’ll lend you all my life to do you service. 
Duke. Against all sense you do importune 
her. 

Should she kneel down in mercy of this fact, 
Her brother’s ghost his paved bed would break, 
And take her hence in horror. 

Mari. Isabel, 441 

Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me. 

Hold up your hands, say nothing ; I ’ll speak all. 
They say, best men are moulded out of faults, 
And, for the most, become much more the better 
For being a little bad ; so may my husband. 44# 
O Isabel, will you not lend a knee ? 

Duke. He dies for Claudio’s death. 

Isab. [Kneeling.] Most bounteous sir, 

Look, if it please you, on this man condemn’d, 
As if my brother liv’d. I partly think 45? 

A due sincerity governed his deeds, 

Till he did look on me. Since it is so, 

Let him not die. My brother had but. justice, 
In that he did the thing for which he died ; 

For Angelo, 4« 

His act did not o’ertake his bad intent, 

And must be buried but as an intent 
That perish’d by the way. Thoughts are n<r 
subjects; 

Intents, but merely thoughts. 

Mari. Merely, my lord. 

Duke. Your suit’s unprofitable ; stand up, I 
say. 4oo 

I have bethought me of another fault. 

Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded 
At an unusual hour ? 

Prov. It was commanded so. 

Duke. Had you a special warrant for the 
deed ? 

Prov. No, my good lord ; it was by private 
message. 405 

Duke. For which I do discharge you of your 
office: 

Give up your keys. 

Prov. Pardon me, noble lord. 

I thought it was a fault, but knew it not; 

Yet did repent me, after more advice. 

For testimony whereof, one in the prison, 470 
That should by private order else have died, 

I have reserv’d alive. 

Duke. What’s he ? 

Prov. His name is Barnardine. 

Duke. I would thou hadst done so by Claudio. 
Go fetch him hither; let me look upon him. 

[Exit Provost .] 

Escal. I am sorry, one so learned and so 
wise 475 

As you, Lord Angelo, have still appear’d, 
Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood, 
And lack of temper’d judgement afterward. 






354 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


V. L 


Ang. I am sorry that such sorrow I procure ; 
And so deep sticks it in my penitent heart 4 so 
That I crave death more willingly than mercy. 
’T is my deserving, and I do entreat it. 

Re-enter Provost, with Barnardine, Claudio 
[muffled], and Juliet. 

Duke. Which is that Barnardine ? 

Prov. This, my lord. 

Duke. There was a friar told me of this man. 
Sirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul, 
That apprehends no further than this world, 
And squar’st thy life according. Thou ’rt con¬ 
demn’d ; 

But, for those earthly faults, I quit them all; 
And pray thee take this mercy to provide 
For better times to come. Friar, advise him ; 490 
I leave him to your hand. What muffl’d fel¬ 
low ’s that ? 

Prov. This is another prisoner that I sav’d, 
Who should have died when Claudio lost his 
head ; 

As like almost to Claudio as himself. 

[TJnmuffles Claudio.] 
Duke. [To Isabella.] If he be like your 
brother, for his sake 495 

Is he pardon’d ; and, for your lovely sake — 
Give me your hand and say you will be mine — 
He is my brother too. But fitter time for 
that. 

By this Lord Angelo perceives he’s safe ; 
Methinks I see a quickening in his eye. boo 
Well, Angelo, your evil quits you well. 

Look that you love your wife ; her worth worth 
yours. 

I find an apt remission in myself ; 

And yet here’s one in place I cannot pardon. 
[To Lucio.] You, sirrah, that knew me for a 
fool, a coward, 6 oc 

One all of luxury, an ass, a madman, 

Wherein have I so deserv’d of you, 

That you extol me thus ? bos 


Lucio. Faith, my lord, I spoke it but accord¬ 
ing to the trick. If you will hang me for it, you 
may ; but I had rather it would please you I 
might be whipp’d. *12 

Duke. Whipp’d first, sir, and hang’d after. 
Proclaim it, Provost, round about the city, 

Is any woman wrong’d by this lewd fellow, bis 
A s I have heard him swear himself there’s one 
Whom he begot with child, let her appear, 

And he shall marry her. The nuptial finish’d, 
Let him be whipp’d and hang’d. «i» 

Lucio. I beseech your Highness do not marry 
me to a whore. Your Highness said even now, 
I made you a duke ; good my lord, do not re¬ 
compense me in making me a cuckold. 

Duke. Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry 
her. 

Thy slanders I forgive ; and therewithal S2G 
Remit thy other forfeits. Take him to prison ; 
And see our pleasure herein executed. 

Lucio. Marrying a punk, my lord, is pressing 
to death, whipping, and hanging. 

Duke. Slandering a prince deserves it. bso 
[Exeunt Officers with Lucio.] 
She, Claudio, that you wrong’d, look you re¬ 
store. 

Joy to you, Mariana ! Love her, Angelo ! 

I have confess’d her and I know her virtue. 
Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much 
goodness ; 

There’s more behind that is more gratulate. 636 
Thanks, Provost, for thy care and secrecy ; 

We shall employ thee in a worthier place. 
Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home 
The head of Ragozine for Claudio’s ; 

The offence pardons itself. Dear Isabel, 540 
I have a motion much imports your good ; 
Whereto if you ’ll a willing ear incline, 

What’s mine is yours and what is yours is mine. 
So, bring us to our palace, where we ’ll show 
What’s yet behind, that’s meet you all should 
know. [Exeunt.] 846 





PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


Pericles is first mentioned in an entry to Edward Blount in the Stationers’ Register, May 20, 
1608 . Blount does not seem to have issued the play, but in the following year a pirated quarto 
was published with Shakespeare’s name on the title-page, and this was reprinted in 1609 , 1611 , 
1619 , 1630 , and 1635 . It was not included in the First or the Second Folio, but appeared with 
six other additional plays, all of which were spurious, in the second impression of the Third 
Folio in 1664 , the text following that of the Sixth Quarto. The text of the First Quarto is the 
original authority for all succeeding editions, and, though very corrupt, is here followed, with 
many corrections from later editors, especially Malone. Owing, however, to the doubtful authen¬ 
ticity of much of the play, it has been thought advisable to be more than usually conservative in 
the treatment of the text. 

The story of Apollonius of Tyre , of which the play is a dramatized version, is one of the most 
widely diffused themes in fiction. 'Ihe earliest extant form is a Latin prose Historia, supposed 
to have been compiled from Greek sources about the fifth century, and found in many MSS., the 
earliest belonging to the ninth or tenth century. The versions used in the play are that of Gower 
in his Confessio Amantis, book vm, and that of Laurence Twine in his Patterne of Painful Adven¬ 
tures (Stationers’ Register, 1576 ); but the diffusion of the story throughout all Europe makes it 
possible that details from other versions may have reached the authors. 

The chief features appearing for the first time in the play are the substitution of a tournament 
for the ball game in which the hero distinguishes himself at Pentapolis ; the playful trickery 
of Simonides in the scene where the marriage is arranged; the details of the scenes in the 
brothel; and the omission of the revenges of the hero upon the bawds and the treacherous foster- 
parents of Marina. Only the last of these changes occurs in the part generally ascribed to 
Shakespeare. 

The absence of Pericles from the first two Folios, the inequality of workmanship, and the 
differences in metrical style in the play as we have it, account for the general opinion that it is 
only in part Shakespeare’s. The parts most generally suspected are Acts I and n, Scenes ii, v, 
and vi of Act iv, and all the Choruses spoken by Gower. The remaining parts are almost unani¬ 
mously attributed to Shakespeare. There is, however, no general agreement as to the manner in 
which these elements came to be united. Some have held that Shakespeare revised an older 
play, rewriting the later acts ; while the more recent tendency is to regard Pericles as the com¬ 
pletion by two minor authors of a play on Marina which Shakespeare had left unfinished. But 
the occurrence even in the earlier acts of passages and phrases with a Shakespearean ring points 
to the more subtle and, judging by modern practice, more usual method of collaboration, by 
which joint authors each discuss and retouch the whole play. 

It is widely accepted that the author mainly responsible for Acts I and II and the Choruses 
was that George Wilkins who, in 1608 , published a novel, “ The Painful Adventures of Pericles 
Prince of Tyre. Being the true History of the Play of Pericles, as it was lately presented by the 
worthy and ancient poet Iohn Gower.” While there is nothing unlikely in this, it can hardly be 
regarded as absolutely proved. Still less certain is the conjecture that the prose scenes in Act 
IV are the work of W. Rowley, elsewhere a collaborator with Wilkins. Indeed, the evidence 
against the Shakespearean authorship of these scenes is by no means complete, and it cannot be 
denied that without them the conception of the character and spirit of Marina is much less 
definite. The absence of allusion to these scenes in the dialogue after the meeting of Pericles 
and Marina is the most significant point in favor of the theory of a third author. It is to be 
noted that the Choruses are not all in the same class. The first three and that occurring in v. ii. 
are in eight-syllabled verse, and the earlier ones have occasional archaisms to fit them to Gower. 
Those in Act IV and the beginning and end of Act v are in ten-syllabled verse, and are some¬ 
what less crude in style. All this points, as before indicated, to a much less absolute division 
-»f parts among the collaborators than is usually made out. 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


[DRAMATIS PERSONS 


Antiochus, king of Antioch. 
Pericles, prince of Tyre. 

SlANES, US, | tW0 l0rdS ° fTyre - 
Simonides, king of Pentapolis. 
Cleon, governor of Tarsus. 
Lysimachus, governor of Mytilene. 
Cerimon, a lord of Ephesus. 
Thaliard, a lord of Antioch. 
Philemon, servant to Cerimon. 
Leonine, servant to Dionyza. 
Marshal. 


A Pandar. 

Boult, his servant. 

The Daughter of Antiochus. 

Dionyza, wife to Cleon. 

Thaisa, daughter to Simonides. 

Marina, daughter to Pericles and Thaisa. 
Lychorida, nurse to Marina. 

A Bawd. 

Diana. 

Gower, as Chorus. 


Lords, Knights, Gentlemen, Sailors, Pirates, Fishermen, and Messengers. 


Scene : Dispersedly 

ACT I 

Enter Gower. 

[Before the palace of Antioch. Heads and skulls 
of men over the gate.] 

Gow. To sing a song that old. was sung, 

From ashes ancient Gower is come, 

Assuming man’s infirmities, 

To glad your ear, and please your eyes. 

It hath been sung at festivals, 

On ember-eves and holidays ; 

And lords and ladies in their lives 
Have read it for restoratives. 

The purchase is to make men glorious ; 

Et bonum quo antiquius , eo melius. 10 

If you, born in these latter times, 

When wit’s more ripe, accept my rhymes, 

And that to hear an old man sing 
May to your wishes pleasure bring, 

I life would wish, and that I might is 

Waste it for you, like taper-light. 

This Antioch, then, Antiochus the Great 
Built up, this city, for his chiefest seat; 

The fairest in all Syria, 

I tell you what mine authors say. 20 

This king unto him took a fere, 

Who died and left a female heir, 

80 buxom, blithe, and full of face, 

As heaven had lent her all his grace ; 

With whom the father liking took, 21. 

And her to incest did provoke, — 

Bad child ; worse father ! to entice his own 
To evil should be done by none. 

But custom what they did begin 

Was with long use account’d no sin. so 

The beauty of this sinful dame 

Made many princes thither frame 

To seek her as a bed-fellow, 

In marriage-pleasures play-fellow; 

Which to prevent he made a law ss 


VGi'ious countries .] 

To keep her still and men in awe, 

That whoso ask’d her for his wife, 

His riddle told not, lost his life ; 

80 for her many a wight did die, 

As yon grim looks do testify. « 

What now ensues, to the judgement of your eye 
I give, my cause who best can justify. [Exit. 

[Scene I. Antioch. A room in the palace.] 

Enter Antiochus, Prince Pericles, and fol¬ 
lowers. 

Ant. Young Prince of Tyre, you have at 
large received 

The danger of the task you undertake. 

Per. I have, Antiochus, and, with a soul 
Embold’ned with the glory of her praise, 

Think death no hazard in this enterprise. £ 
Ant. Bring in our daughter, clothed like a 
bride [Music. 

For embracements even of Jove himself ; 

At whose conception, till Lucina reign’d, 
Nature this dowry gave to glad her presence, 
The senate-house of planets all did sit, 1# 

To knit in her their best perfections. 

Enter the Daughter of Antiochus. 

Per. See where she comes, apparelled like 
the spring, 

Graces her subjects, and her thoughts the king 
Of every virtue gives renown to men ! 

Her face the book of praises, where is read 15 
Nothing but curious pleasures, as from thence 
Sorrow were ever raz’d, and test y wrath 
Could never be her mild companion. 

You gods that made me man, and sway in love, 
That have inflam’d desire in my breast * 

To taste the fruit of yon celestial tree 
Or die in the adventure, be my helps, 

As 1 am son and servant to your will, 

To compass such a boundless happiness ! 






1.1. 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


357 


Ant. Prince Pericles,— 25 

Per. That would be son to great Antiochus. 
Ant. Before thee stands this fair Hesper- 
ides, 

With golden fruit, but dangerous to be 
touch’d, 

For death-like dragons here affright thee hard. 
Her face, like heaven, enticeth thee to view so 
Her countless glory, which desert must gain, 
And which, without desert, because thine eye 
Presumes to reach, all the whole heap must die. 
Yon sometimes famous princes, like thyself, 
Drawn by report, adventurous by desire, 35 
Tell thee, with speechless tongues and sem¬ 
blance pale, 

That without covering, save yon field of stars, 
Here they stand martyrs, slain in Cupid’s wars; 
And with dead cheeks advise thee to desist 
For going on death’s net, whom none resist. 40 
Per. Antiochus, I thank thee, who hath 
taught 

My frail mortality to know itself, 

And by those fearful objects to prepare 
This body, like to them, to what I must; 

For death rememb’red should be like a mir¬ 
ror, 45 

Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error. 
I ’ll make my will then, and, as sick men do 
Who know the world, see heaven, but, feeling 
woe, 

Gripe not at earthly joys as erst they did ; 

So I bequeath a happy peace to you eo 

And all good men, as every prince should do; 
My riches to the earth from whence they came ; 
But my unspotted fire of love to you. 

[To the Princess.] 

Thus ready for the way of life or death, 

I wait the sharpest blow, Antiochus. 55 

[Ant.] Scorning advice, read the conclusion, 
then, 

Which read and not expounded, ’t is decreed, 
As these before thee, thou thyself shalt bleed. 
Daugh. Of all ’say’d yet, mayst thou prove 
prosperous! 

Of all ’say’d yet I wish thee happiness! «o 

Per. Like a bold champion, I assume the 
lists. 

Nor ask advice of any other thought 
But faithfulness and courage. 

The Riddle. 

I am no viper, yet I feed 
On mother’s flesh which did me breed, es 
I sought a husband, in which labour 
I found that kindness in a father. 

He’s father, son, and husband mild ; 

I mother, wife, and yet his child. 

How they may be, and yet in two, 70 

As you will live, resolve it you. 

Sharp physic is the last; but, 0 you powers 
That gives heaven countless eyes to view men’s 
acts. 

Why cloud they not their sights perpetually, 74 
If this be true, which makes me pale to read it ? 
Fair glass of light, I lov’d you, and could still, 
Were not this glorious casket stor’d with ill. 
But I must tell you, now my thoughts revolt; 


For he’s no man on whom perfections wait 79 
That, knowing sin within, will touch the gate. 
You are a fair viol, and your sense the strings; 
Who, finger’d to make man his lawful music, 
Would draw heaven down, and all the gods, to 
hearken; 

But being play’d upon before your time, 

Hell only clanceth at so harsh a chime. 85 

Good sooth, I care not for you. 

Ant. Prince Pericles, touch not, upon thy life, 
For that’s an article within our law, 

As dangerous as the rest. Your time’s expir’d. 
Either expound now, or receive your sentence. 

Per. Great king, 91 

Few love to hear the sins they love to act; 

’T would braid yourself too near for me to tell 
it. 

Who has a book of all that monarehs do, 

He’s more secure to keep it shut than shown ; 
For vice repeated is like the wandering wind, 
Blows dust in others’ eyes, to spread itself ; 
And yet the end of all is bought thus dear, 

The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear 
To stop the air would hurt them. The blind 
mole casts 100 

Copp’d hills towards heaven, to tell the earth 
is throng’d 

By man’s oppression ; and the poor worm doth 
die for’t. 

Kings are earth’s gods ; in vice their law’s their 
will; 

And if Jove stray, who dare say Jove doth ill ? 
It is enough you know ; and it is fit, 105 

What being more known grows worse, to 
smother it. 

All love the womb that their first being bred, 
Then give my tongue like leave to love my 
head. 

Ant. [Aside.] Heaven, that I had thy head ! 
He has found the meaning. 

But I will gloze with him. — Young Prince of 
Tyre, no 

Though by the tenour of our strict edict, 

Your exposition misinterpreting, 

We might proceed to cancel off your days; 

Yet hope, succeeding from so fair a tree 
As your fair self, doth tune us otherwise. no 
Forty days longer we do respite you ; 

If by which time our secret be undone, 

This mercy shows we ’ll joy in such a son ; 

And until then your entertain shall be 
As doth befit our honour and your worth. 120 
[Exeunt all hut Pericles. 
Per. How courtesy would seem to cover sin, 
When what is done is like an hypocrite, 

The which is good in nothing but in sight! 

If it be true that I interpret false, 

Then were it certain you were not so bad 125 
As with foul incest to abuse your soul; 

Where now you ’re both a father and a son, 

By your untimely claspings with your child, 
Which pleasures fits a husband, not a father; 
And she an eater of her mother’s flesh, 130 
By the defiling of her parent’s bed ; 

And both like serpents are, who though they 
feed 

On sweetest flowers, yet they poison breed. 




35» 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


I. 1L 


Antioch, farewell! for wisdom sees those men 
Blush not in actions blacker than the night 135 
Will shun no course to keep them from the light. 
One sin, I know, another doth provoke ; 
Murder ’s as near to lust as flame to smoke ; 
Poison and treason are the hands of sin, 

Ay, and the targets to put off the shame ; 140 

Then, lest my life be cropp’d to keep you clear, 
By flight I ’ll shun the danger which I fear. 

[Exit. 

Be-enter Antiochus. 

Ant. He hath found the meaning, 

For which we mean to have his head. 

He must not live to trumpet forth my in¬ 
famy, 

Nor tell the world Antiochus doth sin 
In such a loathed manner ; 

And therefore instantly this prince must die, 
For by his fall my honour must keep high. 
Who attends us there ? 

Enter Thaliard. 

Thai. Doth your Highness call ? 

Ant. Thaliard, isi 

You are of our chamber, and our mind par¬ 
takes 

Her private actions to your secrecy; 

And for your faithfulness we will advance you. 
Thaliard, behold, here’s poison, and here’s 
gold; las 

We hate the Prince of Tyre, and thou must 
kill him. 

It fits thee not to ask the reason why, 

Because we bid it. Say, is it done ? 

Thai. My lord, 

’Tis done. 

Ant. Enough. 100 

Enter a Messenger. 

Let your breath cool yourself, telling your 
haste. 

Mes. My lord, Prince Pericles is fled. [Exit.] 
Ant. , As thou 

Wilt live, fly after ; and like an arrow shot 
From a well-experienc’d archer hits the mark 
His eye doth level at, so thou ne’er return ics 

Unless thou say Prince Pericles is dead. 

Thai. My lord, 

If I can get him within my pistol’s length, 

I ’ll make him sure enough; so farewell to 
your Highness. 

Ant. Thaliard, adieu! [Exit Thai.] Till 
Pericles be dead, 170 

My heart can lend no succour to my head. 

[Exit.] 

[Scene II. Tyre. A room in the palace.] 
Enter Pericles. 

Per. [To Lords without.] Let none disturb us. 
— Why should this change of thoughts, 
The sad companion, dull-ey’d Melancholy, 

Be my so us’d a guest as not an hour 
In the day’s glorious walk or peaceful night, 
The tomb where grief should sleep, can breed 
me quiet ? » 


Here pleasures court mine eyes, and mine eyes 
shun them ; 

And danger, which I fear’d, is at Antioch, 
Whose arm seems far too short to hit me here. 
Yet neither pleasure’s art can joy my spirits, 
Nor yet the other’s distance comfort me. 10 
Then it is thus : the passions of the mind, 

That have their first conception by mis-dread, 
Have after-nourishment and life by care ; 

And what was first but fear what might be 
done, 

Grows elder now and cares it be not done. « 
And so with me. The great Antiochus, 

’Gainst whom 1 am too little to contend, 

Since he’s so great can make his will his act, 
Will think me speaking, though I swear to 
silence; 

Nor boots it me to say I honour him, 20 

If he suspect I may dishonour him ; 

And what may make him blush in being known, 
He ’ll stop the course by which it might be 
known. 

With hostile forces he ’ll o’erspread the laud, 
And with the ostent of war will look so huge, 28 
Amazement shall drive courage from the state ; 
Our men be vanquish’d ere they do resist, 

And subjects punish’d that ne’er thought 
offence : 

Which care of them, not pity of myself — 

Who am no more but as the tops of trees, 30 
Which fence the roots they grow by and defend 
them —■ 

Makes both my body pine and soul to languish, 
And punish that before that he would punish. 

Enter [Helicanus, with other] Lords. 

1 . Lord. Joy and all comfort in your sacred 

breast! 

2 . Lord. And keep your mind, till you return 

to us, so 

Peaceful and comfortable! 

Hel. Peace, peace, and give experience 
tongue. 

They do abuse the King that flatter him, 

For flattery is the bellows blows up sin, 

The thing the which is flattered, but a spark, <c 
To which that blast gives heat and stronger 
glowing; 

Whereas reproof, obedient and in order, 

Fits kings, as they are men, for they may err. 
When Signior Sooth here does proclaim a peace, 
He flatters you, makes war upon your life. « 
Prince, pardon me, or strike me, if you please ; 
I cannot be much lower than my knees. 

Per. All leave us else ; but let your cares 
o’erlook 

What shipping and what lading’s in our haven, 
And then return to us. [Exeunt Lords.] Heli¬ 
canus, thou so 

Hast mov’d us. What seest thou in our looks ? 
Hel. An angry brow, dread lord. 

Per. If there be such a dart in princes’ 
frowns, 

How durst thy tongue move anger to our face ? 
Hel. How dares the plants look up to heaven, 
from whence os 

They have their nourishment ? 







I. iii. 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


359 


-Per. . Thou know’st I have power 
To take thy life from thee. 

Hel. [Kneeling.] I have ground the axe my¬ 
self ; 

Do you but strike the blow. 

-Eer. Rise, prithee, rise, 

bit down. Thou art no flatterer. oo 

I than, thee for it • and heaven forbid 
That kings should let their ears hear their 
faults hid! 

Fit counsellor and servant for a prince, 

Who by thy wisdom makes a prince thy servant, 
What wouldst thou have me do ? 

Hel. To bear with patience 

Such griefs as you yourself do lay upon your¬ 
self. oo 

Per. Thou speak’st like a physician, Heli- 


canus, 

That ministers a potion unto me 
That thou wouldst tremble to receive thyself. 
Attend me, then. I went to Antioch, 70 

Where, as thou know’st, against the face of 
death, 

I sought the purchase of a glorious beauty, 
From whence an issue I might propagate, 


Are arms to princes and bring joys to subjects. 
Her face was to mine eye beyond all wonder ; 75 
The rest — hark in thine ear — as black as 'in¬ 
cest ; 

Which by my knowledge found, the sinful 
father 

Seem’d not to strike, but smooth. But thou 
know’st this, 

’T is time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss. 
Which fear so grew in me, I hither fled, so 
Under the covering of a careful night, 

Who seem’d my good protector; and, being 
here, 

Bethought me what was past, what might suc¬ 
ceed. 

I knew him tyrannous, and tyrants’ fears 
Decrease not, but grow faster than the years ; *5 
And should he doubt it. as no doubt he doth, 
That I should open to tne listening air 
How many worthy princes’ bloods were shed 
To keep his bed of blackness unlaid ope. 

To lop that doubt, he ’ll fill this land with 
arms, 90 

And make pretence of wrong that I have done 
him ; 

When all for mine (if I may call) offence 
Must feel war’s blow, who spares not innocence : 
Which love to all, 01 which thyself art one, 
Who now reprov’dst me for it,— 

Hel. Alas, sir! sc 

Per. Drew sleep out of mine eyes, blood 
from my cheeks, 

Musings into my mind, with thousand doubts 
How I might stop this tempest ere it came ; 
And finding little comfort to relieve them, 

I thought it princely charity to grieve them. 100 
Hel. Well, my lord, since you have given me 
leave to speak, 

Freely will I speak. Antiochus you fear ; 

And justly too, I think, you fear the tyrant, 
Who either by public war or private treason 


Will take away your life. 10s 

Therefore, my lord, go travel for a while, 

Till that his rage and anger be forgot, 

Or till the Destinies do cut his thread of life. 
Your rule direct to any ; if to me, 

Day serves not light more faithful than I ’ll be. 

Per. I do not doubt thy faith ; m 

But should he wrong my liberties in my ab¬ 
sence ? 

Hel. We ’ll mingle our bloods together in the 
earth, 

From whence we had our being and our birth. 
-Per. Tyre, I now look from thee then, and 
to Tarsus n S 

Intend my travel, where I ’ll hear from thee ; 
And by whose letters I ’ll dispose myself. 

The care I had and have of subjects’ good 
On thee I lay, whose wisdom’s strength can 
bear it. 

I’ll take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath ; 
Who shuns not to break one will sure crack 
both; i2i 

But in our orbs we ’ll live so round and safe, 
That time of both this truth shall ne’er con¬ 
vince, 

Thou show’dst a subject’s shine, I a trueprince. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III. Tyre. An ante-chamber in the 
palace.] 

Enter Thaliard. 

Thai. So, this is Tyre, and this the court. 
Here must I kill King Pericles ; and if I do it 
not, I am sure to be bang’d at home. ’T is 
dangerous. Well, I perceive he was a wise fel¬ 
low, and had good discretion, that, being bid to 
ask what he would of the King, desired he [5 
might know none of his secrets. Now do I see 
he had some reason for’t; for if a king bid a 
man be a villain, he’s bound by the indenture 
of his oath to be one. Hush! here comes the 
lords of Tyre. 10 

Enter Helicanus and Escanes, with other 
Lords. 

Hel. You shall not need, my fellow peers of 
_ , Tyre, 

Further to question me of your king’s departure. 
His seal’d commission, left in trust with me, 
Doth speak sufficiently he’s gone to travel. 
Thai. [Aside.] How ! the King gone ! 1 r 

Hel. If further yet you will be satisfied, 

Why, as it were unlicens’d of your loves, 

He would depart, I ’ll give some light unto you. 
Being at Antioch — 

Thai. [Aside.] What from Antioch ? 

Hel. Royal Antiochus — on what cause I 
know not— 20 

Took some displeasure at him ; at least he 
judg’d so ; 

And doubting lest that he had err’d or sinn’d, 
To show his sorrow, he ’d correct himself; 

So puts himself unto the shipman’s toil, 

With whom each minute threatens life or death. 

Thai. [Aside.] Well, I perceive 26 

I shall not be hang’d now, although I would. 






360 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


I. IV. 


But since he’s gone, the King’s ears it must 
please; 

He scap’d the land, to perish at the sea. 

I ’ll present myself. Peace to the lords of Tyre! 
Hel. Lord Thaliard from Antiochus is wel¬ 
come. 81 

Thai. From him I come 
With message unto princely Pericles; 

But since my landing I have understood 
Your lord has betook himself to unknown 
travels, 35 

My message must return from whence it came. 

Hel. We have no reason to desire it, 
Commended to our master, not to us ; 

Yet, ere you shall depart, this we desire, 39 
As friends to Antioch, we may feast in Tyre. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene IV. Tarsus. A room in the Governor's 
house.] 

Enter Cleon, the Governor of Tarsus , with [Dio- 
nyza,] his wife , and others. 

Cle. My Dionyza, shall we rest us here, 

And by relating tales of others’ griefs, 

See if ’t will teach us to forget our own ? 

Dio. That were to blow at fire in hope to 
quench it; 

For who digs hills because they do aspire 5 
Throws down one mountain to cast up a higher. 
0 my distressed lord, even such our griefs are. 
Here they ’re but felt, and seen with mischief’s 
eyes, 

But like to groves, being topp’d, they higher 
rise. 

Cle. 0 Dionyza, 10 

Who wanteth food, and will not say he wants it, 
Or can conceal his hunger till he famish ? 

Our tongues and sorrows do sound deep 
Our woes into the air ; our eyes do weep, 

Till tongues fetch breath that may proclaim 
them louder; 15 

That, if heaven slumber while their creatures 
want, 

They may awake their helps to comfort them. 

I ’ll then discourse our woes, felt several years, 
And, wanting breath to speak, help me with 
tears. 

Dio. I ’ll do my best, sir. 20 

Cle. This Tarsus, o'er which I have the 
government, 

A city on whom Plenty held full hand, 

For Riches strew’d herself even in the streets: 
Whose towers bore heads so high they kiss’d 
the clouds, 

And strangers ne’er beheld but wond’red at; 2s 
Whose men and dames so jetted and adorn’d, 
Like one another’s glass to trim them by. 

Their tables were stor’d full, to glad the sight, 
And not so much to feed on as delight. 

All poverty was scorn’d, and pride so great, 30 
The name of help grew odious to repeat. 

Dio. 0 , ’t is too true. 

Cle. But see what heaven can do ! By this 
our change. 

These mouths, who but of late, earth, sea, and 
air 


Were all too little to content and please, 35 
Although they gave their creatures in abun¬ 
dance, 

As houses are defil’d for want of use, 

They are now starved for want of exercise. 
Those palates who, not yet two summers 
younger, 

Must have inventions to delight the taste, _ 40 

Would now be glad of bread, and beg for it. 
Those mothers who, to nuzzle up their babes, 
Thought nought too curious, are ready now 
To eat those little darlings whom they lov’d. 
So sharp are hunger’s teeth, that man and 
wife 46 

Draw lots who first shall die to lengthen life. 
Here stands a lord, and there a lady weeping. 
Here many sink, yet those which see them fall 
Have scarce strength left to give them burial. 
Is not this true ? co 

Dio. Our cheeks and hollow eyes do wit¬ 
ness it. 

Cle . O, let those cities that of Plenty’s cup 
And her prosperities so largely taste, 

With their superfluous riots, hear these tears ! 
The misery of Tarsus may be theirs. 55 

Enter a Lord. 

Lord. Where’s the Lord Governor ? 

Cle. Here. 

Speak out thy sorrows which thou bring’st in 
haste, 

For comfort is too far for us to expect. 

Lord. We have descried, upon our neigh¬ 
bouring shore, 60 

A portly sail of ships make hitherward. 

Cle. I thought as much. 

One sorrow never comes but brings an heir, 
That may succeed as his inheritor ; 

And so in ours. Some neighbouring nation, es 
Taking advantage of our misery, 

Hath stuff’d these hollow vessels with their 
power, 

To beat us down, the which are down already; 
And make a conquest of unhappy me, 

Whereas no glory’s got to overcome. 70 

Lord. That ’s the least fear ; for, by the 
semblance 

Of their white flags display’d, they bring us 
peace, 

And come to us as favourers, not as foes. 

Cle. Thou speak’st like him’s untutor’d to 
repeat, 

“ Who makes the fairest show means most de¬ 
ceit.” 75 

But bring they what they will and what they 
can, 

What need we fear ? 

The ground’s the lowest, and we are half way 
there. 

Go tell their general we attend him here, 

To know for what he comes, and whence he 
comes, so 

And what he craves. 

Lord. I go, my lord. [Exit.] 

Cle. Welcome is peace, if he on peace con¬ 

sist ; 

If wars, we are unable to resist. 





II. 1. 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


361 


Enter Pericles with Attendants. 

Per. Lord Governor, for so we hear you 
are, 86 

Let not our ships and number of our men 
Be like a beacon fir’d to amaze your eyes. 

We have heard your miseries as far as Tyre, 
And seen the desolation of your streets, 

Nor come we to add sorrow to your tears, 90 
But to relieve them of their heavy load ; 

And these our ships, you happily may think 
Are like the Troyan horse was stuff’d within 
With bloody veins, expecting overthrow, 

Are stor’d with corn to make your needy 
bread, »s 

And give them life whom hunger starv’d half 
dead. 

All. The gods of Greece protect you ! 

And we ’ll pray for you. 

Per. Arise, I pray you, rise. 

We do not look for reverence, but for love, 
And harbourage for ourself, our ships, and 
men. 100 

Cle. The which when any shall not gratify, 
Or pay you with unthankfulness in thought, 

Be it our wives, our children, or ourselves, 

The curse of heaven and men succeed their evils! 
Till when, — the which I hope shall ne’er be 
seen, — 105 

Your Grace is welcome to our town and us. 

Per. Which welcome we ’ll accept; feast 
here a while, 

Until our stars that frown lend us a smile. 

[Exeunt. 

[ACT II] 

Enter Gower. 

Gow. Here have you seen a mighty king 
His child, I wis, to incest bring; 

A better prince and benign lord, 

That will prove awful both in deed and word. 
Be quiet then as men should be, 6 

Till he hath pass’d necessity. 

I ’ll show you those in troubles reign, 

Losing a mite, a mountain gain. 

The good in conversation, 

To whom I give my benison, 10 

Is still at Tarsus, where each man 
Thinks all is writ he speken can; 

And, to remember what he does, 

Build his statue to make him glorious. 

But tidings to the contrary to 15 

Are brought your eyes ; what need speak I ? 

Dumb Show. 

Enter at one door Pericles talking with Cleon; 
all the train with them. Enter at another 
door a Gentleman, with a letter to Pericles; 
Pericles shows the letter to Cleon; gives the 
Messenger a reward , and knights him. Exit 
Pericles at one door, and Cleon at another. 

Good Helicane, that stay’d at home, 

Not to eat honey like a drone 

From others’ labours ; for though he strive 

To killen bad, keep good alive, *• 


And to fulfil his prince’ desire, 

Sends word of all that haps in Tyre: 

How Thaliard came full bent with sin 
And had intent to murder him ; 

And that in Tarsus was not best *s 

Longer for him to make his rest. 

He, doing so, put forth to seas, 

Where when men been, there’s seldom ease. 

For now the wind begins to blow ; 

Thunder above and deeps below so 

Makes such unquiet, that the ship 

Should house him safe is wreck’d and split; 

And he, good prince, having all lost, 

By waves from coast to coast is tost. 

All perishen of man, of pelf, 35 

Ne aught escapen but himself; 

Till Fortune, tir’d with doing bad, 

Threw him ashore, togive him glad: 

And here he comes. What shall be next, 
Pardon old Gower, — this longs the text. «o 

[Exit.] 

[Scene I. Pentapolis. An open place by the 
sea-side .] 

Enter Pericles, wet. 

Per. Yet cease your ire, you angry stars of 
heaven! 

Wind, rain, and thunder, remember earthly 
man 

Is but a substance that must yield to you ; 

And I, as fits my nature, do obey you. 

Alas, the seas hath cast me or*the rocks, 6 
Wash’d me from shore to shore, and left me 
breath 

Nothing to think on but ensuing death. 

Let it suffice the greatness of vour powers 
To have bereft a prince of all his fortunes ; 

And having thrown him from your watery 
grave, ^ _ 10 

Here to have death in peace is all he ’ll crave. 

Enter three Fishermen. 

1 . Fish. What, ho, Pilch ! 

2 . Fish. Ha, come and bring away the nets ! 
1 . Fish. What, Patch-breech, I say ! 

3 . Fish. What say you, master ? 13 

1 . Fish. Look how thou stirr’st now ! Come 

away, or I ’ll fetch thee with a wanion. 

3 . Fish. Faith, master, I am thinking of the 
poor men that were cast away before us even 
now. . 20 

1 . Fish. Alas, poor souls, it grieved my heart 
to hear what pitiful cries they made to us to 
help them, when, well-a-day, we could scarce 
help ourselves. 24 

3 . Fish. Nay, master, said not I as much when 
I saw the porpoise how he bounc’d and tum¬ 
bled ? They say they ’re half fish, half flesh. 
A plague on them, they ne’er come but I look 
to be wash’d. Master, I marvel how the fishes 
live in the sea. 34 

1 . Fish. Why, as men do a-land ; the great ones 
eat up the little ones. I can compare our rich 
misers to nothing so fitly as to a whale • ’a plays 
and tumbles, driving the poor fry before him, 
j and at last devour them all at a mouthful. Such 




3 62 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


II. i. 


whales have I heard on o’ the land, who never 
leave gaping till they swallow’d the whole par¬ 
ish, church, steeple, bells, and all. » 

Per. [Aside.] A pretty moral. 

3. Fish. But, master, if I had been the sex¬ 
ton, I would have been that day in the belfry. 

2. Fish. Why, man ? 42 

3. Fish. Because he should have swallowed 

me too; and when I had been in his belly, I 
would have kept such a jangling of the bells, 
that he should never have left, till he cast 
bells, steeple, church, and parish, up again. 
But if the good King Simonides were of my 
mind, — 48 

Per. [Aside.] Simonides! 

3. Fish. We would purge the land of these 
drones, that rob the bee of her honey. . ei 

Per. [Aside.] How from the finny subject 
of the sea 

These fishers tell the infirmities of men ; 

And from their watery empire recollect 
All that may men approve or men detect! 55 

Peace be at your labour, honest fishermen. 

2. Fish. Honest ! good fellow, what’s that ? 
If it be a day fits you, search out of the calen¬ 
dar, and nobody look after it. 

Per. May , see the sea hath cast upon your 
coast so 

2. Fish. What a drunken knave was the sea 
to cast thee in y>ur way ! 

Per. A man v* horn both the waters and the 
wind, , 

In that vast tennis-court, hath made the ball 
For them to play upon, entreats you pity him. es 
He asks of you, that never us’d to beg. 

1. Fish. No, friend, cannot you beg ? Here’s 
them in our country of Greece gets more with 
begging than we can do with working. 

2. Fish. Canst thou catch any fishes, then ? 

Per. I never practis’d it. 71 

2. Fish. Nay, then thou wilt starve, sure; 

for here’s nothing to be got now-a-days, unless 
thou canst fish for ’t. 

Per. What I have been I have forgot to know, 
But what I am, want teaches me to think 
on, — 76 

A man throng’d up with cold. My veins are 
chill, 

And have no more of life than may suffice 
To give my tongue that heat to ask your help ; 
Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead, 
For that I am a man, pray see me buried. «i 

1. Fish. Die, quoth-a? Now gods forbid’t, 

an I have a gown here ! Come, put it on ; keep 
thee warm. Now, afore me, a handsome fel¬ 
low ! Come, thou shalt go home, and we ’ll 
have flesh for holidays, fish for fasting-days, 
and, moreo’er, puddings and flap-jacks, and 
thou shalt be welcome. 87 

Per. I thank you, sir. 

2. Fish. Hark you, my friend. You said you 

could not beg ? 90 

Per. I did but crave. 

2. Fish. But crave! Then I ’ll turn craver 
too, and so I shall scape whipping. 

Per. Why, are all your beggars whipp’d, 
then ? »4 


2. Fish. 0, not all, my friend, not all; for if 
all your beggars were whipp’d, I would wish no 
better office than to be beadle. But, master, 
I ’ll go draw up the net. 

[Exit with Third Fisherman.] 
Per. [Aside.] How well this honest mirth 
becomes their labour ! 99 

1 . Fish. Hark you, sir, do you know where ye 
are ? 

Per. Not well. 

1 . Fish. Why, I ’ll tell you. This is called 
Pentapolis, and our king the good Simonides. 104 
Per. The good Simonides, do you call him ? 
1. Fish. Ay, sir ; and he deserves so to be 
call’d for his peaceable reign and good govern¬ 
ment. 

Per. He is a happy king, since he gains from 
his subjects the name of good by his govern¬ 
ment. How far is his court distant from this 
shore ? 111 

1 . Fish. Marry, sir, half a day’s journey. 
And I ’ll tell you, he hath a fair daughter, 
and to-morrow is her birthday ; and there are 
princes and knights come from all parts of the 
world to joust and tourney for her love. u« 
Per. Were my fortunes equal to my desires, 
I could wish to make one there. 

1 . Fish. 0 , sir, things must be as they may; 

and what a man cannot get, he may lawfully 
deal for — his wife’s soul. 121 

Re-enter Second and Third Fishermen, 
drawing up a net. 

2. Fish. Help, master, help ! here’s a fish 

hangs in the net, like a poor man’s right in the 
law ; ’t will hardly come out. Ha ! bots on’t, 
’t is come at last, and’t is turned to a rusty 
armour. 125 

Per. An armour, friends ! I pray you, let me 
see it. 

Thanks, Fortune, yet, that, after all thy crosses, 
Thou giv’st me somewhat to repair myself ; 
And though it was mine own, part of my herit- 
age, 

Which my dead father did bequeath to me, 130 
With this strict charge, even as he left his life, 
“ Keep it, my Pericles ; it hath been a shield 
’Twixt me and death,” — and pointed to this 
brace — 

“ For that it sav’d me, keep it. In like neces¬ 
sity — 

The which the gods protect thee from ! — may’t 
defend thee.” iac 

It kept where I kept, I so dearly lov’d it; 

Till the rough seas, that spares not any man, 
Took it in rage, though calm’d have given’t 
again. 

I thank thee for’t. My shipwreck now’s no ill, 
Since I have here my father’s gift in’s will. i 4 » 
1 . Fish. What mean you, sir ? 

Per. To beg of you, kind friends, this coat of 
worth, 

For it was sometime target to a king. 

I know it by this mark. He lov’d me dearly, 
And for his sake I wish the having of it; 146 

And that you ’d guide me to your sovereign’s 
court, 





II. It 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


363 


Where with it I may appear a gentleman ; 

And if that ever my low fortune’s better, us 
I ’ll pay your bounties; till then rest your debtor. 

1 . Fish. Why, wilt thou tourney for the lady ? 
Per. I’ll show the virtue I have borne in 
arms. 

1. Fish. Why, do ’e take it, and the gods give 

thee good on ’t ! 153 

2. Fish. Ay, but hark you, my friend ;’t was 
we that made up this garment through the 
rough seams of the waters. There are certain 
eonclolements, certain vails. I hope, sir, if you 
thrive, you ’ll remember from whence you had 
them. 

Per. Believe’t, I will. 159 

By your furtherance I am clothed in steel; 
And, spite of all the rapture of the sea, 

This jewel holds his building on my arm. 

Unto thy value I will mount myself 
Upon a courser, whose delightful steps 
Shall make the gazer joy to see him tread. 105 
Only, my friend, I yet am unprovided 
Of a pair of bases. 

2. Fish. We’ll sure provide. Thou shalt have 
my best gown to make thee a pair; and I ’ll 
bring thee to the court myself. no 

Per. Then honour be but equal to my will, 
This day I ’ll rise, or else add ill to ill. [Exeunt.] 

[Scene II. The same. A public way or platform 
leading to the lists. A pavilion by the side 
of it for the reception of the King , Princess , 
Lords , etc.] 

Enter Simonides, Thaisa, [Lords] and At¬ 
tendants. 

Sim. Are the knights ready to begin the 
triumph ? 

1 . Lord. They are, my liege ; 

And stay your coming to present themselves. 
Sim. Return them, we are ready; and our 
daughter, 

In honour of whose birth these triumphs are, 5 
Sits here, like beauty’s child, whom nature gat 
For men to see, and seeing wonder at. 

[Exit a Lord.] 

Thai. It pleaseth you, my royal father, to 
express 

My commendations great, whose merit’s less. 

Sim. It’s fit it should be so, for princes are 
A model which heaven makes like to itself, n 
As jewels lose their glory if neglected, 

So princes their renowns if not respected. 

’T is now your honour, daughter, to interpret 
The labour of each knight in his device. « 
Thai. Which, to preserve mine honour, I ’ll 
perform. 

The First Knight passes by [and his Squire pre¬ 
sents his shield to the Princess]. 

Sim. Who is the first that doth prefer him¬ 
self? 

Thai. A knight of Sparta, my renowned 
father ; 

And the device he bears upon his shield 

Is a black Ethiope reaching at the sun ; 20 

The word, “ Lux tua vita mihi.” 


Sim. He loves you well that holds his life of 
you. 

The Second Knight [passes by]. 

Who is the second that presents himself ? 

Thai. A prince of Macedon, my royal father ; 
And the device he bears upon his shield 20 
Is an armed knight that’s conquered by a 
lady; 

The motto thus, in Spanish, “ Piu por dxdzura 
que por fuerza f 

The Third Knight [passes 6y], 

Sim. And what’s the third ? 

Thai. The third of Antioch ; 

And his device, a wreath of chivalry ; 

The word, “ Me pompee provexit apex.” 30 

The Fourth Knight [passes by], 

Sim. What is the fourth ? 

Thai. A burning torch that’s turned upside 
down : 

The word, “ Quod me alit, me extinguit .” 

Sim. Which shows that beauty hath his 
power and will, 

Which can as well inflame as it can kill. 35 

The Fifth Knight [passes 6y]. 

Thai. The fifth, an hand environed with 
clouds, 

Holding out gold that’s by the touchstone 
tried; 

The motto thus, “ Sic spectanda.fides .” 

The Sixth Knight [ Pericles , passes by], 

Sim. And what’s 

The sixth and last, the which the knight 
himself 40 

With such a graceful courtesy delivered ? 

Thai. He seems to be a stranger; but his 
present is 

A withered branch, that’s only green at top ; 
The motto, “ In hac spe vivo. 

Sim. A pretty moral. 45 

From the dejected state wherein he is, 

He hopes by you his fortunes yet may flour¬ 
ish. 

1 . Lord. He had need mean better than his 

outward show 

Can any way speak in his just commend ; 

For by his rusty outside he appears no 

To have practis’d more the whipstock than the 
lance. 

2. Lord. He well may be a stranger, for he 

comes 

To an honour’d triumph strangely furnished. 

3. Lord. And on set purpose let his armour 

rust 

Until this day, to scour it in the dust. 55 

Sim. Opinion’s but a fool, that makes us 
scan 

The outward habit by the inward man. 

But stay, the knights are coming. We will 
withdraw 

Into the gallery. [Exeunt.] 

[Great shouts within , and all cry , 
“ The mean knight! ” 







3^4 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


ii. iii. 


[Scene III. The same. A hall of state: a ban¬ 
quet prepared .] 

Enter Simonides, [Thaisa, Marshal, Lords, 
Attendants] and Knights, from tilting. 

Sim. Knights, 

To say you ’re welcome were superfluous. 

To place upon the volume of your deeds, 

As in a title-page, your worth in arms, 

Were more than you expect, or more than’s fit, 
Since every worth in show commends itself. 6 
Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast. 
You are princes and my guests. 

Thai. But you, my knight and guest; 

To whom this wreath of victory I give, 10 

And crown you king of this day’s happiness. 
Per. ’T is more by fortune, lady, than my 
merit. 

Sim. Call it by what you will, the day is 
yours ; 

And here, I hope, is none that envies it. 

In framing an artist, Art hath thus decreed, is 
To make some good, but others to exceed ; 

And you are her labour’d scholar. Come, 
queen o’ the feast, — 

For, daughter, so you are, — here take your 
place. 

Marshal the rest, as they deserve their grace. 
Knights. We are honour’d much by good 
Simonides. 20 

Sim. Your presence glads our days. Honour 
we love ; 

For who hates honour hates the gods above. 
Marshal. Sir, yonder is your place. 

Per. Some other is more fit. 

1 . Knight. Contend not, sir ; for we are gentle¬ 
men 

That neither in our hearts nor outward eyes 2s 
Envies the great nor shall the low despise. 

Per. You are right courteous knights. 

Sim. Sit, sir, sit. 

[Aside.] By Jove, I wonder, that is king of 
thoughts, 

These cates resist me, he not thought upon. 
Thai. [Aside.] By Juno, that is queen of 
marriage, 30 

All viands that I eat do seem unsavoury, 
Wishing him my meat. —Sure, he’s a gallant 
gentleman. 

Sim. He’s but a country gentleman, 

Has done no more than other knights have 
done, 

Has broken a staff or so ; so let it pass. 35 
Thai. [Aside.] To me he seems like diamond 
to glass. 

Per. [Aside.] Yon king’s to me like to my 
father’s picture, 

Which tells me in that glory once he was ; 

Had princes sit, like stars, about his throne, 
And he the sun, for them to reverence ; 40 

None that beheld him, but, like lesser lights, 
Did vail their crowns to his supremacy ; 

Where now his son’s like a glow-worm in the 
night. 

The which hath fire in darkness, none in light; 
Whereby I see that Time’s the king of men, 45 
He’s both their parent, and he is their grave, 


And gives them what he will, not what they 
crave. 

Sim. What, are you merry, knights? 
Knights. Who can be other in this royal 
presence ? 

Sim. Here, with a cup that’s stor’d unto the 
brim, — 60 

As you do love, fill to your mistress’ lips, 

We drink this health to you. 

Knights. We thank your Grace. 

Sim. Yet pause a while ; 

Yon knight doth sit too melancholy, 

As if the entertainment in our court 55 

Had not a show might countervail his worth. 
Note it not you, Thaisa ? 

Thai. What is it 

To me, my father ? 

Sim. O, attend, my daughter. 

Princes in this should live like gods above, 
Who freely give to every one that come 00 
To honour them; 

And princes not doing so are like to gnats, 
Which make a sound, but kill’d are wond’red at. 
Therefore to make his entrance more sweet,. 
Here, Say we drink this standing-bowl of wine 
to him. «s 

Thai. Alas, my father, it befits not me 
Unto a stranger knight to be so bold. 

He may my proffer take for an offence, 

Since men take women’s gifts for impudence. 

Sim. How! 70 

Do as I bid you, or you ’ll move me else. 

Thai. [Aside.] Now, by the gods, he could 
not please me better. 

Sim. And furthermore tell him, we desire 
to know of him, 

Of whence he is, his name, and parentage. 
Thai. The King my father, sir, has drunk 
to you. 75 

Per. I thank him. 

Thai. Wishing it so much blood unto your life. 
Per. I thank both him and you, and pledge 
him freely. 

Thai. And further he desires to know of you, 
Of whence you are, your name, and parentage. 
Per. A gentleman of Tyre ; my name, Peri¬ 
cles ; . 8 i 

My education been in arts and arms ; 

Who, looking for adventures in the world, 

Was by the rough seas reft of ships and men, 
And after shipwreck driven upon this shore, ss 
Thai. He thanks your Grace ; names himself 
Pericles, 

A gentleman of Tyre, 

Who only by misfortune of the seas 
Bereft of ships and men, cast on this shore. 

Sim.. Now, by the gods, I pity his misfortune, 
And will awake him from his melancholy. et 
Come, gentlemen, we sit too long on trifles, 
And waste the time, which looks for other 
revels. 

Even in your armours, as you are address’d. 
Will very well become a soldier’s dance. s* 
I will not have excuse, with saying this 
Loud music is too harsh for ladies’ heads, 

Since they love men in arms as well as beds. 

[They dance. 






II. V. 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


365 


So, this was well ask’d, ’twas so well per¬ 
form’d. 

Come, sir, 100 

Here is a lady that wants breathing too ; 

And I have heard you knights of Tyre 
Are excellent in making ladies trip ; 

And that their measures are as excellent. 

Per. In those that practice them they are, 
my lord. 105 

Sim. 0 , that’s as much as you would be 
denied 

Of your fair courtesy. [ They dance. 

Unclasp, unclasp: 

Thanks, gentlemen, to all; all have done well, 
[To Per.] But you the best. Pages and lights, 
to conduct 

These knights unto their several lodgings ! [To 
Per.] Yours, sir, no 

We have given order to be next our own. 

Per. I am at your Grace’s pleasure. 

[Stm.] Princes, it is too late to talk of love, 
And that’s the mark I know you level at; 
Therefore each one betake him to his rest, us 
To-morrow all for speeding do their best. 

[Exeunt.] 


[Scene IY. Tyre. A room in the Governor's 
house.] 

Enter Helicanus and Escanes. 


Hel. No, Escanes, know this of me, 
Antiochus from incest lived not free ; 

For which, the most high gods not minding 
longer 

To withhold the vengeance that they had in 


store, 

Due to this heinous capital offence, . 8 

Even in the height and pride of all his glory, 
When he was seated in a chariot 
Of an inestimable value, and his daughter with 


him, 

A fire from heaven came and shrivell’d up 
Their bodies, even to loathing; for they so 
stunk, # 10 

That all those eyes ador’d them ere their fall 
Scorn now their hand should give them burial. 
Esca. ’T was very strange. 

Hel. And yet but justice ; for though 

This king were great, his greatness was no guard 
To bar heaven’s shaft, but sin had his re¬ 
ward. 15 

Esca. ’T is very true. 


Enter two or three Lords. 


1. Lord. See, not a man in private conference 
Or council has respect with him but he. 

2. Lord. It shall no longer grieve without re¬ 

proof. 

3. Lord. And curs’d be he that will not sec¬ 

ond it. # 20 

1. Lord. Follow me, then. Lord Helicane, a 
word. 

Hel. With me ? and welcome. Happy day, 
my lords. 

1. Lord. Know that our griefs are risen to 
the top, 

A.nd now at length they overflow their banks. 


Hel. Your griefs! For what ? Wrong not 
your prince you love. 28 

1. Lord. Wrong not yourself, then, noble 

Helicane; 

But if the Prince do live, let us salute him, 

Or know what ground’s made happy by his 
breath. 

If in the world he live, we ’ll seek him out; 

If in his grave he rest, we ’ll find him there ; so 
And be resolv’d he lives to govern us, 

Or dead, give’s cause to mourn his funeral, 
And leave us to our free election. 

2. Lord. Whose death’s indeed the strongest 

in our censure; 

And knowing this kingdom is without a 
head,— ss 

Like goodly buildings left without a roof 
Soon fall to ruin, — your noble self, 

That best know how to rule and how to reign, 
We thus submit unto, — our sovereign. 

All. Live, noble Helicane ! 

Hel. By honour’s cause, forbear your suf¬ 
frages. 

If that you love Prince Pericles, forbear. 

Take I your wish, I leap into the seas, 

Where’s hourly trouble for a minute’s ease. 

A twelvemonth longer, let me entreat you to *5 
Forbear the absence of your king ; 

If in which time expir’d, he not return, 

I shall with aged patience bear your yoke. 

But if I cannot win you to this love, 

Go search like nobles, like noble subiects, eo 
And in your search spend your adventurous 
worth; 

Whom if you find, and win unto return, 

You shall like diamonds sit about his crown. 

1. Lord. To wisdom he’s a fool that will not 
yield ; 

And since Lord Helicane enioineth thus, 55 
We with our travels will endeavour us. 

Hel. Then you love us, we you, and we ’ll 
clasp hands. 

When peers thus knit, a kingdom ever stands. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene V. Pentapolis. A room in the palace.] 

Enter Simonides, reading of a letter , at one 
door: the Knights meet him. 

1 . Knight. Good morrow to the good Simon¬ 

ides. 

Sim. Knights, from my daughter this 1 let 
you know, 

That for this twelvemonth she ’ll not under¬ 
take 

A married life. 

Her reason to herself is only known, * 

Which from her by no means can I get. 

2. Knight. May we not get access to her, my 

lord ? 

Sim. Faith, by no means; she hath so 
strictly tied 

Her to her chamber, that’t is impossible. 

One twelve moons more she ’ll wear Diana’s 
livery; 10 

This by the eye of Cynthia hath she vowed, 
And on her virgin honour will not break it. 




366 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


hi. Chor. 


3. Knight. Loath to bid farewell, we take our 
leaves. [. Exeunt Knights.] 

Sim. So, 

They are well dispatch’d; now to my daugh¬ 
ter’s letter. « 

She tells me here, she ’ll wed the stranger 
knight, 

Or never more to view nor day nor light. 

’T is well, mistress; your choice agrees with 
mine. 

I like that well. Nay, how absolute she’s in’t, 
Not minding whether I dislike or no 1 20 

Well, I do commend her choice ; 

And will no longer have it be delayed. 

Soft! here he comes. I must dissemble it. 

Enter Pericles. 

Per. All fortune to the good Simonides ! 
Sim. To you as much, sir! I am beholding 
to you 25 

For your sweet music this last night. I do 
Protest my ears were never better fed 
With such delightful pleasing harmony. 

Per. It is your Grace’s pleasure to commend; 
Not.my desert. 

Sim. Sir, you are Music’s master. 30 

Per. The worst of all her scholars, my good 
lord. 

Sim. Let me ask you one thing: 

What do you think of my daughter, sir ? 

Per. A most virtuous princess. 

Sim. And she is fair too, is she not ? 35 

Per. As a fair day in summer ; wondrous 
fair. 

Sim. Sir, my daughter thinks very well of 
you; 

Ay, so well, that you must be her master, 

And she will be your scholar; therefore look 
to it. 

Per. I am unworthy for her schoolmaster. 40 
Sim. She thinks not so ; peruse this writing 
else. 

Per. [Aside.] What’s here ? 

A letter, that she loves the knight of Tyre ! 

’T is the King’s subtilty to have my life. 

0, seek not to entrap me, gracious lord, 45 
A stranger and distressed gentleman, 

That never aim’d so high to love your daugh¬ 
ter, 

But bent all offices to honour her. 

Sim. Thou hast bewitch’d my daughter, and 
thou art 

A villain. eo 

Per. By the gods, I have not. 

Never did thought of mine levy offence ; 

Nor never did my actions yet commence 
A deed might gain her love or your displea¬ 
sure. 

Sim. Traitor, thou liest. 

Per. Traitor! 

Sim. * Ay, traitor. 

Per. Even in his throat — unless it be the 
King — so 

That calls me traitor, I return the lie. 

Sim. [Aside.] Now, by the gods, 1 do ap¬ 
plaud his courage. 

Per. My actions are as noble as my thoughts, 


That never relish’d of a base descent. ef 

I came unto your court for honour’s cause, 
And not to be a rebel to her state ; 

And he that otherwise accounts of me, 

This sword shall prove he’s honour’s enemy. 

Sim. No? w 

Here comes my daughter, she can witness it. 

Enter Thaisa. 

Per. Then, as you are as virtuous as fair, 
Resolve your angry father, if my tongue 
Did e’er solicit, or my hand subscribe 
To any syllable that made love to you. 7« 

Thai. Why, sir, say if you had, 

Who takes offence at that would make me 
glad ? 

Sim. Yea, mistress, are you so peremptory? 
Aside.] I am glad on’t with all my heart. — 
’ll tame you ; I ’ll bring you in subjection. 76 
Will you, not having my consent, 

Bestow your love and your affections 
Upon a stranger? [aside] who, for aught I 
know, 

May be, nor can I think the contrary, 

As great in blood as I myself. — so 

Therefore hear you, mistress : either frame 
Your will to mine, — and you, sir, hear you, 
Either be rul’d by me, — or I will make you — 
Man and wife. 

Nay, come, your hands and lips must seal it 
too; 86 

And being join’d, I ’ll thus your hopes destroy ; 
And for a further grief, — God give you joy ! 
What, are you both pleas’d ? 

Thai. Yes, if you love me, sir. 

Per. Even as my life my blood that fosters 

it. 

Sim. What, are you both agreed ? no 

Both. Yes, if’t please your Majesty. 

Sim. It pleaseth me so well, that I will see 
you wed ; 

And then with what haste you can, get you to 
bed. [Exeunt. 

[ACT III] 

Enter Gower. 

Gow. Now sleep y-slaked hath the rout. 

No din but snores the house about, 

Made louder by the o’er-fed breast 
Of this most pompous marriage-feast. 

The cat, with eyne of burning coal, e 

Now couches ’fore the mouse’s hole ; 

And crickets sing at the oven’s mouth, 

Are the blither for their drouth. 

Hymen hath brought the bride to bed, 

Where, by the loss of maidenhead, ic 

A babe is moulded. Be attent, 

And time that is so briefly spent 
With your fine fancies quaintly eche. 

What’s dumb in show I ’ll plain with speech. 

[Dumb Show.] 

Enter Pericles and Simonides, at one door , with 
Attendants. A Messenger meets them , kneels, 
and gives Pericles a letter. Pericles shows it 
Simonides; the Lords kneel to him. Then 




III. 1. 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


367 


enter Thaisa^ with child. with Lycliorida a 
nurse. 'The King shows her the letter; she re¬ 
joices. She and Pericles take leave of her 
father , and depart [with Lychorida and their 
Attendants. Then exeunt Simonides and the 
rest J. 

By many a dern and painful perch, is 

Of Pericles the careful search, 

By the four opposing coigns 
Which the world together joins, 

Is made with all due diligence 

That horse and sail and high expense 20 

Can stead the quest. At last from Tyre, 

Fame answering the most strange inquire, 

To the court of King Simonides 

Are letters brought, the tenour these : 

Antiochus and his daughter dead, 25 

The men of Tyrus on the head 

Of Helicanus would set on 

The crown of Tyre, but he will none. 

The mutiny he tnere hastes t’ oppress ; 

Says to ’em, if King Pericles so 

Come not home in twice six moons, 

He. obedient to their dooms, 

Will take the crown. The sum of this, 
Brought hither to Pentapolis, 

Y-ravished the regions round, ss 

And every one with claps can sound, 

“ Our heir-apparent is a king ! 

Who dream’d, who thought of such a thing ? ” 
Brief, he must hence depart to Tyre : 

His queen with child makes her desire — *0 

Which who shall cross ? — along to go. 

Omit we all their dole and woe. 

Lychorida, her nurse, she takes, 

And so to sea. Their vessel shakes 
On Neptune’s billow ; half the flood « 

Hath their keel cut. But fortune’s mood 
Varies again. The grisled north 
Disgorges such a tempest forth, 

That, as a duck for life that dives, 

So up and down the poor ship drives. 50 

The lady shrieks, and well-a-near 
Does fall in travail with her fear; 

And what ensues in this fell storm 
Shall for itself itself perform. 

I nill relate, action may 68 

Conveniently the rest convey, _ 

Which might not what by me is told. 

In your imagination hold 

This stage the ship, upon whose deck 

The sea-tost Pericles appears to speak. 

[Exit,] 

[Scene I.] 

Enter Pericles, on shipboard. 

Per. Thou god of this great vast, rebuke 
these surges, 

Which wash both heaven and hell ; and thou, 
that hast 

Upon the winds command, bind them in brass, 
Having call’d them from the deep ! 0, still 
Thy deafening, dreadful thunders; gently 
quench 6 

Thy nimble, sulphurous flashes ! O, how, Ly¬ 
chorida, 


How does my queen ? Thou storm, venomously 
Wilt thou spitall thyself ? The seaman’s whistle 
Is as a whisper in the ears of death, 

Unheard. Lychorida ! — Lucina, O i« 

Divinest patroness, and midwife gentle 
To those that cry by night, convey thy deity 
Aboard our dancing boat; make swift the 
pangs 

Of my queen’s travails ! 

Enter Lychorida [with an Infant ]. 

Now, Lychorida! 

Lye. Here is a thing too young for such a 
place, is 

Who, if it had conceit, would die, as I 
Am like to do. Take in your arms this piece 
Of your dead queen. 

Per. How, how, Lychorida? 

Lyc. Patience, good sir; do not assist the 
storm. 

Here’s all that is left living of your queen, 20 
A little daughter. For the sake of it, 

Be manly, and take comfort. 

Per. 0 you gods 1 

Why do you make us love your goodly gifts, 
And snatch them straight away ? We here 
below 

Recall not what we give, and therein may 25 
Use honour with you. 

Lyc. Patience, good sir, 

Even for this charge. 

Per. Now, mild may be thy life I 

For a more blustrous birth had never babe. 
Quiet and gentle thy conditions ! for 
Thou art the rudeliest welcome to this world so 
That ever was prince’s child. Happy what 
follows! 

Thou hast as chiding a nativity 
As fire, air, water, earth, and heaven can make, 
To herald thee from the womb. Even at the 
first 

Thy loss is more than can thy portage quit, 36 
With all thou canst find here. Now, the good 
gods 

Throw their best eyes upon’t! 

Enter two Sailors. 


1. Sail. What courage, sir ? God save you ! 
Per. Courage enough. I do not fear the 
flaw; 

It hath done to me the worst. Yet, for the love 
Of this poor infant, this fresh-new sea-farer, « 
I would it would be quiet. 

1. Sail. Slack the bolins there ! Thou wilt 
not, wilt thou ? Blow, and split thyself . 

2. Sail. But sea-room, an the brine and 
cloudy billow kiss the moon, I care not. *» 

1. Sail. Sir, your queen must overboard. 
The sea works high, the wind is loud, and will 
not lie till the ship be clear’d of the dead. 

Per. That’s your superstition. 80 

1. Sail. Pardon us, sir; with us at sea it 
hath been still observed ; and we are strong in 
custom. Therefore briefly yield her; for she 
must overboard straight. 

Per. As you think meet. Most wretched 
queen! 65 




3 68 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


hi. ii. 


Lyc. Here she lies, sir. 

Per. A terrible childbed hast thou had, my 
dear ; 

No light, no fire. The unfriendly elements 
Forgot thee utterly ; nor have I time 
To give thee hallow’d to thy grave, but straight 
Must cast thee, scarcely coffin’d, in the ooze ; ei 
Where, for a monument upon thy bones, 

And aye-remaining lamps, the belching whale, 
And humming water must o’erwhelm thy 
corpse, 

Lying with simple shells. 0 Lychorida, es 
Bid Nestor bring me spices, ink and paper, 

My casket and my jewels ; and bid Nicander 
Bring me the satin coffin. Lay the babe 
Upon the pillow. Hie thee, whiles I say 
A priestly farewell to her. Suddenly, woman, to 

[Exit Lychorida .] 
2. Sail. Sir, we have a chest beneath the 
hatches, caulk’d and bitumed ready. 

Per. I thank thee. Mariner, say what coast 
is this ? 

2. Sail. We are near Tarsus. 

Per. Thither, gentle mariner, 75 

Alter thy course for Tyre. When canst thou 
reach it ? 

2. Sail. By break of day, if the wind cease. 
Per. 0, make for Tarsus ! 

There will I visit Cleon, for the babe 
Cannot hold out to Tyrus. There I ’ll leave it so 
At careful nursing. Go thy ways, good mari¬ 
ner. 

I ’ll bring the body presently. [ Exeunt. 

[Scene II. Ephesus. A room in Cerimon's 
house.] 

Enter Cerimon, with a Servant [and some 
Persons who have been shipwrecked], 

Cer. Philemon, ho! 

Enter Philemon. 

Phil. Doth my lord call ? 

Cer. Get fire and meat for these poor men. 

’T has been a turbulent and stormy night. 

Serv. I have been in many ; but such a night 
as this, 5 

Till now, I ne’er endured. 

Cer. Your master will be dead ere you re¬ 
turn. 

There’s nothing can be minist’red to nature 
That can recover him. [To Philemon.] Give 
this to the ’pothecary, 

And tell me how it works. 

[Exeunt all but Cerimon.] 

Enter two Gentlemen. 

1. Gent. Good morrow. 10 

2. Gent. Good morrow to your lordship. 

Cer. Gentlemen, 

Why do you stir so early ? 

1. Gent. Sir, 

Our lodgings, standing bleak upon the sea, 
Shook as the earth did quake ; n> 

The very principals did seem to rend, 

And all to topple. Pure surprise and fear 
Made me to quit the house. 


2. Gent. That is the cause we trouble you so 
early; 

’T is not our husbandry. 

Cer. 0, you say well. 20 

1. Gent. But I much marvel that your lord- 

ship, having 

Rich tire about you, should at these early 
hours 

Shake off the golden slumber of repose. 

’T is most strange, 

Nature should be so conversant with pain, 25 
Being thereto not compelled. 

Cer. I hold it ever 

Virtue and cunning were endowments greater 
Than nobleness and riches. Careless heirs 
May the two latter darken and expend, 

But immortality attends the former, 30 

Making a man a god. ’T is known, I ever 
Have studied physic, through which secret art, 
By turning o’er authorities, I have, 

Together with my practice, made familiar 
To me and to my aid the blest infusions 35 

That dwells in vegetives, in metals, stones ; 
And I can speak of the disturbances 
That Nature works, and of her cures; which 
doth give me 

A more content in course of true delight 
Than to be thirsty after tottering honour, 40 
Or tie my pleasure up in silken bags, 

To please the fool and Death. 

2. Gent. Your honour has through Ephesus 

poured forth 

Your charity, and hundreds call themselves 
Your creatures, who by you have been re¬ 
stored ; 45 

And not your knowledge, your personal pain, 
but even 

Your purse, still open, hath built Lord Ceri¬ 
mon 

Such strong renown as time shall ne’er decay. 

Enter two or three [Servants] with a chest. 

1. Serv. So ; lift there. 

Cer. What is that ? 

1. Serv. Sir, even now 

Did the sea toss up upon our shore this chest, so 
’T is of some wreck. 

Cer. Set’t down, let’s look upon’t. 

2. Gent. ’T is like a coffin, sir. 

Cer. Whate’er it be, 

’T is wondrous heavy. Wrench it open straight. 
If the sea’s stomach be o’ercharg’d with gold, 
’T is a good constraint of fortune it belches 
upon us. 65 

2. Gent. ’T is so, my lord. 

Cer. How close ’t is caulk’d and bitumed ! 
Did the sea cast it up ? 

1. Serv. I never saw so huge a billow, sir, 

As toss’d it upon shore. 

Cer. Wrench it open. 

Soft! it smells most sweetly in my sense. eo 

2. Gent. A delicate odour. 

Cer. As ever hit my nostril. So, up with 
it. 

0 you most potent gods! what’s here ? A 
corse ! 

1. Gent. Most strange ' 




III. iii 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


369 


Cer. Shrouded in cloth of state ; balm’d and 
entreasured es 

With full bags of spices ! A passport too ! 
Apollo, perfect me in the characters ! 

[Reads from a scroll.] 
“ Here I give to understand, 

If e’er this coffin drives a-land, 

L King Pericles, have lost 70 

This queen, worth all our mundane cost. 
Who finds her, give her burying. 

She was the daughter of a king. 

Besides this treasure for a fee, 

The gods requite his charity ! ” 75 

If thou liv’st, Pericles, thou hast a heart 
That even cracks for woe ! This chanc’d to¬ 
night. 

2 . Gent. Most likely, sir. 

Cer. Nay. certainly to-night; 

For look how fresh she looks ! They were too 
rough 

That threw her in the sea. Make a fire within. 
Fetch hither all my boxes in my closet. si 

[Exit a Servant .] 

Death may usurp on nature many hours, 

And yet the fire of life kindle again 
The o’erpress’d spirits. I heard of an Egyptian 
That had nine hours lien dead, ss 

Who was by good appliance recovered. 

Re-enter one [with boxes ,] napkins , and fire. 

Well said, well said. — The fire and cloths. 

The rough and woeful music that we have, 
Cause it to sound, beseech you. 

The vial once more. How thou stirr’st, thou 
block! 90 

The music there ! I pray you, give her air. 
Gentlemen, 

This queen will live. Nature awakes ; a warmth 
Breathes out of her. She hath not been en¬ 
tranc’d 

Above five hours. See how she gins to blow »s 
Into life’s flower again ! 

1 . Gent. The heavens 

Through you increase our wonder and set up 
Your fame for ever. 

Cer. She is alive ; behold, 

Her eyelids, cases to those heavenly jewels 
WTiich Pericles hath lost, 100 

Begin to part their fringes of bright gold ; 

The diamonds of a most praised water 
Doth appear, to make the world twice rich. 
Live, 

And make us weep to hear your fate, fair crea¬ 
ture, 

Rare as you seem to be. [SAe moves. 

Thai . 0 dear Diana, 105 

Where am I ? Where's my lord ? What world 
is this? 

2 . Gent. Is not this strange ? 

1 . Gent. Most rare. 

Cer. Hush, my gentle neighbours ! 

Lend me your hands. To the next chamber 
bear her. 

Get linen. Now this matter must be look’d to. 
For her relapse is mortal. Come, come ; “<> 

And iEsculapius guide us ! 

[They carry her away. Exeunt omnes. 


[Scene III. Tarsus. A room in Cleon's 
house.] 

Enter Pericles, Cleon, Dionyza [and Lv- 
chorida, with Marina in her arms]. 

Per. Most honour’d Cleon, I must needs be 
gone. 

My twelve months are expir’d, and Tyrus 
stands 

In a litigious peace. You, and your lady, 

Take from my heart all thankfulness! The 
gods 

Make up the rest upon you ! e 

Cle. Your shafts of fortune, though they 
hurt you mortally, 

Yet glance full wanderingly on us. 

Dion. 0 your sweet queen ! 

That the strict fates had pleas’d you had 
brought her hither, 

To have bless’d mine eyes with her! 

Per. We cannot but obey 

The powers above us. Could I rage and roar 10 
As doth the sea she lies in, yet the end 
Must be as’t is. My gentle babe Marina, whom, 
For she was born at sea, I have named so, 
here 

I charge your charity withal, leaving her 
The infant of your care ; beseeching you is 
To give her princely training, that she may 
be 

Manner’d as she is born. 

Cle. Fear not, my lord, but think 

Your Grace, that fed my country with your 
corn, 

For which the people’s prayers still fall upon 
you. 

Must in your child be thought on. If neglec- 
tion 20 

Should therein make me vile, the common 
body, 

By you reliev’d, would force me to my duty ; 
But if to that my nature need a spur, 

The gods revenge it upon me and mine, 

To the end of generation! 

Per. I believe you. 25 

Your honour and your goodness teach me to’t, 
Without your vows. Till she be married, 
madam, 

By bright Diana, whom we honour, all 
Unscissor’d shall this hair of mine remain, 
Though I show ill in ’t. So I take my leave. 30 
Good madam, make rue blessed in your care 
In bringing up my child. 

Dion. I have one myself, 

Who shall not be more dear to my respect 
Than yours, my lord. 

Per. Madam, my thanks and prayers. 

Cle. We ’ll bring your Grace e’en to the edge 
o’ the shore, & 

Then give you up to the mask’d Neptune and 
The gentlest winds of heaven. 

Per. I will embrace 

Your offer. Come, dearest madam. O, no tears, 
Lychorida, no tears. 

Look to your little mistress, on whose grace « 
You may depend hereafter. Come, my lord. 

[Exeunt.] 




37° 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


IV. i. 


[Scene IV. Ephesus. A room in Cerimon's 
house.] 

Enter Cerimon and Thaisa. 

Cer. Madam, this letter and some certain 
jewels 

Lay with you in your coffer, which are 
At your command. Know you the character ? 
Thai. It is my lord’s. 

That I was shipp’d at sea, I well remember, g 
E ven on my eaning time ; but whether there 
Delivered, by the holy gods, 

I cannot rightly say. But since King Peri¬ 
cles, 

My wedded lord, I ne’er shall see again, 

A vestal livery will I take me to, 10 

And never more have joy. 

Cer. Madam, if this you purpose as ye speak, 
Diana’s temple is not distant far, 

Where you may abide till your date expire. 
Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine is 
Shall there attend you. 

Thai. My recompense is thanks, that’s all; 
Yet my good will is great, though the gift 
small. [Exeunt. 

[ACT IV] 

Enter Gower. 

Gow. Imagine Pericles arriv’d at Tyre, 
Welcom’d and settled to his own desire. 

His woeful queen we leave at Ephesus, 

Unto Diana there as a votaress. 

Now to Marina bend your mind, 5 

Whom our fast-growing scene must find 
At Tarsus, and by Cleon train’d 
In music, letters ; who hath gain’d 
Of education all the grace, 

Which makes her both the heart and place 10 
Of general wonder. But, alack, 

That monster Envy, oft the wrack 
Of earned praise, Marina’s life 
Seeks to take off by treason’s knife. 

And in this kind hath our Cleon 15 

One daughter, and a wench full grown. 

Even ripe for marriage-rite. This maid 

Hight Philoten ; and it is said 

For certain in our story, she 

Would ever with Marina be: 20 

Be’t when she weav’d the sleided silk 

With fingers long, small, white as milk ; 

Or when she would with sharp needle wound 
The cambric, which she made more sound 
By hurting it; or when to the lute 2c 

She sung, and made the night-bird mute, 

That still records with moan ; or when 

She would with rich and constant pen 

Vail to her mistress Dian ; still 

This Philoten contends in skill so 

With absolute Marina : so 

With the dove of Paphos might the crow 

Vie feathers white. Marina gets 

All praises, which are paid as debts, 

And not as given. This so darks 35 

In Philoten all graceful marks, 

That Cleon’s wife, with envy rare, 

A present murderer does prepare 


For good Marina, that her daughter 
Might stand peerless by this slaughter. « 

The sooner her vile thoughts to stead, 
Lychorida, our nurse, is dead ; 

And cursed Dionyza hath 

The pregnant instrument of wrath 

Prest for this blow. The unborn event « 

I do commend to your content; 

Only I carry winged time 

Post on the lame feet of my rhyme ; 

Which never could I so convey, 

Unless your thoughts went on my way. go 

Dionyza does appear, 

With Leonine, a murderer. [Exit. 

[Scene I. Tarsus. An open place near the sea¬ 
shore .] 

Enter Dionyza with Leonine. 

Dion. Thy oath remember; thou hast sworn 
to do’t. 

’T is but a blow, which never shall be known. 
Thou canst not do a thing in the world so soon, 
To yield thee so much profit. Let not con¬ 
science, 

Which is but cold, inflaming love i’ thy bosom, 5 
Inflame too nicely ; nor let pity, which 
Even women have east off, melt thee, but be 
A soldier to thy purpose. 

Leon. I will do’t; but yet she is a goodly 
creature. 9 

Dion. The fitter, then, the gods should have 
her. Here she comes weeping for her only mis¬ 
tress’ death. Thou art resolv’d ? 

Leon. I am resolv’d. 

Enter Marina, with a basket of flowers. 

Mar. No, I will rob Tellus of her weed, 

To strew thy green with flowers. The yellows, 

blues, 15 

The purple violets and marigolds 
Shall as a carpet hang upon thy grave 
While sunimer-days doth last. Ay me 1 poor 
maid, 

Born in a tempest, when my mother died, 

This world to me is like a lasting storm, 20 

Whirring me from my friends. 

Dion. How now, Marina! why do you keep 
alone ? 

How chance my daughter is not with you ? Do 
not 

Consume your blood with sorrowing ; you have 
A nurse of me. Lord, how your favour’s 
chang’d 2 s 

With this unprofitable woe I 
Come, give me your flowers. Near the sea 
margent 

Walk with Leonine ; the air is quick there, 
And it pierces and sharpens the stomach. 
Come, 

Leonine, take her by the arm, walk with 
her. 3i 

Mar. No, I pray you ; 

I ’ll not bereave you of your servant. 

Dion. Come, come; 

™ ie King your father, and yourself, 

With more than foreign heart. We every day 




IV. ii. PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


37 1 


Expect him here. When he shall come and 
find 35 

Our paragon to all reports thus blasted, 

He will repent the breadth of his great voy- 
TJ1 age; 

Blame both my lord and me, that we have 
taken 

No care to your best courses, Go, I pray you, 
Walk, and be cheerful once again ; reserve 40 
That excellent complexion, which did steal 
The eyes of young and old. Care not for me ; 

I can go home alone. 

Mar. Well, I will go; 

But yet I have no desire to it. 

Dion. Come, come, I know ’t is good for 
you. 46 

Walk half an hour, Leonine, at the least. 
Remember what I have said. 

Leon. I warrant you, madam. 

Dion. I ’ll leave you, my sweet lady, for a 
while. 

Pray, walk softly, do not heat your blood. 49 
What! I must have a care of you. 

Mar. My thanks, sweet madam. 

[Exit Dionyza.] 

Is this wind westerly that blows ? 

Leon. South-west. 

Mar. When I was born, the wind was north. 
Leon. Was’t so ? 

Mar. My father, as nurse says, did never fear, 
But cried “ Good seamen ! ” to the sailors, 
galling 

His kingly hands, haling ropes ; m 

And, clasping to the mast, endured a sea 
That almost burst the deck, — 

Leon. When was this ? 

Mar. When I was born ; 

Never was waves nor wind more violent; — 00 
And from the ladder-tackle washes off 
A canvas-climber. “Ha!” says one, “wilt 
out ? ” 

And with a dropping industry they skip 
From stem to stem. The boatswain whistles, 
and 

The master calls, and trebles their confusion, es 
Leon. Come, say your prayers. 

Mar. What mean you ? 

Leon. If vou require a little space for prayer, 
I grant it. Pray, but be not tedious ; 

For the gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn 70 
To do my work with haste. 

Mar. Why will you kill me ? 

Leon. To satisfy my lady. 

Mar. Why would she have me kill’d ? 

Now, as I can remember, by my troth, 

I never did her hurt in all my life. 70 

I never spake bad word, nor did ill turn 
To any living creature. Believe me. la, 

I never kill’d a mouse, nor hurt a fly. 

Aye, trod upon a worm against my will, 

But I wept for it. How have I offended, so 
Wherein my death might yield her any profit, 
Or my life imply her any danger ? 

Leon. My commission 
Is not to reason of the deed, but do’t. 

Mar. You will not do ’t for all the world, I 
hope. m 


You are well favoured, and your looks foreshow 
You have a gentle heart. I saw you lately, 
When you caught hurt in parting two that 
fought; 

Good sooth, it show’d well in you. I)o so now. 
Your lady seeks my life ; come you between, 90 
And save poor me, the weaker. 

Leon. I am sworn, 

And will dispatch. 

Enter Pirates. 

1. Pirate. Hold, villain ! [Leonine runs away.] 

2. Pirate. A prize ! a prize ! 

3 . Pirate. Half-part, mates, half-part. 95 

Come, let’s have her aboard suddenly. 

[Exeunt [Pirates with Marina ]. 

Re-enter Leonine. 

Leon. These roguing thieves serve the great 
pirate Valdes, 

And they have seized Marina. Let her go ! 
There’s no hope she will return. I ’ll swear 
she’s dead, 

And thrown into the sea. But 1 ’ll see further. 
Perhaps they will but please themselves upon 
her, ioi 

Not carry her aboard. If she remain, 

Whom they have ravish’d must by me be slain. 

[Exit. 

[Scene II. Mytilene. A room in a brothel.] 
Enter Pandar, Bawd, and Boult. 

Pand. Boult! 

Boult. Sir ? 

Pand. Search the market narrowly ; Myti¬ 
lene is full of gallants. We lost too mucn money 
this mart by being too wenchless. 0 

Bawd . We were never so much out of crea¬ 
tures. We have but poor three, and they can do 
no more than they can do ; and they with con¬ 
tinual action are even as good as rotten. 0 
Pand. Therefore let ’s have fresh ones, 
whate’er we pay for them. If there be not a 
conscience to be us’d in every trade, we shall 
never prosper. 13 

Bawd. Thou say’st true. ’T is not our bring¬ 
ing up of poor bastards, — as I think, I have 
brought up some eleven, — 

Boult. Ay, to eleven; and brought them 
down again. But shall I search the market ? 18 
Bawd. What else, man ? The stuff we have, 
a strong wind will blow it to pieces, they are 
so pitifully sodden. 21 

Pand. Thou sayest true; they ’re too un¬ 
wholesome, o’ conscience. The poor Transyl¬ 
vanian is dead, that lay with the little baggage. 

Boult. Ay, she quickly poop’d him; she 
made him roast-meat for worms. But I ’ll go 
search the market. [Exit. 7.1 

Pand. Three or four thousand chequins 
were as pretty a proportion to live quietly, and 
so give over. 

Bawd. Why to give over, I pray you? Is it 
a shame to get when we are old ? 32 

Pand. 0 , our credit comes not in like the 
commodity, nor the commodity wages not. with 





372 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


IV. 1L 


the danger; therefore, if in our youths we 
could pick up some pretty estate, ’t were not 
amiss to keep our door hatch’d. Besides, the 
sore terms we stand upon with the gods will be 
strong with us for giving over. 39 

B awd. Come, other sorts off end as well as w e. 
Band. As well as we! Ay, and better too. 
We offend worse. Neither is our profession any 
trade; it’s no calling. But here comes Boult. 

Re-enter Boult, with the Pirates and Marina. 

Boult. Come your ways, my masters. You 
say she’s a virgin ? « 

1 . Pirate. 0 , sir, we doubt it not. 

Boult. Master, I have gone through for this 
iece, you see. If you like her, so; if not, I 
ave lost my earnest. 

Bawd. Boult, has she any qualities ? 60 

Boult. She has a good face, speaks well, and 
has excellent good clothes. There ’s no further 
necessity of qualities can make her be refus’d. 
Bawd. What’s her price, Boult ? 54 

Boult. I cannot be bated one doit of a thou¬ 
sand pieces. 

Band. Well, follow me, my masters, you 
shall have your money presently. Wife, take 
her in. Instruct her what she has to do, that 
she may not be raw in her entertainment. 60 
[Exeunt Pandar and Pirates.] 
Bawd. Boult, take you the marks of her, 
the colour of her hair, complexion, height, her 
age, with warrant of her virginity; and cry, 
“ He that will give most shall have her first.” 
Such a maidenhead were no cheap thing, if men 
were as they have been. Get this done as I 
command you. ee 

Boult. Performance shall follow. [Exit. 
Mar. Alack that Leonine was so slack, so 
slow! 

He should have struck, not spoke; or that 
these pirates, 

Not enough barbarous, had not o’erboard 
thrown me 70 

For to seek my mother I 
Bawd. Why lament you, pretty one ? 

Mar. That I am pretty. 

Bawd. Come, the gods have done their part 
in you. 73 

Mar. I accuse them not. 

Bawd. You are light into my hands, where 
you are like to live. 

Mar. The more my fault 
To scape his hands where I was like to die. so 
Bawd. Ay, and you shall live in pleasure. 
Mar. No. 

Bawd. Yes, indeed shall you, and taste gen¬ 
tlemen of all fashions. You shall fare well; 
you shall have the difference of all complex¬ 
ions. What! do you stop your ears ? so 

Mar. Are you a woman ? 

Bawd. What would you have me be, an I 
be not a woman ? 

Mar. An honest woman, or not a woman, oo 
Bawd. Marry, whip thee, gosling. I think 
I shall have something to do with you. Come, 
you ’re a young foolish sapling, and must be 
bow’d as I would have you. 


Mar. The gods defend me,! 

Bawd. If it please the gods to defend you by 
men, then men must comfort you, men must 
feed you, men stir you up. Boult’s return’d. 

[Re-enter Boult.] 

Now, sir, hast thou cried her through the 
market ? «» 

Boult. I have cried her almost to the number 
of her hairs ; I have drawn her picture with 
my voice. 

Bawd. And I prithee tell me, how dost thou 
find the inclination of the people, especially of 
the younger sort ? n* 

Boult. Faith, they listened to me as they 
would have hearkened to their father’s testa¬ 
ment. There was a Spaniard’s mouth so 
wat’red, that he wept to bed to her very de¬ 
scription. 109 

Bawd. We shall have him here to-morrow 
with his best ruff on. 

Boult. To-night, to-night. But, mistress, do 
ou know the French knight that cowers i’ the 
ams ? 

Bawd. Who, Monsieur Veroles ? ns 

Boult. Ay, he ; he offered to cut a caper at 
the proclamation ; but he made a groan at it, 
and swore he would see her to-morrow. us 

Bawd. Well, well; as for him, he brought 
his disease hither ; here he does but repair it. 
I know he will come in our shadow, to scatter 
his crowns in the sun. 

Boult. Well, if we had of every nation a 
traveller, we should lodge them with this 
sign. m 

Bawd. [To Mar.] Pray you, come hither 
awhile. You have fortunes coming upon you. 
Mark me : you must seem to do that fearfully 
which you commit willingly; despise profit 
where you have most gain. To weep that you 
live as ye do makes pity in your lovers ; seldom 
but that pity begets you a good opinion, and 
that opinion a mere profit. 132 

Mar. I understand you not. 

Boult. 0 , take her home, mistress, take her 
home. These blushes of hers must be quench’d 
with some present practice. 13* 

[Bawd.] Thou say’st true, i’ faith, so they 
must ; for your bride goes to that with shame 
which is her way to go with warrant. 

Boult. Faith, some do, and some do not. 
But, mistress, if I have bargain’d for the 
joint, — 141 

Bawd. Thou mayst cut a morsel off the 
spit ? 

Boult. I may so. 

Bawd. Who should deny it ? Come, young 
one, I like the manner of your garments well. 

Boult. Ay, by my faith, they shall not be 
chang’d yet. 147 

Bawd. Boult, spend thou that in the town. 
Report what a sojourner we have ; you ’ll lose 
nothing by custom. When Nature fram’d this 
piece, she meant thee a good turn ; therefore 
say what a paragon she is, and thou hast the 
harvest out of thine own report. ios 

Boult. I warrant you, mistress, thunder shall 




iv. iv. 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


373 


not so awake the beds of eels as my giving out 
her beauty stir up the lewdly-inclined. I ’ll 
bring home some to-night. 

Bawd. Come your ways ; follow me. iss 
Mar. If fires be hot, knives sharp, or waters 
deep, 

Untied I still my virgin knot will keep. 

Diana, aid my purpose ! 

Bawd. What have we to do with Diana? 
Pray you, will you go with us ? [ Exeunt. 


[Scene III. Tarsus. A room in Cleon's house.] 
Enter Cleon and Dionyza. 


Dion. Why, are you foolish ? Can it be un¬ 
done? 

Cle. O Dionyza, such a piece of slaughter 
The sun and moon ne’er look’d upon ! 

Dion. I think 

You ’ll turn a child again. 

Cle. Were I chief lord of all this spacious 
world, 6 

1 ’d give it to undo the deed. O lady, 

Much less in blood than virtue, yet a princess 
To equal any single crown o’ the earth 
I’ the justice of compare I O villain Leonine ! 
Whom thou hast poisoned too. io 

If thou hadst drunk to him, ’t had been a kind¬ 
ness 

Becoming well thy fact. What canst thou say 
When noble Pericles shall demand his child ? 

Dion. That she is dead. Nurses are not the 
fates, 

To foster it, nor ever to preserve. io 

She died at night; I ’ll say so. Who can cross 
it? 


Unless you play the pious innocent, 

And for an honest attribute cry out 
She died by foul play. 

Cle. 0 , go to. Well, well, w 

Of all the faults beneath the heavens, the gods 
Do like this worst. 

Dion. Be one of those that thinks 

The petty wrens of Tarsus will fly hence, 

And open this to Pericles. I do shame 
To think of what a noble strain you are, 24 
And of how coward a spirit. 

Cle. To such proceeding 

Who ever but his approbation added, 

Though not his prime consent, he did not flow 
From honourable sources. 

Dion. Be it so, then. 

Yet none does know, but you, how she came 


dead. 

Nor none can know, Leonine being gone. so 
She did disdain my child, and stood between 
Her and her fortunes. None would look on 
her, 

But cast their gazes on Marina’s face ; 

Whilst ours was blurted at and held a Malkin 
Not worth the time of day. It pierc’d me 
thorough; 86 

And though you call my course unnatural, 

You not your child well loving, yet I find 
It greets me as an enterprise of kindness 
Perform’d to your sole daughter. ... 

(Jl 6 ' Heavens forgive it! 


Dion. And as for Pericles, 4 « 

What should he say ? We wept after her hearse, 
And yet we mourn. Her monument 
Is almost finished, and her epitaphs 
In glittering golden characters express 
A general praise to her, and care in us 
At whose expense’t is done. 

Cle. Thou art like the harpy, 

Which, to betray, dost, with thine angel’s face, 
Seize with thine eagle’s talons. 

Dion. You are like one that superstitiously 
Do swear to the gods that winter kills the 
flies; so 

But yet I know you ’ll do as I advise. 

[Exeunt.] 


[Scene IV.] 

[Enter Gower, before the monument of Marina 
at Tarsus.] 

Gow. Thus time we waste, and longest 
leagues make short; 

Sail seas in cockles, have an wish but for ’t; 
Making, to take your imagination, 

From bourn to bourn, region to region. 

By you being pardoned, we commit no crime 6 
To use one language in each several clime 
Where our scenes seems to live. I do beseech 
you 

To learn of me, who stand i’ the gaps to teach 
you, 

The stages of our story. Pericles 

Is now again thwarting the wayward seas, 10 

Attended on by many a lord and knight, 

To see his daughter, all his life’s delight. 

Old Helicanus goes along. Behind 
Is left to govern it, you bear in mind, 

Old Escanes, whom Helicanus late « 

Advanc’d in time to great and high estate. 
Well-sailing ships and bounteous winds have 
brought 

This king to Tarsus — think his pilot thought; 
So with his steerage shall your thoughts grow 
on — 

To fetch his daughter home, who first is gone. 
Like motes and shadows see them move a 
while; *1 

Your ears unto your eyes I ’ll reconcile. 

[Dumb Show.] 

Enter Pericles, at one door , with all his train: 
Cleon and Dionyza, at the other. Cleon shows 
Pericles the tomb; whereat Pericles makes la¬ 
mentation , puts on sackcloth , and in a mighty 
passion departs. [Then exeunt Cleon and 
Dionyza.] 

See how belief may suffer by foul show ! 

This borrowed passion stands for true old woe ; 
And Pericles, in sorrow all devour’d, 26 

With sighs shot through, and biggest tears 
o’ershower’d, 

Leaves Tarsus and again embarks. He swears 
Never to wash his face, nor cut his hairs. 

He puts on sackcloth, and to sea. He bears 
A tempest, which his mortal vessel tears, so 
And yet he rides it out. Now please you, wit 




374 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


IV. 


The epitaph is for Marina writ 
By wicked Dionyza. 

[Reads the inscription on Marina's 
monument.] 

“ The fairest, sweet’st, and best lies here, 

Who withered in her spring of year. 35 

She was of Tyrus the King’s daughter, 

On whom foul death hath made this slaugh¬ 
ter. 

Marina was she call’d ; and at her birth, 
Thetis, being proud, swallowed some part o’ 
the earth: 

Therefore the earth, fearing to be o’erflowed, 40 
Hath Thetis’ birth-child on the heavens be¬ 
stowed ; 

Wherefore she does, and swears she’ll never 
stint, 

Make raging battery upon shores of flint.” 

No visor does become black villainy 
So well as soft and tender flattery. 

Let Pericles believe his daughter’s dead, 

And bear his courses to be ordered 
By Lady Fortune ; while our scene must play 
His daughter’s woe and heavy well-a-day 
In her unholy service. Patience, then, so 

And think you now are all in Mytilene. [Exit. 

[Scene V. Mytilene. A street before the brothel.] 
Enter [from the brothel] two Gentlemen. 

1. Gent. Did you ever hear the like ? 

2. Gent. No, nor never shall do in sueh a place 
as this, she being once gone. 

1 . Gent. But to have divinity preach’d there ! 

Did you ever dream of such a thing ? s 

2. Gent. No, no. Come, I am for no more 
bawdy-houses. Shall’s go hear the vestals 
sing ? 

1 . Gent. I ’ll do anything now that is virtu¬ 
ous ; but I am out of the road of rutting for 
ever. [Exeunt. 10 

[Scene VI. The same. A room in the brothel.] 
Enter Pandar, Bawd, and Boult. 

Pand. Well, I had rather than twice the 
worth of her she had ne’er come here. 2 

Bawd. Fie, fie upon her ! she’s able to 
freeze the god Priapus, and undo a whole gen¬ 
eration. We must either get her ravished, or 
be rid of her. When she should do for clients 
her fitment, and do me the kindness of our 
rofession, she has me her quirks, her reasons, 
er master reasons, her prayers, her knees ; that 
she would make a puritan of the devil, if he 
should cheapen a kiss of her. 10 

Boult. Faith, I must ravish her, or she ’ll 
disfurnish us of all our cavaliers, and make our 
swearers priests. 

Pand. Now, the pox upon her green-sickness 
for me! 15 

Bawd. Faith, there’s no way to be rid on’t 
but by the way to the pox. Here comes the 
Lord Lysimachus disguised. 

Boult. We should have both lord and lown, 
if the peevish baggage would but give way to 
customers. ai 


Enter Lysimachus. 

Lys. How now ! How a dozen of virginities? 
Bawd. Now, the gods to-bless your honour! 
Boult. I am glad to see your honour in good 
health. 26 

Lys. You may so ; ’t is the better for you that 
your resorters stand upon sound legs. How 
now, wholesome iniquity ! have you that a man 
may deal withal, and defy the surgeon ? 

Bawd. We have here one, sir, if she would 
— but there never came her like in Mytilene. 31 
Lys. If she’d do the deeds of darkness, thou 
wouldst say. 

Bawd. Your honour knows what’t is to say 
well enough. 35 

Lys. Well, call forth, call forth. 

Boult. For flesh and blood, sir, white and 
red, you shall see a rose ; and she were a rose 
indeed, if she had but — 

Lys. What, prithee ? 43 

Boult. O, sir, I can be modest. [Exit.] 

Lys. That dignifies the renown of a bawd, 
no less than it gives a good report to a number 
to be chaste. 

Bawd. Here comes that which grows to the 
stalk ; never pluck’d yet, I can assure you. 46 

[Re-enter Boult with Marina.] 

Is she not a fair creature ? 

Lys. Faith, she would serve after a long voy¬ 
age at sea. Well, there’s for you. Leave us. 

Bawd. I beseech your honour, give me leave 
a word, and I ’ll have done presently. 51 

Lys. I beseech you, do. 

Bawd. [Aside to Marina.] First, I would 
have you note, this is an honourable man. 

Mar. I desire to find him so, that I may 
worthily note him. m 

Bawd. Next, he’s the governor of this coun¬ 
try, and a man whom I am bound to. 

Mar. If he govern the country, you are 
bound to him indeed ; but how honourable he is 
in that, I know not. 61 

Bawd. Pray you, without any more virginal 
fencing, will you use him kindly ? He will line 
your apron with gold. 

Mar. What he will do graciously, I will 
thankfully receive. 6 « 

Lys. Ha’ you done ? 

Bawd. My lord, she’s not pac’d yet; you 
must take some pains to work her to your 
manage. Come, we will leave his honour and 
her together. Go thy ways. 71 

[Exeunt Bawd , Pandar , and Boult.] 
Lys. Now, pretty one, how long have you 
been at this trade ? 

Mar. What trade, sir ? 

Lys. Why, I cannot name’t but I shall of¬ 
fend. 76 

Mar. I cannot be offended with my trade. 
Please you to name it. 

Lys. How long have you been of this pro¬ 
fession ? 

Mar. E’er since I can remember. 

Lys. Did you go to’t so young? Were you 
a gamester at five or at seven ? si 





IV. VI. 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


375 


Mar. Earlier too, sir, if now I be one. 

Lys. Why, the house you dwell in proclaims 
you to be a creature of sale. 84 

Mar. Do you know this house to be a place 
of such resort, and will come into’t ? I hear 
say you are of honourable parts, and are the 
governor of this place. 88 

Lys. Why, hath your principal made known 
unto you who I am ? 

Mar. Who is my principal ? si 

Lys. Why, your herb-woman ; she that sets 
seeds and roots of shame and iniquity. O, you 
have heard something of my power, and so 
stand aloof for more serious wooing. But I 
protest to thee, pretty one, my authority shall 
not see thee, or else look friendly upon thee. 
Come, bring me to some private place, come, 
come. 08 

Mar. If you were born to honour, show it 
now ; 

If put upon you, make the judgement good 
That thought you worthy of it. 101 

Lys. How ’s this ? how’s this ? Some more ; 
be sage. 

Mar. For me, 

That am a maid, though most ungentle for¬ 
tune 

Have plac’d me in this sty, where, since I 
came, 

Diseases have been sold dearer than physic, ioe 
O, that the gods 

Would set me free from this unhallowed place. 
Though they did change me to the meanest bird 
That flies i’ the purer air ! 

Lys. I did not think 

Thou couldst have spoke so well ; ne’er 
dream’d thou couldst. 

Had I brought hither a corrupted mind, 

Thy speech had altered it. Hold, here’s gold 
for thee. 

Persever in that clear way thou goest, 

And the gods strengthen thee ! 

Mar. The good gods preserve you ! 

Lys. Forme, be you thoughten us 

That I came with no ill intent; for to me 
The very doors and windows savour vilely. 
Fare thee well. Thou art a piece of virtue, and 
I doubt not but thy training hath been noble. 
Hold, here’s more gold for thee. 120 

A curse upon him, die he like a thief, 

That robs thee of thy goodness ! If thou dost 
Hear from me, it shall be for thy good. 


[Re-enter Boult. ] 

Boult. I beseech your honour, one piece for 
me. 126 

Lys. Avaunt, thou damned doorkeeper ! 
Your house, but for this virgin that doth prop 
it, 

Would sink and overwhelm you. Away ! 128 

[Exit.] 

Boult. How’s this ? We must take another 
course with you. If your peevish chastity, 
which is not worth a breakfast in the cheapest 
country under the cope, shall undo a whole 
household, let me be gelded like a spaniel. 

Come your ways. 134 


Mar. Whither would you have me ? 

Boult. I must have your maidenhead taken 
off, or the common hangman shall execute it. 
Come your ways. We ’ll have no more gentle¬ 
men driven away. Come your ways, I say. 

Re-enter Bawd. 


Bawd. How now ! what’s the matter ? no 
Boult. Worse and worse, mistress; she has 
here spoken holy words to the Lord Lysima- 
chus. 

Bawd. O abominable! 

Boult. He makes our profession as it were 
to stink afore the face of the gods. ns 

Bawd. Marry, hang her up for ever ! 

Boult. The nobleman would have dealt with 
her like a nobleman, and she sent him away as 
cold as a snowball; saying his prayers too. ns> 
Bawd. Boult, take her away; use her at 
thy pleasure. Crack the glass of her virginity, 
and make the rest malleable. 

Boult. An if she were a thornier piece of 
ground than she is, she shall be ploughed. 

Mar. Hark, hark, you gods ! ns 

Bawd. She conjures; away with her ! Would 
she had never come within my doors ! Marry, 
hang you ! She’s born to undo us. Will you 
not go the way of women-kind ? Marry, come 
up, my dish of chastity with rosemary and 
bays! [Exit.] iso 

Boult. Come, mistress ; come your ways with 


me. 

Mar. Whither wilt thou have me ? 

Boult. To take from you the jewel you hold 
so dear. ies 

Mar. Prithee, tell me one thing first. 

Boult. Come now, your one thing. 

Mar. What canst thou wish thine enemy to 
be? 

Boult. W T hy, I could wish him to be my 
master, or rather, my mistress. 120 

Mar. Neither of these are so bad as thou art, 
Since they do better thee in their command. 
Thou hold’st a place, for which the pained’st 
fiend 

Of hell would not in reputation change. 

Thou art the damned doorkeeper to every 175 
Coistrel that comes inquiring for his Tib. 

To the choleric fisting of every rogue 
Thy ear is liable ; thy food is such 
As hath been belch’d on by infected lungs, no 
Boult. What would you have me do ? Go to 
the wars, would you, where a man may serve 
seven years for the loss of a leg, and have not 
money enough in the end to buy him a wooden 
one ? 

Mar. Do anything but this thou doest. 
Empty 18c 

Old receptacles, or common sewers, of filth ; 
Serve by indenture to the common hangman. 
Any of these ways are yet better than this ; 
For what thou professest, a baboon, could he 
speak, 

Would own a name too dear. 0 , that the gods 
Would safely deliver me from this place ! m 
Here, here’s gold for thee. 

If that thy master would gain by me, 




37 6 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


v. i. 


Proclaim that I can sing, weave, sew, and dance, 
With other virtues, which I ’ll keep from boast; 
And I will undertake all these to teach. wo 
I doubt not but this populous city will 
Yield many scholars. 

Boult. But can you teach all this you speak of? 
Mar. Prove that I cannot, take me home 
again, 200 

And prostitute me to the basest groom 
That doth frequent your house. 

Boult. Well, I will see what I can do for 
thee. If I can place thee, I will. 

Mar. But amongst honest women. 205 

Boult. Faith, my acquaintance lies little 
amongst them. But since my master and mis¬ 
tress hath bought you, there’s no going but by 
their consent. Therefore I will make them ac¬ 
quainted with your purpose, and I doubt not 
but I shall find them tractable enough. Come, 

I ’ll do for thee what I can; come your ways. 212 

[Exeunt. 

ACT V 
Enter Gower. 

Gow. Marina thus the brothel scapes, and 
chances 

Into an honest house, our story says. 

She sings like one immortal, and she dances 
As goddess-like to her admired lays. 

Deep clerks she dumbs; and with her neeld 
composes _ 6 

Nature’s own shape, of bud, bird, branch, or 
berry, 

That even her art sisters the natural roses. 

Her inkle, silk, twin with the rubied cherry, 
That pupils lacks she none of noble race, 

Who pour their bounty on her ; and her gain 10 
She gives the cursed bawd. Here we her place ; 
And to her father turn our thoughts again, 
Where we left him, on the sea. We there him 
lost; 

Whence, driven before the winds, he is arriv’d 
Here where his daughter dwells; and on this 
coast 15 

Suppose him now at anchor. The city striv’d 
God Neptune’s annual feast to keep; from 
whence 

Lysimachus our Tyrian ship espies, 

His banners sable, trimm’d with rich expense ; 
And to him in his barge with fervour hies. 20 
In your supposing once more put your sight. 

Of heavy Pericles think this his bark, 

Where what is done in action, more, if might, 
Shall be discover’d. Please you, sit and hark. 

[Exit. 

[Scene I. On board Pericles’ ship , off Myti- 
lene. A close pavilion on deck , with a curtain 
before it: Pericles within it , reclined on a 
couch. A barge lying beside the Tyrian vessel.] 

Enter two Sailors [one belonging to the Tyrian 
vessel, the other to the barge ]; to them Heli- 
canus. 

[Tyr.] Sail. [To the Sailor of Mytilene.) Where 
is Lord Helicanus? He can resolve vou, I 


0 , here he is. .. 

Sir, there’s a barge put off from Mytilene, 

And in it is Lysimachus the governor, 

Who craves to come aboard. What is your 
will? , 6 

Hel. That he have his. Call up some gentle- 

[Tyr^ffSail. Ho, gentlemen ! my lord calls. 
Enter two or three Gentlemen. 

1 . Gent. Doth your lordship call ? 

Hel. Gentlemen, there’s some of worth would 
come aboard; 

I pray, greet him fairly. 10 

[The Gentlemen and the two Sailors 
descend , and go on board the 
barge.] 

Enter Lysimachus [and Lords ; with the Gen¬ 
tlemen ana the two Sailors]. 

[Tyr. Sail.] Sir, 

This is the man that can, in aught you would, 
Resolve you. 

Lys. Hail, reverend sir ! The gods preserve 
you! 

Hel. And you, sir, to outlive the age I am, m 
A nd die as I would do. 

Lys. You wish me well. 

Being on shore, honouring of Neptune’s tri¬ 
umphs, 

Seeing this goodly vessel ride before us, 

I made to it, to know of whence you are. 

Hel. First, what is your place ? 20 

Lys. I am the governor of this place you lie 
before. 

Hel. Sir, 

Our vessel is of Tyre, in it the King ; 

A man who for this three months hath not 
spoken 

To any one, nor taken sustenance 26 

But to prorogue his grief. 

Lys. Upon what ground is his distempera- 
ture ? 

Hel. ’T would be too tedious to repeat; 

But the main grief springs from the loss 
Of a beloved daughter and a wife. 30 

Lys. May we not see him ? 

Hel. You may; 

But bootless is your sight. He will not speak 
To any. 

[Lys.] Yet let me obtain my wish. sr> 

[HelA Behold him. [Pericles discovered.] 
This was a goodly person 
Till the disaster that, one mortal night, 

Drove him to this. 

Lys. Sir king, all hail! The gods preserve 
you! 

Hail, royal sir ! 40 

Hel. It is in vain; he will not speak to 
you. 

1 . Lord. Sir, 

We have a maid in Mytilene, I durst wager, 
Would win some words of him. 

Lys. ’T is well bethought. 

She questionless with her sweet harmony 45 
And other chosen attractions, would allure, 
And make a battery through his deafen’d parts. 





PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


377 


v. i. 


Which now are midway stopp’d. 

She is aU happy as the fairest of all, 

And, [with] her fellow maids, [is] now upon so 
The leafy shelter that abuts against 
The island’s side. 

[HTuspers a Lord , who goes off in 
the barge qf Lysimachus.] 

Hel. Sure, all’s effectless; yet nothing we ’ll 
omit 

That bears recovery’s name. But, since your 
kindness 

We have stretch’d thus far, let us beseech 
you 6 s 

That for our gold we may provision have. 
Wherein we are not destitute for want, 

But weary for the staleness. 

Lys. 0 , sir, a courtesy 

Which if we should deny, the most just God 
For every graff would send a caterpillar, so 
And so inflict our province. Yet once more 
Let me entreat to know at large the cause 
Of your king’s sorrow. 

Hel. Sit, sir, I will recount it to you. 

But, see, 1 am prevented. 

[Re-enter, from the barge , Lord, with Marina, 
and a young Lady.] 

Lys. O, here’s 

The lady that I sent for. Welcome, fair 
one! so 

— Is’t not a goodly presence ? 

Hel. She’s a gallant lady. 

Lys. She’s such a one, that, were I well 
assur’d 

Came of a gentle kind and noble stock, 

I’d wish no better choice, and think me rarely 
wed. 

Fair one, all goodness that consists in bounty to 
E xpect even here, where is a kingly patient. 

If that thy prosperous and artificial feat 
Can draw him but to answer thee in aught, 
Thy sacred physic shall receive such pay 
As thy desires can wish. 

Mar. ' Sir, I will use ts 

My utmost skill in his recovery, 

Provided 

That none but I and my companion maid 
Be suffered to come near him. 

Lys. Come, let us leave her ; 

And the gods make her prosperous ! «o 

[Marina sings. 

Lys. Mark’d he your music ? 

Mar. No, nor look’d on us. 

Lys. See, she will speak to him. 

Mar. Hail, sir ! my lord, lend ear. 

Per. Hum, ha ! [Pushing her back.'] 

Mar. I am a maid, ss 

My lord, that ne’er before invited eyes, 

But have been gaz’d on like a comet. She 
speaks, 

My lord, that, may be, hath endur’d a grief 
Might equal yours, if both were justly weigh’d. 
Though wayward fortune did malign my 
state, so 

My derivation was from ancestors 
Who stood equivalent with mighty kings ; 

But time hath rooted out my parentage, 


And to the world and awkward casualties 
Bound me in servitude. [Aside.] I will de¬ 
sist ; t 96 

But there is something glows upon my cheek, 
And whispers in mine ear, “ Go not till he 
speak.” 

Per. My fortunes — parentage — good par¬ 
entage — 

To equal mine! Was it not thus? What say 
you ? 

Mar. I said, my lord, if you did know my 
parentage, ioo 

You would not do me violence. 

Per. I do think so. Pray you, turn your eyes 
upon me. 

You are like something that — What country¬ 
woman ? 

Here of these shores ? 

Mar. No, nor of any shores; 

Yet 1 was mortally brought forth, and am io* 
No other than I appear. 

Per. I am great with woe, and shall deliver 
weeping. 

My dearest wife was like this maid, and such a 
one 

My daughter might have been. My queen’s 
square brows; 

Her stature to an inch; as wand-like 
straight; no 

As silver-voic’d ; her eyes as jewel-like 
And cas’d as richly ; in pace another Juno ; 
Who starves the ears she feeds, and makes 
them hungry, 

The more she gives them speech. Where do 
you live ? 

Mar. Where I am but a stranger. From the 
deck no 

You may discern*the place. 

Per. Where were you bred ? 

And how achiev’d you these endowments, 
which 

You make more rich to owe ? 

Mar. If I should tell my history, it would 
seem 

Like lies disdain’d in the reporting. 

Per. Prithee, speak. 

Falseness cannot come from thee ; for thou 
look’st «i 

Modest as Justice, and thou seem’st a palace 
For the crown’d Truth to dwell in. 1 will be¬ 
lieve thee, 

And make [my] senses credit thy relation 
To points that seem impossible ; for thou look’st 
Like one I lov’d indeed. What were thy 
friends ? 12c 

Didst thou not say, when I did push thee back — 
Which was when I perceiv’d thee — that thou 
cam’st 

From good descending ? 

Mar. So indeed I did. 

Per. Keport thy parentage. I think thou 
said’st . 130 

Thou hadst been toss’d from wrong to injury, 
And that thou thought’st thy griefs might 
equal mine, 

If both were opened. 

Mar. Some such thing 




378 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


v. i. 


I said, and said no more but what my thoughts 
Did warrant me was likely. 

Per. Tell thy story ; 135 

If thine considered prove the thousandth part 
Of my endurance, thou art a man, and I 
Have suffered like a girl. Yet thou dost look 
Like Patience gazing on kings’ graves, and 
smiling 

Extremity out of act. What were thy friends ? 
How lost thou [them?] Thy name, my most 
kind virgin ? ui 

Recount, I do beseech thee. Come, sit by me. 
Mar. My name is Marina. 

Per. O, I am mock’d, 

And thou by some incensed god sent hither 
To make the world to laugh at me. 

Mar. Patience, good sir, 

Or here I ’ll cease. 

Per. Nay, I ’ll be patient. we 

Thou little know’st how thou dost startle me, 
To call thyself Marina. 

Mar. The name 

Was given me by one that had some power, iso 
My father, and a king. 

Per. How ! a king’s daughter ? 

And call’d Marina ? 

Mar. You said you would believe me ; 

But, not to be a troubler of your peace, 

I will end here. 

Per. But are you flesh and blood ? 

Have you a working pulse, and are no fairy ? 
Motion? Well; speak on. Where were you 
born ? iso 

And wherefore call’d Marina ? 

Mar. Call’d Marina 

For I was born at sea. 

Per. At sea ! What mother ? 

Mar. My mother was the daughter of a king, 
Who died the minute I was born, ioo 

As my good nurse Lychorida hath oft 
Delivered weeping. 

Per. 0 , stop there a little! 

[Aside.] This is the rarest dream that e’er dull 
sleep 

Did mock sad fools withal. This cannot be; 

My daughter’s buried. Well, where were you 
bred ? i 65 

I’ll hear you more, to the bottom of your 
story. 

And never interrupt you. 

Mar. You scorn. Believe me, ’t were best I 
did give o’er. 

Per. I will believe you by the syllable 
Of what you shall deliver. Yet, give me leave, 
How came you in these parts ? Where were you 
bred ? m 

Mar. The King my father did in Tarsus leave 
me; 

Till cruel Cleon, with his wicked wife, 

Did seek to murder me ; and having wooed 
A villain to attempt it, who having drawn to 

do ’t, . 176 

A crew of pirates came and rescued me ; 
Brought me to Mytilene. But, good sir, 

Whither will you have me ? Why do you weep ? 
It may be, 

You think me an impostor, No, good faith} 


I am the daughter to King Pericles, is* 

If good King Pericles be. 

[Per.] Ho, Helicanus! 

Hel. Calls my lord ? 

Per. Thou art a grave and noble counsellor, 
Most wise in general; tell me, if thou canst, is* 
What this maid is, or what is like to be, 

That thus hath made me weep ? 

Hel. I know not; but 

Here is the regent, sir, of Mytilene 
Speaks nobly of her. 

Lys. She never would tell 

Her parentage. Being demanded that, ioo 
She would sit still and weep. 

Per. 0 Helicanus, strike me, honoured sir ; 
Give me a gash, put me to present pain; 

Lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me 
O’erbear the shores of my mortality, iss 

And drown me with their sweetness. 0 , come 
hither, 

Thou that beget’st him that did thee beget; 
Thou that wast born at sea, buried at Tarsus, 
And found at sea again ! 0 Helicanus, 

Down on thy knees, thank the holy gods as loud 
As thunder threatens us. This is Marina. not 
What was thy mother’s name ? Tell me but 
that, 

For truth can never be confirm’d enough, 
Though doubts did ever sleep. 

Mar. First, sir, I pray, 

What is your title ? 205 

Per. I am Pericles of Tyre ; but tell me now 
My drown’d queen’s name, as in the rest you 
said 

Thou hast been godlike perfect, 

The heir of kingdoms and another like 
To Pericles thy father. no 

Mar. Is it no more to be your daughter than 
To say my mother’s name was Thaisa ? 

Thaisa was my mother, who did end 
The minute I began. 

Per. Now, blessing on thee ! Rise, thou art 
my child. ns 

Give me fresh garments. Mine own, Helicanus ; 
She is not dead at Tarsus, as she should have 
been, 

By savage Cleon. She shall tell thee all; 

When th ou shalt kneel, and justify in know¬ 
ledge 

She is thy very princess. Who is this ? 220 

Hel. Sir, ’t is the governor of Mytilene, 

Who, hearing of your melancholy state, 

Did come to see you. 

Per. I embrace you. 

Give me my robes. I am wild in my beholding. 
0 heavens bless my girl! But, hark, what 
music ? 226 

Tell Helicanus, my Marina, tell him 
O’er, point by point, for yet he seems to doubt, 
How sure you are my daughter. But, what 
music ? 

Hel. My lord, I hear none. 

Per. None! 2 .s« 

The music of the spheres ! List, my Marina. 
Lys. It is not good to ci’oss him ; give him 
way. 

Per, Rarest sounds! Do ye not hear ? 






PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


379 


v. Hi. 


Lys. Music, my lord ? I hear. 

Per. Most heavenly music ! 

It nips me unto listening, and thick slumber 23s 
Hangs upon mine eyes. Let me rest. [(Sleeps.] 
Lys. A pillow for his head. 

So, leave him all. Well, my companion friends, 
If this but answer to my just belief, 

I ’ll well remember you. 240 

[Exeunt all but Pericles.] 

Diana [appears to Pericles as in a vision ]. 

Dia. My temple stands in Ephesus ; hie thee 
thither, 

And do upon mine altar sacrifice. 

There, when my maiden priests are met to¬ 
gether, 

Before the people all, 

Reveal how thou at sea didst lose thy wife. 240 
To mourn thy crosses, with thy daughter’s, call 
And give them repetition to the life. 

Or perform my bidding, or thou liv’st in woe ; 
Do it, and happy, by my silver bow. 

Awake, and tell thy dream. [Disappears.] 250 
Per. Celestial Dian, goddess argentine, 

I will obey thee. Helicanus * 

[Re-enter Helicanus, Lysimachus, and Ma¬ 
rina.] 

Hel. Sir? 

Per. My purpose was for Tarsus, there to 
strike 

The inhospitable Cleon ; but I am 
For other service first. Toward Ephesus 255 
Turn our blown sails; eftsoons I ’ll tell thee 
why. 

[To Lysimachus.] Shall we refresh us, sir, upon 
your shore, 

And give you gold for such provision 
As our intents will need ? 

Lys. Sir, 260 

With all my heart; and, when you come ashore, 
I have another suit. 

Per. You shall prevail, 

Were it to woo my daughter ; for it seems 
You have been noble towards her. 

Lys. Sir, lend me your arm. 

Per. Come, my Marina. [Exeunt. 266 

[Scene II. Enter Gower, before the temple of 
Diana at Ephesus.] 

Gow. Now our sands are almost run ; 

More a little, and then dumb. 

This, my last boon, give me, 

For such kindness must relieve me, 

That you aptly will suppose 8 

What pageantry, what feats, what shows, 
What minstrelsy, and pretty din, 

The regent made in Mytilene 
To greet the King. So he thrived, 

That he is promis’d to be wived 10 

To fair Marina, but in no wise 
Till he had done his sacrifice, 

As Dian bade ; whereto being bound, 

The interim, pray you, all confound. 

In feather’d briefness sails are fill’d, « 

And wishes fall out as they ’re will’d. 


At Ephesus the temple see, 

Our king and all his company. 

That he can hither come so soon, 

Is by your fancy’s thankful doom. [Exit.] 20 

[Scene III. The temple of Diana at Ephesus ; 
Thaisa standing near the altar , as high priest¬ 
ess; a number of Virgins on each side; Ceri- 
mon and other Inhabitants of Ephesus attend¬ 
ing. 

Enter Pericles, with his train: Lysimachus, 
Helicanus, Marina, and a Lady.] 

Per. Hail, Dian ! to perform thy just com¬ 
mand, 

I here confess myself the King of Tyre ; 

Who, frighted from my country, did wed 
At Pentapolis the fair Thaisa. 

At sea in childbed died she, but brought 
forth 5 

A maid-child call’d Marina ; who, O goddess, 
Wears yet thy silver livery. She at Tarsus 
Was nurs’d with Cleon; who at fourteen 
years 

He sought to murder ; but her better stars 
Brought her to Mytilene, ’gainst whose shore 10 
Riding, her fortunes brought the maid aboard 
us. 

Where, by her own most clear remembrance, 
she 

Made known herself my daughter. 

Thai. Voice and favour ! 

You are, you are — 0 royal Pericles ! [Faints.] 
Per. What means the nun ? She dies ! Help, 
gentlemen! i» 

Cer. Noble sir, 

If you have told Diana’s altar true, 

This is your wife. 

Per. Reverend appearer, no. 

I threw her overboard with these very arms. 
Cer. Upon this coast, I warrant you. 

Per. ’T is most certain. 

Cer. Look to the lady ; 0 , she’s but over¬ 
joy’d. « 

Early in blustering morn this lady was 
Thrown upon this shore. I op’d the coffin, 
Found there rich jewels ; recovered her, and 
plac’d her 

Here in Diana’s temple. 

Per. May we see them ? 25 

Cer. Great sir, they shall be brought you to 
my house, 

Whither I invite you. Look, Thaisa is 
Recovered. 

Thai. O, let me look ! 

If he be none of mine, my sanctity 

Will to my sense bend no licentious ear, so 

But curb it, spite of seeing. 0 , my lord, 

Are you not Pericles ? Like him you spake, 
Like him you are ! Did you not name a tem¬ 
pest, 

A birth, and death? 

Per. The voice of dead Thaisa 1 

Thai. That Thaisa am I, supposed dead so 
And drown’d. 

Per. Immortal Dian I 

Thai. Now I know you better. 




380 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 


v. lit 


When we with tears parted Pentapolis, 

The King my father gave you such a ring. 

[Shows a ring.] 

Per. This, this. No more, you gods ! Your 
present kindness 40 

Makes my past miseries sports. You shall do 
well, 

That on the touching of her lips I may 
Melt and no more be seen. O, come, he buried 
A second time within these arms. 

Mar. My heart 

Leaps to be gone into my mother’s bosom. 45 

[Kneels to Thaisa .] 
Per. Look, who kneels here l Flesh of thy 
flesh, Thaisa; 

Thy burden at the sea, and call’d Marina 
For she was yielded there. 

Thai. Blest, and mine own! 

Hel. Hail, madam, and my queen ! 

Thai. I know you not. 

Per. You have heard me say, when I did fly 
from Tyre, eo 

I left behind an ancient substitute. 

Can you remember what I call’d the man ? 

I have nam’d him oft. 

Thai. ’T was Helicanus then. 

Per. Still confirmation ! 

Embrace him, dear Thaisa ; this is he. 65 

Now do I long to hear how you were found, 
How possibly preserv’d, and who to thank, 
Besides the gods, for this great miracle. 

Thai. Lord Cerimon, my lord ; this man, 
Through whom the gods have shown their 
power ; that can «o 

From first to last resolve you. 

Per. Reverend sir, 

The gods can have no mortal officer 
More like a god than you. Will you deliver 
How this dead queen re-lives ? 

Ger. I will, my lord. 

Beseech you, first go with me to my house, es 
Where shall be shown you all was found with 
her, 

How she came plac’d here in the temple ; 

No needful thing omitted. 


Per. Pure Dian, bless thee for thy vision ! I 
Will offer night-oblations to thee. Thaisa, 7# 
This prince, the fair-betrothed of vour daughter, 
Shall marry her at Pentapolis. And now, 

This ornament 

Makes me look dismal will I clip to form: 

And what this fourteen years no razor 
touch’d, 7 « 

To grace thy marriage-day, I ’ll beautify. 

Thai. Lord Cerimon hath letters of good 
credit, sir, 

My father’s dead. 

Per. Heavens make a star of him ! Yet 
there, my queen, 

We ’ll celebrate their nuptials, and ourselves so 
Will in that kingdom spend our following days. 
Our son and daughter shall in Tyrus reign. 
Lord Cerimon, we do our longing stay 
To hear the rest untold. Sir, lead’s the way. 

[Exeunt.] 

[Enter Gower.] 

Gow. In Antiochus and his daughter you 
have heard 85 

Of monstrous lust the due and just reward. 

In Pericles, his queen and daughter, seen. 
Although assail’d with fortune fierce and keen, 
Virtue preserv’d from fell destruction’s blast, 
Led on by heaven, and crown’d with joy at 
last. »o 

In Helicanus may you well descry 
A figure of truth, of faith, of loyalty. 

In reverend Cerimon there well appears 
The worth that learned charity aye wears. 

For wicked Cleon and his wife, when fame os 
Had spread their cursed deed, and honour’d 
name 

Of Pericles, to rage the city turn, 

That him and his they in his palace burn ; 

The gods for murder seemed so content 
To punish them; although not done, but 
meant. 100 

So, on your patience evermore attending, 

New joy wait on you! Here our play has end' 
ing. [Exit.] 




CYMBELINE 


Cymbeline first appeared in print in the Folio of 1623 , and there is no evidence of any pre¬ 
vious attempt at publication. The text, which presents many difficulties, has been edited on the 
basis of this original, with the assistance, as usual, of the results of later editors. 

For the date of production the later limit is the death in 1611 of Simon Forman, who records 
in his “ Booke of Plaies ” a performance of Cymbeline witnessed by him. The entry is undated, 
but the records of performances of Winter's Tale and Macbeth , between which it occurs, belong 
respectively to May 15 , 1611 , and April 20 , 1610 . The metrical tests point to the years 1609 - 
1611 , and we may with some assurance regard 1610 as coming within a year of the date of com¬ 
position. 

Of authentic history in Cymbeline there is very little beyond the fact of the existence, about 
the beginning of the Christian era, of a British king, Cunobelinus. The pseudo-historical element 
Shakespeare derived from Holinshed, whose narrative is here chiefly legendary. The Chronicle 
represents Cymbeline as having been brought up in Rome and knighted by Augustus Caesar, and 
as the father of two sons, Guiderius and Arviragus. Conflicting stories are reported about the 
payment of tribute to Rome, but Holinshed puts stress on the friendship existing between Cym¬ 
beline and the Emperor, and makes the refusal of tribute come from Guiderius after his father’s 
death. The references to previous conflicts between Rome and Britain are derived from the 
Chronicle. The account of the battle in the fifth act, and of the saving of the day by Belarius 
and the two princes, is based on Holinshed’s story of a fight between the Danes and the Scots, 
in which the fleeing Scots were rallied in a lane by a husbandman and his two sons. 

The romantic element in the plot belongs to a very widely diffused type of story. It is found 
repeatedly in French romance and drama, and occurs also in Italian, German, Scandinavian, 
Gaelic, and other literatures. In most versions there persist the characteristic features of the 
wager, the repulse of the villain, the deceptive tokens, the attempt of the husband or lover to 
punish the supposed infidelity by death, the wanderings of the heroine in disguise, the final recon¬ 
ciliation, and the confession of the villain. Shakespeare’s version approaches most closely that 
of Boccaccio in the ninth novel of the second day of the Decameron , which he may have known 
in a lost English translation or in one of the current French editions. The English version which 
appears in Westward for Smelts cannot be proved to have been printed before 1620 ; and its 
author may himself have been indebted to Shakespeare, or both may have borrowed from an 
English source now lost. 

A number of subsidiary sources have been suggested. The early anonymous play of The Rare 
Triumphs of Love and Fortune (printed 1589 ) has resemblances to our play, especially in the 
roles of Imogen, Posthumus, Cloten, and Belarius, and the heroine is named Fidelia. The rela¬ 
tion of the Queen to her son and Imogen recalls the familiar stepmother motive of Germanic 
folk-lore, and, with the episode in the cave, more specifically the fairy-tale of Little Snow-white. 
But from whatever sources Shakespeare drew these various details, the interweaving and the at¬ 
mosphere are his own, and all the wealth of poetry and characterization which gives the drama 
its charm. 

If Pericles be set aside as primarily a dramatized tale of adventure, Cymbeline is the first of 
that group of so-called “ dramatic romances ” with which Shakespeare closed his career. The 
difficulty of fixing a certain chronology prevents us from stating with assurance the relation of 
these plays to the somewhat similar group produced about the same time by Beaumont and 
Fletcher ; but a close relation between the present play and the Philaster of these authors is be¬ 
yond question, the balance of evidence favoring the younger authors as inventors of the type. 

Doubt has been cast upon the authenticity of several passages in the play, especially the vision 
of Posthumus in v. iv. The device itself is paralleled by the spectacular elements in The Tem¬ 
pest and Winter's Tale ; but the inferior quality of such verses as 30-92 lends color to the belief 
that the scene was at least expanded by another hand than Shakespeare’s. 


CYMBELINE 


[DRAMATIS PERSON* 


Cymbeline, king of Britain. 

Cloten, son to the Queen by a former husband. 
Posthumus Leonatus, a gentleman, husband to Imogen. 
Belarius, a banished lord disguised under the name of 
Morgan. 

n (sons to Cymbeline, disguised under the 

(iuiDERius, i name 0 f Polydore and Cadwal, supposed 
Arviraous, l S0U8 t0 Mor ' an . 

Philario, friend to Posthumus, ) T . 1; 

Iachimo, friend to Philario, ) 1 
Caius Lucius, general of the Roman forces. 

PisANio, servant to Posthumus. 


Cornelius, a physician. 

A Roman Captain. 

Two British Captains. 

A Frenchman, friend to Philario. 

Two Lords of Cymbeline’s court. 

Two Gentlemen of the same. 

Two Gaolers. 

Queen, wife to Cymbeline. 

Imogen, daughter to Cymbeline by a former Queen. 
Helen, a lady attending on Imogen. 


Lords, Ladies, Roman Senators, Tribunes, a Soothsayer, a Dutchman, a Spaniard, Musicians, Officers, Captains 

Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants. 


Apparitions. 


Scene: Britain; Rome.'] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [Britain. The garden of Cymbeline'’s 
X>alace.] 

Enter two Gentlemen. 

1. Gent. You do not meet a man but frowns. 

Our bloods 

No more obey the heavens than our courtiers 
Still seem as does the King. 

2. Gent. But what’s the matter ? 

1. Gent. His daughter, and the heir of ’s 

kingdom, whom 

He purpos’d to his wife’s sole son —a widow & 
That late he married — hath ref err’d herself 
Unto a poor but worthy gentleman. She’s 
wedded, 

Her husband banish’d, she imprison’d ; all 
Is outward sorrow ; though I think the King 
Be touch’d at very heart. 

2. Gent. None but the King ? 

1. Gent. He that hath lost her too ; so is the 

Queen, 11 

That most desir’d the match : but not a cour¬ 
tier, 

Although they wear their faces to the bent 
Of the King’s looks, hath a heart that is not 
Glad at the thing they scowl at. 

2 . Gent. And why so ? 

1. Gent. He that hath miss’d the Princess is 

a thing 10 

Too bad for bad report ; and he that hath 
her — 

I mean, that married her, alack, good man ! 
And therefore banish’d — is a creature such 
As, to seek through the regions of the earth 20 
For one his like, there would be something 
failing 

In him that should compare. I do not think 


So fair an outward and such stuff within 
Endows a man but he. 

2. Gent. You speak him far. 

1. Gent. I do extend him, sir, within him¬ 

self, 25 

Crush him together rather than unfold 
His measure duly. 

2. Gent. What ’s his name and birth ? 

1. Gent. I cannot delve him to the root. His 

father 

Was call’d Sicilius, who did gain his honour 
Against the Romans with Cassibelan, 30 

But had his titles by Tenantius whom 
He serv’d with glory and admir’d success, 

So gain’d the sur-addition Leonatus ; 

And had, besides this gentleman in question, 
Two other sons, who in the wars o’ the time 35 
Died with their swords in hand; for which 
their father, 

Then old and fond of issue, took such sorrow 
That he quit being, and his gentle lady, 

Big of this gentleman our theme, deceas’d 
As he was born. The King he takes the 
babe 40 

To his protection, calls him Posthumus Leona¬ 
tus, 

Breeds him and makes him of his bed-chamber, 
Puts to him all the learnings that his time 
Could make him the receiver of; which he 
took, 

As we do air, fast as ’twas minist’red, 45 

And in’s spring became a harvest; liv’d in 
court — 

Which rare it is to do — most prais’d, most 
lov’d, 

A sample to the youngest, to the more mature 
A glass that feated them, and to the graver 
A child that guided dotards; to his mis¬ 
tress, 60 




CYMBELINE 


383 


I. I 


For whom he now is banish’d, — her own price 
Proclaims how she esteem’d him and his 
virtue; 

By her election may be truly read 
What kind of man he is. 

2 . Gent. I honour him 

Even out of your report. But, pray you, tell 
me, 55 

Is she sole child to the King ? 

1 . Gent. His only child. 

He had two sons, — if this be worth your hear¬ 
ing, 

Mark it — the eldest of them at three years old, 
I’ the swathing-clothes the other, from their 
nursery 

Were stolen, and to this hour no guess in 
knowledge so 

Which way they went. 

2 . Gent. How long is this ago ? 

1 . Gent. Some twenty years. 

2 . Gent. That a king’s children should be so 

convey’d, 

So slackly guarded, and the search so slow, 
That could not trace them ! 

1 . Gent. Howsoe’er’t is strange, es 

Or that the negligence may well be laugh’d at, 
Yet is it true, sir. 

2 . Gent. I do well believe you. 

1 . Gent. We must forbear; here comes the 
gentleman. 

The Queen, and Princess. [Exeunt. 


Enter the Queen, Posthumus, and Imogen. 

Queen. No, be assur’d you shall not find me, 
daughter, 70 

After the slander of most stepmothers, 
Evil-ey’d unto you. You ’re my prisoner, but 
Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys 
That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthu¬ 
mus, 

So soon as I can win the offended King, 76 

I will be known your advocate. Marry, yet 
The fire of rage is in him, and’t were good 
You lean’d unto his sentence with what pa¬ 
tience 

Your wisdom may inform you. 

Post. Please your Highness, 

I will from hence to-day. 

Queen. You know the peril. 

I ’ll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying si 
The pangs of barr’d affections, though the 
King 

Hath charg’d you should not speak together. 

[Exit. 

Imo. 0 

Dissembling courtesy ! How fine this tyrant 
Can tickle where she wounds ! My dearest hus¬ 
band, 86 

I something fear my father’s wrath; but no¬ 

thing — 

Always reserv’d my holy duty — what 
His rage can do on me. You must be gone ; 
And I shall here abide the hourly shot 
Of angry eyes, not comforted to live, 00 

But that there is this jewel in the world 
That I may see again. 

Post. My queen ! my mistress ! 


0 lady, weep no more, lest I give cause 
To be suspected of more tenderness 
Than doth become a man. I will remain es 
The loyal’st husband that did e’er plight troth. 
My residence in Rome at one Philario’s, 

Who to my father was a friend, to me 
Known but by letter ; thither write, my queen, 
And with mine eyes I ’ll drink the words you 
send, 100 

Though ink be made of gall. 

Be-enter Queen. 

Queen. Be brief, I pray you. 

If the King come, I shall incur I know not 
How much of his displeasure. [Aside.] Yet 
I ’ll move him 

To walk this way. I never do him wrong 
But he does buy my injuries, to be friends ; 105 
Pays dear for my offences. [Exit.] 

Post. Should we be taking leave 

As long a term as yet we have to live, 

The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu ! 

Imo. Nay, stay a little ; 

Were you but riding forth to air yourself, 110 
Such parting were too petty. Look here, love ; 
This diamond was my mother’s. Take it, heart; 
But keep it till you woo another wife, 

When Imogen is dead. 

Post. How, how ! another ? 

You gentle gods, give me but this I have, us 
And cere up my embracements from a next 
With bonds of death! [Putting on the ring.] 
Remain, remain thou here 
While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, 
fairest, 

As I my poor self did exchange for you, 

To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles 120 
I still win of ycfu ; for my sake wear this. 

It is a manacle of love ; I ’ll place it 
Upon this fairest prisoner. 

[Putting a bracelet upon her arm.] 
Imo. O the gods! 

When shall we see again ? 

Enter Cymbeline and Lords. 


Post. Alack, the King ! 

Gym. Thou basest thing, avoid! Hence, 
from my sight! 12s 

If after this command thou fraught the court 
With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away ! 
Thou ’rt poison to my hlood. 

Post. The gods protect you ! 

And bless the good remainders of the court! 

I am gone. [Exit. 

Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death 130 
More sharp than this is. 

Gym. 0 disloyal thing, 

That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap’st 
A year’s age on me. 

Imo. I beseech you ; sir, 

Harm not yourself with your vexation. 

I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more 
rare is* 

Subdues all pangs, all fears. 

Gym. Past grace ? obedience ? 

Imo. Past hope, and in despair; that way, 
past grace. 






3§4 


CYMBELINE 


I. iii. 


Cym. That mightst have had the sole son of 
my queen! 

Imo. 0 blest, that I might not! I chose an 
eagle, 

And did avoid a pnttock. wo 

Cym. Thou took’st a beggar; wouldst have 
made my throne 
A seat for baseness. 

Imo. No ; I rather added 

A lustre to it. 

Cym. 0 thou vile one! 

Imo. Sir, 

It is your fault that I have lov’d Posthumus. 
You bred him as my playfellow, and he is ws 
A man worth any woman ; overbuys me 
Almost the sum he pays. 

Cym. What, art thou mad ? 

Imo. Almost, sir ; heaven restore me ! Would 
I were 

A neat-herd’s daughter, and my Leonatus 
Our neighbour shepherd’s son ! 

Be-enter Queen. 

Cym. Thou foolish thing! 

— They were again together ; you have done rei 
Not after our command. Away with her, 

And pen her up. 

Queen. Beseech your patience. Peace, 

Dear lady daughter, peace ! Sweet sovereign, 
Leave us to ourselves ; and make yourself some 
comfort _ we 

Out of your best advice. 

Cym. Nay, let her languish 

A drop of blood a day; and, being aged, 

Die of this folly! 

[Exeunt [Cymbeline and Lords]. 

Enter Pisanio. 


Queen. Fie! you must give way. 

Here is your servant. How now, sir! What 

news? iso 

Pis. My lord your son drew on my master. 
Queen. Ha! 

No harm, I trust, is done ? 

Pis. There might have been, 

But that my master rather play’d than fought 
And had no help of anger. They were parted 
By gentlemen at hand. 

Queen. I am very glad on’t. 

Imo. Your son’s my father’s friend; he 

takes his part i 65 

To draw upon an exile. O brave sir ! 

I would they were in Afric both together ; 
Myself by with a needle, that I might prick 
The goer-back. Why came you from your 
master ? 

Pis. On his command. He would not suffer 


To bring him to the haven ; left these notes 
Of what commands I should be subject to, 
When’t pleas’d you to employ me. 

Queen. This hath been 

Your faithful servant. I dare lay mine honour 
He will remain so. 

Pis. I humbly thank your Highness, ire 
Queen. Pray, walk a while. 

Inin. About some half-hour hence, 


I pray you, speak with me: you shall at least 
Go see my lord aboard. For this time leave 
me. [Exeunt. 

Scene [II. The same. A public place.] 
Enter Cloten and two Lords. 

1 . Lord. Sir, I would advise you to shift a 

shirt; the violence of action hath made you 
reek as a sacrifice. Where air comes out, air 
comes in; there’s none abroad so wholesome 
as that you vent. # 6 

Clo. If my shirt were bloody, then to shift 
it. Have I hurt him ? 

2. Lord. [Aside.] No, faith; not so much as 

his patience. 9 

1 . Lord. Hurt him ! His body’s a passable 
carcass, if he be not hurt; it is a throughfare 
for steel, if it be not hurt. 

2. Lora. [Aside. 1 His steel was in debt; it 
went o’ the backside the town. 

Clo. The villain would not stand me. re 

2. Lord. [Aside.] No; but he fled forward 
still, toward your face. 

1 . Lord. Stand you! You have land enough 

of your own; but he added to your having, 
gave you some ground. 20 

2. Lord. [Aside.] As many inches as you 
have oceans. Puppies! 

Clo. I would they had not come between us. 

2. Lord. [Aside.] So would I, till you had 
measur’d how long a fool you were upon the 
ground. 26 

Clo. And that she should love this fellow 
and refuse me! 

2. Lord. [Aside.] If it be a sin to make a 
true election, she is damn’d. 30 

1 . Lord. Sir, as I told you always, her beauty 
and her brain go not together. She’s a good 
sign, but I have seen small reflection of her wit. 

2. Lord. [Aside.] She shines not upon fools, 

lest the reflection should hurt her. 35 

Clo. Come, I ’ll to my chamber. Would there 
had been some hurt done ! 

2. Lord. [Aszc?e.] I wish not so ; unless it had 
been the fall of an ass, which is no great hurt. 

Clo. You ’ll go with us ? 40 

1 . Lord. I ’ll attend your lordship. 

Clo. Na y, c ome, let’s go together. 

2. Lord. Well, my lord. [Exeunt. 

Scene [III. A room in Cymbeline's palace.] 
Enter Imogen and Pisanio. 

Imo. I would thou grew’st unto the shores 
o’ the haven, 

And question’dst every sail. If he should write 
And I not have it, ’t were a paper lost, 

As offer’d mercy is. What was the last * 
That, he spake to thee ? 

Pis. It was his queen, his queen f 

Imo. Then wav’d his handkerchief ? 

Pis. And kiss’d it, madam, 

Imo. Senseless linen ! happier therein than I £ 
And that was all ? 

Pis. No, madam ; for so long 

As he could make me with this eye or ear 





I. IV. 


CYMBELINE 


385 


Distinguish him from others, he did keep 10 
The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief, 
Still waving, as the fits and stirs of ’s mind 
Could best express how slow his soul sail’d on, 
How swift his ship. 

Imo. Thou shouldst have made him 

As little as a crow, or less, ere left is 

To after-eye him. 

Pis. Madam, so I did. 

Imo. I would have broke mine eye-strings ; 
crack’d them, but 

To look upon him, till the diminution 
Of space had pointed him sharp as my n.eedle ; 
Nay, follow’d him, till he had melted from 20 
The smallness of a gnat to air, and then 
Have ttirn’d mine eye and wept. But, good 
Pisanio, 

When shall we hear from him ? 

Pis. Be assured, madam, 

With his next vantage. 24 

Imo. I did not take my leave of him, but had 
Most pretty things to say. Ere I could tell him 
How I would think on him at certain hours 
Such thoughts and such, or I could make him 
swear 

The shes of Italy should not betray 
Mine interest and his honour, or have charg’d 
him, so 

At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at mid¬ 
night, . , . f 

To encounter me with orisons, for then 
1 am in heaven for him ; or ere I could 
Give him that parting kiss which I had set 
Betwixt two charming words, comes in my 
father 36 

And like the tyrannous breathing of the north 
Shakes all our buds from growing. 

Enter a Lady. 

Lady. The Queen, madam, 

Desires your Highness’ company. 

Imo. Those things I bid you do, get them 
dispatch’d. 

I will attend the Queen. 

Pis. Madam, I shall. «o 

[Exeunt. 

Scene [IV. Pome. Philario's house.] 

Enter Philario, Iachimo, a Frrnchman, a 
Dutchman, and a Spaniard. 

lack. Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Brit¬ 
ain. He was then of a crescent note, expected 
to prove so worthy as since he hath been al¬ 
lowed the name of ; but I could then have 
look’d on him without the help of admiration, 
though the catalogue of his endowments had 
been tabled by his side and I to peruse him by 

items. . , , , 7 

Phi. You speak of him when he was less 
furnish’d than now he is with that which makes 
him both without and within. 

French. I have seen him in France. W e had 
very many there could behold the sun with as 
firm eyes as he. . . , . , . , 13 

lack. This matter of marrying his kings 
daughter, wherein he must be weighed rather 


by her value than his own, words him, I doubt 
not, a great deal from the matter. 

French. And then his banishment. is 

Iach. Ay, and the approbation of those that 
weep this lamentable divorce under her colours 
are wonderfully to extend him ; be it but to 
fortify her judgement, which else an easy bat¬ 
tery might lay flat, for taking a beggar with¬ 
out less quality. But how comes it he is to 
sojourn with you ? How creeps acquaintance ? 

Phi. His father and I were soldiers to- [26 
gether ; to whom I have been often bound for 
no less than my life. 

Enter Posthumus. 

Here comes the Briton. Let him be so enter¬ 
tained amongst you as suits with gentlemen 
of your knowing to a stranger of his quality, [so 

— I beseech you all, be better known to this 

gentleman, whom I commend to you as a noble 
friend of mine. How worthy he is I will leave 
to appear hereafter, rather than story him in 
his own hearing. 3 fi 

French. Sir, we have known together in Or¬ 
leans. 

Post. Since when I have been debtor to you 
for courtesies, which I will be ever to pay and 
yetpay still. *o 

French. Sir, you o’er-rate my poor kindness. 
I was glad I did atone my countryman and 
you. It had been pity you should nave been 
put together with so mortal a purpose as then 
each bore, upon importance of so slight and 
trivial a nature. «« 

Post. By your pardon, sir, I was then a young 
traveller ; rather shunn’d to go even with what 
I heard than in my every action to be guided 
by others’ experiences: but upon my mended 
judgement — if I offend [not] to say it is mended 

— my quarrel was not altogether slight. _ si 
French. Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitre- 

ment of swords, and by such two that would 
by all likelihood have confounded one the 
other, or have fallen both. ER 

Iach. Can we, with manners, ask what was 
the difference ? 

French. Safely, I think ; ’t was a contention 
in public, which may, without contradiction, 
suffer the report. It was much like an argu¬ 
ment that fell out last night, where each of us [so 
fell in praise of our country-mistresses ; this 
gentleman at that time vouching — and upon 
warrant of bloody affirmation — his to be more 
fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant, qualified, 
and less attemptable than any the rarest of our 
ladies in France. 66 

Iach. That lady is not now living, or this 
gentleman’s opinion by this worn out. 

Post. She holds her virtue still, and I my 
mind. 

Iach. You must not so far prefer her’fore 
ours of Italy. 71 

Post. Being so far provok’d as I was in 
France, I would abate her nothing, though I 
profess myself her adorer, not her friend. 74 

Iach. As fair and as good — a kind of hand- 
in-hand comparison — had been something too 





3 86 


CYMBELINE 


i. v. 


fair and too good for any lady in Britain. If 
she went before others I have seen, as that dia¬ 
mond of yours outlustres many I have beheld, 
I could not [but] believe she excelled many. 
But I have not seen the most precious diamond 
that is, nor you the lady. 82 

Post. I prais’d her as I rated her; so do I 
my stone. 

lach. What do you esteem it at ? 

Post. More than the world enjoys. 

Iach. Either your unparagon’d mistress is 
dead, or she’s outpriz’d by a trifle. 88 

Post. You are mistaken. The one may be 
sold, or given, or if there were wealth enough 
for the purchase, or merit for the gift; the 
other is not a thing for sale, and only the gift 
of the gods. 

Iach. Which the gods have given you ? 

Post. Which, by their graces, I will keep. »6 
Iach. You may wear her in title yours ; but, 
you know, strange fowl light upon neighbour¬ 
ing ponds. Your ring may be stolen too ; so 
your brace of unprizable estimations, the one is 
but frail and the other casual. A cunning thief, 
orathat-way-accomplish’d courtier, would haz¬ 
ard the winning both of first and last. 102 

Post. Your Italy contains none so accom¬ 
plish’d a courtier to convince the honour of my 
mistress, if, in the holding or loss of that, you 
term her frail. I do nothing doubt you have 
store, of thieves ; notwithstanding, I fear not 
my ring. 108 

Phi. Let us leave here, gentlemen. 

. Post. Sir, with all my heart. This worthy 
signior, I thank him, makes no stranger of me ; 
we are familiar at first. uu 

Iach. With five times so much conversation, 
I should get ground of your fair mistress, make 
her go back, even to the yielding, had I admit¬ 
tance, and opportunity to friend. 

Post. No, no. 117 

Iach. I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of 
my estate to your ring ; which, in my opinion, 
o’ervalues it something. But I make my wager 
rather against your confidence than her repu¬ 
tation ; and, to bar your offence herein too, 
I durst attempt it against any lady in the 
world. 123 

Post. You are a great deal abus’d in too bold 
a persuasion ; and I doubt not you sustain what 
you ’re worthy of by your attempt. 

Iach. What’s that ? 

Post. A repulse ; though your attempt, as 
you call it, deserve more, — a punishment too. 12a 
Phi. Gentlemen, enough of this ; it came in 
too suddenly. Let it die as it was born, and, I 
pray you, be better acquainted. 

Iach. Would I had put my estate and my 
neighbour’s on the approbation of what I have 
spoke! 

Post. What lady would you choose to 
assail ? 136 

Iach. Yours, whom in constancy you think 
stands so safe. I will lay you ten thousand 
ducats to your ring, that, commend me to the 
court where your lady is, with no more advan¬ 
tage than the opportunity of a second confer¬ 


ence, and I will bring from thence that honour 
of hers which you imagine so reserv’d. 148 
Post. I will wage against your gold, gold to 
it. My ring I hold dear as my finger ; ’t is part 
of it. 

Iach. You are afraid, and therein the wiser. 
If you buy ladies’ flesh at a million a dram, 
you cannot preserve it from tainting. But I see 
you have some religion in you, that you fear, wn 
Post. This is but a custom in your tongue ; 
you bear a graver purpose, I hope. 

Iach. I am the master of my speeches, and 
would undergo what’s spoken, I swear. ira 
Post. Will you ? I shall but lend my dia¬ 
mond till your return. Let there be covenants 
drawn between’s. My mistress exceeds in 
goodness the hugeness of your unworthy think¬ 
ing. I dare you to this match ; here’s my ring. 
Phi. I will have it no lay. is* 

Iach. By the gods, it is one. If I bring you 
no sufficient testimony that I have enjoy’d the 
dearest bodily part of your mistress, my ten 
thousand ducats are yours ; so is your diamond 
too. If I come off, and leave her in such honour 
as you have trust in, she your jewel, this your 
jewel, and my gold are yours ; provided I have 
your commendation for my more free enter¬ 
tainment. 1*7 

Post. I embrace these conditions; let us 
have articles betwixt us. Only, thus far you 
shall answer: if you make your voyage upon 
her and give me directly to understand you 
have prevail’d, I am no further your enemy; 
she is not worth our debate. If she remain un¬ 
seduc’d, you not making it appear otherwise, 
for your ill opinion and the assault you have 
made to her chastity you shall answer me with 
your sword. m 

Iach. Your hand ; a covenant. We will have 
these things set down by lawful counsel, and 
straight away for Britain, lest the bargain 
should catch cold and starve. I will fetch my 
gold and have our two wagers recorded. m 
Post. Agreed. 

[Exeunt Posthumus and Iachimo.] 
French.. Will this hold, think you? 

Phi. Signior Iachimo will not from it. Pray, 
let us follow ’em. [ Exeunt . 

Scene [V. Britain. A room in Cymbeline’s 
palace.] 

Enter Queen, Ladies, and Cornelius. 

Queen. Whiles yet the dew’s on ground, 
gather those flowers ; 

Make haste. Who has the note of them ? 

1 . Lady. I, madam. 

Queen. Dispatch. [Exeunt Ladies. 

Now, master doctor, have you brought those 
drugs ? 

Cor. Pleaseth your Highness, ay. Here they 
are, madam. [ Presenting a small box.] a 
But I beseech your Grace, without offence, — 
My conscience bids me ask — wherefore you 
have 

Commanded of me these most poisonous com¬ 
pounds, 





I. vi. 


CYMBELINE 


387 


Which are the movers of a languishing death, 
But though slow, deadly. 

Queen. I wonder, doctor, 10 

Thou ask’st me such a question. Have I not 
been 

Thy pupil long ? Hast thou not learn’d me 
how 

To make perfumes ? distil ? preserve ? yea, so 
That our great king himself doth woo me oft 
For my confections ? Having thus far pro¬ 
ceeded, — 16 

Unless thou think’st me devilish — is’t not 
meet 

That I did amplify my judgement in 
Other conclusions ? I will try the forces 
Of these thy compounds on such creatures as 
We count not worth the hanging, — but none 
human — 20 

To try the vigour of them and apply 
Allayments to their act, and by them gather 
Their several virtues and effects. 

Cor. Your Highness 

Shall from this practice but make hard your 
heart. 

Besides, the seeing these effects will be *« 

Both noisome and infectious. 

Queen. O, content thee. 

Enter Pisanio. 

[Aside.] Here comes a flattering rascal; upon 
him 

Will I first work. He’s for his master, 

And enemy to my son. How now, Pisanio ! 
Doctor, your service for this time is ended ; 30 

Take your own way. 

Cor. [Aside.] I do suspect you, madam ; 
But you shall do no harm. 

Queen. [To Pisanio.] Hark thee, a word. 
Cor. [Aside.] I do not like her. She doth 
think she has 

Strange ling’ring poisons. I do know her spirit, 
And will not trust one of her malice with 36 
A drug of such damn’d nature. Those she has 
Will stupefy and dull the sense a while, 

Which first, perchance, she ’ll prove on cats and 
dogs, 

Then afterward up higher ; but there is 
No danger in what show of death jt makes, *0 
More than the locking-up the spirits a time, 

To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool’d 
With a most false effect; and I the truer, 

So to be false with her. 

Queen. No further service, doctor, 

Until I send for thee. 

Cor. I humbly take my leave. 45 

[Exit. 

Queen. Weeps she still, say’st thou ? Dost 
thou think in time 

She will not quench and let instructions enter 
Where folly now possesses ? Do thou work. 
When thou shalt bring me word she loves my 
son, 

I ’ll tell thee on the instant thou art then bo 
A s great as is thy master, — greater, for 
His fortunes all lie speechless and his name 
Is at last gasp. Return he cannot, nor 
Continue where he is. To shift his being 


Is to exchange one misery with another, 66 
And every day that comes comes to decay 
A day’s work in him. What shalt thou expect, 
To be depender on a thing that leans, 

Who cannot be new built, nor has no friends 
So much as but to prop him ? [The Queen drops 
the box: Pisanio takes it up.] 

Thou tak’st up 

Thou know’st not what; but take it for thy 
labour. »i 

It is a'.thing I made, which hath the King 
Five times redeem’d from death. I do not know 
What is more cordial. Nay, I prithee, take it; 
It is an earnest of a further good 
That I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress how 
The case stands with her ; do’t as from thyself. 
Think what a chance thou changest on, but 
think 

Thou hast thy mistress still; to boot, my son, 
Who shall take notice of thee. I ’ll move the 
King to 

To any shape of thy preferment such 
As thou ’It desire ; and then myself, I chiefly, 
That set thee on to this desert, am bound 
To load thy merit richly. Call mv women. 
Think on my words. [Exit Pisanio. 

A sly and constant knave, 
Not to be shak’d ; the agent for his master to 
A nd the remembrancer of her to hold 
The hand-fast to her lord. I have given him 
that 

Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her 
Of liegers for her sweet, and which she after, »o 
Except she bend her humour, shall be assur’d 
To taste of too. 

Re-enter Pisanio and Ladies. 

So, so; well done, well done. 
The violets, cowslips, and the primroses, 

Bear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio ; 
Think on my words. 

[Exeunt Queen and Ladies . 
Pis. And shall do; «s 

But when to my good lord I prove untrue, 

I ’ll choke myself. There’s all I ’ll do for you. 

[Exit. 

Scene [VI. The same. Another room in the 
palace.] 

Enter Imogen. 

Imo. A father cruel, and a step-dame false; 
A foolish suitor to a wedded lady, 

That hath her husband banish’d ; — 0 , that 
husband! 

My supreme crown of grief ! and those repeated 
Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stolen, s 
As my two brothers, happy ! but most miserable 
Is the desire that’s glorious. Blessed be those, 
How mean soe’er, that have their honest wills, 
Which seasons comfort. Who may this be ? 
Fie! 

Enter Pisanio and Iachimo. 

Pis. Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome, « 
Comes from my lord with letters. 

Inch. Change you, madam? 




3 88 


CYMBELINE 


I. VI 


The worthy Leonatus is in safety 
And greets your Highness dearly. 

[Presents a letter.] 
Imo. Thanks, good sir ; 

You ’re kindly welcome. 
lack. [Aside.] All of her that is out of door 
most rich ! is 

If she be furnish’d with a mind so rare, 

She is alone, the Arabian bird, and I 
Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend ! 
Arm me, audacity, from head to foot! 

Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight; 20 

Rather, directly fly. 

Imo. (Reads.) “ — He is one of the noblest 
note, to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely 
tied. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you 
value your trust — Leonatus.” 2s 

So far I read aloud — 

But even the very middle of my heart 
Is warm’d by the rest — and take it thank¬ 
fully. 

You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I 

Have words to bid you, and shall find it so 30 

In all that I can do. 

lack. Thanks, fairest lady. 

What, are men mad ? Hath nature given them 
eyes 

To see this vaulted arch, and the rich crop 
Of sea and land, which can distinguish ’twixt 
The fiery orbs above and the twinn’d stones 35 
Upon the number’d beach, and can we not 
Partition make with spectacles so precious 
’Twixt fair and foul ? 

Imo. What makes your admiration ? 

lack. It cannot be i’ the eye, for apes and 
monkeys 

’Twixt two such shes would chatter this way 
and 40 

Contemn with mows the other; nor i’ the 
judgement, 

For idiots in this case of favour would 
Be wisely definite ; nor i’ the appetite ; 

Sluttery to such neat excellence oppos’d 
Should make desire vomit emptiness, 45 

Not so allur’d to feed. 

Imo. What is the matter, trow ? 
lack. The cloyed will, — 

That satiate yet unsatisfi’d desire, that tub 
Both fill’d and running, — ravening first the 
lamb, 

Longs after for the garbage. 

Imo. What, dear sir, 

Thus raps you ? Are you well ? ci 

lack. Thanks, madam ; well. [To Pisanio .] 
Beseech you, sir, desire 
My man’s abode where I did leave him. He 
Is strange and peevish. 

Pis. I was going, sir, 

io give him welcome. [Exit, m 

Imo. Continues well my lord? His health, 
beseech you ? 
lack. Well, madam. 

Imo. Is he dispos’d to mirth ? I hope he is. 
Iaoh. Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger 
there 

So merrv and so gamesome. He is call’d m 
T he Brit ;on reveller. 


Imo. When he was here, 

He did incline to sadness, and oft-times 
Not knowing why, 

lack. I never saw him sad. 

There is a Frenchman his companion, one 
An eminent monsieur, that, it seems, much 
loves _ ««> 

A Gallian girl at home. He furnaces 
The thick sighs from him, whiles the jolly 
Briton — 

Your lord, I mean — laughs from’s free lungs, 
cries “ O, 

Can my sides hold, to think that man, who 
knows 

By history, report, or his own proof. to 

What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose 
But must be, will his free hours languish for 
Assured bondage ? ” 

Imo. Will my lord say so ? 

lack. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with 
laughter. 

It is a recreation to be by 

And hear him mock the Frenchman. But, 
heavens know, 

Some men are much to blame. 

Imo. Not he, I hope. 

Iach. Not he; but yet heaven’s bounty to¬ 
wards him might 

Be used more thankfully. In himself, ’t is 
much; 

In you — which I account his — beyond all 
talents. so 

Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound 
To pity too. 

Imo. What do you pity, sir ? 

Iach. Two creatures heartily. 

Imo. Am I one, sir ? 

You look on me ; what wreck discern you in 
me 

Deserves your pity ? 

Iach. Lamentable! What, so 

To hide me from the radiant sun, and solace 
I’ the dungeon by a snuff! 

Imo. I pray you, sir, 

Deliver with mor e op enness your answers 
To my demands. Why do you pity me ? 

Iach. That others do, »o 

I w & s about to say, enjoy your — But 
It is an office of the gods to venge it, 

Not mine to speak on ’t. 

Imo. You do seem to know 

Something of me, or what concerns me: pray 
you, — 

Since doubting things go ill often hurts more oe 
Than to be sure they do ; for certainties 
Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing. 
The remedy then bom — discover to me 
What both you spur and stop. 

Iach. Had I this cheek 

To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose 
touch, 100 

Whose every touch, would force the feeler’s 
soul 

To the oath of loyalty ; this object, which 
Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye, 
Fixing it only here ; should I, damn’d then, 
Slaver with lips as common as the stairs io» 




/. VI. 


CYMBELINE 


3«9 


That mount the Capitol; join gripes with 
hands 

Made hard with hourly falsehood — falsehood, 
as 

With labour ; then lie peeping in an eye 
Base and illustrous as the smoky light 
That’s fed with stinking tallow : it were fit no 
That all the plagues of hell should at one time 
Encounter such revolt. 

Imo. My lord, I fear, 

Has forgot Britain. 

lack. And himself. Not I, 

Inclin’d to this intelligence, pronounce 
The beggary of his change ; but ’t is your 
graces ns 

That from my mutest conscience to my tongue 
Charms this report out. 

Imo. Let me hear no more. 

lack. 0 dearest soul! your cause doth strike 
my heart 

With pity, that doth make me sick. A lady 
So fair, and fasten’d to an empery 120 

Would make the great’st king double, — to be 
partner’d 

With tomboys hir’d with that self-exhibition 
Which your own coffers yield I with diseas’d 
ventures 

That play with all infirmities for gold 
Which rottenness can lend nature ! such boil’d 

stuff 125 

As well might poison poison ! Be reveng’d ; 

Or she that bore you was no queen, and you 
Recoil from your great stock 
Imo. Reveng’d! 

How should I be reveng’d ? If this be true, — 
As I have such a heart that both mine ears 130 
Must not in haste abuse — if it be true, 

How should I be reveng’d ? 

lack. Should he make me 

Live, like Diana’s priest, betwixt cold sheets, 
Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps, 

In your despite, upon your purse ? Revenge 

it. 135 

I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure. 

More noble than that runagate to your bed, 
And will continue fast to your affection, 

Still close as sure. 

Imo. What, ho, Pisanio ! 

lack. Let me my service tender on your 
lips. ho 

Imo. Away 1 I do condemn mine ears that 
have 

So long attended thee. If thou wert honour¬ 
able, 

Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, 
not 

For such an end thou seek’st, — as base as 
strange. 

Thou wrong’st a gentleman, who is as far hs 
From thy report as thou from honour, and 
Solicit’st here a lady that disdains 
Thee and the devil alike. What ho, Pisanio ! 
The King my father shall be made acquainted 
Of thy assault. If he shall think it fit no 

A saucy stranger in his court to mart 
As in a Romish stew, and to expound 
His beastly mind to us, he hath a court 


He little cares for and a daughter who 
He not respects at all. What, ho, Pisanio ! iss 
lack. 0 happy Leonatus ! I may say. 

The credit that thy lady hath of thee 
Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect good¬ 
ness 

Her assur’d credit. Blessed live you long 
A lady to the worthiest sir that ever ico 

Country call’d his ! and you his mistress, only 
For the most worthiest fit! Give me your par¬ 
don. 

I have spoke this, to know if your affiance 
Were deeply rooted, and shall make your lord, 
That which he is, new o’er; and he is one igs 
T he truest manner’d, such a holy witch 
That he enchants societies into him ; 

Half all men’s hearts are his. 

Imo. * You make amends. 

lach. He sits *mongst men like a descended 
god : 

He hath a kind of honour sets him off, no 
More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, 
Most mighty princess, that I have adventur’d 
To try your taking of a false report; which 
hath 

Honour’d with confirmation your great judge¬ 
ment 

In the election of a sir so rare, 175 

Which you know cannot err. The love I bear 
him 

Made me to fan you thus ; but the gods made 
you, 

Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray, your pardon. 
Imo. All’s well, sir. Take my power i’ the 
court for yours. 

lack. My humble thanks. I had almost for¬ 
got 180 

To entreat your Grace but in a small request, 
And yet of moment too, for it concerns 
Your lord, myself, and other noble friends, 

Are partners in the business. 

Imo. Pray, what is’t ? 

lack. Some dozen Romans of us and your 
lord — iss 

The best feather of our wing — have mingled 
sums 

To buy a present for the Emperor ; 

Which I, the factor for the rest, have done 
In France. ’T is plate of rare device, and jewels 
Of rich and exquisite form, their values 
great; iwo 

And I am something curious, being strange, 

To have them in safe stowage. May it please 
you 

To take them in protection ? 

Imo. Willingly; 

And pawn mine honour for their safety. Since 
My lord hath interest in them, I will keep 
them 195 

In my bedchamber. 

Iach. They are in a trunk, 

Attended by my men. I will make bold 
To send them to you, only for this night; 

I must aboard to-morrow. 

Imo. 0 , no, no. 

Iach. Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my 
word 200 






39° 


CYMBELINE 


ii. ii. 


By lengthening my return. From Gallia 
I cross’d the seas on purpose and on promise 
To see your Grace. 

Imo. I thank you for your pains : 

But not away to-morrow ! 

lack. O, I must, madam ; 

Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please 205 
To greet your lord with writing ; do’t to-night. 
I have outstood my time ; which is material 
To the tender of our present. 

Imo. I will write. 

Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept, 
And truly yielded you. You ’re very wel¬ 
come. [Exeunt. 210 

ACT II 

Scene I. [Britain. Before Cymbeline's palace.] 

Enter Cloten and two Lords. 

Clo. Was there ever man had such luck ! 
When I kiss’d the jack, upon an up-cast to be 
hit away ! I had a hundred pound on’t; and 
then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up 
for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oaths of him 
and might not spend them at my pleasure. « 

1. Lord. What got he by that? You have 
broke his pate with your bowl. 

2. Lord. [Aside.] If his wit had been like him 
that broke it, it would have run all out. 10 

Clo. When a gentleman is dispos’d to swear, 
it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths, 
ha ? 

2. Lord. No, my lord; [aside] nor crop the 
ears of them. 15 

Clo. Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction ? 
Would he had been one of my rank ! 

2. Lord. [Aside.] To have smelt like a fool, is 
Clo. I am not vex’d more at anything in the 
earth ; a pox on’t! I had rather not be so noble 
as I am. They dare not fight with me, because of 
the Queen my mother. Every Jack-slave hath 
his bellyful of fighting, and I must go up and 
down like a cock that nobody can match. 2* 
2. Lord. [Aside.] You are cock and capon 
too: and you crow, cock, with your comb on. 
Clo. Sayest thou ? 

2. Lord. It is not fit your lordship should 
undertake every companion that you give of¬ 
fence to. 30 

Clo. No, I know that; but it is fit I should 
commit offence to my inferiors. 

2. Lord. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only. 
Clo. Why, so I say. 

1. Lord. Did you hear of a stranger that’s 

come to court to-night ? 30 

Clo. A stranger, and I not know on’t! 

2. Lord. [Aside.] He’s a strange fellow him¬ 
self, and knows it not. 

1 . Lord. There’s an Italian come ; and, ’t is 
thought, one of Leonatus’ friends. 41 

Clo. Leonatus ! a banish’d rascal; and he’s 
another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of 
this stranger ? 

1 . Lord. One of your lordship’s pages. « 
Clo. Is it fit I went to look upon him ? Is 
there no derogation in’t ? 


2. Lord. You cannot derogate, my lord. 

Clo. Not easily, I think. «e 

2. Lord. [Aside.] You are a fool granted; 
therefore your issues, being foolish, do not 
derogate. 

Clo. Come, I ’ll go see this Italian. What I 
have lost to-day at bowls I ’ll win to-night of 
him. Come, go. “ 

2. Lord.. 1 ’ll attend your lordship. 

[Exeunt [Cloten and First Lord]. 
That such a crafty devil as is his mother 
Should yield the world this ass ! A woman that 
Bears all down with her brain; and this her 
son 

Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart, go 
A nd leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess, 

Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur’st, 
Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern’d, 

A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer 
More hateful than the foul expulsion is gs 

Of thy dear husband I Then that horrid act 
Of the divorce he’d make ! The heavens hold 
firm 

The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshak’d 
That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst 
stand, 

To enjoy thy banish’d lord and this great 
land! [Exit. 7# 

Scene II. [Imogen's bedchamber in Cymbeline's 
palace: a trunk in one corner of it.] 

Imogen in bed [reading ]; a Lady [attending] 

Imo. Who’s there ? My woman Helen ? 
Lady. Please you, madam. 

Imo. What hour is it ? 

Lady. Almost midnight, madam. 

Imo. 1 have read three hours then. Mine eyes 
are weak. 

Fold down the leaf where I have left. To 
bed. 

Take not away the taper, leave it burning ; 5 

And if thou canst awake by four o’ the clock, 

I prithee, call me. Sleep hath seiz’d me 
wholly. [Exit Lady.] 

To your protection I commend me, gods. 

From fairies and the tempters of the night 
Guard me, beseech ye. 10 

[Sleeps. Iachimo comes from the 
trunk. 

Iach. The crickets sing, and man’s o’er- 
labour’d sense 

Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus 
Did softly press the rushes, ere he waken’d 
The chastity he wounded. Cytherea ! 

How bravely thou becom’st thy bed, fresh 
lily, is 

And whiter than the sheets! That I might 
touch ! 

But kiss one kiss ! Rubies unparagon’d, 

How dearly they do’t! ’T is her breathing that 
Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o’ the 
taper 

Bows toward her, and would under-peep her 
lids 2# 

To see the enclosed lights, now canopied 
Under these windows white and azure, lac’d 




II. iii. 


CYMBELINE 


39i 


With blue of heaven’s own tinet. But my 
design, 

To note the chamber. I will write all down : 
Such and such pictures ; there the window ; 

such 80 

The adornment of her bed ; the arras ; figures, 
Why, such and such; and the contents o’ the 
story. 

Ah, but some natural notes about her body, 
Above ten thousand meaner moveables 
Would testify, to enrich mine inventory. so 

O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her! 
And be her sense but as a monument, 

Thus in a chapel lying ! Come ofl\ come off ! 

[ Taking off her bracelet .] 
As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard ! 

’T is mine ; and this will witness outwardly, 35 
As strongly as the conscience does within, 

To the madding of her lord. On her left breast 
A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops 
I’ the bottom of a cowslip. Here’s a voucher, 
Stronger than ever law could make; this 
secret 40 

Will force him think I have pick’d the lock 
and ta’en 

The treasure of her honour. No more. To 
what end ? 

Why should I write this down, that’s riveted, 
Screw’d to my memory ? She hath been reading 
late 

The tale of Tereus; here the leaf’s turn’d 
down 45 

Where Philomel gave up. I have enough. 

To the trunk again, and shut the spring of it. 
Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that 
dawning 

May bare the raven’s eye ! I lodge in fear ; 
Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. 

[Clock strikes. 

One, two three ; time, time ! w 

[Goes into the trunk.] 

Scene III. [An ante-chamber adjoining Imo¬ 
gen's apartments.] 

Enter Cloten and Lords. 

1. Lord. Your lordship is the most patient 
man in loss, the most coldest that ever turn’d 
up ace. 

Clo. It would make any man cold to lose. 4 
1. Lard. But not every man patient after the 
noble temper of your lordship. You are most 
hot and furious when you win. 

Clo. Winning will put any man into cour¬ 
age. If I could get this foolish Imogen, I 
should have gold enough. It’s almost morning, 
is’t not ? 10 

7 . Lord. Day, my lord. 

Clo. I would this music would come. I am 
advised to give her music o’ mornings ; they 
say it will penetrate. 14 

Enter Musicians. 

Come on ; tune. If you can penetrate her with 
your fingering, so ; we ’ll try with tongue too. 
If none will do, let her remain ; but I ’ll never 
give o’er. First, a very excellent good-con¬ 


ceited thing ; after, a wonderful sweet air, 
with admirable rich words to it; and then let 
her consider. 2d 

Song. 

Hark, hark ! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, 
And Phoebus gins arise 
His steeds to water at those springs 
On chalic’d flowers that lies ; 

And winking Mary-buds begin sb 

To ope their golden eyes ; 

With every thing that pretty is, 

My lady sweet, arise, 

Arise, arise. so 

[Clo.] So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I 
will consider your music the better; if it do 
not, it is a vice in her ears, which horse-hairs 
and calves’-guts, nor the voice of unpaved 
eunuch to boot, can never amend. 35 

[Exeunt Musicians.] 

Enter Cymbeline and Queen. 

2. Lord. Here comes the King. 

Clo. I am glad I was up so late, for that’s 
the reason I was up so early. He cannot choose 
but take this service I have done fatherly. 
— Good morrow to your Majesty and to my 
gracious mother! 41 

Cym. Attend you here the door of our stern 
daughter ? 

Will she not forth ? 

Clo. I have assail’d her with musics, but 
she vouchsafes no notice. 45 

Cym. The exile of her minion is too new ; 
She hath not yet forgot him. Some more time 
Must wear the print of his remembrance on’t, 
And then she’s yours. 

Queen. You are most bound to the King, 
Who lets go by no vantages that may bo 

Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself 
To orderly soliciting, and be friended 
With aptness of the season ; make denials 
Increase your services ; so seem as if 
You were inspir’d to do those duties which bb 
You tender to her, that you in all obey her, 
Save when command to your dismission tends, 
And therein you are senseless. 

Clo. Senseless ! not so„ 

[Enter a Messenger.] 

Mess. So like you, sir, ambassadors from 
Rome ; 

The one is Caius Lucius. 

Cym. A worthy fellow, 00 

Albeit he comes on angry purpose now ; 

But that’s no fault of his. We must receive 
him 

According to the honour of his sender ; 

And towards himself, his goodness forespent on 
us, 

We must extend our notice. Our dear son, 05 
When you have given good morning to your 
mistress, 

Attend the Queen and us ; we shall have need 
To employ you towards this Roman. Come, 
our queen. [Exeunt [all but Cloten], 






39 2 


CYMBELINE 


ii. iii. 


Clo. If she be up, I ’ll speak with her ; if 
not, 

Let her lie still and dream. [ Knocks .] By your 
leave, ho ! 70 

I know her women are about her ; what 
If I do line one of their hands ? ’T is gold 
Which buys admittance ; oft it doth ; yea, and 
makes 

Diana’s rangers false themselves, yield up 
Their deer to the stand o’ the stealer ; and’t is 
gold 75 

Which makes the true man kill’d and saves the 
thief. 

Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. 
What 

Can it not do and undo ? I will make 
One of her women lawyer to me, for 
I yet not understand the case myself. so 

By your leave. [ Knocks. 

Enter a Lady. 

Lady. Who’s there that knocks ? 

Clo. A gentleman. 

Lady. No more ? 

Clo. Yes, and a gentlewoman’s son. 

Lady. That’s more 

Than some, whose tailors are as dear as yours, 
Can justly boast of. What’s your lordship’s 
pleasure ? 85 

Clo. Your lady’s person. Is she ready ? 
Lady. Ay, 

To keep her chamber. 

Clo. There is gold for you ; 

Sell me your good report. 

Lady. How ! my good name ? Or to report 
of you 

What I shall think is good ? — The Princess ! 90 
Enter Imogen. 

Clo. Good morrow, fairest. Sister, your 
sweet hand. [Exit Lady.] 

Imo. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too 
much pains 

For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give 
Is telling you that I am poor of thanks 
And scarce can spare them. 

Clo. Still, I swear I love you. 

Imo. If you but said so, ’t were as deep with 
me. 96 

If you swear still, your recompense is still 
That I regard it not. 

Clo. This is no answer. 

Imo. But that you shall not say I yield be¬ 
ing silent, 

I would not speak. I pray you, spare me. 

Faith, 100 

I shall unfold equal discourtesy 
To your best kindness. One of your great 
knowing 

Should learn, being taught, forbearance. 

Clo. To leave you in your madness, ’t were 
my sin. 

I will not. 105 

Imo. Fools are not mad folks. 

Clo. Do you call me fool ? 

Imo. As I am mad, I do. 

If you ’ll be patient, I ’ll no more be mad ; 


That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir, 

You put me to forget a lady’s manners, no 

By being so verbal; and learn now, for all, 
That I, which know my heart, do here pro¬ 
nounce, 

By the very truth of it, I care not for you, 

And am so near the lack of charity 
To accuse myself I hate you ; which I had 
rather no 

You felt than make ’t my boast. 

Clo. You sin against 

Obedience, which you owe your father. For 
The contract you pretend with that base 
wretch, 

One bred of alms and foster’d with cold dishes, 
With scraps o’ the court, it is no contract, 
none; # 120 

And thougli it be allowed in meaner parties — 
Yet who than he more mean ? — to knit their 
souls — 

On whom there is no more dependency 
But brats and beggary, — in self-figur’d knot, 
Yet you are curb’d from that enlargement by 125 
The consequence o’ the crown, and must not 
foil 

The precious note of it with a base slave, 

A hilding for a livery, a squire’s cloth, 

A pantler, not so eminent. 

Imo. Profane fellow 1 

Wert thou the son of Jupiter and no more iso 
But what thou art besides, thou wert too base 
To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough, 
Even to the point of envy, if’t were made 
Comparative for your virtues, to be styl’d 134 
The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated 
For being preferr’d so well. 

Clo. The south-fog rot him I 

Imo. He never can meet more mischance 
than come 

To be but nam’d of thee. His meanest garment 
That ever hath but clipp’d his body, is dearer 
In my respect than all the hairs above thee, wo 
Were they all made such men. How now? 
[Missing the bracelet.] Pisanio ! 

Enter Pisanio. 

Clo. “ His garment! ” Now the devil — 
Imo. To Dorothy my woman hie thee pre¬ 
senter — 

Clo. “ His garment! ” 

Imo. I am sprited with a fool, 

Frighted, and ang’red worse. Go bid my wo¬ 
man 145 

Search for a jewel that too casually 
Hath left mine arm. It was thy master’s. 
Shrew me, 

If I would lose it for a revenue 
Of any king’s in Europe. I do think 
I saw ’t this morning ; confident I am ibo 

Last night’t was on mine arm ; I kiss’d it. 

I hope it be not gone to tell my lord 
That I kiss aught but he. 

Pis. ’T will not be lost. 

Imo. I hope so ; go and search. 

[Exit Pisanio .] 

Clo. You have abus’d me. 

His meanest garment! ” 




II. IV. 


CYMBELINE 


393 


Imo. Ay, I said so, sir. iso 

If you will make ’t an action, call witness to’t. 
Clo. I will inform your father. 

Imo. Your mother too. 

She ’s my good lady, and will conceive, I hope, 
But the worst of me. So, I leave you, sir, 

To the worst of discontent. [Exit. 

Clo. I ’ll be reveng’d. 

“ His meanest garment! ” Well. [Exit. iei 


Scene IV. [Rome. Philario's house.] 
Enter Posthumus and Philario. 


Post. Fear it not, sir. I would I were so sure 
To win the King as I am bold her honour 
Will remain hers. 

Phi. What means do you make to him ? 

Post. Not any, but abide the change of time, 
Quake in the present winter’s state, and wish 
That warmer days would come. In these fear’d 
hopes, e 

I barely gratify your love ; they failing, 

I must die much your debtor. 

Phi. Your very goodness and your company 
O’erpays all I can do. By this, your king 10 
Hath heard of great Augustus. Caius Lucius 
Will do’s commission throughlv ; and I think 
He ’ll grant the tribute, send the arrearages, 

Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance 
Is yet fresh in their grief. 

Post. I do believe, « 

Statist though I am none, nor like to be, 

That this will prove a war; and you shall 
hear 

The legion now in Gallia sooner landed 
In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings 
Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen 20 
Are men more order’d than when Julius Caesar 
Smil’d at their lack of skill, but found their 
courage 

Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline, 

Now wing-led with their courages, will make 
known 

To their approvers they are people such 26 
That mend upon the world. 

Enter Iachimo. 


Phi. See ! Iachimo! 

Post. The swiftest harts have posted you by 
land; 

And winds of all the corners kiss’d your sails, 
To make your vessel nimble. 

Phi. Welcome, sir. 

Post. I hope the briefness of your answer 
made 30 

The speediness of your return. 

Iach. Your lady 

Is one of the fairest that I have look’d upon. 
Post. And therewithal the best; or let her 
beauty 

Look through a casement to allure false hearts 
And be false with them. 

Inch. Here are letters for you. 36 

Post. Their tenour good, I trust. 

Iach. ’T is very like. 

[Phi.] Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court 
When you were there ? 


Iach. He was expected then, 

But not approach’d. 

Post. All is well yet. 

Sparkles this stone as it was wont, or is’t not <0 
Too dull for your good wearing ? 

Iach. If I have lost it, 

I should have lost the worth of it in gold. 

I ’ll make a journey twice as far, to enjoy 
A second night of such sweet shortness which 
Was mine in Britain ; for the ring is won. 45 

Post. The stone’s too hard to come by. 

Iach. Not a whit, 

Your lady being so easy. 

Post. Make not, sir, 

Your loss your sport. I hope you know that we 
Must not continue friends. 

Iach. Good sir, we must, 

If you keep covenant. Had I not brought w> 
The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant 
We were to question farther ; but I now 
Profess myself the winner of her honour, 
Together with your ring ; and not the wronger 
Of her or you, having proceeded but m 

By both your wills. 

Post. If you can make’t apparent 

That you have tasted her in bed, my hand 
And ring is yours ; if not, the foul opinion 
You had of her pure honour gains or loses 
Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both so 
To who shall find them. 

Iach. Sir, my circumstances, 

Being so near the truth as I will make them, 
Must first induce you to believe ; whose strength 
I will confirm with oath, which, I doubt not, 
You ’ll give me leave to spare, when you shall 
find os 

You need it not. 

Post. Proceed. 

Iach. First, her bedchamber, — 

Where, I confess, I slept not, but profess 
Had that was well worth watching — it was 
hang’d 

With tapestry of silk and silver ; the story 
Proud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman, 70 
And Cydnus swell’d above the banks, or for 
The press of boats or pride ; a piece of work 
So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive 
In workmanship and value ; which I wonder’d 
Could be so rarely and exactly wrought, 76 
Since the true life on’t was — 

Post. This is true ; 

And this you might have heard of here, by me, 
Or by some other. 

Iach. More particulars 

Must justify my knowledge. 

Post. So they must, 

Or do your honour injury. 

Iach. The chimney so 

Is south the chamber, and the chimney-piece 
Chaste Dian bathing. Never saw I figures 
So likely to report themselves. The cutter 
Was as another Nature, dumb ; outwent her, 
Motion and breath left out. 

Post. This is a thing se 

Which you might from relation likewise reap, 
Being, as it is, much spoke of. 

Iach. The roof o’ the chamber 




394 


CYMBELINE 


II. V. 


With golden cherubins is fretted. Her and¬ 
irons — 

I had forgot them — were two winking Cupids 
Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely so 
Depending on their brands. 

Post. This is her honour ! 

Let it be granted you have seen all this — and 
praise 

Be given to your remembrance — the descrip¬ 
tion 

Of what is in her chamber nothing saves 
The wager you have laid. 
lack. Then, if you can, 95 

[Showing the bracelet .] 
Be pale. I beg hut leave to air this jewel; see ! 
And now ’t is up again. It must be married 
To that your diamond ; I ’ll keep them. 

Post. Jove! 

Once more let me behold it. Is it that 
Which I left with her ? 

Iach. Sir — I thank her — that. 

She stripp’d it from her arm. I see her yet. 101 
Her pretty action did outsell her gift, 

And yet enrich’d it too. She gave it me, and 
said 

She priz’d it once. 

Post. May be she pluck’d it off 

To send it me. 

Iach. She writes so to you, doth she ? 

Post. 0 , no, no, no! ’t is true. Here, take 
this too; [Gives the ring.] 100 

It is a basilisk unto mine eye, 

Kills me to look on’t. Let there be no honour 
Where there is beauty; truth, where sem¬ 
blance ; love, 

Where there’s another man. The vows of 
women no 

Of no more bondage be, to where they are 
made, 

Than they are to their virtues, which is no¬ 
thing. 

O, above measure false 1 
Phi. Have patience, sir, 

And take your ring again ; ’t is not yet won. 

It may be probable she lost it; or us 

Who knows if one of her women, being cor¬ 
rupted, 

Hath stolen it from her ? 

Post. Very true; 

And so, I hope, he came by’t. Back my ring. 
Render to me some corporal sign about her, 
More evident than this ; for this was stolen. 120 
Iach. By Jupiter, I had it from her arm. 
Post. Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he 
swears. 

’T is true, — nay, keep the ring — ’t is true. I 
am sure 

She would not lose it. Her attendants are 
All sworn and honourable. They induced to 
steal it! 125 

And by a stranger ! No, he hath enjoy’d her. 
The cognizance of her incontinency 
Is this. She hath bought the name of whore 
thus dearly. 

There, take thy hire ; and all the fiends of hell 
Divide themselves between you ! 

Phi. Sir, be patient. 


This is not strong enough to be believ’d isi 
Of one persuaded well of — 

Post. Never talk on’t; 

She hath been colted by him. 

Iach. If you seek 

For further satisfying, under her breast — 
Worthy the pressing — lies a mole, right 
proud # x * 

Of that most delicate lodging. By my life, 

1 kiss’d it; and it gave me present hunger 
To feed again, though full. You do remem¬ 
ber 

This stain upon her ? 

Post. Ay, and it doth confirm 

Another stain, as big as hell can hold, 1*0 

Were there no more but it. 

Iach. Will you hear more ? 

Post. Spare your arithmetic ; never count 
the turns; 

Once, and a million ! 

Iach. I ’ll be sworn — 

Post. No swearing. 

If you will swear you have not done’t, you lie ; 
And I will kill thee, if thou dost deny i« 

Thou ’st made me cuckold. 

Iach-. I ’ll deny nothing. 

Post. O, that I had her here, to tear her 
limbmeal! 

I will go there and do’t, i’ the court, before 
Her father. I ’ll do something — [Exit. 

Phi. Quite besides 

The government of patience 1 You have 
won. is# 

Let’s follow him, and pervert the present 
wrath 

He hath against himself. 

Iach. With all my heart. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene V. Another room in Philario's house.] 
Enter Posthumus. 

Post. Is there no way for men to be, but 
women 

Must be half-workers ? We are all bastards ; 
And that most venerable man which I 
Did call my father, was I know not where 
When I was stamp’d. Some coiner with his 
tools 5 

Made me a counterfeit; yet my mother seem’d 
The Dian of that time. So doth my wife 
The nonpareil of this. 0 , vengeance, ven¬ 
geance ! 

Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain’d 
And pray’d me oft forbearance ; did it with 10 
A pudency so rosy the sweet view on’t 
Might well have warm’d old Saturn ; that I 
thought her 

As chaste as unsunn’d snow. O, all the devils ! 
This yellow Iacliimo, in an hour, — was’t 
not ? — 

Or less, — at first ? — perchance he spoke not, 
but, 16 

Like a full-acorn’d boar, a German one, 

Cried “ 01 ” and mounted; found no opposi¬ 
tion 

B.ut what he look’d for should oppose and she 







III. i. 


CYMBELINE 


395 


Should from encounter guard. Could I find 
out 

The woman’s part in me! For there’s no mo¬ 
tion 20 

That tends to vice in man, but I affirm 
It is the woman’s part; be it lying, note it, 
The woman’s; flattering, hers ; deceiving, hers ; 
Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers ; revenges, 
hers; 

Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, dis¬ 
dain, 25 

Nice longing, slanders, mutability, 

All faults that may be nam’d, nay, that hell 
knows, 

Why, hers, in part or all; but rather, all. 

For even to vice 

They are not constant, but are changing still so 
One vice, but of a minute old, for one 
Not half so old as that. I ’ll write against 
them, 

Detest them, curse them ; yet’t is greater skill 
In a true hate, to pray they have their will. 
The very devils cannot plague them better. 36 

[Exit. 

ACT III 

Scene I. [Britain. A hall in Cymbeline's 
palace .] 

Enter in state , Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, 
and Lords at one door , and at another, Caius 
Lucius and Attendants. 

Cym. Now say, what would Augustus Caesar 
with us ? 

Luc. When Julius Caesar, whose remem¬ 
brance yet 

Lives in men’s eyes and will to ears and tongues 
Be theme and hearing ever, was in this Britain 
And conquer’d it, Cassibelan, thine uncle, — s 
Famous in Caesar’s praises, no whit less 
Than in his feats deserving it —for him 
And his succession granted Rome a tribute, 
Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee 
lately 

Is left untender’d. 

Queen. And, to kill the marvel, io 

Shall be so ever. 

Clo. There be many Caesars, 

Ere such another Julius. Britain is 
A world by itself ; and we will nothing pay 
For wearing our own noses. 

Queen. That opportunity 

Wnich then they had to take from ’s, to re¬ 
sume is 

We have again. Remember, sir, my liege, 

The kings your ancestors, together with 
The natural bravery of your isle, which stands 
As Neptune’s park, ribbed and paled in 
With rocks unscaleable and roaring waters, 20 
With sands that will not bear your enemies’ 
boats, 

But suck them up to the topmast. A kind of 
conquest 

Caesar made here, but made not here his brag 
Of “Came and saw and overcame.” With 
shame — 


The first that ever touch’d him — he was car¬ 
ried 25 

From off our coast, twice beaten; and his 
shipping — 

Poor ignorant baubles ! — on our terrible seas, 
Like egg-shells mov’d upon their surges, 
crack’d 

As easily ’gainst our rocks ; for joy whereof 
The famed Cassibelan, who was once at 
point — 30 

O giglot fortune ! — to master Caesar’s sword, 
Made Lud’s town with rejoicing fires bright 
And Britons strut with courage. 33 

Clo. Come, there’s no more tribute to be 
paid. Our kingdom is stronger than it was at 
that time ; and, as I said, there is no moe such 
Caesars. Other of them may have crook’d 
noses, but to owe such straight arms, none. 
Cym. Son, let your mother end. 39 

Clo. We have yet many among us can gripe 
as hard as Cassibelan. I do not say I am one, 
but I have a hand. Why tribute ? Why should 
we pay tribute ? If Caesar can hide the sun 
from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his 
pocket, we will pay him tribute for light; else, 
sir, no more tribute, pray you now. <6 

Cym. You must know, 

Till the injurious Romans did extort 
This tribute from us, we were free. Caesar’s 
ambition, 

Which swell’d so much that it did almost 
stretch so 

The sides o’ the world, against all colour here 
Did put the yoke upon’s ; which to shake off 
Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon 
Ourselves to be. We do say then to Caesar, 

Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which 55 

Ordain’d our laws, whose use the sword of 
Caesar 

Hath too much mangled ; whose repair and 
franchise 

Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed, 
Though Rome be therefore angry. Mulmutius 
made our laws, 

Who was the first of Britain which did put eo 
His brows within a golden crown and call’d 
Himself a king. 

Luc. I am sorry, Cymbeline, 

That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar — 
Caesar, that hath moe kings his servants than 
Thyself domestic officers — thine enemy. 65 
Receive it from me, then: War and confusion 
In Caesar’s name pronounce I ’gainst thee; 
look 

For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied, 

I thank thee for myself. 

Cym. Thou art welcome, Caius. 

Thy Caesar knighted me ; my youth I spent 7» 
Much under him ; of him I gather’d honour, 
Which he to seek of me again, perforce, 
Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect 
That the Pannonians and Dalmatians for 
Their liberties are now in arms, a precedent 
Which not to read would show the Britons 
cold. 7* 

So Caesar shall not find them. 

Luc. Let proof speak. 






39 6 


CYMBELINE 


in. iii. 


Clo. His Majesty bids you welcome. Make 
pastime with us a day or two, or longer. If you 
seek us afterwards in other terms, you shall 
find us in our salt-water girdle ; if you beat us 
out of it, it is yours ; if you fall in the adven¬ 
ture, our crows shall fare the better for you; 
and there’s an end. 84 

Luc. So, sir. 

Cym. I know your master’s pleasure and he 
mine: 

All the remain is “ Welcome ! ” [ Exeunt. 

Scene II. [ Another room in the palace.] 
Enter Pisanio, reading of a letter. 

Pis. How! of adultery ? Wherefore write 
you not 

What monster ’a her accuser ? Leonatus ! 

0 master ! what a strange infection 
Is fall’n into thy ear ! What false Italian, 

As poisonous-tongu’d as handed, hath prevail’d 
On thy too ready hearing ? Disloyal ? No ! 0 

She’s punish’d for her truth, and undergoes, 
More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults 
As would take in some virtue. 0 my master ! 
Thy mind to her is now as low as were 10 

Thy fortunes. How! that I should murder 
her ? 

Upon the love and truth and vows which I 
Have made to thy command ? I, her ? Her 
blood? 

If it be so to do good service, never 
Let me be counted serviceable. How look I, is 
That I should seem to lack humanity 
So much as this fact comes to? [Reading.] 
“ Do’t; the letter 

That I have sent her, by her own command 
Shall give thee opportunity.” O damn’d paper ! 
Black as the ink that’s on thee! Senseless 
bauble, 20 

Art thou a fedary for this act, and look’st 
So virgin-like without ? Lo, here she comes. 

Enter Imogen. 

I am ignorant in what I am commanded. 

Imo. How now, Pisanio ! 

Pis. Madam, here is a letter from my lord. 
Imo. Who? Thy lord? That is my lord, 

Leonatus! 20 

0 , learn’d indeed were that astronomer 
That knew the stars as I his characters ; 

He’d lay the future open. You good gods, 

Let what is here contain’d relish of love, so 

Of my lord’s health, of his content, —yet not 
That we two are asunder ; let that grieve him : 
Some griefs are medicinable; that is one of 
them, 

For it doth physic love: of his content, 

All but in that! Good wax, thy leave. Blest be 
You bees that make these locks of counsel! 

Lovers so 

And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike ; 
Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet 
You clasp young Cupid’s tables. Good news, 
gods! 39 

[Reads.] “ Justice, and your father’s wrath, 
should he take me in his dominion, could not be 


so cruel to me, as you, 0 the dearest of crea¬ 
tures, would even renew me with your eyes. 
Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford- 
Haven ; what your own love will out of this ad¬ 
vise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness, 
that remains loyal to his vow, and your increas¬ 
ing in love Leonatus Posthumus.” « 
0 , for a horse with wings ! Hear’st thou, Pisa¬ 
nio? 

He is at Milford-Haven. Read, and tell me 
How far ’t is thither. If one of mean affairs 
May plod it in a week, why may not I 
Glide thither in a day ? Then, true Pisanio,— 
Who long’st, like me, to see thy lord; who 
long’st, — 56 

0 , let me bate, — but not like me — yet long’st, 
But in a fainter kind ; — 0 , not like me, 

For mine’s beyond beyond — say, and speak 
thick, — 

Love’s counsellor should fill th? bores of hear- 
ing, 5 » 

To the smothering of the sense — how far it is 
To this same blessed Milford ; and by the way 
Tell me how Wales was made so happy as 
To inherit such a haven : but first of all, 

How we may steal from hence, and for the gap 
That we shall make in time, from our hence- 
going 6* 

And our return, to excuse. But first, how get 
hence ? 

Why should excuse be born or ere begot ? 

We ’ll talk of that hereafter. Prithee, speak, 
How many score of miles may we well ride 
’Twixt hour and hour ? 

Pis. One score ’twixt sun and sun, 

Madam, ’s enough for you, and too much too. 21 
Imo. Why, one that rode to’s execution, 
man, 

Could never go so slow. I have heard of riding 
wagers, 

Where horses have been nimbler than the sands 
That run i’ the clock’s behalf. But this is fool¬ 
ery. 7S 

Go bid my woman feign a sickness, say 
She ’ll home to her father ; and provide me 
presently 

A riding-suit, no costlier than would fit 
A franldin’s housewife. 

Pis. Madam, you ’re best consider. 

Imo. I see before me, man, nor here, nor 
there, so 

Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them, 

That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee ; 
Do as I bid thee. There’s no more to sav. 
Accessible is none but Milford way. [ Exeunt. 

Scene III. [ Wales: a mountainous country with 
a cave.] 

Enter [from the cave] Belarius ; Guiderius 
and Arviragus [following], 

Bel. A goodly day not to keep house, with 
such 

Whose roof’s as low as ours ! Stoop, boys ; this 
gate 

Instructs you how to adore the heavens and 
bows you 




III. iii. 


CYMBELINE 


397 


To a morning’s holy office. The gates of mon- 
arehs 

Are arch’d so high that giants may jet through 
And keep their impious turbans on, without e 
Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair 
heaven ! 

We house i’ the rock, yet use thee not so hardly 
As prouder livers do. 

Gui. Hail, heaven ! 

Arv. Hail, heaven ! 

Bel. Now for our mountain sport. Up to 
yond hill! 10 

Your legs are young; I ’ll tread these flats. 
Consider, 

When you above perceive me like a crow, 

That it is place which lessens and sets off ; 

And you may then revolve what tales I have 
told you 

Of courts of princes, of the tricks in war ; is 
This service is not service, so being done, 

But being so allowed. To apprehend thus, 
Draws us a profit from all things we see ; 

And often, to our comfort, shall we find 
The sharded beetle in a safer hold 20 

Than is the full-wing’d eagle. O, this life 
Is nobler than attending for a check, 

Richer than doing nothing for a bribe, 

Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk. 

Such gains the cap of him that makes him 
fine, 25 

Yet keeps his book uncross’d. No life to ours. 
Gui. Out of your proof you speak ; we, poor 
unfledg’d, 

Have never wing’d from view o’ the nest, nor 
know not 

What air’s from home. Haply this life is best, 
If quiet life be best; sweeter to you 30 

That have a sharper known ; well correspond¬ 
ing 

With your stiff age ; but unto us it is 
A cell of ignorance, travelling a-bed, 

A prison of a debtor that not dares 
To stride a limit. 

Arv. What should we speak of 35 

When we are old as you ? When we shall hear 
The rain and wind beat dark December, how, 
In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse 
The freezing hours away? We have seen 
nothing. 

We are beastly ; subtle as the fox for prey, <o 
Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat. 

Our valour is to chase what flies. Our cage 
We make a choir, as doth the prison’d bird, 
And sing our bondage freely. 

Bel. How you speak ! 

Did you but know the city’s usuries « 

And felt them knowingly ; the art o’ the court, 
As hard to leave as keep ; whose top to climb 
Is certain falling, or so slipp’ry that 
The fear’s as bad as falling; the toil o’ the 
war, 

A pain that only seems to seek out danger eo 
I’ the name of fame and honour ; which dies i’ 
the search, 

And hffth as oft a slanderous epitaph 
As record of fair act; nay, many times, 

Doth ill deserve by doing well; what’s worse, 


Must curtsy at the censure; — 0 boys, this 
story 55 

The world may read in me. My body’s mark’d 
With Roman swords, and my report was once 
First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov’d 
me, 

And when a soldier was the theme, my name 
Was not far off. Then was I as a tree eo 

Whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one 
night, 

A storm or robbery, call it what you will, 
Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my 
leaves, 

And left me bare to weather. 

Gui. Uncertain favour! 

Bel. My fault being nothing — as I have told 
you oft — 6 c 

But that two villains, whose false oaths pre¬ 
vail’d 

Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline 
I was confederate with the Romans ; so 
Followed my banishment, and this twenty years 
This rock and these demesnes have been my 
world, 70 

Where I have liv’d at honest freedom, paid 
More pious debts to heaven than in all 
The fore-end of my time. But up to the moun¬ 
tains ! 

This is not hunters’ language. He that strikes 
The venison first shall be the lord o’ the feast; 
To him the other two shall minister ; 76 

And we will fear no poison, which attends 
In place of greater state. I ’ll meet you in the 
valleys. 

[Exeunt [Guiderius and Arviragus ]. 
How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature 1 
These boys know little they are sons to the 
King, so 

Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. 
They think they are mine ; and, though train’d 
up thus meanly, 

I’ the cave wherein they bow, their thoughts 
do hit 

The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them 
In simple ana low things to prince it much 85 
Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, 
The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who 
The King his father call’d Guiderius, — Jove I 
When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell 
The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly 
out 90 

Into my story ; say, “ Thus mine enemy fell, 
And thus I set my foot on’s neck ; ” even then 
The princely blood flows in his cheek, he 
sweats. 

Strains his young nerves and puts himself in 
posture 

That acts my words. The younger brother, 
Cadwal, »e 

Once Arviragus, in as like a figure, 

Strikes life into my speech and shows much 
more 

His own conceiving. — Hark, the game is 
rous’d! — 

O Cymbeline ! heaven and my conscience knows 
Thou didst unjustly banish me ; whereon, io« 
At three and two years old, I stole these babes ; 




39 8 


CYMBELINE 


hi. iv 


Thinking to bar thee of succession, as 
Thou reft’st me of my lands. Euriphile, 

Thou wast their nurse ; they took thee for their 
mother, 

And every day do honour to her grave. ios 
Myself, Belanus, that am Morgan call’d, 

They take for natural father. — The game is up. 

[Exit. 

Scene IV. [Country near Milford-Haven.') 
Enter Pisanio and Imogen. 

lino. Thou told’st me, when we came from 
horse, the place 

Was near at hand. Ne’er long’d my mother so 
To see me first, as I have now. Pisanio ! man ! 
Where is Posthumus ? What is in thy mind, 
That makes thee stare thus ? Wherefore breaks 
that sigh _ s 

From the inward of thee? One, but painted 
thus, 

Would be interpreted a thing perplex’d 
Beyond self-explication. Put thyself 
Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness 
Vanquish my staider senses. What’s the 
matter ? 10 

Why tender’st thou that paper to me, with 
A look untender ? If ’t be summer news, 

Smile to’t before ; if winterly, thou need’st 
But keep that countenance still. My husband’s 
hand! 

That drug-damn’d Italy hath out-craftied him, 
And he’s at some hard point. Speak, man! 

Thy tongue 16 

May take off some extremity, which to read 
Would be even mortal to me. 

Pis. Please you, read ; 

And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing 
The most disdain’d of fortune. 20 

Imo. (Reads.) “ Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath 
played the strumpet in my bed; the testimo¬ 
nies whereof lies bleeding in me. I speak not 
out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong 
as my grief and as certain as I expect my re¬ 
venge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for [25 
me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach 
of hers. Let thine own hands take away her 
life. I shall give thee opportunity at Milford- 
Haven. She hath my letter for the purpose; 
where, if thou fear to strike and to make me 
certain it is done, thou art the pander to her 
dishonour and equally to me disloyal.” 33 

Pis. What shall I need to draw my sword ? 
The paper 

Hath cut her throat already. No, ’tis slander, 
Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose 
tongue 36 

Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath 
Rides on the posting winds and cloth belie 
All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and 
states, 

Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave 40 
This viperous slander enters. What cheer, 
madam ? 

Imo. False to his bed! What! is it to be 
false 

To lie in watch there and to think on him; 


To weep ’twixt clock and clock; if sleep charge 
nature, 

To break it with a fearful dream of him 
And cry myself awake ? That’s false to’s bed, 
is it? 

Pis. Alas, good lady 1 

Imo. 1 false! Thy conscience witness! — 
Iachimo, 

Thou didst accuse him of incontinency ; 

Thou then look’dst like a villain ; now me- 
thinks 60 

Thy favour’s good enough. Some jay of Italy 
Whose mother was her painting, hath betray’d 
him! 

Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion ; 
And, for I am richer than to hang by the walls, 
I must be ripp’d. —To pieces with me ! — O, es 
Men’s vows are women’s traitors! All good 
seeming, 

By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought 
Put on for villainy ; not born where’t grows, 
But worn a bait for ladies. 

Pis. Good madam, hear me. 

Imo. True honest men, being heard like 
false iEneas, co 

Were in his time thought false, and Sinon’s 
weeping 

Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity 
From most true wretchedness ; so thou, Posthu¬ 
mus, 

Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men ; 

Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur’d 66 
From thy great fail. — Come, fellow, be thou 
honest! 

Do thou thy master’s bidding. When thou 
see’st him, 

A little witness my obedience. Look ! 

I draw the sword myself. Take it, and hit 
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart. 70 
Fear not; ’t is empty of all things but grief. 
Thy master is not there, who was indeed 
The riches of it. Do his bidding ; strike. 

Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause, 74 

But now thou seem’st a coward. 

Pis. Hence, vile instrument! 

Thou shalt not damn my hand. 

Imo. Why, I must die ; 

And if I do not by thy hand, thou art 
No servant of thy master’s. Against self¬ 
slaughter 

There is a prohibition so divine 
That cravens my weak hand. Come, here’s my 
heart, m 

(Something’s afore ’t, — soft, soft! we ’ll no 
defence,) 

Obedient as the scabbard. What is here ? 

The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus, 

All turn’d to heresy ? Away, away, 

Corrupters of my faith ! you shall no more m 
B e stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor 
fools 

Believe false teachers. Though those that are 
betray’d 

Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor 
Stands in worse case of woe. 

And thou, Posthumus, [thoul that didst set up 
My disobedience ’gainst the King my father, »i 





III. IV. 


CYMBELINE 


399 


And make me put into contempt the suits 
Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find 
It is no act of common passage, but 
A strain of rareness ; and I grieve mvself 95 
To think, when thou shalt be disedg’d by her 
That now thou tirest on, how thy memory 
Will then be pang’d by me. Prith ee, dispatch ! 
The lamb entreats the butcher. Where’s thy 
knife ? 

Thou art too slow to do thy master’s bidding, 100 
When I desire it too. 

Pis. O gracious lady. 

Since I receiv’d command to do this business 
I have not slept one wink. 
lino. Do’t, and to bed then. 

Pis. I ’ll wake mine eye-halls [out] first. 

Imo. Wherefore then 

Didst undertake it ? Why hast thou abus’d 105 
So many miles with a pretence ? This place ? 
Mine action and thine own ? Our horses’ 
labour ? 

The time inviting thee ? The perturb’d court, 
For my being absent ? whereunto I never 
Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far, 110 
To be unbent when thou hast ta’en thy stand, 
The elected deer before thee ? 

Pis. But to win time 

To lose so bad employment; in the which 
I have consider’d of a course. Good lady, iu 
Hear me with patience. 

Imo. Talk thy tongue weary ; speak. 

I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear, 
Therein false struck, can take no greater 
wound, 

Nor tent to bottom that. But speak. 

Pis. Then, madam, 

I thought you would not back again. 

Imo. Most like; 

Bringing me here to kill me. 

Pis. Not so, neither ; 

But if I were as wise as honest, then 121 

My purpose would prove well. It cannot be 
But that my master is abus’d. 

Some villain, ay, and singular in his art, 

Hath done you both this cursed injury. 125 
Imo. Some Roman courtezan. 

Pis. No, on my life. 

I ’ll give but notice you are dead, and send him 
Some bloody sign of it; for ’t is commanded 
I should do so. You shall be miss’d at court, 
And that will well confirm it. 

Imo. Why, good fellow, 

What shall I do the while ? Where bide ? 

How live ? 131 

Or in my life what comfort, when I am 
Dead to my husband ? 

Pis. If you ’ll back to the court — 

Imo. No court, no father ; nor no more ado 
With that harsh, [nothing] noble, simple no¬ 
thing, 135 

That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me 
As fearful as a siege. 

Pis. If not at court, 

Then not in Britain must you bide. 

Jmo. Where then ? 

Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, 
night, 


Are they not but in Britain? I’ the world’s 
volume i 4 o 

Our Britain seems as of it, but not in’t; 

In a great pool a swan’s nest. Prithee, think 
There’s livers out of Britain. 

Pis. I am most glad 

You think of other place. The ambassador, 
Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven 145 
To-morrow. Now, if you could wear a mind 
Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise 
That which, to appear itself, must not yet be 
But by self-danger, you should tread a course 
Pretty and full of view ; yea, haply, near is* 
The residence of Posthumus ; so nigh at least 
That though his actions were not visible, yet 
Report should render him hourly to your ear 
As truly as he moves. 

Imo. 0 , for such means, 

Though peril to my modesty, not death on’t, iw 
I would adventure. 

Pis. Well, then, here’s the point. 

You must forget to be a woman ; change 
Command into obedience ; fear and niceness — 
The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, 
Woman it pretty self — into a waggish cour¬ 
age ; wo 

Ready in gibes, quick-answer’d, saucy, and 
As quarrelous as the weasel; nay, you must 
Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek, 
Exposing it — but, 0 , the harder heart! 

Alack, no remedy ! — to the greedy touch ibe 
O f common-kissing Titan, and forget 
Your laboursome and dainty trims, wherein 
You made great Juno angry. 

Imo. Nay, be brief. 

I see into thy end, and am almost 
A man already. 

Pis. First, make yourself but like one. 
Fore-thinking this, I have already fit— m 
’T is in my cloak-bag— doublet, hat, hose, all 
That answer to them. Would you in their 
serving, 

And with what imitation you can borrow 
From youth of such a season, ’fore noble 
Lucius na 

Present yourself, desire his service, tell him 
Wherein you ’re happy, — which will make him 
know 

If that his head have ear in music, — doubt¬ 
less 

With joy he will embrace you, for he’s hon¬ 
ourable, 

And doubling that, most holy. Your means 
abroad, wo 

You have me, rich ; and I will never fail 
Beginning nor supplyment. 

Imo. Thou art all the comfort 

The gods will diet me with. Prithee, away. 
There’s more to be consider’d; but we 11 
even 

All that good time will give us. This at¬ 
tempt is® 

I am soldier to, and will abide it with 
A prince’s courage. Away, I prithee. 

Pis. Well, madam, we must take a short 
farewell, 

Lest, being miss’d, I be suspected of 





400 


CYMBELINE 


III. V. 


Your carriage from the court. My noble mis¬ 
tress, 100 

Here is a box ; — I had it from the Queen ; — 
What’s in ’t is precious. If you are sick at 
sea, 

Or stomach-qualm’d at land, a dram of this 
Will drive away distemper. To some shade, 
And fit you to your manhood. May the gods iob 
D irect you to the best! 

Imo. Amen ! I thank thee. 

[Exeunt [ severally ]. 

Scene Y. [A room in Cymbeline''s palace.] 

Enter Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, Lucius, 
Lords [and Attendants], 

Cym. Thus far ; and so farewell. 

Luc. Thanks, royal sir. 

My emperor hath wrote, I must from hence ; 
And am right sorry that I must report ye 
My master’s enemy. 

Cym. Our subjects, sir, 

Will not endure his yoke ; and for ourself 6 
To show less sovereignty than they, must needs 
Appear unkinglike. 

Luc. So, sir. I desire of you 

A conduct over-land to Milford-Haven. 

Madam, all joy befall your Grace, and you ! 
Cym. My lords, you are appointed tor that 
office; 10 

The due of honour in no point omit. 

So farewell, noble Lucius. 

Luc. Your hand, my lord. 

Clo. Receive it friendly; but from this time 
forth 

I wear it as your enemy. 

Luc. Sir, the event 

Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well. is 
Cym. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my 
lords, 

Till he have cross’d the Severn. Happiness ! 

[Exeunt Lucius and Lords. 
Queen. He goes hence frowning ; hut it hon¬ 
ours us 

That we have given him cause. 

Clo. ’T is all the better ; 

Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it. 20 
Cym. Lucius hath wrote already to the Em¬ 
peror 

How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely 
Our chariots and our horsemen he in readiness. 
The powers that he already hath in Gallia 
Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he 
moves 25 

His war for Britain. 

Queen. ’T is not sleepy business, 

But must be look’d to speedily and strongly. 

Cym. Our expectation that it would be thus 
Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen, 
Where is our daughter? She hath not ap¬ 
pear’d 30 

Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender’d 
The duty of the day. She looks us like 
A thing more made of malice than of duty ; 
We have noted it. Call her before us, for 
We have been too slight in sufferance. 

[Exit an attendant .] 


Queen. Royal sir, 

Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir’d so 
Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord, 
’T is time must do. Beseech your Majesty, 
Forbear sharp speeches to her ; she’s a lady 
So tender of rebukes that words are strokes *o 
And strokes death to her. 

Re-enter Attendant. 

Cym. Where is she, sir ? How 

Can her contempt be answer’d ? 

Atten. Please you, sir, 

Her chambers are all lock’d; and there’s no 
answer 

That will be given to the loudest noise we make. 

Queen. My lord, when last I went to visit her, 
She pray’d me to excuse her keeping close, 40 
Whereto constrain’d by her infirmity, 

She should that duty leave unpaid to you, 
Which daily she was bound to proffer. This 
She wish’d me to make known ; but our great 
court so 

Made me to blame in memory. 

Cym. Her doors lock’d ? 

Not seen of late ? Grant, heavens, that which 
I fear 

Prove false ! [Exit. 

Queen. Son, I say, follow the King. 

Clo. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old ser¬ 
vant, 

I have not seen these two days. [Exit. 

Queen [to attendant]. Go, look after 

Pisanio, thou, that stands so for Posthumus ! 66 
He hath a drug of mine ; I pray his absence 
Proceed by swallowing that, for he believes 
It is a thing most precious. But for her, 

Where is she gone ? Haply, despair hath seiz’d 
her, 60 

Or, wing’d with fervour of her love, she’s 
flown 

To her desir’d Posthumus. Gone she is 
To death or to dishonour ; and my end 
Can make good use of either. She being down, 
I have the placing of the British crown. es 

Re-enter Cloten. 

How now, my son ! 

Clo. ’T is certain she is fled. 

Go in and cheer the King. He rages ; none 
Dare come about him. 

Queen. [Aside.] All the better. May 
This night forestall him of the coming day! 

[Exit. 

Clo. I love and hate her ; for she’s fair and 
royal, 70 

And that she hath all courtly parts more ex¬ 
quisite 

Than lady, ladies, woman ; from every one 
The best she hath, and she, of all compounded, 
Outsells, them all. I love her therefore ; but 
Disdaining me and throwing favours on 75 
The low Posthumus slanders so her judgement 
That what’s else rare is chok’d; and in that 
point 

I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed, 

To be reveng’d upon her. For when fools 
Shall- 




hi. vi. 


CYMBELINE 


401 


Enter Pisanio. 

Who is here ? What, are you packing, sirrah ? 
Come hither. Ah, you precious pandar ! Vil¬ 
lain, 81 

Where is thy lady ? In a word ; or else 
Thou art straightway with the fiends. 

Pis. 0, good my lord ! 

Clo. Where is thy lady ? or, by Jupiter, 

I will not ask again. Close villain, 86 

I ’ll have this secret from thy lieaH, or rip 
Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus, 
From whose so many weights of baseness can¬ 
not 

A dram of worth be drawn ? 

Pis. Alas, my lord, 

How can she be with him? When was she 
miss’d ? 90 

He is in Rome. 

Clo. Where is she, sir ? Come nearer. 

No further halting. Satisfy me home 
What is become of her. 

Pis. 0, my all-worthy lord ! 

Clo. All-worthy villain! 

Discover where thy mistress is at once, 95 

At the next word. No more of worthy lord ! 
Speak, or thy silence on the instant is 
Thv condemnation and thy death. 

Pis. Then, sir, 

This paper is the history of my knowledge 
Touching her flight. [ Presenting a letter.] 

Clo. Let’s see’t. I will pursue her 100 

Even to Augustus’ throne. 

Pis. [Aside.] Or this, or perish. 

She’s far enough ; and what he learns by this 
May prove his travel, not her danger. 

Clo. Hum! 

Pis. [ Aside .1 I ’ll write to my lord she’s 
dead. O Imogen, km 

Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again ! 

Clo. Sirrah, is this letter true ? 

Pis. Sir, as I think. 107 

Clo. It is Posthumus’ hand ; I know ’t. 
Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do 
me true service, undergo those employments 
wherein I should have cause to use thee with 
a serious industry, that is, what villainy soe’er 
I bid thee do, to perform it directly and truly, 
I would think tnee an honest man. Thou 
shouldst neither want my means for thy relief 
nor my voice for thy preferment. n« 

Pis. Well, my good lord. 

Clo. Wilt thou serve me ? For since patiently 
and constantly thou hast stuck to the bare for¬ 
tune of that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, 
in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent 
follower of mine. Wilt thou serve me ? 122 

Pis. Sir, I will. 

Clo. Give me thy hand ; here’s my purse. 
Hast any of thy late master’s garments in thy 
possession ? 126 

Pis. I have, my lord, at my lodging, the 
same suit he wore when he took leave of my 
lady and mistress. 

Clo. The first service thou dost me, fetch 
that suit hither. Let it be thy first service ; 
go. 131 


Pis. I shall, my lord. [Exit. 

Clo. Meet thee at Milford-Haven ! — I for¬ 
got to ask him one thing ; I ’ll remember ’t 
anon: — even there, thou villain Posthumus, 
will I kill thee. I would these garments [135 
were come. She said upon a time — the bitter¬ 
ness of it I now belch from my heart — that 
she held the very garment of Posthumus in 
more respect than my noble and natural person, 
together with the adornment of my qualities, [ho 
W ith that suit upon my back, will I ravish 
her, —first kill him, and in her eyes ; there 
shall she see my valour, which will then be a 
torment to her contempt, — he on the ground, 
my speech of insultment ended on his dead 
body; and when my lust hath dined, — [145 
which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in 
the clothes that she so prais’d, — to the court 
I ’ll knock her back, foot her home again. She 
hath despis’d me rejoicingly, and I ’ll be merry 
in my revenge. iso 

Re-enter Pisanio [with the clothes]. 

Be those the garments ? 

Pis. Ay, my noble lord. 

Clo. How long is ’t since she went to Mil¬ 
ford-Haven ? 

Pis. She can scarce be there yet. iss 

Clo. Bring this apparel to my chamber ; that 
is the second thing that I have commanded 
thee ; the third is, that thou wilt be a volun¬ 
tary mute to my design. Be but duteous, and 
true preferment shall tender itself to thee. My 
revenge is now at Milford ; would I had wings 
to follow it! Come, and be true. [Exit. 102 
Pis. Thou bid’st me to my loss ; for true to 
thee 

Were to prove false, which I will never be, 

To him that is most true. To Milford go, 

And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, 
flow, 

You heavenly blessings, on her ! This fool’s 
speed i 67 

Be cross’d with slowness ; labour be his meed ! 

[Exit. 

Scene VI. [ Wales. Before the cave of Bela- 
rius.] 

Enter Imogen, alone [in boy's clothes], 

Imo. I see a man’s life is a tedious one. 

I have tir’d myself, and for two nights together 
Have made the ground my bed. I should be 
sick, 

But that my resolution helps me. Milford, 
When from the mountain-top Pisanio show’d 
thee, < s 

Thou wast within a ken. 0 Jove ! I think 
Foundations fly the wretched ; such, I mean, 
Where they should be reliev’d. Two beggars 
told me 

I could not miss my way: will poor folks lie, 
That have afflictions on them, knowing’t is 10 
A punishment or trial ? Yes ; no wonder, 
Wnen rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in 
fulness 

Is sorer than to lie for need ; and falsehood 




402 


CYMBELINE 


hi. vii. 


Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord ! 
Thou art one o’ the false ones. Now I think on 
thee, is 

My hunger ’s gone ; but even before, I was 
At point to sink for food. But what is this ? 
Here is a path to ’t. ’T is some savage hold. 

I were best not call; I dare not call; yet fam¬ 
ine, 

Ere clean it o’erthrow nature, makes it val¬ 
iant. 20 

Plenty and peace breeds cowards ; hardness ever 
Of hardiness is mother. Ho ! who ’s here ? 

If anything that’s civil, speak ; if savage, 
Take or lend. Ho! No answer ? Then I ’ll 
enter. 

Best draw my sword ; and if mine enemy 25 

But fear the sword like me, he ’ll scarcely look 
on’t. 

Such a foe, good heavens ! [ Exit [to the cave], 

Enter Beearius, Guiderius, and Arvira- 
gus. 

Bel. You, Polydore, have prov’d best wood¬ 
man and 

Are master of the feast. Cadwal and I 
Will play the cook and servant; ’t is our 
match. 30 

The sweat of industry would dry and die, 

But for the end it works to. Come ; our stom¬ 
achs 

Will make what’s homely savoury; weari¬ 
ness 

Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth 
Finds the down pillow hard. Now peace be 
here, 36 

Poor house, that keep’st thyself ! 

Gui. I am throughly weary. 

Arv. I am weak with toil, yet strong in ap¬ 
petite. 

Gui. There is cold meat i’ the cave; we ’ll 
browse on that, 

Whilst what we have kill’d be cook’d. 

Bel. [Looking into the cave.] Stay ; come not in. 
But that it eats our victuals, I should think 41 
Here were a fairy. 

Gui. What’s the matter, sir ? 

Bel. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not, 

An earthly paragon ! Behold divineness 
No elder than a boy ! 45 

Re-enter Imogen. 

Imo. Good masters, harm me not. 

Before I enter’d here I call’d, and thought 
To have begg’d or bought what I have took. 
Good troth, 

I have stolen nought, nor would not, though I 
had found 

Gold strew’d i’ the floor. Here’s money for 
my meat. co 

I would have left it on the board so soon 
As I had made my meal, and parted with 
Prayers for the provider. 

Gui. ' Money, youth ? 

Arv. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt! 
A.S’t is no better reckon’d, but of those 55 
Who worship dirty gods. 

Imo. I see you ’re angry. 


Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should 
Have died had I not made it. 

Bel. Whither bound ? 

Imo. To Milford-Haven. 

Bel. What’s your name ? 

Imo. Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who 
Is bound for Italy ; he embai’k’d at Milford ; 
To whom being going, almost spent with hun¬ 
ger, 

I am fall’n in this offence. 

Bel. * Prithee, fair youth, 

Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds 
By this rude place we live in. Well encoun¬ 
ter’d ! 56 

’T is almost night: you shall have better ch,eer 
Ere you depart; and thanks to stay and eat it. 
Boys, bid him welcome. 

Gui. Were you a woman, youth, 

I should woo hard but be your groom. In hon¬ 
esty, 70 

I bid for you as I’d buy. 

Arv. I ]11 make ’t my comfort 

He is a man ; I ’ll love him as my brother ; 

And such a welcome as I’d give to him 
After long absence, such is yours. Most wel¬ 
come ! 

Be sprightly, for you fall ’mongst friends. 

Imo. ’Mongst friends, 

If brothers. [Aside.] Would it had been so, 
that they 7 « 

Had been my father’s sons ! Then had my prize 
Been less, and so more equal ballasting 
To thee, Posthumus. 

Bel. He wrings at some distress. 

Gui. Would I could free’t! 

Arv. Or I, wliate’er it be, so 

What pain it cost, what danger. Gods ! 

Bel. Hark, boys. [Whispering.] 

Imo. Great men, 

That had a court no bigger than this cave, 
That did attend themselves and had the virtue 
Which their own conscience seal’d them, laying 
by 85 

That nothing-gift of differing multitudes, 

Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, 
gods! 

I’d change my sex to be companion with them, 
Since Leonatus false. 

Bel. It shall be so. 

Boys, we ’ll go dress our hunt. Fair youth, 
come in. 90 

Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have 

supp’d, 

We ’ll mannerly demand thee of thy story, 

So far as thou wilt speak it. 

Gui. Pray, draw near. 

Arv. The night to the owl and morn to the 
lark less welcome. 

Imo. Thanks, sir. 95 

Arv. I pray, draw near. [Exeunt. 

Scene VII. [Rome. A public place.] 

Enter tivo Roman Senators and Tribunes. 

1 . Sen. This is the tenour of the Emperor’s 
writ: 

That since the common men are now in action 




IV. 11. 


CYMBELINE 


403 


’Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians, 

And that the legions now in Gallia are 
Full weak to undertake our wars against b 
T he fallen-off Britons, that we do incite 
The gentry to this business. He creates 
Lucius proconsul; and to you the tribunes, 

For this immediate levy, he commends 

His absolute commission. Long live Caesar ! 10 

1 . Tri. Is Lucius general of the forces ? 

2. Sen. Ay. 

1. Tri. Remaining now in Gallia ? 

l.Sen. With those legions 

Which I have spoke of, whereunto your 
levy 

Must be supplyant. The words of your com¬ 
mission 

Will tie you to the numbers and the time 16 
Of their dispatch. 

1. Tri. We will discharge our duty. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT IV 

Scene I. [Wales. Near the cave of Belarius.] 
Enter Cloten. 

Clo. I am near to the place where they 
should meet, if Pisanio have mapp’d it truly. 
How fit his garments serve me! Why should 
his mistress, who was made by him that made 
the tailor, not be fit too? the rather — saving 
reverence of the word — for ’tis said a [b 
woman’s fitness comes by fits. Therein I must 
pla^ the workman. I dare speak it to myself — 
for it is not vain-glory for a man and his glass 
to confer in his own chamber — I mean, the 
lines of my body are as'well drawn as his ; no [10 
less young, more strong, not beneath him in 
fortunes, beyond him in the advantage of the 
time, above him in birth, alike conversant in 
general services, and more remarkable in single 
oppositions : yet this imperceiverant thing loves 
him in my despite. What mortality is ! Post- [is 
humus, thy head, which now is growing upon 
thy shoulders, shall within this hour be off ; thy 
mistress enforced ; thy garments cut to pieces 
before her face: and all this done, spurn her 
home to her father; who may haply be a [20 
little angry for my so rough usage; but my 
mother, having power of his testiness, shall 
turn all into my commendations. My horse is 
tied up safe. Out, sword, and to a sore pur¬ 
pose ! Fortune, put them into my hand ! [26 
This is the very description of their meeting- 
place : and the fellow dares not deceive me. 

[Exit. 

Scene II. [Before the cave of Belarius.] 

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, and 
Imogen, from the cave. 

Bel. [To Imogen.] You are not well. Remain 
here in the cave ; 

We ’ll come to you after hunting. 

Arv. [To Imogen.] Brother, stay here. 

Are we not brothers ? 

Imo. So man and man should be; 


But clay and clay differs in dignity, 

Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick. 5 
Gui. Go you to hunting; I ’ll abide with 
him. 

Imo. So sick I am not, yet I am not well; 
But not so citizen a wanton as 
To seem to die ere sick. So please you, leave 
me; 

Stick to your journal course. The breach of 
custom 10 

Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me 
Cannot amend me ; society is no comfort 
To one not sociable. I am not very sick, 

Since I can reason of it. Pray you, trust me 
here. 

I ’ll rob none but myself ; and let me die, is 
Stealing so poorly. 

Gui. I love thee ; I have spoke it; 

How much the quantity, the weight as much, 
As I do love my father. 

Bel. ' What! how ! how ! 

Arv. If it be sin to say so, sir, I yoke me 
In my good brother’s fault. I know not why 20 
I love this youth ; and I have heard you say, 
Love’s reason’s without reason. The bier at 
door, 

And a demand who is’t shall die, I’d say 
My father, not this youth. 

Bel. ' [Aside.] 0 noble strain ! 

O worthiness of nature ! breed of greatness ! 25 
Cowards father cowards and base things sire 
base : 

Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and 
grace. 

I’m not their father ; yet who this should be, 
Doth miracle itself, lov’d before me. — 

’T is the ninth hour o’ the morn. 

Arv. Brother, farewell. 30 

Imo. I wish ye sport. 

Arv. You health. So please you, sir. 

Imo. [Asi’tfe.] These are kind creatures. 
Gods, what lies I have heard ! 

Our courtiers say all’s savage but at court; 
Experience, O, thou disprov’st report! 

The imperious seas breed monsters ; for the 
dish SB 

Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish. 

I am sick still, heart-sick. Pisanio, 

I ’ll now taste of thy drug. [Swallows some.] 
Gui. I could not stir him. 

He said he was gentle, but unfortunate ; 
Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest. 40 

Arv. Thus did he answer me; yet said, 
hereafter 

I might know more. 

Bel. To the field, to the field! 

We ’ll leave you for this time. Go in and rest. 
Arv. We ’ll not be long away. 

Bel. Pray, be not sick, 

For you must be our housewife. 

Imo. Well or ill, <s 

I am bound to you. [Exit [to the cave], 

Bel. And shalt be ever. 

This youth, howe’er distress’d, appears he hath 
had 

Good ancestors. 

Arv. How angel-like he sings ! 






404 


CYMBELINE 


IV. 11. 


Gui. But his neat cookery! He cut our roots 
In characters, 

And sauc’d our broths, as Juno had been sick bo 
And he her dieter. 

Arv. Nobly he yokes 

A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh 
Was that it was, for not being such a smile; 
The smile mocking the sigh, that it would fly 
From so divine a temple, to commix bs 

With winds that sailors rail at. 

Gui. I do note 

That grief and patience, rooted in him both, 
Mingle their spurs together. 

Arv. Grow, patience! 

And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine 
His perishing root with the increasing vine ! 00 
Bel. It is great morning. Come, away ! — 
Who’s there ? 

Enter Cloten. 

Clo. I cannot find those runagates; that 
villain 

Hath mock’d me. I am faint. 

Bel. Those runagates ! 

Means he not us ? I partly know him. ’T is 
Cloten, the son o’ the Queen. I fear some 
ambush. es 

I saw him not these many years, and yet 
I know ’t is he. We are held as outlaws ; hence ! 
Gui. He is but one. You and my brother 
search 

What companies are near. Pray you, away ; 
Let me alone with him. 

[Exeunt Belarius and Arviragus .] 
Clo. Soft! What are you to 

That fly me thus ? Some villain mountaineers ? 
I have heard of such. What slave art thou ? 

Gui. A thing 

More slavish did I ne’er than answering 
A slave without a knock. 

Clo. Thou art a robber, 

A law-breaker, a villain. Yield thee, thief. 75 
Gui. To who? To thee? What art thou? 
Have not I 

An arm as big as thine ? a heart as big ? 

Thy words, I grant, are bigger; for I wear 
not 78 

My dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art, 
Wiiy I should yield to thee. 

Clo. Thou villain base, 

Know’st me not by my clothes ? 

Gui. No, nor thy tailor, rascal, 

Who is thy grandfather. He made those 
clothes, 

Which, as it seems, make thee. 

Clo. Thou precious varlet, 

My tailor made them not. 

Gui. Hence, then, and thank 

The man that gave them thee. Thou art some 
fool; 85 

I am loath to beat thee. 

Clo. Thou injurious thief, 

Hear but my name, and tremble. 

Gui. What’s thy name ? 

Clo. Cloten, thou villain. 

Gui. Cloten, thou double villain, be thy 
name, 


I cannot tremble at it. Were it Toad, or 
Adder, Spider, »« 

’T would move me sooner. 

Clo. To thy further fear, 

Nay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know 
I am son to the Queen. 

Gui. I am sorry for’t; not seeming 

So worthy as thy birth. 

Clo. Art not af eard ? 

Gui. Those that I reverence those I fear, the 
wise. 06 

At fools I laugh, not fear them. 

Clo. Die the death ! 

When I have slain thee with my proper hand, 

I ’ll follow those that even now fled hence, 

And on the gates of Lud’s town set your heads. 
Yield, rustic mountaineer. io« 

[Fight and exeunt. 

Be-enter Belarius and Arviragus. 

Bel. No company’s abroad ? 

Arv. None in the world. You did mistake 
him, sure. 

Bel. I cannot tell,—long is it since I saw 
him. 

But time hath nothing blurr’d those lines of 
favour 

Which then he wore. The snatches in his 
voice, 10B 

And burst of speaking, were as his. I am 
absolute 

’T was very Cloten. 

Arv. In this place we left them. 

I wish my brother make good time with him, 
You say he is so fell. 

Bel. Being scarce made up, 

I mean, to man, he had not apprehension no 
Of roaring terrors ; for the defect of judgement 
Is oft the cease of fear. 

Be-enter Guiderius [with Cloten*s head]. 

But, see, thy brother. 
Gui. This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse; 
There was no money in’t. Not Hercules 
Could have knock’d out his brains, for he had 
none. ns 

Yet I not doing this, the fool had borne 
My head as I do his. 

Bel. What hast thou done ? 

Gui. I am perfect what: cut off one Cloten’s 
head, 

Son to the Queen, after his own report; 

Who call’d me traitor, mountaineer, and swore 
With his own single hand he’d take us in, 121 
Displace our heads where — thank the gods! — 
they grow, 

And set them on Lud’s town. 

Bel. We are all undone. 

Gui. Why, worthy father, what have we to 
lose, 

But that he swore to take, our lives ? The 
law 12s 

Protects not us ; then why should we be tender 
To let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us, 

Play judge and executioner all himself, 

For we do fear the law ? What company 
Discover you abroad ? 




iv. ii. 


CYMBELINE 


Bel. No single soul iso 

Can we set eye on ; but in all safe reason 
He must have some attendants. Though his 
humour 

Was nothing but mutation, ay, and that 
From one bad thing to worse, not frenzy, not 
Absolute madness could so far have rav’d 135 
To bring him here alone ; although perhaps 
It may be heard at court that such as we 
Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time 
May make some stronger head; the which he 
hearing — 

As it is like him — might break out, and 
swear 140 

He’d fetch us in ; yet is’t not probable 
To come alone, either he so undertaking, 

Or they so suffering. Then on good ground we 
fear, 

If we do fear this body hath a tail 
More perilous than the head. 

Arv. Let ordinance 145 

Come as the gods foresay it; howsoe’er, 

My brother hath done well. 

Bel. I had no mind 

To hunt this day ; the boy Fidele’s sickness 
Did make my way long forth. 

Gui. With his own sword, 

Which he did wave against my throat, I have 
ta’en 150 

His head from him. I ’ll throw ’t into the 
creek 

Behind our rock ; and let it to the sea, 

And tell the fishes he’s the Queen’s son, Cloten. 
That’s all I reck. [Exit. 

Bel. I fear’t will be reveng’d. 

Would, Polydore, thou hadst not done ’t! 

though valour ibs 

Becomes thee well enough. 

Arv. Would I had done’t, 

So the revenge alone pursu’d me ! Polydore, 

I love thee brotherly, but envy much 
Thou hast robb’d me of this deed. I would 
revenges, 

That possible strength might meet, would seek 
us through ieo 

And put us to our answer. 

Bel. Well, ’t is done. 

We ’ll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger 
Where there ’s no profit. I prithee, to our 
rock; 

You and Fidele play the cooks. I ’ll stay 
Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him ies 
To dinner presently. 

Arv. Poor sick Fidele ! 

I ’ll willingly to him. To gain his colour 
I’d let a parish of such Clotens blood, 

And praise myself for charity. [Exit. 

Bel. 0 thou goddess, 

Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou bla- 
zon’st 170 

In these two princely boys ! They are as gentle 
As zephyrs blowing below the violet, 

Not wagging his sweet head ; and yet as rough. 
Their royal blood enchaf’d, as the rud’st wind, 
That by the top doth take the mountain pine, ns 
And make him stoop to the vale. ’T is wonder 
That an invisible instinct should frame them 


To royalty unlearn’d, honour untaught, 
Civility not seen from other, valour 
That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop mo 
A s if it had been sow’d. Yet still it’s strange 
What Cloten’s being here to us portends, 

Or what his death will bring us. 

Re-enter Guiderius. 

Gui. Where’s my brother ? 

I have sent Cloten’s clotpoll down the stream, 
In embassy to his mother. His body’s host¬ 
age 188 

For his return. _ [Solemn music. 

Bel. My ingenious instrument! 

Hark, Polydore, it sounds ! But what occasion 
Hath Cadwal now to give it motion ? Hark ! 
Gui. Is he at home ? 

Bel. He went hence even now. 

Gui. What does he mean ? Since death of 
my dear’st mother m 

It did not speak before. All solemn things 
Should answer solemn accidents. The matter ? 
Triumphs for nothing and lamenting toys 
Is jollity for apes and grief for boys. 

Is Cadwal mad ? 

Re-enter Arviragus, with Imogen [as] dead , 
bearing her in his arms. 

Bel. Look, here he comes, 195 

And brings the dire occasion in his arms 
Of what we blame him for. 

Arv. The bird is dead 

That we have made so much on. I had rather 
Have skipp’d from sixteen years of age to 
sixty, 

To have turn’d my leaping-time into a 
crutch, 200 

Than have seen this. 

Gui. 0 sweetest, fairest lily ! 

My brother wears thee not the one half so 
well 

As when thou grew’st thyself. 

Bel. 0 melancholy ! 

Who ever yet could sound thy bottom ? find 
The ooze, to show what coast thy sluggish 
care 201 

Might easiliest harbour in ? Thou blessed 
thing ! 

Jove knows what man thou mightst have 
made; but I, 

Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy. 
How found you him ? 

Arv. Stark, as you see ; 

Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slum¬ 
ber, 210 

Not as death’s dart, being laugh’d at; his 
right cheek 
Reposing on a cushion. 

Gui. Where ? 

Arv. O’ the floor, 

His arms thus leagu’d. I thought he slept, and 
put 

My clouted brogues from off my feet, .whose 
rudeness 

Answer’d my steps too loud. 

Gui. Why, he but sleeps 1 

If he be gone, he ’ll make his grave a bed. 210 





406 


CYMBELINE 


IV. 11. 


With female fairies will his tomb be haunted, 
And worms will not come to thee. 

Arv. With fairest flowers 

Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, 

I ’ll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not 
lack 220 

The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose, 
nor 

The azur’d harebell, like thy veins, no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine, Avhom not to slander, 
Out-sweet’ned not thy breath. The ruddock 
would, 

With charitable bill, — 0 bill, sore shaming 225 
Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie 
Without a monument ! — bring thee all this ; 
Yea, and furr’d moss besides, when flowers are 
none, 

To winter-ground thy corse. 

Gui. Prithee, have done ; 

And do not play in wench-like words with 
that 230 

Which is so serious. Let us bury him, 

And not protract with admiration what 
Is now due debt. To the grave ! 

Arv. Say, where shall’s lay him ? 

Gui. By good Euriphile, our mother. 

Arv. Be ’t so ; 

And let us, Polydore, though now our voices 235 
Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the 
ground, 

As once our mother ; use like note and words, 
Save that Euriphile must be Fidele. 

Gui. Cadwal, 

I cannot sing. I ’ll weep, and word it with 
thee ; 240 

For notes of sorrow out of tune are worse 
Than priests and fanes that lie. 

Arv. We ’ll speak it, then. 

Bel. Great griefs, I see, medicine the less ; 
for Cloten 

Is quite forgot. He was a queen’s son, boys; 
And though he came our enemy, remember 245 
He was paid for that. Though mean and mighty, 
rotting 

Together, have one dust, yet reverence, 

That angel of the world, doth make distinc¬ 
tion 

Of place ’tween high and low. Our foe was 
princely; 249 

And though you took his life, as being our foe, 
Yet bury him as a prince. 

Gui. Pray you, fetch him hither. 

Thersites’ body is as good as Ajax’, 

When neither are alive. 

Arv. If you ’ll go fetch him, 

We ’ll say our song the whilst. Brother, begin. 

[Exit Belarius .] 
Gui. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to 
the east; 255 

My father hath a reason for’t. 

Arv. ’T is true. 

Gui. Come on then, and remove him. 

Arv. So. Begin. 

Song. 

Gui, Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, 

Nor the furious winter’s rages ; 


Thou thy worldly task hast done, 260 
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages. 
Golden lads and girls all must, 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 

Arv. Fear no more the frown o’ the great; 

Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke. 20s 
Care no more to clothe and eat; 

To thee the reed is as the oak. 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
All follow this, and come to dust. 

Gui. Fear no more the lightning-flash, 270 
Arv. Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; 
Gui. Fear not slander, censure rash ; 

Arv. Thou hast finish’d joy and moan. 

Both. All lovers young, all lovers must 

Consign to thee, and come to dust.' 275 

Gui. No exorciser harm thee ! 

Arv. Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! 

Gui. Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 

Arv. Nothing ill come near thee ! 

Both. Quiet consummation have, 280 

And renowned be thy grave ! 

Re-enter Belarius, with the body of Cloten. 

Gui. We have done our obsequies. Come, lay 
him down. 

Bel. Here’s a few flowers; but ’bout mid¬ 
night, more. 

The herbs that have on them cold dew o’ the 
night 

Are strewings fitt’st for graves. Upon their 
faces. 285 

You were as flowers, now wither’d ; even so 
These herblets shall, which we upon you strew. 
Come on, away ; apart upon our knees. 

The ground that gave them first has them 
again. 

Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain. 290 
[Exeunt [ Belarius , Guiderius , and 
Arviragus]. 

Imo. [Awaking.] Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven ; 
which is the way ? — 

I thank you. — By yond bush ? — Pray, how 
far thither ? 

’Ods pittikins ! can it be six mile yet? 

I have gone all night. Faith, I ’ll lie down and 
sleep. 

But, soft! no bedfellow ! — O gods and god¬ 
desses ! [Seeing the body of Cloten.] 295 
These flowers are like the pleasures of the 
world; 

This bloody man, the care on’t. I hope I 
dream; 

For so I thought I was a cave-keeper 
And cook to honest creatures. But ’tis not so. 
’T was but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing, 300 
Which the brain makes of fumes. Our very 
eyes 

Are sometimes like our judgements, blind. 
Good faith, 

I tremble still with fear ; but if there be 
Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity 
As a wren’s eye, fear’d gods, a part of it! aos 
The dream’s here still, even when I wake. It is 






iv. ii. 


Without me, as within me ; not imagin’d, felt. 
A headless man! The garments of Posthumus ! 
I know the shape of’s leg ; this is his hand, 

His foot Mercurial, his Martial thigh, 310 

The brawns of Hercules : but his Jovial face — 
Murder in heaven V — How! — ’Tis gone. Pi- 
sanio, 

All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks, 
And mine to boot, be darted on thee ! Thou, 
Conspir’d with that irregulous devil, Cloten, 315 
Hath here cut off my lord. To write and read 
Be henceforth treacherous ! Damn’d Pisanio 
Hath with his forged letters, — damn’d Pi¬ 
sanio — 

From this most bravest vessel of the world 
Struck the main-top ! 0 Posthumus ! alas, 320 
Where is thy head ? Where’s that ? Ay me! 
where’s that ? 

Pisanio might have kill’d thee at the heart, 
And left this head on. How should this be? 
Pisanio ? 

’T is he and Cloten. Malice and lucre in them 
Have laid this woe here. 0 , ’tis pregnant, 
pregnant! 325 

The drug he gave me, which he said was 
precious 

And cordial to me, have I not found it 
Murd’rous to the senses? That confirms it 
home. 

This is Pisanio’s deed, and Cloten’s. O ! 

Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood, 330 
That we the horrider may seem to those 
Which chance to find us. 0 , my lord, my lord ! 

[Falls on the body.] 

Enter Lucius, Captains, and a Soothsayer. 

1 . Cap. To them the legions garrison’d in 
Gallia, 

After your will, have cross’d the sea, attending 
You here at Milford-Haven with your ships. 335 
They are in readiness. 

Luc. But what from Rome ? 

1. Cap. The senate hath stirr’d up the con- 
finers 

And gentlemen of Italy, most willing spirits, 
That promise noble service : and they come 
Under the conduct of bold Iachimo, 340 

Sienna’s brother. 

Luc. When expect you them ? 

1. Cap. With the next benefit o’ the wind. 
Luc. This forwardness 

Makes our hopes fair. Command our present 
numbers 

Be muster’d ; bid the captains look to’t. Now, 


911 j ^ 

What have you dream’d of late of this war’s 



vision — 

I fast and pray’d for their intelligence — thus: 
I saw Jove’s bird, the Roman eagle, wing’d 
From the spongy south to this part of the west, 
There vanish’d in the sunbeams; which por¬ 
tends— ... 360 

Unless my sins abuse my divination — 

Success to the Roman host. 

Luc. Dream often so, 


407 


And never false. Soft, ho ! what trunk is here 
Without his top ? The ruin speaks that some¬ 
time 

It was a worthy building. How ! a page ! sw. 
Or dead, or sleeping on him ? But dead rather ; 
For nature doth abhor to make his bed 
With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead. 

Let’s see the boy’s face. 

1 . Cap. He’s alive, my lord. 

Luc. He ’ll then instruct us of this body. 
Young one, 360 

Inform us of thy fortunes, for it seems 
They crave to be demanded. Who is this 
Thou mak’st thy bloody pillow ? Or who was 
he 

That, otherwise than noble nature did, 

Hath alter’d that good picture ? What’s thy 
interest ses 

In this sad wreck ? How came it ? Who is it ? 
What art thou ? 

Imo. I am nothing: or if not, 

Nothing to be were better. This was my 
master, 

A very valiant Briton and a good, 

That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas ! 370 
There is no more such masters. I may wander 
From east to Occident, cry out for service, 

Try many, all good, serve truly, never 
Find such another master. 

Luc. ’Lack, good youth ! 

Thou mov’st no less with thy complaining 

than 375 

Thy master in bleeding. Say his name, good 

friend. 

Imo. Richard du Champ. [Aside.] If I do 
lie and do 

No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope 
They ’ll pardon it. — Say you, sir ? 

Luc. Thy name ? 

Imo. Fidele, sir. 

Luc. Thou dost approve thyself the very 
same; . . 880 

Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy 
name. 

Wilt take thy chance with me ? I will not say 
Thou shalt be so well master’d, but, be sure, 
No less belov’d. The Roman Emperor’s letters, 
Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner sss 
Than thine own worth prefer thee. Go with me. 
Imo. I ’ll follow, sir. But first, an’t please 
the gods, 

I ’ll hide my master from the flies, as deep 
As these poor pickaxes can dig ; and when 
With wild-wood leaves and weeds I ha’ strew’d 
his grave, 300 

And on it said a century of prayers, 

Such as I can, twice o’er, I ’ll weep and sigh ; 
And leaving so his service, follow you, 

So please you entertain me. 

Luc. Ay, good youth ; 

And rather father thee than master thee. 305 
My friends, 

The boy hath taught us manly duties. Let us 
Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can, 

And make him with our pikes and partisans 
A grave. Come, arm him. Boy, he is pre- 
f err’d 4 °4 


CYMBELINE 




4°8 


CYMBELINE 


IV. IV. 


By thee to us, and he shall be interr’d 
As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes. 
Some falls are means the happier to arise. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. [A room in Cymbeline's palace .] 

Enter Cymbeline, Lords, Pisanio [and At¬ 
tendants]. 

Cym. Again; and bring me word how ’tis 
with her. [ Exit an attendant .] 

A fever with the absence of her son, 

A madness, of which her life’s in danger. 
Heavens, 

How deeply you at once do touch me ! Imogen, 
The great part of my comfort, gone; my 
queen _ e 

Upon a desperate bed, and in a time 
When fearful wars point at me ; her son gone, 
So needful for this present: it strikes me, past 
The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, 
Who needs must know of her departure and 10 
Dost seem so ignorant, we ’ll enforce it from 
thee 

By a sharp torture. 

Pis. Sir, my life is yours ; 

I humbly set it at your will; but, for my mis¬ 
tress, 

I nothing know where she remains, why gone, 
Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your 
Highness, is 

Hold me your loyal servant. 

1. Lord. Good my liege, 

The day that she was missing he was here. 

I dare be bound he’s true and shall perform 
All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten, 
There wants no diligence in seeking him, 20 

And will, no doubt, be found. 

Cym. The time is troublesome. 

[To Pisanio .] We ’ll slip you for a season ; but 
our jealousy 
Does yet depend. 

1. Lord. So please your Majesty, 

The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, 

Are landed on your coast, with a supply 25 
Of Roman gentlemen, by the senate sent. 

Cym. Now for the counsel of my son and 
queen! 

I am amaz’d with matter. 

1. Lord. Good my liege, 

Your preparation can affront no less 
Than what you hear of. Come more, for more 
you ’i*e ready ; 30 

The want is but to put those powers in motion 
That long to move. 

Cym. I thank you. Let’s withdraw, 

And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not 
What can from Italy annoy us ; but 
We grieve at chances here. Away ! 35 

[Exeunt [all but Pisanio ]. 
Pis. I heard no letter from my master 
since 

I wrote him Imogen was slain. ’T is strange. 
Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise 
To yield me often tidings ; neither know I 
What is betid to Cloten ; but remain *0 

Perplex’d in all. The heavens still must work. 


Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to 
be true. 

These present wars shall find I love my country, 
Even to the note o’ the King, or I ’ll fall in 
them. 

All other doubts, by time let them be clear’d. « 
Fortune brings in some boats that are not 
steer’d. [Exit. 

Scene IY. [Wales. Before the cave of Bela- 
rius .] 

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. 

Gui. The noise is round about us. 

Bel. Let us from it. 

Arv. What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to 
lock it 

From action and adventure ? 

Gui. Nay, what hope 

Have we in hiding us ? This way, the Romans 
Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us 6 
For barbarous and unnatural revolts 
During their use, and slay us after. 

Bel. Sons, 

We ’ll higher to the mountains ; there secure us. 
To the King’s party there’s no going. Newness 
Of Cloten’s death — we being not known, not 
muster’d 10 

Among the bands — may drive us to a render 
Where we have liv’d, and so extort from ’s 
that 

Which we have done, whose answer would be 
death 

Drawn on with torture. 

Gui. This is, sir, a doubt 

In such a time nothing becoming you, 1 s 

Nor satisfying us. 

Arv. It is not likely 

That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, 
Behold their quarter’d fires, have both their 
eyes 

And ears so cloy’d importantly as now, 

That they will waste their time upon our note, 20 
To know from whence we are. 

Bel. 0,1 am known 

Of many in the army. Many years, 

Though Cloten then but young, you see, not 
wore him 

From my remembrance. And, besides, the 
King 

Hath not deserv’d my service nor your loves, 26 
Who find in my exile the want of breeding, 

The certainty of this hard life • aye hopeless 
To have the courtesy your cradle promis’d, 

But to be still hot Summer’s tanlings and 
The shrinking slaves of Winter. 

Gui. Than be so 3* 

Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to the army. 

I and my brother are not known ; yourself 
So out of thought, and thereto so o’ergrown, 
Cannot be question’d. 

Arv. By this sun that shines, 

I |11 thither. What thing is it that I never 3 j 
Did see man die ! scarce ever look’d on blood, 
But that of coward hares, hot goats, and veni¬ 
son ! 

Never bestrid a horse, save one that had 




v. iii. 


CYMBELINE 


409 


A rider like myself, who ne’er wore rowel 
Nor iron on his heel! I am asham’d 40 

To look upon the holy sun, to have 
The benefit of his blest beams, remaining 
So long a poor unknown. 

Oui. By heavens, I ’ll go. 

If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, 

I ’ll take the better care ; but if you will not, 45 
The hazard therefore due fall on me by 
The hands of Romans ! 

Arv. So say I ; amen. 

Bel. No reason I, since of your lives you set 
So slight a valuation, should reserve 
My crack’d one to more care. Have with you, 
boys! so 

If in your country wars you chance to die, 

That is my bed too, lads, and there I ’ll lie. 
Lead, lead! [Aside.] The time seems long; 

their blood thinks scorn 
Till it fly out and show them princes born. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT V 

Scene I. [Britain. The Homan camp.] 
Enter Posthumus [with a bloody handkerchief]. 

Post. Yea, bloody cloth, I ’ll keep thee, for 
I wish’d 

Thou shouldst be colour’d thus. You married 
ones, 

If each of you should take this course, how 
many 

Must murder wives much better than them¬ 
selves 

For wrying but a little ! 0 Pisanio ! s 

Every good servant does not all commands ; 

No bond but to do just ones. Gods ! if you 
Should have ta’eu vengeance on my faults, I 
never 

Had liv’d to put on this ; so had you saved 
The noble Imogen to repent, and struck 10 
Me, wretch, more worth your vengeance. But, 
alack, 

You snatch some hence for little faults ; that’s 
love, 

To have them fall no more: you some permit 
To second ills with ills, each elder worse. 

And make them dread it, to the doers’ thrift. 
But Imogen is your own ; do your best wills, ie 
And make me blest to obey! I am brought 
hither 

Among the Italian gentry, and to fight 
Against my lady’s kingdom. ’T is enough 
That, Britain, I have kill’d thy mistress; 

peace! 20 

I ’ll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good 
heavens, 

Hear patiently my purpose: I ’ll disrobe me 
Of these Italian weeds and suit myself 
As does a Briton peasant; so I ’ll fight 
Against the part I come with ; so I ’ll die 2c 
For thee, 0 Imogen, even for whom my life 
Is every breath a death ; and thus, unknown, 
Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril 
Myself I ’ll dedicate. Let me make men know 
More valour in me than my habits show. so 


Gods, put the strength o’ the Leonati in me ! 
To shame the guise o’ the world, I will begin 
The fashion, less without and more within. 

[Exit. 

Scene II. [Field of battle between the British 
and Homan camps.] 

Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and the Roman Army 
at one door; and the Briton Army at another; 
Leonatus Posthumus following, like a poor 
soldier. They march over and go out. Then 
enter again, in skirmish, Iachimo and Post- 
humus: he vanquisheth and disarmeth Iach¬ 
imo, and then leaves him. 

Iach. The heaviness and guilt within my 
bosom 

Takes off my manhood. I have belied a lady, 
The Princess of this country, and the air on ’t 
Revengingly enfeebles me ; or could this carl, 
A very drudge of nature’s, have subdu’d me b 
I n my profession? Knighthoods and honours, 
borne 

As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn. 

If that thy gentry, Britain, go before 
This lout as he exceeds our lords, the odds 
Is that we scarce are men and you are gods. 10 

[Exit. 

The battle continues; the Britons fly; Cymbe- 
line is taken: then enter, to his rescue, Bela- 
rius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. 

Bel. Stand, stand ! We have the advantage 
of the ground ; 

The lane is guarded. Nothing routs us but 
The villainy of our fears. 

| Stand, stand, and fight! 


Be-enter Posthumus, and seconds the Britons. 
They rescue Cymbeline, and exeunt. Then 
re-enter Lucius, Iachimo, and Imogen. 

Luc. Away, boy, from the troops, and save 
thyself* 

For friends kill friends, and the disorder’s 
such i 5 

As war were hoodwink’d. 

Iach. ’T is their fresh supplies. 

Luc. It is a day turn’d strangely. Or betimes 
Let’s reinforce, or fly. [ Exeunt. 


Scene III. [Another part of the field.] 
Enter Posthumus and a Briton Lord. 

Lord. Cam’st thou from where they made 
the stand ? 

Post. I did; 

Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. 

Lord. I did. 

Post. No blame be to you, sir, for all was 
lost, 

But that the heavens fought; the King himself 
Of his wings destitute, the army broken, s 
And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying 
Through a strait lane ; the enemy full-hearted, 
Lolling the tongue with slaught’ring, having 
work 






4 io 


CYMBELINE 


v. iii. 


More plentiful than tools to do ’t, struck down 
Some mortally, some slightly touch’d, some 
falling 10 

Merely through fear; that the straight pass 
was damm’d 

With dead men hurt behind, and cowards liv¬ 
ing 

To die with length’ned shame. 

Lord. Where was this lane ? 

Post. Close by the battle, ditch’d, and 
wall’d with turf; 

Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier, is 
An honest one, I warrant; who deserv’d 
So long a breeding as his white beard came to, 
In doing this for’s country. Athwart the lane, 
He, with two striplings — lads more like to run 
The country base than to commit such slaugh¬ 
ter, _ 20 

With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer 
Than those for preservation cas’d, or shame, — 
Made good the passage; cried to those that 
fled, 

“ Our Britain’s harts die flying, not our men. 
To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards. 

Stand! 26 

Or we are Romans and will give you that 
Like beasts which you shun beastly, and may 
save 

But to look back in frown. Stand, stand ! ” 
These three, 

Three thousand confident, in act as many — 
For three performers are the file when all 30 
The rest do nothing — with this word “ Stand, 
stand! ” 

Accommodated by the place, more charming 
With their own nobleness, which could have 
turn’d 

A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks. 

Part shame, part spirit renew’d ; that some, 
turn’d coward 36 

But by example — O, a sin in war, 

Damn’d in the first beginners ! — gan to look 
The way that they did, and to grin like lions 
Upon the pikes o’ the hunters. Then began 
A stop i’ the chaser, a retire, anon 40 

A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly 
Chickens, the way which they stoop’d eagles ; 
slaves, 

The strides they victors made: and now our 
cowards, 

Like fragments in hard voyages, became 
The life o’ the need. Having found the back¬ 
door open 45 

Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they 
wound! 

Some slain before; some dying; some their 
friends 

O’er-borne i’ the former wave; ten, chas’d by 
one, 

Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty. 
Those that would die or ere resist are grown so 
The mortal bugs o’ the field. 

Lord. This was strange chance. 

A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys! 

Post. Nay, do not wonder at it; you are 
made 

Rather to wonder at the things you hear 


Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon’t, ee 
And vent it for a mockery ? Here is one : 

“ Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane, 
Preserv’d the Britons, was the Romans’ bane.” 
Lord. Nay, be not angry, sir. 

Post. ’Lack, to what end ? 

Who dares not stand his foe, I ’ll be his 
friend; so 

For if he ’ll do as he is made to do, 

I know he ’ll quickly fly my friendship too. 
You have put me into rhyme. 

Lord. Farewell; you ’re angry. 

[Exit. 

Post. Still going ? This is a lord I O noble 
misery, 

To be i’ the field, and ask “ what news ? ” of me ! 
To-day how many would have given their hon¬ 
ours 66 

To have sav’d their carcases ! took heel to do’t, 
And yet died too ! I, in mine own woe charm’d, 
Could not find Death where I did hear him 
groan, 

Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly 
monster, 7a 

’Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft 
beds, 

Sweet words ; or hath moe ministers than we 
That draw his knives i’ the war. Well, I will 
find him; 

For being now a favourer to the Briton, 

No more a Briton, I have resum’d again m 
The part I came in. Fight I will no more, 

But yield me to the veriest hind that shall 
Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is 
Here made by the Roman ; great the answer be 
Britons must take. For me, my ransom’s 
death. so 

On either side I come to spend my breath ; 
Which neither here I ’ll keep nor bear again, 
But end it by some means for Imogen. 

Enter two [British] Captains and Soldiers. 

1 . Cap. Great Jupiter be prais’d ! Lucius is 

taken. 

’T is thought the old man and his sons were 
angels. sb 

2 . Cap. There was a fourth man, in a silly 

habit. 

That gave the affront with them. 

1. Cap. So ’t is reported; 

But none of ’em can be found. Stand ! who’s 

there ? 

Post. A Roman, 

Who had not now been drooping here, if sec¬ 
onds 90 

Had answer’d him. 

2 . Cap. Lay hands on him ; a dog ! 

A leg of Rome shall not return to tell 

What crows have peck’d them here. He brags 
his service 

As if he were of note. Bring him to the King. 

Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arvi- 
ragus, Pisanio [Soldiers, Attendants] and 
Roman Captives. The Captains present Post¬ 
humus to Cymbeline, who delivers him Qvei 
to a Gaoler, [Then exeunt omnes.] 




V. iv. 


CYMBELINE 


Scene IV. [A British prison.] 

Enter Posthumus and two Gaolers. 

1 . Gaol. You shall not now be stolen, you 

have locks upon you ; 

So graze as you find pasture. 

2 . Gaol. Avj or a stomach. 

[Exeunt Gaolers .] 
Post. Most welcome, bondage ! for thou art 
a way, 

I think, to liberty ; yet am I better 
Than one that’s sick o’ the gout; since he had 
rather s 

Groan so in perpetuity than be cur’d 
By the sure physician, Death, who is the key 
To unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art 
fetter’d 

More than my shanks and wrists. You good 
gods, give me 

The penitent instrument to pick that bolt, 10 
Then, free for ever ! Is ’t enough I am sorry ? 
So children temporal fathers do appease ; 

Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent, 

I cannot do it better than in gyves, 

Desir’d more than constrain’d ; to satisfy, is 
If of my freedom’t. is the main part, take 
No stricter render of me than my all. 

I know you are more clement than vile men, 
Who of their broken debtors take a third, 

A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again 20 
On their abatement. That’s not my desire. 
For Imogen’s dear life take mine ; and though 
’T is not so dear, yet ’t is a life ; you coin’d 
it. 

’Tween man and man they weigh not every 
stamp ; 

Though light, take pieces for the figure’s 
sake; 

You rather mine, being yours ; and so, great 
powers, 

If you will take this audit, take this life, 

And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen ! 

I ’U speak to thee in silence. [Sleeps.] 

Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition , Sici- 
lius Leonatus, father to Posthumus , an old 
man , attired like a warrior; leading in his 
hand an ancient matron , his wife , and mother 
to Posthumus, with music before them. Then, 
after other music, follow the two young LiEOHATi, 
brothers to Posthumus, with wounds as they 
died in the wars. They circle Posthumus 
round , as he lies sleeping. 

Sici. No more, thou thunder-master, show 30 
Thy spite on mortal flies : 

With Mars fall out, with Juno chide, 
That thy adulteries 
Rates and revenges. 

Hath my poor boy done aught but well, 3 « 
Whose face I never saw ? 

I died whilst in the womb he stay’d 
Attending Nature’s law ; 

Whose father then, as men report 

Thou orphans’ father art, < <0 

Thou shouldst have been, and shielded 
him 

From this earth-vexing smart. 


411 


Moth. Lucina lent not me her aid, 

But took me in my throes ; 

That from me was Posthumus ript, « 
Came crying ’mongst his foes, 

A thing of pity ! 

Sici. Great Nature, like his ancestry, 
Moulded the stuff so fair, 

That he deserv’d the praiseo’ the world, se 
As great Sicilius’ heir. 

1. Bro. When once he was mature for man, 

In Britain where was he 
That could stand up his parallel, 

Or fruitful object be eb 

In eye of Imogen, that best 
Could deem his dignity ? 

Moth. With marriage wherefore was he 
mock’d. 

To be exil’d, and thrown 
From Leonati seat, and cast «o 

From her his dearest one, 

Sweet Imogen ? 

Sici. Why did you suffer Iachimo, 

Slight thing of Italy, 

To taint his nobler heart and brain 05 
With needless jealousy ; 

And to become the geek and scorn 
O’ the other’s villainy ? 

2. Bro. For this from stiller seats we came, 

Our parents and us twain, 70 

That striking in our country’s cause 
Fell bravely and were slain. 

Our fealty and Tenantius’ right 
With honour to maintain. 

1. Bro. Like hardiment Postliumus hath 75 
To Cymbeline perform’d. 

Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods, 

Why hast thou thus adjourn’d 
The graces for his merits due, 

Being all to dolours turn’d ? so 

Sici. Thy crystal window ope; look out; 

No longer exercise 
Upon a valiant race thy harsh 
And potent injuries. 

Moth. Since, Jupiter, our son is good, m 

Take off his miseries. 

Sici. Peep through thy marble mansion ; help; 
Or we poor ghosts will cry 
To the shining synod of the rest 
Against thy deity. 04 

Both Bro. Help, Jupiter ; or we appeal, 

And from thy justice fly. 

Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning , sit¬ 
ting upon an eagle: he throws a thunderbolt. 
The Ghosts fall on their knees. 

Jup. No more, you petty spirits of region low, 
Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you 
ghosts 




412 


CYMBELINE 


v. iv 


Accuse the tliunderer, whose bolt, you know, sc 
Sky-planted batters all rebelling coasts ? 
Poor shadows of Elysium, hence, and rest 
Upon your never-withering banks of flow¬ 
ers. 

Be not with mortal accidents opprest; 

No care of yours it is; you know ’t is ours. 100 
Whom best I love I cross ; to make my gift, 
The more delay’d, delighted. Be content; 
Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift. 

His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent. 
Our jovial star reign’d at his birth, and in ios 

Our temple was he married. Rise, and fade. 
He shall be lord of Lady Imogen, 

And happier much by his affliction made. 
This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein 

Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine, no 
And so, away ! No farther with your din 
Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. 
Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline. 

[Ascends. 

Sici. He came in thunder; his celestial 
breath 

Was sulphurous to smell. The holy eagle ns 
Stoop’d, as to foot us. His ascension is 
More sweet than our blest fields. His royal bird 
Prunes the immortal wing and cloys his beak, 
As when his god is pleas’d. 

A//. Thanks, Jupiter ! 

Sici. The marble pavement closes, he is 
enter’d 120 

His radiant roof. Away ! and, to be blest, 

Let us with care perform his great behest. 

[The Ghosts) vanish. 
Post. [Waking.) Sleep, thou hast been a 
grandsire, and begot 
A father to me, and thou hast created 
A mother and two brothers ; but, 0 scorn ! 125 
Gone ! they went hence so soon as they were 
born. 

And so I am awake. Poor wretches that depend 
On greatness’ favour dream as I have done, 
Wake and find nothing. But, ahis, I swerve. 
Many dream not to find, neither deserve, 130 
And yet are steep’d in favours ; so am I, 

That have this golden chance and know not 
why. 

What fairies haunt this ground ? A book ? 0 
rare one! 133 

Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment 
Nobler than that it covers ! Let thy effects 
So follow, to be most unlike our courtiers, 

As good as promise ! 137 

(Beads.) “ Whenas a lion’s whelp shall, to 
himself unknown, without seeking find, and be 
embraced by a piece of tender air ; and when 
from a stately cedar shall be lopp’d branches, 
which, being dead many years, shall after re¬ 
vive, be jointed to the old stock and freshly 
grow j then shall Post.humus end his miseries, 
Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and 
plenty.” 143 

’T is still a dream, or else such stuff as mad¬ 
men 

Tongue and brain not; either both or nothing; 
Or senseless speaking or a speaking such 
As sense cannot untie. Be what it is, 


The action of my life is like it, which ie« 

I ’ll keep, if but for sympathy. 

Be-enter Gaoler. 

Gaol. Come, sir, are you ready for death ? 
Post. Over-roasted rather ; ready long ago. 
Gaol. Hanging is the word, sir. If you be 
ready for that, you are well cook’d. ise 

Post. So, if I prove a good repast to the 
spectators, the dish pays the shot. 

Gaol. A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But 
the comfort is, you shall be called to no [i 6 # 
more payments, fear no more tavern-bills, which 
are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring 
of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, de¬ 
part reeling with too much drink ; sorry that you 
have paid too much, and sorry that you are [166 
paid too much; purse and brain both empty ; 
the brain the heavier for being too light, the 
purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of 
this contradiction you shall now be quit. 0 , the 
charity of a penny cord ! It sums up thou- [no 
sands in a trice. You have no true debitor and 
creditor but it; of what’s past, is, and to come, 
the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and 
counters ; so the acquittance follows. 

Post. I am merrier to die than thou art to 
live. i 76 

Gaol. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the 
toothache ; but a man that were to sleep your 
sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I 
think he would change places with his officer ; 
for, look you, sir, you know not which way you 
shall go. 

Post. Yes, indeed do I, fellow. iss 

Gaol. Your Death has eyes in’s head then ; I 
have not seen him so pictur’d. You must either 
be directed by some that take upon them to 
know, or to take upon yourself that which I 
am sure you do not know, or jump the after 
inquiry on your own peril; and how you shall 
speed in your journey’s end, I think you ’ll 
never return to tell one. m 

Post. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want 
eyes to direct them the way I am going, but 
such as wink and will not use them. m 

Gaol. What an infinite mock is this, that a 
man should have the best use of eyes to see the 
way of blindness ! I am sure hanging’s the 
way of winking. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. Knock off his manacles ; bring your 
prisoner to the King. 200 

Post. Thou bring’st good news; I am call’d 
to be made free. 

Gaol. I ’ll be hang’d then. 

Post. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; 
no bolts for the dead. 2115 

[Exeunt all but the Gaoler .] 
Gaol. Unless a man would marry a gallows 
and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so 
prone. let, on my conscience, there are verier 
knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; 
and there be some of them too that die [210 
against their wills. So should I, if I were one. 
I would we were all of one mind, and one mind 






V. V. 


CYMBELINE 


4i3 


good. 0 , there were desolation of gaolers and 
gallowses! I speak against my present profit, 
but my wish hath a preferment in’t. [Exit. 215 


Scene V. [ Cymbeline's tent.] 

Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, 
Arviragus, Pisanio, Lords [Officers, and 
Attendants]. 

Cym. Stand by my side, you whom the gods 
have made 

Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart 
That the poor soldier that so richly fought, 
Whose rags sham’d gilded arms, whose naked 
breast 

Stepp’d before targes of proof, cannot be 
found. 6 

He shall he happy that can find him, if 
Our grace can make him so. 

Bel. I never saw 

Such noble fury in so poor a thing ; 

Such precious deeds in one that promis’d nought 
But beggary and poor looks. 

Cym. No tidings of him ? 

Pis. He hath been search’d among the dead 
and living, 11 

But no trace of him. 

Cym. To my grief, I am 

The heir of his reward ; [to Belarius , Guide¬ 
rius, and Arviragus] which I will add 
To you, the liver, heart and brain of Britain, 
By whom I grant she lives. ’T is now the time 
To ask of whence you are. Report it. 

Bel. Sir, 

In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen. 
Further to boast were neither true nor modest, 
Unless I add, we are honest. 

Cym. Bow your knees. 

Arise my knights o’ the battle. I create you 20 
Companions to our person and will fit you 
With dignities becoming your estates. 

Enter Cornelius and Ladies. 


There’s business in these faces. Why so sadly 
Greet you our victory ? You look like Romans, 
And not o’ the court of Britain. 

Car. Hail, great King! 

To sour your happiness, I must report 26 

The Queen is dead. 

Cym. Who worse than a physician 

Would this report become ? But I consider, 

By medicine life may be prolong’d, yet death 
Will seize the doctor too. How ended she ? 30 

Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her 
life, 

Which, being cruel to the world, concluded 
Most cruel to herself. What she confess’d 
I will report, so please you. These her women 
Can trip me, if I err ; who with wet cheeks ss 
Were present when she finish’d. 

Cym. Prithee, say. 

Cor. First, she confess’d she never lov’d 
you ; only 

Affected greatness got by you, not you ; 
Married your royalty, was wife to your place, 
Abhorr’d your person. 

Cym. She alone knew this; 40 


And, but she spoke it dying, I would not 
Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed. 

Cor. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand 
to love 

With much integrity, she did confess 
Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life, 45 
But that her flight prevented it, she had 
Ta’en off by poison. 

Cym. 0 most delicate fiend ! 

Who is’t can read a woman ? Is there more ? 
Cor. More, sir, and worse. She did confess 
she had 

For you a mortal mineral, which, being took, bo 
S hould by the minute feed on life, and ling’ring 
By inches waste you ; in which time she pur¬ 
pos’d, 

By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to 
O’ercome you with her show, and, in time, 
When she had fitted you with her craft, to 
work 55 

Her son into the adoption of the crown ; 

But, failing of her end by his strange ab¬ 
sence, 

Grew shameless-desperate ; open’d, in despite 
Of heaven and men, her purposes ; repented 
The evils she hatch’d were not effected ; so e« 
Despairing died. 

Cym. Heard you all this, her women ? 

Lad. We did, so please your Highness. 

Cym. Mine eyes 

Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; 

Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my 
heart, 

That thought her like her seeming. It had 
been vicious os 

To have mistrusted her ; yet, 0 my daughter 1 
That it was folly in me, thou mayst say, 

And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all! 

Enter Lucius, Iachimo, [ the Soothsayer] 
and other Roman Prisoners [guarded] ; Post¬ 
humus behind , and Imogen. 

Thou com’st not, Caius, now for tribute ; that 
The Britons have raz’d out, though with the 
loss ™ 

Of many a bold one, whose kinsmen have made 
suit 

That their good souls may be appeas’d with 
slaughter 

Of you their captives, which ourself have 
granted. 

So think of your estate. 

Luc. Consider, sir, the chance of war. The 
day 75 

Was yours by accident. Had it gone with us, 
We should not, when the blood was cool, have 
threaten’d 

Our prisoners with the sword. But since the 
gods 

Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives 
May be call’d ransom, let it come. Sufficeth so 
A Roman, with a Roman’s heart can suffer. 
Augustus lives to think on’t; and so much 
For my peculiar care. This one thing only 
I will entreat: my boy, a Briton born, 

Let him be ransom’d. Never master had »o 
A page so kind, so duteous, diligent. 




4 H 


CYMBELINE 


v. V. 


So tender over his occasions, true, 

So feat, so nurse-like. Let his virtue join 
With my request, which I ’ll make bold your 
Highness 

Cannot deny. He hath done no Briton harm, " 
Though he have serv’d a Roman. Save him, 
sir, 

And spare no blood beside. 

Cym. I have surely seen him ; 

His favour is familiar to me. Boy, 

Thou hast look’d thyself into my grace, 

And art mine own. I know not why, where¬ 
fore, 96 

To say “ Live, boy.” Ne’er thank thy master ; 
live, 

And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt, 
Fitting my bounty and thy state, I ’ll give it, 
Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, " 
The noblest ta’en. 

Imo. I humbly thank your Highness. 

Luc. I do not bid thee beg my life, good 
lad; 

And yet I know thou wilt. 

Imo. No, no, alack, 

There ’s other work in hand. I see a thing 
Bitter to me as death ; your life, good master, 
Must shuffle for itself. 

Luc. The boy disdains me, 105 

He leaves me, scorns me. Briefly die their 
joys 

That place them on the truth of girls and boys. 
Why stands he so perplex’d ? 

Cym. What wouldst thou, boy ? 

I love thee more and more; think more and 
more 

What’s best to ask. Know’st him thou look’st 
on ? Speak, no 

Wilt have him live ? Is he thy kin ? thy friend ? 

Imo. He is a Roman, no more kin to me 
Than I to your Highness ; who, being born your 
vassal, 

Am something nearer. 

Cym. Wherefore ey’st him so ? 

Imo. I ’ll tell you, sir, in private, if you 
please us 

To give me hearing. 

Cym. Ay, with all my heart, 

And lend my best attention. What’s thy 
name ? 

Imo. Fidele, sir. 

Cym. Thou ’rt my good youth, my page ; 
I’ll be thy master. Walk with me; speak 
freely. 

[Cymbeline and Imogen talk apart.] 
Bel. Is not this boy, reviv’d from death, — 
Arv. One sand another 

Not more resembles, — that sweet rosy lad 121 
Who died, and was Fidele ? What think you ? 
Gui. The same dead thing alive. 

Bel. Peace, peace ! see further. He eyes us 
not; forbear ; 

Creatures may be alike. Were ’t he, I am 
sure 125 

He would have spoke to us. 

Gui. But we saw him dead. 

Bel. Be silent; let’s see further. 

Pis. [Aside.] It is my mistress. 


Since she is living, let the time run on 
To good or bad. 

[Cymbeline and Imogen come for¬ 
ward.] 

Cym. Come, stand thou by our side ; 

Make thy demand aloud. [To Iachimo.] Sir, 
step you forth ; 130 

Give answer to this boy, and do it freely; 

Or, by our greatness and the grace of it, 

Which is our honour, bitter torture shall 
Winnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak 
to him. 

Imo. My boon is, that this gentleman may 
render 1 36 

Of whom he had this ring. 

Post. [Aside.] What’s that to him ? 

Cym. That diamond upon your finger, say 
How came it yours ? 

Iach. Thou ’It torture me to leave unspoken 
that 

Which, to be spoke, would torture thee. 

Cym. How ! me ? 

Iach. I am glad to be constrain’d to utter 
that mi 

Which torments me to conceal. By villainy 
I got this ring. ’T was Leonatus’ jewel, 

Whom thou didst banish ; and — which more 
may grieve thee, 

As it doth me — a nobler sir ne’er liv’d ms 

’Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, 
my lord ? 

Cym. All that belongs to this. 

Iach. That paragon, thy daughter, — 

For whom my heart drops blood, and my false 
spirits 

Quail to remember, — Give me leave ; I faint. 

Cym. My daughter ! what of her ? Renew 
thy strength. iso 

I had rather thou sliouldst live while Nature will 
Than die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and 
speak. 

Iach. Upon a time, — unhappy was the clock 
That struck the hour ! — it was in Rome, — 
accurs’d 

The mansion where! — ’t was at a feast, — 

0 , would 155 

Our viands had been poison’d, or at least 
Those which I heav’d to head! — the good 
Posthumus — 

What should I say ? He was too good to be 
Where ill men were ; and was the best of all 
Amongst the rar’st of good ones, — sitting 
sadly, ic« 

Hearing us praise our loves of Italy 
For beauty that made barren the swell’d boast 
Of him that best could speak, for feature, lam¬ 
ing 

The shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerva, 
Postures beyond brief nature, for condition, ieo 
A shop of all the qualities that man 
Loves woman for, besides that hook of wiving, 
Fairness which strikes the eye — 

Cym. I stand on fire ; 

Come to the matter. 

Iach. All too soon I shall, 

Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This 
Posthumus, 170 






v. v. 


CYMBELINE 


4i5 


Most like a noble lord in love and one 
That had a royal lover, took his hint; 

And, not dispraising whom we prais’d,— 
therein 

He was as calm as virtue, — he began 
His mistress’ picture ; which by his tongue 
being made, 175 

And then a mind put in’t, either our brags 
Were crack’d of kitchen-trulls, or his descrip¬ 
tion 

Prov’d us unspeaking sots. 

Cym. Nay, nay, to the purpose. 

lack. Your daughter’s chastity — there it 
begins. 

He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreams, iso 
And she alone were cold ; whereat I, wretch, 
Made scruple of his praise ; and wager’d with 
him 

Pieces of gold ’gainst this which then he wore 

Upon his honour’d finger, to attain 

In suit the place of’s bed and win this ring iss 

By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight, 

No lesser of her honour confident 

Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring ; 

And would so, had it been a carbuncle 
Of Phoebus’ wheel, and might so safely, had 

it 190 

Been all the worth of’s car. Away to Britain 
Post I in this design. Well may you, sir, 
Remember me at court, where I was taught 
Of your chaste daughter the wide difference 
’Twixt amorous and villanous. Being thus 
quench’d 195 

Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain 
Gan in your duller Britain operate 
Most vilely ; for my vantage, excellent; 

And, to be brief, my practice so prevail’d, 

That I return’d with simular proof enough 200 
To make the noble Leonatus mad, 

By wounding his belief in her renown 
With tokens thus, and thus ; averring notes 
Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her brace¬ 
let, — 

O cunning, how I got it! — nay, some marks 
Of secret on her person, that he could not 206 
But think her bond of chastity quite crack’d, 

I having ta’en the forfeit. Whereupon — 
Methinks, I see him now — 

Post. [Advancing .] Ay, so thou dost, 

Italian fiend ! Ay me, most credulous fool, 210 
Egregious murderer, thief, anything 
That’s due to all the villains past, in being, 

To come ! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison, 
Some upright justicer ! Thou, King, send out 
For torturers ingenious ; it is I * 216 

That all the abhorred things o’ the earth amend 
By being worse than they. I am Posthumus, 
That kill’d thy daughter: — villain-like, I 
lie — 

That caused a lesser villain than myself, 

A sacrilegious thief, to do’t. The temple 220 
Of Virtue was she ; yea, and she herself. 

Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set 
The dogs o’ the street to bay me; every vil¬ 
lain 

Be call’d Posthumus Leonatus : and 
Be villainy less than’t was! O Imogen ! 225 


My queen, my life, my wife ! 0 Imogen, 
Imogen, Imogen ! 

Imo. Peace, my lord ; hear, hear — 

Post. Shall’s have a play of this? Thou 
scornful page, 

There lie thy part. [Striking her ; she falls.] 
Pis. 0 , gentlemen, help 

Mine and your mistress ! 0 , my Lord Posthu¬ 
mus ! 230 

You ne’er kill’d Imogen till now. Help, help ! 
Mine honour’d lady! 

Cym. Does the world go round ? 

Post. How comes these staggers on me ? 

Pis. Wake, my mistress ! 

Cym. If this be so, the gods do mean to 
strike me 

To death with mortal joy. 

Pis. How fares my mistress ? 

Imo. 0 , get thee from my sight; 230 

Thougav’st me poison. Dangerous fellow,hence! 
Breathe not where princes are. 

Cym. The tune of Imogen ! 

Pis. Lady, 

The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if 240 
That box I gave you was not thought by me 
A precious thing. I had it from the Queen. 
Cym. New matter still ? 

Imo. It poison’d me. 

Cor. 0 gods! 

I left out one thing which the Queen confess’d, 
Which must approve thee honest. “ If Pisanio 
Have,” said she, “ given his mistress that con¬ 
fection 246 

Which I gave him for cordial, she is serv’d 
As I would serve a rat.” 

Cym. What’s this, Cornelius ? 

Cor. The Queen, sir, very oft importun’d me 
To temper poisons for ner, still pretending 260 
The satisfaction of her knowledge only 
In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs, 

Of no esteem. I, dreading that her purpose 
Was of more danger, did compound for her 
A certain stuff, which, being ta’en, would 
cease 255 

The present power of life, but in short time 
All offices of nature should again 
Do their due functions. Have you ta’en of it ? 
Imo. Most like I did, for I was dead. 

Pel. My boys, 

There was our error. 

Gui. This is, sure, Fidele. 200 

Imo. Why did you throw your wedded lady 
from you ? 

Think that you are upon a lock, and now 
Throw me again. [Embracing him. 

Post. Hang there like fruit, my soul, 

Till the tree die ! 

Cym. How now, my flesh, my child ! 

What, mak’st thou me a dullard in this act ? 
Wilt thou not speak to me ? 

Imo. [Kneeling.] Your blessing, sir. *66 

Bel. [To Guiderius and Arviragus.] Though 
you did love this youth, I blame ye not; 
You had a motive for’t. 

Cym. My tears that fall 

Prove holy water on thee ! Imogen, 

Thy mother’s dead. 




416 


CYMBELINE 


v. v. 


Imo. I am sorry for ’t, my lord. 

Cym. 0 , she was naught; and long of her it 
was 

That we meet here so strangely ; but her son 
Is gone, we know not how nor where. 

Pis. My lord, 

Now fear is from me, I ’ll speak troth. Lord 
Cloten, 

Upon my lady’s missing, came to me 275 

With his sword drawn ; foam’d at the mouth, 
and swore, 

If I discover’d not which way she was gone, 

It was my instant death. By accident, 

I had a feigned letter of my master’s 
Then in my pocket, which directed him 280 
To seek her on the mountains near to Milford ; 
Where, in a frenzy, in my master’s garments, 
Which he enforc’d from me, away he posts 
With unchaste purpose and with oath to violate 
My lady’s honour. What became of him 285 
I further know not. 

Gui. Let me end the story: 

I slew him there. 

Cym. Marry, the gods forfend ! 

I would not thy good deeds should from my 
lips 

Pluck a hard sentence. Prithee, valiant youth, 
Deny ’t again. 

Gui. I have spoke it, and I did it. 200 

Cym. He was a prince. 

Gui. A most incivil one. The wrongs he did 
me 

Were nothing prince-like ; for he did provoke 
me 

With language that would make me spurn the 
sea. 

If it could so roar to me. I cut off ’s head ; 205 
And am right glad he is not standing here 
To tell this tale of mine. 

Cym. I am sorry for thee. 

By thine own tongue thou art condemn’d, and 
must 

Endure our law. Thou ’rt dead. 

Imo. That headless man 

I thought had been my lord. 

Cym. Bind the offender, 300 

And take him from our presence. 

Bel. Stay, sir King ; 

This man is better than the man he slew, 

As well descended as thyself ; and hath 
More of thee merited than a band of Clotens 
Had ever scar for. [To the Guard.] Let his 
arms alone; 305 

They were not born for bondage. 

Cym. Why, old soldier, 

Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for, 
By tasting of our wrath ? How of descent 
As good as we ? 

Arv. In that he spake too far. 

Cym. And thou shalt die for’t. 

Bel. We will die all three 

But I will prove that two on’s are as good 311 
As I have given out him. My sons, I must 
For mine own part unfold a dangerous speech, 
Though, haply, well for you. 

Arv. Your danger’s ours. 

Gui. And our good his. 


Bel. Have at it then, by leave. 

Thou hadst, great King, a subject who 3 i« 
Was call’d Belarius. 

Cym. What of him? He is 

A banish’d traitor. 

Bel. He it is that hath 

Assum’d this age, indeed a banish’d man ; 

I know not how a traitor. 

Cym. Take him hence. 320 

The whole world shall not save him. 

Bel. Not too hot. 

First pay me for the nursing of thy sons ; 

And let it be confiscate all so soon 
As I have receiv’d it. 

Cym. Nursing of my sons ! 

Bel. I am too blunt and saucy ; here’s my 
knee. 325 

Ere I arise, I will prefer my sons ; 

Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir, 
These two young gentlemen, that call me 
father 

And think they are my sons, are none of mine ; 
They are the issue of your loins, my liege, 330 
And blood of your begetting. 

Cym. How ! my issue ! 

Bel. So sure as you your father’s. I, old 
Morgan, 

Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish’d. 
Your pleasure was my mere offence, my pun¬ 
ishment 

Itself, and all my treason ; that I suffer’d 33s 
Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes —• 
For such and so they are —these twenty years 
Have I train’d up. Those arts they have as I 
Could put into them ; my breeding was, sir, as 
Your Highness knows. Their nurse, Euri- 
pliile, 340 

Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these chil¬ 
dren. 

Upon my banishment I mov’d her to’t, 

Having receiv’d the punishment before, 

For that which I did then. Beaten for loyalty 
Excited me to treason. Their dear loss, 345 
The more of you’t was felt, the more it shap’d 
Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious 
sir, 

Here are your sons again ; and I must lose 
Two of the sweet’st companions in the world. 
The benediction of these covering heavens 350 
Fall on their heads like dew ! for they are 
worthy 

To inlay heaven with stars. 

Cym. Thou weep’st, and speak’st. 

The service that you three have done is more 
Unlike tRan this thou tell’st. I lost my children ; 
If these be they, I know not how to wish 355 
A pair of worthier sons. 

Bel. Be pleas’d awhile. 

This gentleman, whom I call Polydore, 

Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius ; 
This gentleman,.my Cadwal, Arviragus, 

Your younger princely son. He, sir, was lapp’d soo 
In a most curious mantle, wrought by the hand 
Of his queen mother, which for more proba¬ 
tion 

I can with ease produce. 

Cym. Guiderius had 




V. V. 


CYMBELINE 


4i7 


Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star; 

It was a mark of wonder. 

Bel. This is he, 3#s 

Who hath upon him still that natural stamp. 

It was wise Nature’s end in the donation, 

To be his evidence now. 

Cym. O, what, am I 

A mother to the birth of three ? Ne’er mother 
Rejoic’d deliverance more. Blest pray you 
be, 370 

That, after this strange starting from your orbs, 
You may reign in them now ! 0 Imogen, 

Thou hast lost by this a kingdom. 

Imo. No, my lord ; 

•I have got two worlds by’t. O my gentle 
brothers, 

Have we thus met? 0 , never say hereafter 375 
But I am truest speaker. You call’d me bro¬ 
ther, 

When I was but your sister ; I you brothers, 
When ye were so indeed. 

Cym. Did you e’er meet ? 

Arv. Ay, my good lord. 

Gui. And at first meeting lov’d ; 

Continu’d so, until we thought he died. 3so 
Cor. By the Queen’s dram she swallow’d. 
Cym. O rare instinct! 

When shall I hear all through ? This fierce 
abridgement 

Hath to it circumstantial branches, which 
Distinction should be rich in. Where, how 
liv’d you ? 

And when came you to serve our Roman 
captive ? 385 

How parted with your brothers ? How first met 
them ? 

Why fled you from the court ? and whither ? 
These 

And your three motives to the battle, with 
I know not how much more, should be de¬ 
manded ; 

And all the other by-dependencies, 390 

From chance to chance ; but nor the time nor 
place 

Will serve our long inter’gatories. See, 
Posthumus anchors upon Imogen, 

And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye 
On him, her brothers, me, her master, hitting 395 
Each object with a joy ; the counterchange 
Is severally in all. Let’s quit this ground, 

And smoke the temple with our sacrifices. 

[To Belarius.] Thou art my brother ; so we ’ll 
hold thee ever. 

Imo. You are my father too, and did relieve 
me, 400 

To see this gracious season. 

Cym. All o’erjoy’d, 

Save these in bonds. Let them be joyful too, 
For they shall taste our comfort. 

Imo. My good master, 

I will yet do you service. 

Luc. Happy be you ! 

Cym. The forlorn soldier, that so nobly 

fought, # 40 ® 

He would have well becom’d this place, and 

grac’d 

The thankings of a king. 


Post. I am, sir, 

The soldier that did company these three 
In poor beseeming ; ’t was a fitment for 
The purpose I then follow’d. That I was he, 410 
Speak, lachimo. I had you down and might 
Have made you finish. 

lack. [Kneeling.] I am down again; 

But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee, 
As then your force did. Take that life, beseech 
you, 

Which I so often owe ; but your ring first, 415 
And here the bracelet of the truest princess 
That ever swore her faith. 

Post. Kneel not to me. 

The power that I have on you is to spare you, 
The malice towards you to forgive you. Live, 
And deal with others better. 

Cym. Nobly doom’d ! 

We ’ll learn our freeness of a son-in-law ; 427 

Pardon’s the word to all. 

Arv. You holp us, sir, 

As you did mean indeed to be our brother ; 
Joy’d are we that you are. 

Post. Your servant, Princes. Good my lord 
of Rome, 425 

Call forth your soothsayer. As I slept, me- 
thought 

Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back’d, 

Appear’d to me, with other spritely shows 
Of mine own kindred. When I wak’d, I found 
This label on my bosom, whose containing 430 
Is so from sense in hardness, that I can 
Make no collection of it. Let him show 
His skill in the construction. 

Luc. Philarmonus! 

Sooth. Here, my good lord. 

Luc. Read, and declare the meaning. 434 

[(SoofA.J (Reads.) “ Whenas a lion’s whelp 
shall, to himself unknown, without seeking 
find, and be embrac’d by a piece of tender air ; 
and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp’d 
branches, which, being dead many years, shall 
after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and 
freshly grow ; then shall Posthumus end his 
miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in 
peace and plenty.” 442 

Thou, Leonatus, art the lion’s whelp ; 

The fit and apt construction of thy name, 

Being leo-natus , doth import so much. 445 

[To Cymbeline.] The piece of tender air, thy 
virtuous daughter, 

Which we call mollis aer ; and mollis aer 
We term it mulier; which mulier I divine 
Is this most constant wife, who, even now, 
Answering the letter of the oracle, «o 

Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp’d about 
With this most tender air. 

Cym. This hath some seeming. 

Sooth. The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline, 
Personates thee ; and thy lopp’d branches point 
Thy two sons forth ; who, by Belarius stolen, 455 
For many years thought dead, are now reviv’d, 
To the majestic cedar join’d, whose issue 
Promises Britain peace and plenty. 

Cym. Well; 

My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius, 
Although the victor, we submit to Caesar, 4 ec 





4 i8 


CYMBELINE 


v. V. 


And to the Roman empire, promising 
To pay our wonted tribute, from the which 
We were dissuaded by our wicked queen ; 
Whom heavens, in justice, both on her and 
hers, 

Have laid most heavy hand. 465 

Sooth. The fingers of the powers above do 
tune 

The harmony of this peace. The vision 
Which I made known to Lucius, ere the stroke 
Of this yet scarce-cold battle, at this instant 
Is full accomplish’d ; for the Roman eagle, 470 
From south to west on wing soaring aloft, 
Lessen’d herself, and in the beams o’ the sun 
So vanish’d ; which foreshow’d our princely 
eagle, 


The imperial Caesar, should again unite 

His favour with the radiant Cymbeline, 475 

Which shines here in the west. 

Cym. Laud we the gods ; 

And let our crooked smokes climb to their nos¬ 
trils 

From our bless’d altars. Publish we this peace 
To all our subjects. Set we forward. Let 
A Roman and a British ensign wave 4so 

Friendly together. So through Lud’s town 
march ; 

And in the temple of great Jupiter 
Our peace we ’ll ratify ; seal it with feasts. 

Set on there ! Never was a war did cease, 

Ere bloody hands were wash’d, with such a 
peace. [Exeunt. 485 




THE WINTER’S TALE 


The later limit for the date of The Winter's Tale is fixed by an entry in Simon Forman’s 
u Booke of Plaies,” according to which he witnessed a performance of the drama at the Globe 
Theatre on May 15 , 1611 . An earlier limit is plausibly suggested by the theory that the dance 
of twelve satyrs in iv. iv. 331 - 352 , three of whom had “ danced before the king,” was borrowed 
from the anti-masque in Jonson’s Masque of Oheron , performed at court., January 1 , 1611 . The 
metrical and stylistic features, as well as the atmosphere and method of treatment, are quite in 
harmony with this late date, so that there is no reason for doubting that the play was written in 
the early part of 1611 . 

No quarto was published, nor is the title found in the Stationers’ Register before 1623 . The 
earliest edition is that in the First Folio, in which it is the last of the Comedies. On this, which 
is unusually accurate, the present text is based. 

The source of the plot is Robert Greene’s Pandosto: the Triumph of Time, later known as The 
History of Dorastus and Fawnia. This euphuistic romance, modelled on Lyly and Sidney, was 
printed in 1588 , and was popular enough to run through fourteen editions. Several features of 
the story have been found both in fiction and in history, but no certain original of Greene’s tale 
has been identified. 

The most important change made by Shakespeare in the plot is in saving the life of Hermione, 
who, as Bellaria in Greene’s tale, had died of grief over the death of her son. But a number of 
minor differences are worth noting. Bohemia and Sicily are interchanged, Greene’s Pandosto 
(Leontes) being King of Bohemia, and Egistus (Polixenes) King of Sicily. Fawnia (Perdita) is 
put to sea in a cock-boat instead of being exposed on a desert shore. The proposal to consult 
the oracle comes from the queen in Greene, from Leontes in Shakespeare ; yet Pandosto accepts 
the answer of the oracle at once, while Leontes denies its truth until brought to his senses by the 
death of his son and the swooning of Hermione. On the whole, the jealousy of Leontes is more 
perverse and fatuous in Shakespeare than in his source. The Clown is substituted by the drama¬ 
tist for the shepherd’s wife of the novel. The wooing of Fawnia is given at great length by Greene, 
and the situation is complicated by Egistus’s wish to marry his son to a princess of Denmark. In 
his flight from his father’s court, Dorastus (Florizel) has the assistance of a servant, Capnio, whom 
Shakespeare discards, but whose functions in the plot are divided between Camillo and Autoly- 
cus. When the prince arrives at the court of Pandosto, he conceals his identity, and is thrown 
into prison while the king makes love to Fawnia. This unpleasant incident of the courtship of 
the unrecognized daughter by her father Shakespeare omits, keeping Leontes faithful to the 
memory of Hermione. This, of course, makes possible the happy ending of the first plot, and 
renders unnecessary the depression and suicide of Pandosto with which Greene closes his narrative. 

The device of bringing an apparent statue to life, which Shakespeare inserted into the story, 
is found not infrequently in earlier fiction ; but neither that form of it which occurs in Lope de 
Vega’s El Marmol de Felisardo, nor that in the play of The Trial of Chivalry (printed, 1605 ), is 
sufficiently close to be regarded as a source. 

The characters of Antigonus, Paulina, Emilia, Mopsa, Dorcas, the Clown, and Autolycus are 
all of Shakespeare’s invention. For the last, and for his song in iv. iii. 1 ff. hints may have been 
derived from Tom Beggar in Robert Wilson’s Three Ladies of London ( 1584 ), though this does 
not seem to have been hitherto suggested. 

But this enumeration of changes in detail fails to indicate the nature of the transformation 
wrought by Shakespeare on his material. The superb dignity of Hermione which almost lifts 
her above pity, the plain-spoken loyalty of Paulina, the peculiar poetic charm of the pastoral 
scenes of which Perdita is the centre, the humor of the rogue and the rustics, the elements, in 
short, which make the play delightful, are all Shakespeare’s. To Greene belongs the credit 
of framing an interesting romantic story, the improbabilities and surprises of which Shakespeare 
seems to have taken no pains to abate, but which, on the contrary, he capped by devising a clos¬ 
ing situation, theatrically effective, indeed, but more defiant of likelihood than anything in his 

source. 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


[DRAMATIS PERSONAE] 


Leontes, king of Sicilia. 

Mamillius, young prince of Sicilia. 
Camillo, 

Antigonus, 

Cleomenes, 

Dion, 

Polixenes, king of Bohemia. 

Florizel, prince of Bohemia. 
Archidamus, a lord of Bohemia. 

Old Shepherd, reputed father of Perdita. 
Clown, his son. 

Autolycus, a rogue. 


[A Mariner.] 

[A Gaoler.] 

Hermione, queen to Leontes. 

Perdita, daughter to Leontes and Hermione. 
Paulina, wife to Antigonus. 

Emilia, a lady [attending on Hermione]. 

[Dorcas, } shepherdesses.] 

[Time, as Chorus.] 


1 lords of Sicilia. 


Other Lords and Gentlemen [Ladies, Officers] and Servants, Shepherds, and Shepherdesses. 


[Scene : Sicilia and Bohemia."] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [Sicilia. Ante-chamber in the palace 
of Leontes .] 

Enter Camillo and Archidamus. 

Arch. If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit 
Bohemia on the like occasion whereon my ser¬ 
vices are now on foot, you shall see, as I have 
said, great difference betwixt our Bohemia and 
your Sicilia. _ _ s 

Cam. I think, this coming summer, the King 
of Sicilia means to pay Bohemia the visitation 
which he justly owes him. 

Arch. Wherein our entertainment shall 
shame us we will he justified in our loves ; 
for indeed — 

Cam. Beseech you, — u 

Arch. Verily, I speak it in the freedom of 
my knowledge. We cannot with such magnifi¬ 
cence — in so rare — I know not what to say. 
We will give you sleepy drinks, that your 
eenses, unintelligent of our insufficience, may, 
though they cannot praise us, as little accuse 
us. 17 

Cam. You pay a great deal too dear for 
what’s given freely. 

Arch. Believe me, I speak as my understand¬ 
ing instructs me and as mine honesty puts it to 
utterance. 22 

Cam. Sicilia cannot show himself over-kind 
to Bohemia. They were train’d together in 
their childhoods ; and there rooted betwixt 
them then such an affection, which cannot 
choose but branch now. Since their more ma¬ 
ture dignities and royal necessities made sepa¬ 
ration of their society, their encounters, [28 
though not personal, hath been royally attor- 
neyed with interchange of gifts, letters, loving 
embassies ; that they have seem’d to be to¬ 
gether, though absent; shook hands, as over a 


vast; and embrac’d, as it were, from the ends 
of opposed winds. The heavens continue their 
loves! 36 

Arch. I think there is not in the world either 
malice or matter to alter it. You have an un¬ 
speakable comfort of your young prince Mamil¬ 
lius. It is a gentleman of the greatest promise 
that ever came into my note. 40 

Cam. I very well agree with you in the hopes 
of him. It is a gallant child ; one that indeed 
physics the subject, makes old hearts fresh. 
They that went on crutches ere he was born 
desire yet their life to see him a man. 46 

Arch. Would they else be content to die ? 
Cam. Yes; if there were no other excuse 
why they should desire to live. 

Arch. If the King had no son, they would 
desire to live on crutches till he had one. r>o 

[ Exeunt. 

Scene II. [A room of state in the same.] 

Enter Leontes, Hermione, Mamillius, Po¬ 
lixenes, Camillo [and Attendants], 

Pol. Nine changes of the watery star hath 
been 

The shepherd’s note since we have left our 
throne 

Without a burden ; time as long again 
Would be fill’d up, my brother, with our 
thanks, 

And yet we should, for perpetuity, 0 

Go hence in debt; and therefore, like a ci¬ 
pher, 

Yet standing in rich place, I multiply 
With one “We thank you” many thousands 
moe 

That go before it. 

Leon. Stay your thanks a while. 

And pay them when you part. 

Pol. Sir, that’s to-morrow. 




1.11. 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


421 


I am question’d by my fears, of what may 
chance u 

Or breed upon our absence ; that may blow 
No sneaping winds at home, to make us say, 

“ This is put forth too truly.” Besides, I have 
stay’d 

To tire your Royalty. 

Leon. We are tougher, brother, 

Than you can put us to ’t. 

Pol. No longer stay. 16 

Leon. One seven-night longer. 

Pol. Very sooth, to-morrow. 

Leon. We ’ll part the time between’s then ; 
and in that 
I ’ll no gainsaying. 

Pol. Press me not, beseech you, so. 

There is no tongue that moves, none, none i’ 
the world, 20 

So soon as yours could win me. So it should 
now, 

Were there necessity in your request, although 
’T were needful I deni’d it. My affairs 
Do even drag me homeward ; which to hinder 
Were in your love a whip to me ; my stay 26 
To you a charge and trouble. To save both, 
Farewell, our brother. 

Leon. Tongue-tied our Queen ? Speak you. 
Her. I had thought, sir, to have held my 
peace until 

You had drawn oaths from him not to stay. 
You, sir, 

Charge him too coldly. Tell him, you are 
sure so 

All in Bohemia’s well; this satisfaction 
The by-gone day proclaim’d. Say this to him, 
He’s beat from his best ward. 

Leon. Well said, Hermione. 

Her. To tell, he longs to see his son, were 
strong ; 

But let him say so then, and let him go ; 36 

But let him swear so, and he shall not stay; 
We ’ll thwack him hence with distaffs. 

Yet of your royal presence I ’ll adventure 
The borrow of a week. When at Bohemia 
You take my lord, I ’ll give him my commis¬ 
sion *0 

To let him there a month behind the gest 
Prefix’d for’s parting; yet, good deed, Leontes, 
I love thee not a jar o’ the clock behind 
What lady she her lord. You ’ll stay ? 

Pol. No, madam. 

Her. Nay, but you will ? 

Pol. I may not, verily. 

Her. Verily! _ <0 

You put me off with limber vows ; but I, 
Though you would seek to unsphere the stars 
with oaths, 

Should yet say, “ Sir, no going.” Verily, 

You shall not go ; a lady’s “ Verily ”’s eo 
As potent as a lord’s. Will you go yet ? 

Force me to keep you as a prisoner, 

Not like a guest; so you shall pay your fees 
When you depart, and save your thanks. How 
say you ? 

My prisoner or my guest ? By your dread 
“ Verily,” 66 

One of them you shall be. 


Pol. Your guest, then, madam. 

To be your prisoner should import offending, 
Which is for me less easy to commit 
Than you to punish. 

Her. Not your gaoler, then, 

But your kind hostess. Come, I ’ll question 
you «o 

Of my lord’s tricks and yours when you were 
boys. 

You were pretty lordings then ? 

Pol. We were, fair Queen, 

Two lads that thought there was no more 
behind 

But such a day to-morrow as to-day, 

And to be boy eternal. 

Her. Was not my lord 66 

The verier wag o’ the two ? 

Pol. We were as twinn’d lambs that did 
frisk i’ the sun, 

And bleat the one at the other. What we 
chang’d 

Was innocence for innocence ; we knew not 
The doctrine of ill-doing, no, nor dream’d to 
T hat any did. Had we pursu’d that life, 

And our weak spirits ne’er been higher rear’d 
With stronger blood, we should have answer’d 
Heaven 

Boldly, “ Not guilty ” ; the imposition clear’d 
Hereditary ours. 

Her. By this we gather 75 

You have tripp’d since. 

Pol. O my most sacred lady ! 

Temptations have since then been born to’s; 
for 

In those unfledg’d days was my wife a girl; 
Your precious self had then not cross’d the eyes 
Of my young play-fellow. 

Her. Grace to boot! so 

Of this make no conclusion, lest you say 
Your Queen and I are devils. Yet go on ; 

The offences we have made you do we ’ll an- 
swer, 

If you first sinn’d with us, and that with us 
You did continue fault, and that you slipp’d 
not 86 

With any but with us. 

Leon. Is he won yet ? 

Her. He ’ll stay, my lord. 

Leon. At my request he would not. 

Hermione, my dearest, thou never spok’st 
To better purpose. 

Her. Never ? 

Leon. Never, but once. 

Her. What! have I twice said well ? When 
was ’t before ? _ 

I prithee tell me ; cram’s with praise, and 
make’s 

As fat as tame things. One good deed dying 
tongueless 

Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. 

Our praises are our wages ; you may ride’s 
With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs ere 96 
With spur we heat an acre. But to the goal: 
My last good deed was to entreat his stay; 
Wnat was my first ? It has an elder sister, 

Or I mistake you. 0 , would her name were 
Grace! 




422 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


I. 1L 


But once before I spoke to the purpose; 

when ? 100 

Nay, let me have’t; I lone. 

Leon. Why, that was when 

Three crabbed months had sour’d themselves 
to death, 

Ere I could make thee open thy white hand 
And clap thyself my love ; then didst thou 
utter, 

“ I am yours for ever.” 

Her. ’T is grace indeed. ioo 

Why, lo you now, I have spoke to the pur¬ 
pose twice : 

The one for ever earn’d a royal husband ; 

The other for some while a friend. 

[Gives her hand to Polixenes .1 

Leon. [Aside .] Too hot, too hot I 

To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods. 

1 have tremor cordis on me; my heart 
dances, . 119 

But not for joy ; not joy. This entertainment 
May a free face put on, derive a liberty 
From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom, 
And well become the agent; ’t may, I grant ; 
But to be paddling palms and pinching fin¬ 
gers, _ 115 

As now they are, and making practis’d smiles, 
As in a looking-glass ; and then to sigh, as ’t 
were 

The mort o’ the deer; — 0 , that is entertain¬ 
ment 

My bosom likes not, nor my brows ! Mamillius, 
Art thou my boy ? 

Mam. Ay, my good lord. 

Leon. I’ fecks! 

Why, that’s my bawcock. What, hast smutch’d 
thy nose ? 121 

They say it is a copy out of mine. Come, cap¬ 
tain, ; 

We must be neat; not neat, but cleanly, cap¬ 
tain : 

And yet the steer, the heifer, and the calf 
Are all call’d neat. —Still virginalling 125 
Upon his palm ! — How now, you wanton calf ! 
Art thou my calf ? 

Mam. Yes, if you will, my lord. 

Leon. Thou want’st a rough pash and the 
shoots that I have, 

To be full like me ; yet they say we are 
Almost as like as eggs ; women say so, 130 
That will say anything. But were they false 
As o’er-dy’d blacks, as wind, as waters, false 
As dice are to be wish’d by one that fixes 
No bourn ’twixt his and mine, yet were it true 
To say this boy were like me. Come, sir page, 135 
Look on me with your welkin eye. Sweet 
villain ! 

Most dear’st! my collop ! Can thy dam ? — 
may’t be ? — 

Affection ! thy intention stabs the centre. 

Thou dost make possible things not so held, 
Communicat’st with dreams ; — how can this 
be ? — uo 

With what’s unreal thou coactive art, 

And fellow’st nothing. Then’t is very credent 
Thou mayst co-join with something ; and thou 
dost, 


And that beyond commission, and I find it, 

And that to the infection of my brains »5 
And hardening of my brows. 

Pol. What means Sicilia ? 

Her. He something seems unsettled. 

Pol. How, my lord ! 

Leon. What cheer ? How is’t with you, best 
brother ? 

Her. You look 

As if you held a brow of much distraction. 

Are you mov’d, my lord ? 

Leon. No, in good earnest. 

How sometimes nature will betray its folly, isi 
Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime 
To harder bosoms ! Looking on the lines 
Of my boy’s face, methoughts I did recoil 
Twenty-three years, and saw myself un¬ 
breech’d 165 

In my green velvet coat, my dagger muzzl’d, 
Lest it should bite its master, and so prove, 

As ornaments oft do, too dangerous. 

How like, methought, I then was to this kernel, 
This squash, this gentleman. Mine honest 
friend, i 6 « 

Will you take eggs for money ? 

Mam. No, my lord, I ’ll fight. 

Leon. You will ! Why, happy man be ’s 
dole ! My brother, 

Are you so fond of your young prince as we 
Do seem to be of ours ? 

Pol. If at home, sir, ies 

He’s all my exercise, my mirth, my matter, 
Now my sworn friend and then mine enemy, 

My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all. 

He makes a July’s day short as December, 

And with his varying childness cures in me no 
Thoughts that would thick my blood. 

Leon. So stands this squire 

Offic’d with me. We two will walk, my lord, 
And leave you to your graver steps. Hermione, 
How thou lov’st us, show in our brother’s wel¬ 
come ; 

Let what is dear in Sicily be cheap. 175 

Next to thyself and my young rover, he ’s 
Apparent to my heart. 

Her. If you would seek us, 

We are yours i’ the garden. Shall’s attend you 
there ? 

Leon. To your own bents dispose you ; you ’ll 
be found, 

Be you beneath the sky. [Aside.] I am angling 
now, iso 

Though you perceive me not how I give line. 
Go to, go to ! 

How she holds up the neb, the bill to him ! 

And arms her with the boldness of a wife 
To her allowing husband ! 

[Exeunt Polixenes , Hermione , and 
attendants.] 

Gone already! iss 
Inch-thick, knee-deep, o’er head and ears a 
fork'd one ! 

Go, play, boy, play. Thy mother plays, and I 
Play too, but so disgrac’d a part, whose issue 
Will hiss me to my grave; contempt and clamour 
Will be my knell. Go, play, boy, play. There 
have been, 190 





1.11. 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


423 


Or I am much deceiv’d, cuckolds ere now ; 

And many a man there is, even at this present, 
Now while I speak this, holds his wife by the 
arm, 

That little thinks she has been sluic’d in’s ab¬ 
sence 

And his pond fish’d by his next neighbour, 
by we 

Sir Smile, his neighbour. Nay, there’s comfort 
in’t 

Whiles other men have gates, and those gates 
open’d, 

As mine, against their will. Should all despair 
That have revolted wives, the tenth of man¬ 
kind 

Would hang themselves. Physic for’t there is 
none. 200 

It is a bawdy planet, that will strike 
Where ’t is predominant; and ’t is powerful, 
think it, 

From east, west, north, and south. Be it con¬ 
cluded, 

No barricado for a belly ; know ’t; 

It will let in and out the enemy 205 

With bag and baggage. Many thousand on’s 
Have the disease, and feel’t not. How now, 
boy I 

Mam. I am like you, they say. 

Leon. Why, that’s some comfort. 

What, Camillo there ? 

Cam. Ay, my good lord. 210 

Leon. Go play, Mamillius ; thou ’rt an hon¬ 
est man. [ Exeunt Mamillius .] 

Camillo, this great sir will yet stay longer. 

Cam . You had much ado to make his anchor 
hold. 

When you cast out, it still came home. 

Leon. Didst note it ? 

Cam. He would not stay at your petitions ; 
made 216 

His business more material. 

Leon. Didst perceive it ? 

[Aside.] They ’re here with me already, whis¬ 
pering, rounding, 

“ Sicilia is a so-forth.” ’T is far gone, 

When I shall gust it last. How came’t, Camillo, 
That he did stay ? 

Cam. At the good Queen’s entreat.v. 

Leon. At the Queen’s be’t; “ good ” should 
be pertinent; 221 

But, so it is, it is not. Was this taken 
By any understanding pate but thine ? 

For thy conceit is soaking, — will draw in 
More than the common blocks. Not noted, 
is’t 226 

But of the finer natures ? By some severals 
Of head-piece extraordinary? Lower messes 
Perchance are to this business purblind? Say. 

Cam. Business, my lord ! I think most un¬ 
derstand 

Bohemia stays here longer. 

Leon. Ha! 

Cam. Stays here longer. 

Leon. Ay, but why ? 231 

Cam. To satisfy your Highness and the en¬ 
treaties 

Of our most gracious mistress. 


Leon. Satisfy! 

The entreaties of your mistress ! Satisfy ! 

Let that suffice. I have trusted thee, Ca¬ 
millo, 235 

With all the nearest things to my heart, as well 
My chamber-councils, wherein, priest-like, 
thou 

Hast cleans’d mv bosom, I from thee departed 
Thy penitent reform’d ; but we have been 
Deceiv’d in thy integrity, deceiv’d 240 

In that which seems so. 

Cam. Be it forbid, my lord ! 

Leon. To bide upon’t, thou art not hon¬ 
est, or, 

If thou inclin’st that way, thou art a coward, 
Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining 
From course requir’d ; or else thou must be ( 
counted 216 

A servant grafted in my serious trust 
And therein negligent; or else a fool 
That seest a game play’d home, the rich stake 
drawn, 

And tak’st it all for jest. 

Cam. My gracious lord, 

I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful; 250 

In every one of these no man is free 
But that his negligence, his folly, fear. 

Among the infinite doings of the world, 
Sometime puts forth. In your affairs, my lord, 
If ever I were wilful-negligent, 20c 

It was my folly ; if industriously 
I play’d the fool, it was my negligence, 

Not weighing well the end ; if ever fearful 
To do a thing, where I the issue doubted, 
Whereof the execution did cry out sco 

Against the non-performance, ’t was a fear 
Which oft infects the wisest: these, my lord, 
Are such allow’d infirmities that honesty 
Is never free of. But, beseech your Grace, 

Be plainer with me; let me know my tres¬ 
pass 265 

By its own visage. If I then deny it, 

’T is none of mine. 

Leon. Ha’ not you seen, Camillo, — 

But that’s past doubt, you have, or your eye¬ 
glass 

Is thicker than a cuckold’s horn, — or heard, — 
For to a vision so apparent rumour 270 

Cannot be mute, — or thought, — for cogita¬ 
tion 

Resides not in that man that does not think, — 
My wife is slippery ? If thou wilt confess, 

Or else be impudently negative, 

To have nor eyes nor ears nor thought, then 
say 275 

My wife’s a hobby-horse, — deserves a name 
As rank as any flax-wench that puts to 
Before her troth-plight: say’t and justify’t. 

Cam. I would not be a stander-by to hear 
My sovereign mistress clouded so, without 280 
My present vengeance taken. Shrew my heart, 
You never spoke what did become you less 
Than this ; which to reiterate were sin 
As deep as that, though true. 

Leon. Is whispering nothing ? 

Is leaning cheek to cheek ? Is meeting noses ? 
Kissing with inside lip ? stopping the career 286 





THE WINTER’S TALE 


424 


1. il 


Of laughter with a sigh ? — a note infallible 
Of breaking honesty ; — horsing foot on foot ? 
Skulking in corners ? wishing clocks more 
swift? 

Hours, minutes ? noon, midnight ? and all eyes 
Blind with the pin-and-web but theirs, theirs 
only, . 29 i 

That would unseen be wicked? Is this no¬ 
thing ? 

Why, then the world and all that’s in ’t is 
nothing; < . 

The covering sky is nothing; Bohemia nothing ; 
My wife «is nothing ; nor nothing have these 
. nothings, 295 

If this be nothing. 

Cam. Good my lord, be cur’d 

Of this diseas’d opinion, and betimes ; 

For ’ t is most dangerous. 

Leon. Say it be, ’tis true. 

Cam. No, no, my lord. 

Leon. It is ; you lie, you lie! 

I say thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee, 300 
Pronounce thee a gross lout, a mindless slave, 
Or else a hovering temporizer, that 
Canst with thine eyes at once see good and evil, 
Inclining to them both. Were my wife’s liver 
Infected as her life, she would not live sos 
The running of one glass. 

Cam. Who does infect her ? 

Leon. Why, he that wears her like her medal, 
hanging 

About his neck, Bohemia ; who, if I 
Had servants true about me, that bare eyes 
To see alike mine honour as their profits, 310 
Their own particular thrifts, they would do 
that 


Will take again your queen as yours at first, 
Even for your son’s sake ; and thereby for- 
sealing 

The injury of tongues in courts and kingdoms 
Known and allied to yours. 

Leon. Thou dost advise me 

Even so as I mine own course have set down. 

I ’ll give no blemish to her honour, none. 341 
Cam. My lord, 

Go then ; and with a countenance as clear 
As friendship wears at feasts, keep with Bohe¬ 
mia 

And with your queen. I am his cupbearer: 345 
If from me he have wholesome beverage, 
Account me not your servant. 

Leon. This is all. 

Do’t and thou hast the one half of my heart; 
Do’t not, thou split’st thine own. 

Cam. I ’ll do ’t, my lord. 

Leon. I will seem friendly, as thou hast ad¬ 
vis’d me. [Exit. 350 

Cam. 0 miserable lady ! But, for me, 

What case stand I in ? I must be the poisoner 
Of good Polixenes ; and my ground to do’t 
Is the obedience to a master, one 
Who in rebellion with himself will have ses 
All that are his so too. To do this deed, * 
Promotion follows. If I could find example 
Of thousands that had struck anointed kings 
And flourish’d after, I’d not do’t; but since 
Nor brass nor stone nor parchment bears not 
one, 360 

Let villainy itself forswear’t. I must 
Forsake the court. To do’t, or no, is certain 
To me a break-neck. Happy star reign now ! 
Here comes Bohemia. 


Which should undo more doing ; ay, and thou, 
His cup-bearer, — whom I from meaner form 
Have bench’d and rear’d to worship, who 
mayst see 

Plainly as heaven sees earth and earth sees 
heaven, 3 ie 

How l am gall’d, — mightst bespice a cup, 

To give mine enemy a lasting wink ; 

Which draught to me were cordial. 

Cam. Sir, my lord, 

I could do this, and that with no rash potion, 
But with a lingering dram that should not 

work 320 

Maliciously like poison ; but I cannot 
Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress, 
So sovereignly being honourable. 

I have lov’d thee, — 

Leon. Make that thy question, and go rot! 
Dost think I am so muddy, so unsettled, 325 

To appoint myself in this vexation, sully 
The purityand whiteness of my sheets, 

Which to preserve is sleep, which being spotted 
Is goads, thorns, nettles, tails of wasps, 

Give scandal to the blood o’ the Prince my son, 
Who I do think is mine and love as mine, 331 
Without ripe moving to ’t ? Would I do this ? 
Could man so blench ? 

Cam. I must believe you, sir; 

I do ; and will fetch off Bohemia for’t; 
Provided that, when he’s removed, your High¬ 
ness 335 


Be-enter Polixenes. 

Pol. This is strange ; methinks 

My favour here begins to warp. Not speak ! 305 
Good day, Camillo. 

Cam. Hail, most royal sir! 

Pol. What is the news i’ the court ? 

Cam. None rare, my lord. 

Pol. The King hath on him such a counte¬ 
nance 

As he had lost some province and a region 
Lov’d as he loves himself. Even now I met 
him 370 

With customary compliment; when he, 
Wafting his eyes to the contrary and falling 
A lip of much contempt, speeds from me, and 
So leaves me to consider what is breeding 
That changeth thus his manners. 376 

Cam. I dare not know, my lord. 

Pol. How ! dare not! Do not. Do you know, 
and dare not ? 

Be intelligent to me: ’t is thereabouts ; 

For, to yourself, what you do know, you must, 
And cannot say, you dare not. Good Camillo, 
Your chang’d complexions are to me a mirror 
Which shows me mine chang’d too; for I 
must be 332 

A party in this alteration, finding 
Myself thus alter’d with’t. 

Cam. There is a sickness 

Which puts some of us in distemper, but 38 * 





THE WINTER’S TALE 


425 


11. i. 


I cannot name the disease ; and it is caught 
Of you that yet are well. 

Pol. How ! caught of me ! 

Make me not sighted like the basilisk. 

I have look’d on thousands, who have sped the 
better 

By my regard, but kill’d none so. Camillo, — 
As you are certainly a gentleman, thereto 391 
Clerk-like experienc’d, which no less adorns 
Our gentry than our parents’ noble names, 

In whose success we are gentle, — I beseech you, 
If you know aught which does behove my 
knowledge 395 

Thereof to be inform’d, imprison’t not 
In ignorant concealment. 

Cam. I may not answer. 

Pol. A sickness caught of me, and yet I 
well! 

I must be answer’d. Dost thou hear, Camillo? 
I conjure thee, by all the parts of man 400 

Which honour does acknowledge, whereof the 
least 

Is not this suit of mine, that thou declare 
What incidency thou dost guess of harm 
Is creeping toward me ; how far off, how near ; 
Which way to be prevented, if to be; 405 

H not, how best to bear it. 

Cam. Sir, I will tell you, 

Since I am charg’d in honour and by him 
That I think honourable ; therefore mark my 
counsel, 

Which must be even as swiftly follow’d as 
I mean to utter it, or both yourself and me 410 
Cry lost, and so good night! 

Pol. On, good Camillo. 

Cam. I am appointed him to murder you. 
Pol. By whom, Camillo ? 

Cam. By the King. 

Pol. For what? 

Cam. He thinks, nay, with all confidence he 
swears, 

As he had seen’t or been an instrument <10 
To vice you to’t, that you have touch’d his 
queen 
Forbiddenly. 

Pol. 0 , then my best blood turn m 

To an infected jelly, and my name 
Be yok’d with his that did betray the Best! 
Turn then my freshest reputation to 420 

A savour that may strike the dullest nostril 
Where I arrive, and my approach be shunn’d, 
Nay, hated too, worse than the great’st infec¬ 
tion 

That e’er was heard or read ! 

Cam. Swear his thought over 

By each particular star in heaven and <26 

By all their influences, you may as well 
Forbid the sea for to obey the moon 
As or by oath remove or counsel shake 
The fabric of his folly, whose foundation 
Is pil’d upon his faith and will continue *30 
The standing of his body. . 

Pol . How should this grow t 

Cam. I know not; but I am sure ’tis safer 

Avoid what’s grown than question how ’tis 
born. 


If therefore you dare trust my honesty, 

That lies enclosed in this trunk which you 435 
Shall bear along impawn’d, away to-night! 
Your followers I will whisper to the business, 
And will by twos and threes at several posterns 
Clear them o’ the city. For myself, 1 ’ll put 
My fortunes to your service, which are here 440 
By this discovery lost. Be not uncertain; 

For, by the honour of my parents, I 
Have utt’red truth, which if you seek to 
prove, 

I dare not stand by ; nor shall you be safer 
Than one condemn’d by the King’s own mouth, 
thereon 445 

His execution sworn. 

Pol. I do believe thee; 

I saw his heart in’s face. Give me thy hand. 

Be pilot to me, and tliy places shall 

Still neighbour mine. My ships are ready and 

My people did expect my hence departure 450 

Two days ago. This jealousy 

Is for a precious creature. As she’s rare, 

Must it be great; and as his person’s mighty, 
Must it be violent; and as he does conceive 
He is dishonour’d by a man which ever 455 
Profess’d to him, why, his revenges must 
In that be made more bitter. Fear o’ershades 
me. 

Good expedition be my friend, and comfort 
The gracious queen ; — part of his theme, but 
nothing 

Of his ill-ta’en suspicion! Come, Camillo ; 400 

I will respect thee as a father if 

Thou bear’st my life off hence. Let us avoid. 

Cam. It is in mine authority to command 
The keys of all the posterns. Please your 
Highness 

To take the urgent hour. Come, sir, away. 40s 

[Exeunt. 


ACT II 


Scene I. [Sicilia. A room in the palace .] 


Enter Hermione, Mamlllius, and Ladies. 

Her. Take the boy to you; he so troubles 
me, 

’T is past enduring. 

[ 7.1 Lady. Come, my gracious lord, 

Shall I be your playfellow ? 

Mam. No, I ’ll none of you. 

[7.] Lady. Why, my sweet lord ? 

Mam. You ’ll kiss me hard and speak to me 
as if 6 

I were a baby still. — I love you better. 

2 . Lady. And why so, my lord ? 

Mam. Not for because 

Your brows are blacker ; yet black brows, they 


say, 

Become some women best, so that there be not 
Too much hair there, but in a semicircle, 10 
Or a half-moon made with a pen. 

2 . Lady. Who taught this ? 

Mam. I learnt it out of women’s faces. Pray 
now 

What colour are your eyebrows ? 

[7.] Lady. Blue, my lord 





426 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


II. i. 


Mam. Nay, that’s a mock. I have seen a 
lady’s nose 

That has been blue, but not her eyebrows. 

[i.] Lady. Hark ye ; 

The Queen your mother rounds apace. We 
shall _ I 6 

Present our services to a fine new prince 
One of these days; and then you’d wanton 
with us, 

If we would have you. 

2 . Lady. She is spread of late 

Into a goodly bulk. Good time encounter 
her! 20 

Her. What wisdom stirs amongst you ? 
Come, sir, now 

I am for you again. Pray you, sit by us, 

And tell’s a tale. 

Mam. Merry or sad shall’t be ? 

Her. As merry as you will. 

Mam. A sad tale’s best for winter. I have 
one 25 

Of sprites and goblins. 

Her. Let’s have that, good sir. 

Come on, sit down ; come on, and do your 
best 

To fright me with your sprites ; you ’re power¬ 
ful at it. 

Mam. There was a man — 

Her. Nay, come, sit down ; then on. 

Mam. Dwelt by a churchyard. I will tell it 
softly; _ 30 

Yond crickets shall not hear it. 

Her. Come on, then, 

And give’t me in mine ear. 

[Enter Leontes, with Antigonus, Lords, and 
others .] 

Leon. Was he met there ? his train ? Camillo 
with him ? 

[i.] Lord. Behind the tuft of pines I met 
them; never 

Saw I men scour so on their way. I eyed 35 
Them even to their ships. 

Leon. How blest am I 

In my just censure, in my true opinion ! 

Alack, for lesser knowledge ! How accurs’d 
In being so blest! There may be in the cup 
A spider steep’d, and one may drink, depart, 40 
And yet partake no venom, for his knowledge 
Is not infected ; but if one present 
The abhorr’d ingredient to his eye, make 
known 

How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his 
sides, 

With violent hefts. I have drunk, and seen 
the spider. « 

Camillo was his help in this, his pander. 

There is a plot against my life, my crown. 

All’s true that is mistrusted. That false 
villain 

Whom I employ’d was pre-employ’d by him. 
He has discover’d my design, and I eo 

Remain a pinch’d thing ; yea, a very trick 
For them to play at will. How came the 
posterns 
So easily open ? 

[2.] Lora. By his great authority: 


Which often hath no less prevail’d than so 
On your command. 

Leon. I know’t too well. ns 

Give me the boy. I am glad you did not nurse 
him. 

Though he does bear some signs of me, yet you 
Have too much blood in him. 

Her. What is this ? Sport ? 

Leon. Bear the boy hence; he shall not 
come about her. 

Away with him ! and let her sport herself 00 
With that she’s big with ; for ’tis Polixenes 
Has made thee swell thus. 

Her. But I’d say he had not, 

And I ’ll be sworn you would believe my saying, 
Howe’er you lean to the nayward. 

Leon. You, my lords, 

Look on her, mark her well; be but about ee 
To say she is a goodly lady, and 
The justice of your hearts will thereto add 
’T is pity she’s not honest, honourable. 

Praise her but for this her without-door form, 
Which on my faith deserves high speech, and 
straight 70 

The shrug, the hum or ha, these petty brands 
That calumny doth use — 0,1 am out — 

That mercy does, for calumny will sear 
Virtue itself ; these shrugs, these hums and 
has, 

When you have said she’s goodly, come be¬ 
tween t• 

Ere you can say she’s honest: but be’t known, 
From him that has most cause to grieve it 
should be, 

She’s an adulteress. 

Her. Should a villain say so, 

The most replenish’d villain in the world, 

He were as much more villain : you, my lord, 80 
Do but mistake. 

Leon. You have mistook, my lady, 

Polixenes for Leontes. 0 thou thing ! 

Which I ’ll not call a creature of thy place, 
Lest barbarism, making me the precedent, 
Should a like language use to all degrees, 35 
And mannerly distinguishment leave out 
Betwixt the prince and beggar, I have said 
She% an adulteress ; I have said with whom ; 
More, she’s a traitor, and Camillo is 
A fedary with her, and one that knows 90 
What she should shame to know herself 
But with her most vile principal, that she’s 
A bed-swerver, even as bad as those 
That vulgars give bold’st titles ; ay, and privy 
To this their late escape. 

Her. No, by my life, os 

Privy to none of this. How will this grieve you, 
When you shall come to clearer knowledge, 
that 

You thus have publish’d me ! Gentle, my lord, 
You scarce can right me throughly then to say 
You did mistake. 

Leon. No; if I mistake 100 

In those foundations which I build upon, 

The centre is not big enough to bear 
A school-boy’s top. Away with her, to prison ! 
He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty 
But that he speaks. 





THE WINTER’S TALE 


427 


11 . i. 


Her. There’s some ill planet reigns ; 

I must be patient till the heavens look ios 
With an aspect more favourable. Good my 
lords, 

I am not prone to weeping, as our sex 
Commonly are, the want of which vain dew 
Perchance shall dry your pities ; but I have no 
That honourable grief lodg’d here which burns 
Worse than tears drown. Beseech you all, my 
lords, 

With thoughts so qualified as your charities 
Shall best instruct you, measure me ; and so 
The King’s will be perform’d ! 

Leon. Shall I be heard ? 

Her. Who is’t that goes with me ? Beseech 
your Highness, no 

My women may be with me ; for you see 
My plight requires it. Do not weep, good 
fools ; 

There is no cause. When you shall know your 
mistress 

Has deserv’d prison, then abound in tears 120 
As I come out; this action I now go on 
Is for my better grace. Adieu, my lord. 

I never wish’d to see you sorry ; now 
I trust I shall. My women, come; you have 
leave. 

Leon. Go, do our bidding ; hence ! 125 

[Exit Queen guarded , \oith Ladies .] 
[ 2 .] Lord. Beseech your Highness, call the 
Queen again. 

Ant. Be certain what you do, sir, lest your 
justice 

Prove violence ; in the which three great ones 
suffer, 

Yourself, your queen, your son. 

[ 2 .] Lord. For her, my lord, 

I dare my life lay down and will do ’t, sir, 130 
Please you to accept it, that the Queen is spot¬ 
less 

I’ the eyes of Heaven and to you ; I mean, 

In this which you accuse her. 

Ant. If it prove 

She’s otherwise, I ’ll keep my stables where 
Idodge my wife ; I ’ll go in couples with her ; 135 
Than when I feel and see her no farther trust 
her ; 

For every inch of woman in the world. 

Ay, every dram of woman’s flesh is false, 

If she be. 

Leon. Hold your peaces. 

[ 2 .] Lord. Good my lord, — 

Ant. It is for you we speak, not for our¬ 
selves. 140 

You are abus’d, and by some putter-on 
That will be damn’d for’t; would I knew the 
villain, 

I would land-damn him. Be she honour-flaw’d, 
I have three daughters ; the eldest is eleven ; 
The second and the third, nine, and some five ; 

If this prove true, they ’ll pay for’t. By mine 
honour, 146 

I ’ll geld ’em all ; fourteen they shall not see 
To bring false generations. They are co-heirs ; 
And I had rather glib myself than they 
Should not produce fair issue. 

Leon. Cease ; no more. 


You smell this business with a sense as cold ibi 
A s is a dead man’s nose ; but I do see ’t and 
feel’t, 

As you feel doing thus ; and see withal 
The instruments that feel. 

Ant. If it be so, 

We need no grave to bury honesty. ibb 

There’s not a grain of it the face to sweeten 
Of the whole dungy earth. 

Leon. What! lack I credit ? 

[ 7 .] Lord. I had rather you did lack than I, 
my lord, 

Upon this ground ; and more it would content 
me 

To have her honour true than your suspicion, ibo 
Be blam’d for’t how you might. 

Leon. Why, what need we 

Commune with you of this, but rather follow 
Our forceful instigation ? Our prerogative 
Calls not your counsels, but our natural good¬ 
ness 

Imparts this ; which if you, or stupefied ibb 
Or seeming so in skill, cannot or will not 
Relish a truth like us, inform yourselves 
We need no more of your advice. The matter, 
The loss, the gain, the ord’ring on’t, is all 
Properly ours. 

Ant. And I wish, my liege, 170 

You had only in your silent judgement tried 
it, 

Without more overture. 

Leon. How could that be ? 

Either thou art most ignorant by age, 

Or thou wert born a fool. Camillo’s flight, 
Added to their familiarity, 

Which was as gross as ever touch’d conjec¬ 
ture, 

That lack’d sight only, nought for approba¬ 
tion 

But only seeing, all other circumstances 
Made up to the deed, doth push on this pro¬ 
ceeding. 

Yet, for a greater confirmation, iso 

For in an act of this importance’t were 
Most piteous to be wild, I have dispatch’d in 
post 

To sacred Delphos, to Apollo’s temple, 
Cleomenes and Dion, whom you know 
Of stuff’d sufficiency. Now from the oracle i«s 
They will bring all; whose spiritual counsel 
had, 

I shall stop or spur me. Have I done well ? 

[ 7 .] Lord. Well done, my lord. 

Leon. Though I am satisfi’d and need no 
more 

Than what I know, yet shall the oracle i»o 
Give rest to the minds of others, such as he 
Whose ignorant credulity will not 
Come up to the truth. So have we thought it 
good 

From our free person she should be confin’d, 
Lest that the treachery of the two fled hence iob 
B e left her to perform. Come, follow us; 

We are to speak in public, for this business 
Will raise us all. 

Ant. [Aside.} To laughter, as I take it, 

If the good truth were known. [Exeunt. 20# 




428 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


II. iK 


Scene II. [ Outer ward of a prison.] 

Enter Paulina, a Gentleman, and Attendants. 

Paul. The keeper of the prison, call to him ; 
Let him have knowledge who I am. 

[Exit Gent.] 
Good lady, 

No court in Europe is too good for thee ; 

What dost thou then in prison ? 

[Re-enter Gentleman, with the Gaoler.] 

Now, good sir, 

You know me, do you not ? 

Gaol. For a worthy lady, 6 

And one who much I honour. 

Paul. Pray you then, 

Conduct me to the Queen. 

Gaol. I may not, madam. 

To the contrary I have express commandment. 
Paul. Here’s ado, 

To lock up honesty and honour from 10 

The access of gentle visitors ! Is ’t lawful, pray 
you, 

To see her women ? Any of them ? Emilia ? 

Gaol. So please you, madam, 

To put apart these your attendants, I 
Shall bring Emilia forth. 

Paul. I pray now, call her. 

Withdraw yourselves. 

[Exeunt Gentleman and attendants.] 
Gaol. And, madam, ie 

I must be present at your conference. 

Paul. Well, be’t so, prithee.. [Exit Gaoler.] 
Here’s such ado to make no stain a stain 
As passes colouring. 

[Re-enter Gaoler, with Emilia.] 

Dear gentlewoman, 20 
How fares our gracious lady ? 

Emil. As well as one so great and so for¬ 
lorn 

May hold together. On her frights and griefs, 
Which never tender lady hath borne greater, 
She is something before her time deliver’d. 25 
Paul. A boy ? 

Emil. A daughter, and a goodly babe, 

Lusty and like to live. The Queen receives 
Much comfort in ’t; says, “ My poor prisoner, 

I am innocent as you.” 

Paul. I dare be sworn. 

These dangerous unsafe lunes i’ the King, be- 
shrew them! 30 

He must be told on’t, and he shall. The office 
Becomes a woman best; I ’ll take’t upon me. 
If I prove honey-mouth’d, let my tongue blister 
And never to my red-look’d anger be 
The trumpet any more. Pray you, Emilia, 35 
Commend my best obedience to the Queen. 

If she dares trust me with her little babe, 

I ’ll show’t the King and undertake to be 
Her advocate to the loud’st. We do not know 
How he may soften at the sight o’ the child. 40 
The silence often of pure innocence 
Persuades when speaking fails. 

Emil. Most worthy madam, 

Your honour and your goodness is so evident 
That your free undertaking cannot miss 


A thriving issue. There is no lady living <a 
So meet for this great errand. Please your lady¬ 
ship 

To visit the next room, I ’ll presently 
Acquaint the Queen of your most noble offer ; 
Who but to-day hammer’d of this design, 

But durst not tempt a minister of honour, 60 
Lest she should be deni’d. 

Paul. Tell her, Emilia, 

I ’ll use that tongue I have. If wit flow from ’t 
As boldness from my bosom, let ’t not be 
doubted 
I shall do good. 

Emil. Now be you blest for it! 

I ’ll to the Queen. Please you, come something 
nearer. w 

Gaol. Madam, if ’t please the Queen to send 
the babe, 

I know not what I shall incur to pass it, 

Having no warrant. 

Paul. You need not fear it, sir. 

This child was prisoner to the womb and is 
By law and process of great Nature thence eo 
Freed and enfranchis’d, not a party to 
The anger of the King nor guilty of, 

If any be, the trespass of the Queen. 

Gaol. I do believe it. 

Paul. Do not you fear. Upon mine honour, I 
Will stand betwixt you and danger. [Exeunt, ee 

Scene III. [A room in Leontes ’ palace.] 

Enter Leontes, Antigonus, Lords, and Ser¬ 
vants. 

Leon. Nor night nor day no rest. It is but 
weakness 

To bear the matter thus ; mere weakness. If 
The cause were not in being, — part o’ the 
cause, 

She the adulteress ; for the harlot king 
Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank e 
And level of my brain, plot-proof; but she 
I can hook to me: say that she were gone, 
Given to the fire, a moiety of my rest 
Might come to me again. Who’s there ? 

D.] Serv. My lord ? 

Leon. How does the boy ? 

[ 2 .] Serv. He took good rest to-night; 

’T is hop’d his sickness is discharg’d. 11 

Leon. To see his nobleness ! 

Conceiving the dishonour of his mother, 

He straight declin’d, droop’d, took it deeply, 
Fasten’d and fix’d the shame on’t in himself, 
Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep, i» 
And downright languish’d. Leave me solely ; 
go. 

See how he fares. [Exit Serv.] Fie, fie ! no 
thought of him; 

The very thought of my revenges that way 
Recoil upon me : in himself too mighty, 20 
And in his parties, his alliance. Let him be 
Until a time may serve ; for present vengeance, 
Take it on her. Camillo and Polixenes 
Laugh at me, make their pastime at my sorrow. 
They should not laugh if I could reach them, 
nor 25 

Shall she within my power. 





THE WINTER’S TALE 


II. iii. 


429 


Enter Paulina [with a babe]. 

L.] Lord. You must not enter. 

Paul. Nay, rather, good my lords, be second 
to me. 

Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas, 
Than the Queen’s life A gracious innocent 
soul, 

More free than he is jealous. 

Ant. That’s enough. 

[2.] Serv. Madam, he hath not slept to-night; 
commanded 31 

None should come at him. 

Paul. _ . Not so hot, good sir; 

I come to bring him sleep. ’T is such as you, 
That creep like shadows by him and do sigh 
At each his needless heavings, such as you 35 
Nourish the cause of his awaking. I 
Do come with words as medicinal as true, 
Honest as either, to purge him of that humour 
That presses him from sleep. 

Leon. What noise there, ho ? 

Paul. No noise, my lord ; but needful con¬ 
ference 40 

About some gossips for your Highness. 

Leon. How! 

Away with that audacious lady ! Antigonus, 

I charg’d thee that she should not come about 
me: 

I knew she would. 

Ant. I told her so, my lord, 

On your displeasure’s peril and on mine, 4c 

She should not visit you. 

Leon. What, canst not rule her ? 

Paul. From all dishonesty he can. In this, 
Unless he take the course that you have done, 
Commit me for committing honour, trust it, 

He shall not rule me. 

Ant. La you now, you hear. 

When she will take the rein I let her run ; si 
But she ’ll not stumble. 

Paul. Good my liege, I come ; 

And, I beseech you, hear me, who professes 
Myself your loyal servant, your physician, 

Your most obedient counsellor, yet that dares ss 
Less appear so in comforting your evils, 

Than such as most seem yours. I say, I come 
From your good queen. 

Leon. Good queen ! 

Paul. Good queen, my lord, 

Good queen ; I say good queen ; 

And would by combat make her good, so 
were I 60 

A man, the worst about you. 

Leon. Force her hence. 

Paul. Let him that makes but trifles of his 
eyes 

First hand me. On mine own accord J ’ll off, 
But first I ’ll do my errand. The good queen, 
For she is good, hath brought you forth a 
daughter; 65 

Here’t is ; commends it to your blessing. 

[Laying down the child.] 
Leon. Out! 

A mankind witch! Hence with her, out o’ 
door! 

A most intelligencing bawd ! 


Paul. Not so. 

I am as ignorant in that as you 
In so entitling me, and no less honest to 

Than you are mad ; which is enough, I ’ll war¬ 
rant, 

As this world goes, to pass for honest. 

Leon. Traitors! 

Will you not push her out ? Give her the bas¬ 
tard. 

Thou dotard ! thou art woman-tir’d, unroosted 
By thy dame Partlet here. Take up the bas¬ 
tard ; 76 

Take’t up, I say ; give’t to thy crone. 

Paul. For ever 

Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou 
Tak’st up the Princess by that forced baseness 
Which he has put upon’t! 

Leon. He dreads his wife. 

Paul. So I would you did ; then’t were past 
all doubt so 

You’d call your children yours. 

Leon. A nest of traitors ! 

Ant. I am none, by this good light. 

Paul. Nor I, nor any 

But one that’s here, and that’s himself; for 
he 

The sacred honour of himself, his queen’s, 

His hopeful son’s, his babe’s, betrays to 
slander, ss 

Whose sting is sharper than the sword’s, and 
will not — 

For, as the case now stands, it is a curse 
He cannot be compell’d to’t — once remove 
The root of his opinion, which is rotten 
As ever oak or stone was sound. 

Leon. A callat 90 

Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her 
husband 

And now baits me ! This brat is none of mine ; 
It is the issue of Polixenes. 

Hence with it, and together with the dam 
Commit them to the fire ! 

Paul. It is yours; 96 

And, might we lay the old proverb to your 
charge, 

So like you, ’t is the worse. Behold, my lords, 
Although the print be little, the whole matter 
And copy of the father, eye, nose, lip, 

The trick of ’s frown, his foreheaa, nay, the 
valley, 100 

The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek, 

His smiles, 

The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger ; 
And thou, good goddess Nature, which hast 
made it 

So like to him that got it, if thou hast 105 

The ordering of the mind too, ’mongst all 
colours 

No yellow in’t, lest she suspect, as he does, 
Her children not her husband’s! 

Leon. A gross hag! 

And, lozel, thou art worthy to be hang’d, ioa 
That wilt not stay her tongue. 

Ant. Hang all the husbands 

That cannot do that feat, you ’ll leave yourself 
Hardly one subject. 

Leon. Once more, take her hence. 




43 ° 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


ii. iii. 


Paul. A most unworthy and unnatural lord 
Can do no more. 

Leon. I ’ll ha’ thee burnt. 

Paul. I care not; 

It is an heretic that makes the fire, us 

Not she which burns in’t. I ’ll not call you 
tyrant; 

But this most cruel usage of your queen, 

Not able to produce more accusation 
Than your own weak-hing’d fancy, something 
savours 

Of tyranny and will ignoble make you, no 
Yea, scandalous to the world. 

Leon. On your allegiance, 

Out of the chamber with her! Were I a tyrant, 
Where were her life ? She durst not call me 
so, 

If she did know me one. Away with her ! 

Paul. I pray you, do not push me; I ’ll be 
gone. > n5 

Look to your babe, my lord ; ’tis yours. Jove 
send her 

A better guiding spirit! What needs these 
hands ? 

You, that are thus so tender o’er his follies, 
Will never do him good, not one of you. 

So, so; farewell; we are gone. [Exit, no 

Leon. Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to 
this. 

My child? Away with’t! Even thou, that 
hast 

A heart so tender o’er it, take it hence 
And see it instantly consum’d with fire ; 

Even thou and none but thou. Take it up 
straight. 135 

Within this hour bring me word’t is done, 

And by good testimony, or I ’ll seize thy life, 
With what thou else call’st thine. If thou 
refuse 

And wilt encounter with my wrath, say so ; 

The bastard brains with these my proper hands 
Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire ; i« 
For thou set’st on thy wife. 

Ant. I did not, sir. 

These lords, my noble fellows, if they please, 
Can clear me in’t. 

Lords. We can. My royal liege, 

He is not guilty of her coming hither. 145 

Leon. You ’re liars all. 

1 . Lord. Beseech your Highness, give us 
better credit. 

We have always truly serv’d you, and beseech 
So to esteem of us, and on our knees we beg, 

As recompense of our dear services iso 

Past and to come, that you do change this pur¬ 
pose, 

Which being so horrible, so bloody, must 
Lead on to some foul issue. We all kneel. 

Leon. I am a feather for each wind that 
blows. 

Shall I live on to see this bastard kneel iss 
And call me father ? Better burn it now 
Than curse it then. But be it; let it live. 

It shall not neither. You, sir, come you hither ; 
You that have been so tenderly officious 
With Lady Margery, your midwife there, iso 
To save this bastard’s life, — for ’tis a bastard, 


So sure as this beard’s gray, — what will you 
adventure 

To save this brat’s life ? 

Ant. Anything, my lord, 

That my ability may undergo 
And nobleness impose ; at least thus much: 186 
I ’ll pawn the little blood which I have left 
To save the innocent. Anything possible. 

Leon. It shall be possible. Swear by this 
sword 

Thou wilt perform my bidding. 

Ant. I will, my lord. 

Leon. Mark and perform it; see’st thou ? 
for the fail 170 

Of any point in’t shall not only be 
Death to thyself but to thy lewd-tongu’d wife, 
Whom for this time we pardon. We enjoin 
thee, 

As thou art liege-man to us, that thou carry 
This female bastard hence, and that thou bear 

it 175 

To some remote and desert place quite out 
Of our dominions, and that there thou leave it, 
Without more mercy, to it own protection 
And favour of the climate. As by strange 
fortune 

It came to us, I do in justice charge thee, iso 
On thy soul’s peril and thy body’s torture, 

That thou commend it strangely to some place 
Where chance may nurse or end it. Take it up. 
Ant. I swear to do this, though a present 
death 

Had been more merciful. Come on, poor 
babe. iss 

Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and 
ravens 

To be thy nurses ! Wolves and bears, they say, 
Casting their savageness aside, have done 
Like offices of pity. Sir, be prosperous 
In more than this deed does require ! And 
blessing is>o 

Against this cruelty fight on thy side, 

Poor thing, condemn’d to loss ! 

[Exit [with the babe], 
Leon. No, I ’ll not rear 

Another’s issue. 

Enter a Servant. 

Serv. Please your Highness, posts 

From those you sent to the oracle are come 
An hour since. Cleomenes and Dion, 195 

Being well arriv’d from Delphos, are both 
landed, 

Hasting to the court. 

[ 7 .] Lord. So please you, sir, their speed 
Hath been beyond accompt. 

Leon. Twenty-three days 

They have been absent; ’t is good speed ; fore¬ 
tells 

The great Apollo suddenly will have 20# 

The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords; 
Summon a session, that we may arraign 
Our most disloyal lady, for, as she hath 
Been publicly accus’d, so shall she have 
A just and open trial. While she lives 205 

My heart will be a burden to me. Leave me, 
And think upon my bidding. [ Exeunt. 





III. 11. 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


43 i 


ACT III 

Scene I. [A street in a Sicilian town.] 

Enter Cleomenes and Dion. 

Cleo. The climate’s delicate, the air most 
sweet, 

Fertile the isle, the temple much surpassing 
The common praise it bears. 

Dion. I shall report, 

For most it caught me, the celestial habits, 
Methiuks I so should term them, and the 
reverence s 

Of the grave wearers. 0 , the sacrifice ! 

How ceremonious, solemn, and unearthly 
It was i’ the offering ! 

Cleo. But of all, the burst 

And the ear-deaf’ning voice o’ the oracle, 

Kin to Jove’s thunder, so surpris’d my sense, 10 
That I was nothing. 

Dion. If the event o’ the journey 

Prove as successful to the Queen, — 0 be ’t 
so! — 

As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy, 
The time is worth the use on’t. 

Cleo. Great Apollo 

Turn all to the best! These proclamations, ns 
So forcing faults upon Hermione, 

I little like. 

Dion. The violent carriage of it 
Will clear or end the business. When the oracle, 
Thus by Apollo’s great divine seal’d up, 

Shall the contents discover, something rare so 
Even then will rush to knowledge. Go ; fresh 
horses 1 

And gracious be the issue ! [ Exeunt. 

Scene II. [Sicilia. A place of justice.] 
Enter Leontes, Lords, and Officers. 

Leon. This sessions (to our great grief we 
pronounce) 

Even pushes ’gainst our heart, — the party tried 
The daughter of a king, our wife, and one 
Of us too much belov’d. Let us be clear’d 
Of being tyrannous, since we so openly 8 

Proceed in justice, which shall have due course 
Even to the guilt or the purgation. 

Produce the prisoner. 

Off. It is his Highness’ pleasure that the 
Queen 

Appear in person here in court. Silence ! 10 

[Enter Hermione (as to her trial ); Paulina 
and Ladies attending.] 

Leon. Read the indictment. 

Off. [Reads.] “ Hermione, Queen to the wor¬ 
thy Leontes, King of Sicilia, thou art here ac¬ 
cused and arraigned of high treason, in com¬ 
mitting adultery with Polixenes, King of Bohe¬ 
mia, and conspiring with Camillo to take [ic 
away the life of our sovereign lord the King, 
thy royal husband : the pretence whereof being 
by circumstances partly laid open, thou, Her¬ 
mione, contrary to the faith and allegiance of 
a true subject, didst counsel and aid them, for 
their better safety, to fly away by night.” 22 


Her. Since what I am to say must be but 
that 

Which contradicts my accusation, and 
The testimony on my part no other 25 

But what comes from myself, it shall scarce 
boot me 

To say “Not guilty.” Mine integrity 
Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it, 
Be so receiv’d. But thus: — If powers divine 
Behold our human actions, as they do, so 

I doubt not then but innocence shall make 
False accusation blush, and tyranny 
Tremble at patience. You, my lox-d, best know, 
(Whom least will seem to do so,) my past 
life 

Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true, ss 
As I am now unhappy ; which is more 
Than history can pattern, though devis’d 
And play’d to take spectators. For behold me, 
A fellow of the royal bed, which owe 
A moiety of the throne, a great king’s daugh¬ 
ter, 40 

The mother to a hopeful prince, here standing 
To prate and talk for life and honour ’fore 
Who please to come and hear. For life, I 
prize it 

As I weigh grief, which I would spare ; for 
honour, 

’T is a derivative from me to mine, 45 

And only that I stand for. I appeal 
To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes 
Came to your court, how I was in your grace, 
How merited to be so ; since he came, 

With what encounter so uncurrent I bo 

Have strain’d to appear thus ; if one jot be¬ 
yond 

The bound of honour, or in act or will 
That way inclining, hard’ned be the hearts 
Of all that hear me, and my near’st of kin 
Cry fie upon my grave ! 

Leon. I ne’er heard yet bs 

That any of these bolder vices wanted 
Less impudence to gainsay what they did 
Than to perform it first. 

Her. That’s true enough ; 

Though ’tis a saying, sir, not due to me. 

Leon. You will not own it. 

Her. More than mistress of 

Which comes to me in name of fault, I must 
not 61 

At all acknowledge. For Polixenes, 

With whom I am accus’d, I do confess 
I lov’d him as in honour he requir’d, 

With such a kind of love as might become 6 s 

A lady like me, with a love even such, 

So and no other, as yourself commanded ; 
Which not to have done I think had been 
in me 

Both disobedience and ingratitude 
To you and toward your friend, whose love had 
spoke, 2# 

Even since it could speak, from an infant, 
freely 

That it was yours. Now, for conspiracy, 

I know not how it tastes ; though it be dish’d 

For me to try how. All I know of it 

Is that Camillo was an honest man ; ™ 




43 2 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


III. ii. 


And why he left your court, the gods them¬ 
selves, 

Wotting no more than I, are ignorant. 

Leon. You knew of his departure, as you 
know 

What you have underta’en to do in’s absence. 

Her. Sir, 80 

You speak a language that I understand not. 
My life stands in the level of your dreams, 
Wnich I ’ll lay down. 

Leon. Your actions are my dreams ; 

You had a bastard by Polixenes, 

And I but dream’d it. As you were past all 
shame, — 85 

Those of your fact are so, — so past all truth, 
Which to deny concerns more than avails; 
for as 

Thy brat hath been cast out, like to itself, 

No father owning it, — which is, indeed, 

More criminal in thee than it, — so thou " 

Shalt feel our justice, in whose easiest pas¬ 
sage 

Look for no less than death. 

Her. Sir, spare your threats. 

The bug which you would fright me with I 
seek ; 

To me can life be no commodity. 

The crown and comfort of my life, your 
favour, 95 

I do give lost; for I do feel it gone, 

But know not how it went. My second joy 
And first-fruits of my body, from his presence 
I am barr’d, like one infectious. My third 
comfort, 

Starr’d most unluckily, is from my breast, ioo 

The innocent milk in it most innocent mouth, 
Hal'd out to murder ; myself on every post 
Proclaim’d a strumpet; with immodest hatred 
The child-bed privilege deni’d, which longs 
To women of all fashion ; lastly, hurried ioo 
Here to this place, i’ the open air, before 
I have got strength of limit. Now, ray liege, 
Tell me what blessings I have here alive, 

That I should fear to die ? Therefore proceed. 
But yet hear this: mistake me not; no life, no 
I prize it not a straw, but for mine honour, 
Which I would free, — if I shall be condemn’d 
Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else 
But what your jealousies awake, I tell you 
’T is rigour and not law. Your honours all, ns 
I do refer me to the oracle : 

Apollo be my judge ! 

[ 2 .] Lord. This your request 

Is altogether just; therefore bring forth, 

And in Apollo’s name, his oracle. 

[Exeunt certain Officers.] 
Her. The Emperor of Russia was my father : 
O that he were alive, and here beholding m 
His daughter’s trial! that he did but see 
The flatness of my misery, yet with eyes 
Of pity, not revenge ! 

[Re-enter Officers, with Cleomenes and 
Dion.] 

Off. You here shall swear upon this sword 
of justice, 125 

That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have 


Been both at Delphos, and from thence have 
brought 

This seal’d-up oracle, by the hand deliver’d 
Of great Apollo’s priest, and that since then 
You have not dar’d to break the holy seal is® 
Nor read the secrets in’t. 

Cleo. Dion. All this we swear. 

Ijeon. Break up the seals and read. 

Off. [Reads.] “ Hermione is chaste; Polixenes 
blameless ; Camillo a true subject; Leontes a 
jealous tyrant; his innocent babe truly begot¬ 
ten ; and the King shall live without an heir, 
if that which is lost be not found.” 187 

Lords. Now blessed be the great Apollo ! 
Her. Praised! 

Leon. Hast thou read truth ? 

Off. Ay, my lord ; even so 

As it is here set down. 140 

Leon. There is no truth at all i’ the oracle. 
The sessions shall proceed ; this is mere false¬ 
hood. 


[Enter a Servant.] 

Serv. My lord the King, the King ! 

Leon. What is the business ? 

Serv. 0 sir, I shall be hated to report it! 

The Prince your son, with mere conceit and 
fear 145 

Of the Queen’s speed, is gone. 

Leon. How ! gone ? 

Serv. Is dead. 

Leon. Apollo’s angry ; and the heavens them¬ 
selves 

Do strike at my injustice. [Hermione swoons .] 
How now there! 

Paul. This news is mortal to the Queen. 

■ Look down 1 49 

And see what Death is doing. 

Leon. Take her hence; 

Her heart is but o’ercharg’d ; she will recover. 

I have too much believ’d mine own suspicion. 
Beseech you, tenderly apply to her 
Some remedies for life. 

[Exeunt Paulina and Ladies , with 
Hermione.] 

Apollo, pardon 

My great profaneness ’gainst thine oracle ! 156 

I ’ll reconcile me to Polixenes, 

New woo my queen, recall the good Camillo, 
Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy ; 
For, being transported by my jealousies 
To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose ieo 
Camillo for the minister to poison 
My friend Polixenes ; which had been done, 
But that the good mind of Camillo tardied 
My swift command, though I with death and 
with 

Reward did threaten and encourage him, i«> 
Not doing’t and being done. He, most hu¬ 
mane 

And fill’d with honour, to my kingly guest 
Unclasp’d my practice, quit his fortunes here, 
Which you knew great, and to the hazard 
Of all incertainties himself commended, 170 
No richer than his honour. How he glisters 
Through my [dark] rust! And how his piety 
Does my deeds make the blacker! 





III. iii. 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


433 


[Re-enter Paulina.] 

Paul. Woe the while ! 

O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it, 
Break too ! 

[i.] Lord. What fit is this, good lady ? i?b 
Paul. What studied torments, tyrant, hast 
for me ? 

What wheels ? racks ? fires ? What flaying ? 
boiling 

In leads or oils ? What old or newer torture 
Must I receive, whose every word deserves 
To taste of thy most worst ? Thy tyranny iso 
Together working with thy jealousies, 

Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle 
For girls of nine, O, think what they have done 
And then run mad indeed, stark mad ! for all 
Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it. isb 
T hat thou betray’dst Polixenes, ’t was no¬ 
thing ; 

That did but show thee of a fool, inconstant 
And damnable ingrateful: nor was ’t much. 
Thou wouldst have poison’d good Camillo’s 
honour. 

To have him kill a king ; poor trespasses, iso 
More monstrous standing by ; whereof I reckon 
The casting forth to crows thy baby-daughter 
To be or none or little, though a devil 
Would have shed water out of fire ere done ’t: 
Nor is’t directly laid to thee, the death iob 
O f the young Prince, whose honourable thoughts, 
Thoughts high for one so tender, cleft the 
heart 

That could conceive a gross and foolish sire 
Blemish’d his gracious dam ; this is not, no, 
Laid to thy answer : but the last, — 0 lords, 200 
When I have said, cry “ Woe ! ” — the Queen, 
the Queen, 

The sweet’st, dear’st creature’s dead, and ven¬ 
geance for’t 
Not dropp’d down yet. 

[ 7 .] Lord. The higher powers forbid ! 

Raul. I say she’s dead ; I ’ll swear’t. If 
word nor oath 

Prevail not, go and see. If you can bring 205 
Tincture or lustre in her lip, her eye, 

Heat outwardly or breath within, I’ll serve you 
As I would do the gods. But, 0 thou tyrant! 
Do not repent these things, for they are heavier 
Than all thy woes can stir; therefore betake 
thee 210 

To nothing but despair. A thousand knees 
Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting, 
Upon a barren mountain, and still winter 
In storm perpetual, could not move the gods 
To look that way thou wert. 

Leon. Go on, go on ; 215 

Thou canst not speak too much. I have de¬ 
serv’d 

All tongues to talk their bitt’rest. 

[l.] Lord. Say no more. 

Howe’er the business goes, you have made 
fault 

I’ the boldness of your speech. 

Paul. I am sorry for’t. 

All faults I make, when I shall come to know 
them, 220 


I do repent. Alas ! I have sliow’d too much 
The rashness of a woman ; he is touch’d 
To the noble heart. What’s gone and what’s 
past help 

Should be past grief. Do not receive affliction 
At my petition ; I beseech you, rather 225 

Let me be punish’d, that have minded you 
Of what you should forget. Now, good my 
liege. 

Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman. 

The love I bore your queen — lo, fool again ! — 
I ’ll speak of her no more, nor of your chil¬ 
dren ; 230 

I ’ll not remember you of my own lord, 

Who is lost too. Take your patience to you, 
And I ’Rsay nothing. 

Leon. Thou didst speak but well 

When most the truth ; which I receive much 
better 

Than to be pitied of thee. Prithee, bring 
me 235 

To the dead bodies of my queen and son. 

One grave shall be for both ; upon them shall 
The causes of their death appear, unto 
Our shame perpetual. Once a day I ’ll visit 
The chapel where they lie, and tears shed 
there 240 

Shall be my recreation. So long as nature 
Will bear up with this exercise, so long 
I daily vow to use it. Come and lead me 
To these sorrows. [Exeunt. 

Scene III. [Bohemia. A desert country near 
the sea.] 

Enter Antigonus, with the Babe, and a Mar¬ 
iner. 

Ant. Thou art perfect then, our ship hath 
touch’d upon 
The deserts of Bohemia ? 

Mar. Ay, my lord ; and fe'ar 

We have landed in ill time : the skies loc 4 t 
grimly 

And threaten present blusters. In my con¬ 
science, 

The heavens with that we have in hand are 
angry e 

And frown upon’s. 

Ant. Their sacred wills be done I Go, get 
aboard; 

Look to thy bark. I ’ll not be long before 
I call upon thee. 

Mar. Make your best haste, and go not 1# 
Too far i’ the land; ’t is like to be loud 
weather. 

Besides, this place is famous for the creatures 
Of prey that keep upon’t. 

Ant. Go thou away ; 

I ’ll follow instantly. 

Mar. I am glad at heart 

To be so rid o’ the business. [Exit. 

Ant. Come, poor babe. 

I have heard, but not believ’d, the spirits o’ 
the dead i« 

May walk again. If such thing be, thy mother 
Appear’d to me last night, for ne’er was dream 
So like a waking. To me comes a creature, 




434 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


nr. iii. 


Sometimes her head on one side, some another ; 
I never saw a vessel of like sorrow, 21 

So fill’d and so becoming ; in pure white robes, 
Like very sanctity, she did approach 
My cabin where I lay ; thrice bow’d before me, 
And, gasping to begin some speech, her eyes 25 
Became two spouts ; the fury spent, anon 
Did this break from her : “ Good Antigonus, 
Since fate, against thy better disposition, 

Hath made thy person for the thrower-out 
Of my poor babe, according to thine oath, so 
Places remote enough are in Bohemia, 

There weep and leave it crying; and, for the 
babe 

Is counted lost for ever, Perdita, 

I prithee, call’t. For this ungentle business, 
Put on thee by my lord, thou ne’er shalt see 35 
Thy wife Paulina more.” And so, with shrieks, 
She melted into air. Affrighted much, 

I did in time collect myself and thought 
This was so, and no slumber. Dreams are toys ; 
Yet for this once, yea, superstitiously, 40 

I will be squar’d by this. I do believe 
Hermione hath suffer’d death, and that 
Apollo would, this being indeed the issue 
Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid, 
Either for life or death, upon the earth 45 

Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well! 
There lie, and there thy character ; there 
these, 

Which may, if Fortune please, both breed thee, 
pretty, 

[.Laying down the babe , with a paper 
and a bundle .] 

And still rest thine. The storm begins, poor 
wretch, 

That for thy mother’s fault art thus expos’d so 
To loss and what may follow ! Weep I cannot, 
But my heart bleeds ; and most accurs’d am I 
Tp be by oath enjoin’d to this. Farewell! 

The day frowns more and more ; thou ’rt like to 
» have 

A lullaby too rough. I never saw ss 

The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour! 
Well may I get aboard ! This is the chase ; 

I am gone for ever. [Exit, pursued by a bear. 

[Enter a Shepherd.] 

Shep. I would there were no age between ten 
and three-and-twenty, or that youth would [eo 
sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the 
between but getting wenches with child, wrong¬ 
ing the ancientry, stealing, fighting — [Horns.] 
Hark you now ! Would any but these boil’d 
brains of nineteen and two-and-twenty hunt 
this weather ? They have scar’d away two of [es 
my best sheep, which I fear the wolf will sooner 
find than the master. If anywhere I have them, 
’t is by the seaside, browsing of ivy. Good luck, 
an’t be thy will ! what have we here ? Mercy 
on’s, a barne ; a very pretty barne ! A boy [to 
or a child, I wonder ? A pretty one ; a very 
pretty one : sure, some scape. Though I am 
not bookish, yet I can read waiting-gentlewo¬ 
man in the scape. This has been some stair- 
work, some trunk-work, some behind-door- [ts 
work; they were warmer that got this than the 


poor thing is here. I ’ll take it up for pity: yet 
I ’ll tarry till my son come ; he halloo’d but 
even now. Whoa, ho, hoa ! 

Enter Clown. 

Clo. Hilloa, loa ! so 

Shep. What, art so near ? If thou ’It see a 
thing to talk on when thou art dead and rotten, 
come hither. What ail’st thou, man ? sa 

Clo. I have seen two such sights, by sea and 
by land ! But I am not to say it is a sea, for it 
is now the sky ; betwixt the firmament and it 
you cannot thrust a bodkin’s point. 

Shep. Why, boy, how is it ? ss 

Clo. I would you did but see how it chafes, 
how it rages, how it takes up the shore ! But 
that ’s not to the point. O, the most piteous 
cry of the poor souls! Sometimes to see ’em, 
and not to see ’em; now the ship boring the 
moon with her mainmast, and anon swallowed 
with yeast and froth, as you’d thrust a cork 
into a hogshead. And then for the land-ser- [96 
vice, to see how the bear tore out his shoulder- 
bone ; how he cried to me for help and said his 
name was Antigonus, a nobleman. But to make 
an end of the ship, to see how the sea flap* 
dragon’d it; but, first, how the poor souls [100 
roared, and the sea mock’d them ; and how 
the poor gentleman roared and the bear mock’d 
him, both roaring louder than the sea or wea¬ 
ther. 104 

Shep. Name of mercy, when was this, boy ? 
Clo. Now, now ; I have not wink’d since I 
saw these sights. The men are not yet cold 
under water, nor the bear half din’d on the 
gentleman. He’s at it now. 109 

Shep. Would I had been by, to have help’d 
the old man! 

Clo. I would you had been by the ship side, 
to have help’d her; there your charity would 
have lack’d footing. 114 

Shep. Heavy matters ! heavy matters ! But 

look thee here, boy. Now bless thyself; thou 
met’st with things dying, I with things new¬ 
born. Here’s a sight for thee; look thee, a 
bearing-cloth for a squire’s child! Look thee 
here ; take up, take up, boy ; open’t. So, let’s 
see. It was told me I should be rich by the 
fairies. This is some changeling; open’t. 
What’s within, boy ? 123 

Clo. You ’re a made old man ; if the sins of 
your youth are forgiven you, you ’re well to 
live. Gold ! all gold ! 126 

Shep. This is fairy gold, boy, and ’twill 
prove so. Up with’t, keep it close. Home, 
home, the next way. We are lucky, boy ; and 
to be so still requires nothing but secrecy. Let 
my sheep go. Come, good boy, the next way 
home. 131 

Clo. Go you the next way with your find¬ 
ings. I ’ll go see if the bear be gone from the 
gentleman and how much he hath eaten. They 
are never curst but when they are hungry. If 
there be any of him left, I ’ll bury it. 136 

Shep. That’s a good deed. If thou mayest 
discern by that which is left of him what he is, 
fetch me to the sight of him. 




THE WINTER’S TALE 


435 


IV. iii. 


Clo. Marry, will I; and you shall help to put 
him i’ the ground. hi 

Shep. ’T is a lucky day, boy, and we ’ll do 
good deeds on’t. [Exeunt. 

ACT IV 
Scene I. 

Enter Time, the Chorus. 

Time. I, that please some, try all, both joy 
and terror 

Of good and bad, that makes and unfolds error, 
Now take upon me, in the name of Time, 

To use my wings. Impute it not a crime 
To me or my swift passage, that I slide r, 

O’er sixteen years and leave the growth untri’d 
Of that wide gap, since it is in my power 
To o’erthrow law and in one self-born hour 
To plant and o’erwhelm custom. Let me pass 
The same I am, ere ancient’st order was 10 
Or what is now receiv’d. I witness to 
The times that brought them in ; so shall I do 
To the freshest things now reigning, and make 
stale 

The glistering of this present, as my tale 
Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing, is 
I turn my glass and give my scene such grow¬ 
ing 

As you had slept between. Leontes leaving, 
The effects of his fond jealousies so grieving 
That he shuts up himself, imagine me, 

Gentle spectators, that I now may be 20 

In fair Bohemia ; and remember well, 

I mentioned a son o’ the King’s, which Florizel 
I now name to you; and with speed so pace 
To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace 
Equal with wond’ring. What of her ensues 25 
I list not prophesy ; but let Time’s news 
Be known when ’t is brought forth. A shep¬ 
herd’s daughter, 

And what to her adheres, which follows after, 
Is the argument of Time. Of this allow, 

If ever you have spent time worse ere now; 30 
If never, yet that Time himself doth say 
He wishes earnestly you never may. [Exit. 

Scene II. [Bohemia. The palace of Polixenes.] 
Enter Polixenes and Camillo. 

Pol. I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more 
importunate. ’T is a sickness denying thee any¬ 
thing ; a death to grant this. . 3 

Cam. It is fifteen years since I saw my 
country ; though I have for the most part been 
aired abroad, I desire to lay my bones there. 
Besides, the penitent king, my master, hath 
sent for me ; to whose feeling sorrows I might 
be some allay, or I o’erween to think so, which 
is another spur to my departure. 10 

Pol. As thou lov’st me, Camillo, wipe not 
out the rest of thy services by leaving me now. 
The need I have of thee thine own goodness 
hath made. Better not to have had thee than 
thus to want thee. Thou, having made me [is 
businesses which none without thee can suffi¬ 
ciently manage, must either stay to execute 


them thyself or take away with thee the very 
services thou hast done; which if I have not 
enough considered, (as too much I cannot,) to 
be more thankful to thee shall be my study, [20 
and my profit therein the heaping friendships. 
Of that fatal country, Sicilia, prithee speak no 
more; whose very naming punishes me with 
the remembrance of that penitent, as thou 
call’st him, and reconciled king, my brother ; [26 
whose loss of his most precious queen and chil¬ 
dren are even now to be afresh lamented. Say 
to me, when saw’st thou the Prince Florizel, 
my son ? Kings are no less unhappy, their issue 
not being gracious, than they are in losing them 
when they have approved their virtues. 32 
Cam. Sir, it is three days since I saw the 
Prince. What his happier affairs may be, are 
to me unknown: but I have missingly noted, 
he is of late much retired from court and is 
less frequent to his princely exercises than 
formerly he hath appeared. 3» 

Pol. I have considered so much, Camillo, 
and with some care; so far that I have eyes 
under my service which look upon his remov¬ 
edness ; from whom I have this intelligence, 
that he is seldom from the house of a most 
homely shepherd, a man, they say, that from 
very nothing, and beyond the imagination of 
his neighbours, is grown into an unspeakable 
estate. 40 

Cam. I have heard, sir, of such a man, who 
hath a daughter of most rare note. The report 
of her is extended more than can be thought to 
begin from such a cottage. so 

Pol. That’s likewise part of my intelli¬ 
gence ; but, I fear, the angle that plucks our 
son thither. Thou shalt accompany us to the 
place; where we will, not appearing what we 
are, have some question with the shepherd ; 
from whose simplicity I think it not uneasy to [se 
get the cause of my son’s resort thither. Pri¬ 
thee, be my present partner in this business, 
and lay aside the thoughts of Sicilia. 

Cam. I willingly obey your command. go 
Pol. My best Camillo! We must disguise 
ourselves. [Exeunt. 

Scene III. [A road near the Shepherd's cottage.'] 
Enter Autolycus [very ragged ], singing. 

“ When daffodils begin to peer, 

With heigh ! the doxy over the dale, 

Why, then comes in the sweet o] the year; 

For the red blood reigns in the winter’s 
pale. 

“The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, s 
With heigh! the sweet birds, 0 , how they 
sing! 

Doth set my pugging tooth on edge ; 

For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. 

“ The lark, that tirra-lyra chants, 

With heigh ! [with heigh !] the thrush and 
the jay, 

Are summer songs for me and my aunts, 

While we lie tumbling in the hay.” 





436 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


IV. iii. 


I have serv’d Prince Florizel, and in my time 
wore three-pile ; but now I am out of service. 

“ But shall I go mourn for that, my dear ? is 
The pale moon shines by night; 

And when I wander here and there, 

I then do most go right. 

“ If tinkers may have leave to live, 

, And bear the sow-skin budget, 20 

Then my account I well may give, 

And in the stocks avouch it.” 

My traffic is sheets ; when the kite builds, look 
to lesser linen. My father nam’d me Autolycus, 
who being, as I am, litter’d under Mercury, 
was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered [25 
trifles. With die and drab I purchas’d this 
caparison, and my revenue is the silly cheat. 
Gallows and knock are too powerful on the 
highway ; beating and hanging are terrors to 
me ; for the life to come, I sleep out the 
thought of it. A prize ! a prize ! 32 

Enter Clown. 

Clo. Let me see: every ’leven wether tods ; 
every tod yields pound and odd shilling ; fifteen 
hundred shorn, what comes the wool to? 

Aut. [ Aside.] If the springe hold, the cock’s 
mine. 37 

Clo. I cannot do’t without counters. Let 
me see : what am I to buy for our sheep-shear¬ 
ing feast ? Three pound of sugar, five pound 
of currants, rice, — what will this sister of [40 
mine do with rice ? But my father hath made 
her mistress of the feast, and she lays it on. 
She hath made me four-and-twenty nosegays 
for the shearers, three-man song-men all, and 
very good ones ; but they are most of them [45 
means and bases ; but one puritan amongst 
them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. I 
must have saffron to colour the warden pies ; 
mace ; dates — none, that’s out of my note ; 
nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger, but 
that I may beg ; four pounds of prunes, and as 
many of raisins o’ the sun. 52 

Aut. 0 that ever I was born ! 

[Grovelling on the ground.'] 
Clo. I’ the name of me — 

Aut. 0 , help me, help me ! Pluck but off 
these rags, and then, death, death ! B 6 

Clo. Alack, poor soul! thou hast need of 
more rags to lay on thee, rather than have 
these off. 

Aut. 0 sir, the loathsomeness of them offend 
me more than the stripes I have received, which 
are mighty ones and millions. 

Clo. Alas, poor man ! a million of beating 
may come to a great matter. 

Aut. I am robb’d, sir, and beaten ; my money 
and apparel ta’en from me, and these detestable 
things put upon me. 66 

Clo. What, by a horseman, or a footman ? 
Aut. A footman, sweet sir, a footman. 

Clo. Indeed, he should be a footman by the 
arments he has left with thee. If this be a 
orseman’s coat, it hath seen very hot service. 


Lend me thy hand, I ’ll help thee. Come, lend 
me thy hand. 7S 

Aut. 0 , good sir, tenderly, 0 ! 

Clo. Alas, poor soul! 

Aut. O, good sir, softly, good sir ! I fear, 
sir, my shoulder-blade is out. ” 

Clo. How now ! canst stand ? 

Aut. Softly, dear sir; [picking his pocket 1 
good sir, softly. You ha’ done me a charitable 
office. 

Clo. Dost lack any money? I have a little 
money for thee. *3 

Aut. No, good sweet sir ; no, I beseech you, 
sir. I have a kinsman not past three quarters 
of a mile hence, unto whom I was going. I 
shall there have money, or anything I want. 
Offer me no money, I pray you ; that kills my 
heart. 

Clo. What manner of fellow was he that 
robb’d you ? 90 

Aut. A fellow, sir, that I have known to go 
about with troll-my-dames. I knew him once a 
servant of the Prince. I cannot tell, good sir, 
for which of his virtues it was, but he was 
certainly whipp’d out of the court. 

Clo. His vices, you would say ; there’s no 
virtue whipp’d out of the court. They cherish 
it to make it stay there ; and yet it will no more 
but abide. 

Aut. Vices, I would say, sir. I know this 
man well. He hath been since an ape-bearer; 
then a process-server, a bailiff; then he com¬ 
pass’d a motion of the Prodigal Son, and mar¬ 
ried a tinker’s wife within a mile where my 
land and living lies; and, having flown over 
many knavish professions, he settled only in 
rogue. Some call him Autolycus. 107 

Clo. Out upon him ! prig, for my life, prig. 
He haunts wakes, fairs, and bear-baitings. 

Aut. Very true, sir ; he, sir, he. That’s the 
rogue that put me into this apparel. m 

Clo. Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bo¬ 
hemia. If you had but look’d big and spit at 
him, he’d have run. 

Aut. I must confess to you, sir, I am no 
fighter. I am false of heart that way ; and that 
he knew, I warrant him. 117 

Clo. How do you now ? 

Aut. Sweet sir, much better than I was ; I 
can stand and walk. I will even take my leave 
of you, and pace softly towards my kins¬ 
man’s. 12J 

Clo. Shall I bring thee on the way ? 

Aut. No, good-fac’d sir ; no, sweet sir. 

Clo. Then fare thee well. I must go buy 
spices for our sheep-shearing. [Exit. 120 

Aut. Prosper you, sweet sir ! — Your purse is 
not hot enough to purchase your spice. I ’ll be 
with you at your sheep-shearing too. If I make 
not this cheat bring out another and the shearers 
prove sheep, let me be unroll’d and my name 
put in the book of virtue ! isi 

(Sings.) “Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, 
And merrily hent the stile-a ; 

A merry heart goes all the day 

Your sad tires in a mile-a.” [Exit. ias 





IV. IV. 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


437 


Scene IV. [Bohemia. The Shepherd's cot¬ 
tage .] 

Enter Florizel and Perdita. 

Flo. These your unusual weeds to each part of 
you 

Does give a life ; no shepherdess, but Flora, 
Peering in April’s front. This your sheep¬ 
shearing 

Is as a meeting of the petty gods, 

And you the queen on’t. 

Per. Sir, my gracious lord, 

To chide at your extremes it not becomes me. e 
O, pardon, that I name them ! Your high self, 
The gracious mark o’ the land, you have 
obscur’d 

With a swain’s wearing, and me, poor lowly 
maid, 

Most goddess-like prank’d up. But that our 
feasts 10 

In every mess have folly, and the feeders 
Digest it with a custom, I should blush 
To see you so attir’d ; sworn, I think, 

To show myself a glass. 

Flo. I bless the time 

When my good falcon made her flight across u 
Thy father’s ground. 

Per. Now Jove afford you cause ! 

To me the difference forges dread ; your great¬ 
ness 

Hath not been us’d to fear. Even now I 
tremble 

To think your father, by some accident, 

Should pass this way as you did. 0 , the 
Fates! 20 

How would he look, to see his work so noble 
Vilely bound up ? What would he say ? Or how 
Should I, in these my borrowed flaunts, behold 
The sternness of his presence ? 

Flo. Apprehend 

Nothing but jollity. The gods themselves, 26 
Humbling their deities to love, have taken 
The shapes of beasts upon them. Jupiter 
Became a bull, and bellow’d ; the green Nep¬ 
tune 

A ram, and bleated ; and the fire-rob’d god, 
Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain, 30 

As I seem now. Their transformations 
Were never for a piece of beauty rarer, 

Nor in a way so chaste, since my desires 
Run not before mine honour, nor my lusts 
Burn hotter than my faith. 

Per. O, but, sir, 3 5 

Your resolution cannot hold, when ’tis 
Oppos’d, as it must be, by the power of the 
King. 

One of these two must be necessities, 

Which then will speak, that you must change 
this purpose, 

Or I my life. 

Flo. Thou dearest Perdita, 40 

With these forc’d thoughts, I prithee, darken 
not 

The mirth o’ the feast. Or I ’ll be thine my 
fair, 

Or not my father’s. For I cannot be 
Mine own, nor anything to any, if 


I be not thine. To this I am most constant, 41 
Though destiny say no. Be merry, gentle ! 
Strangle such thoughts as these with anything 
That you behold the while. Your guests are 
coming. 

Lift up your countenance, as it were the day 
Of celebration of that nuptial which en 

We two have sworn shall come. 

Per. O lady Fortune, 

Stand you auspicious! 

Flo. See, your guests approach. 

Address yourself to entertain them sprightly, 
And let’s be red with mirth, 

[Enter Shepherd, Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas, 
and others , with Polixenes ana Camillc 
disguised .] 

Shep. Fie, daughter ! when my old wife liv’d, 
upon ee 

This day she was both pan tier, butler, cook, 
Both dame and servant; welcom’d all, serv’d 
all; 

Would sing her song and dance her turn ; now 
here, 

At upper end o’ the table, now i’ the middle ; 
On his shoulder, and his ; her face o’ fire so 
With labour ; and the thing she took to quench 
it, 

She would to each one sip. You are retired, 

As if you were a feasted one and not 
The hostess of the meeting. Pray you, bid 64 
These unknown friends to’s welcome, for it is 
A way to make us better friends, more known. 
Come, quench your blushes, and present your¬ 
self 

That which you are, mistress o’ the feast. 
Come on, 

And hid us welcome to your sheep-shearing, 

As your good flock shall prosper. 

Per. [To Pol.] Sir, welcome. 

It is my father’s will I should take on me n 
The hostess-ship o’ the day. [To Cam.] You ’re 
welcome, sir. 

Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. Reverend 
sirs, 

For you there’s rosemary and rue ; these keep 
Seeming and savour all the winter long. 75 
Grace and remembrance be to you both, 

And welcome to our shearing! 

Pol. Shepherdess, — 

A fair one are you — well you fit our ages 
With flowers of winter. 

Per. Sir, the year growing ancient, 

Not yet on summer’s death, nor on the birth so 
Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o’ the 
season 

Are our carnations and streak’d gillyflowers, 
Which some call Nature’s bastards. Of that 
kind 

Our rustic garden’s barren ; and I care not 84 
To get slips of them. 

Pol. Wherefore, gentle maiden, 

Do you neglect them ? 

Per. For I have heard it said 

There is an art which in their piedness shares 
With great creating Nature. 

Pol. Say there be ; 







43» 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


IV. IV. 


Yet Nature is made better by no mean 
But Nature makes that mean ; so, over that 
art 80 

Which you say adds to Nature, is an art 
That Nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we 
marry 

A gentler scion to the wildest stock, 

And make conceive a bark of baser kind 
By bud of nobler race. This is an art 95 

Which does mend Nature, change it rather, but 
The art itself is Nature. 

Per. So it is. 

Pol. Then make your garden rich in gilly¬ 
flowers, 

And do not call them bastards. 

Per. I ’ll not put 

The dibble in earth to set one slip of them ; 100 
No more than were I painted I would wish 
This youth should say ’t were well, and only 
therefore 

Desire to breed by me. Here ’s flowers for you ; 
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; 

The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun ios 
And with him rises weeping. These are flowers 
Of middle summer, and I think they are given 
To men of middle age. You ’re very welcome. 
Cam. I should leave grazing, were I of your 
flock, 

And only live by gazing. 

Per. Out, alas 1 no 

You’d be so lean, that blasts of January 
Would blow you through and through. Now, 
my fair’st friend, 

I would I had some flowers o’ the spring that 
might 

Become your time of day; and yours, and yours, 
That wear upon your virgin branches yet ns 
Your maidenheads growing. O Proserpina, 

For the flowers now, that frighted thou let’st 
fall 

From Dis’s waggon ! daffodils, 

That come before the swallow dares, and take 
The winds of March with beauty ; violets dim, 
But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes m 
Or Cytherea’s breath ; pale primroses, 

That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
Bright Phoebus in his strength — a malady 
Most incident to maids ; bold oxlips and 125 
The crown imperial ; lilies of all kinds, 

The flower-de-luce being one ! O, these I lack, 
To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend, 
To strew him o’er and o’er ! 

Flo. What, like a corse ? 

Per. No, like a bank for love to lie and play 
on ; 130 

Not like a corse ; or if, not to be buried, 

But quick and in mine arms. Come, take your 
flowers. 

Methinks I play as I have seen them do 
In Whitsun pastorals. Sure this robe of mine 
Does change my disposition. 

Flo. What you do 135 

Still betters what is done. When you speak, 
sweet, 

I’d have you do it ever ; when you sing, 

I’d have you buy and sell so, so give alms, 
Pray so; and for the ord’ring your affairs, 


To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish 
you # 140 

A wave o’ the sea, that you might ever do 
Nothing but that; move still, still so, 

And own no other function. Each your doing, 
So singular in each particular, 

Crowns what you are doing in the present 
deeds, 145 

That all your acts are queens. 

Per. 0 Doricles, 

Your praises are too large. But that your 
youth, 

And the true blood which peeps [so] fairly 
through’t, 

Do plainly give you out an unstain’d shepherd, 
With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles, iso 

You woo’d me the false way. 

Flo. I think you have 

As little skill to fear as I have purpose 
To put you to ’t. But come ; our dance, I pray. 
Your hand, my Perdita. So turtles pair, 


That never mean to part. 

Per. I ’ll swear for ’em. 

Pol. This is the prettiest low-born lass that 
ever # 150 

Ran on the green-sward. Nothing she does or 
seems 

But smacks of something greater than herself, 
Too noble for this place. 

Cam. He tells her something 

That makes her blood look out. Good sooth, 
she is is® 

The queen of curds and cream. 

Clo. Come on, strike up ! 

Dor. Mopsa must be your mistress ; marry, 
garlic, 

To mend her kissing with ! 

Mop. Now, in good time I 

Clo. Not a word, a word ; we stand upon our 
manners. 

Come, strike up ! iss 

[Music. 1 Here a dance of Shepherds 
ana Shepherdesses. 

Pol. Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is 
this 

Which dances with your daughter ? 

Shep. They call him Doricles; and boasts 
himself 

To have a worthy feeding ; but I have it 
Upon his own report, and I believe it. no 

He looks like sooth. He says he loves my 
daughter. 

I think so too ; for never gaz’d the moon 
Upon the water as he ’ll stand and read, 

As’t were, my daughter’s eyes; and, to be plain, 
I think there is not half a kiss to choose ns 
Who loves another best. 

Pol. She dances featly. 

Shep. So she does anything, though I report 
it, 

That should be silent. If young Doricles 
Do light upon her, she shall bring him that 
Which he not dreams of. is# 


Enter a Servant. 

Serv. 0 master, if you did but hear the ped¬ 
lar at the door, you would never dance again 






IV. IV. 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


439 


after a tabor and pipe ; no, the bagpipe could not 
move you. He sings several tunes faster than 
you ’ll tell money. He utters them as he had 
eaten ballads and all men’s ears grew to his 
tunes. i 86 

Clo. He could never come better ; he shall 
come in. I love a ballad but.even too well, if it 
be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very 
pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably, mo 
Serv. He hath songs for man or woman, of 
all sizes; no milliner can so fit his customers 
with gloves. He has the prettiest love-songs for 
maids ; so without bawdry, which is strange ; 
with such delicate burdens of dildos and fad¬ 
ings, “jump her and thump her;” and [me 
where some stretch-mouth’d rascal would, as it 
were, mean mischief and break a foul gap into 
the matter, he makes the maid to answer, 
“ Whoop, do me no harm, good man ; ” puts 
him off, slights him, with “ Whoop, do me no 
harm, good man.” 201 

Pol. This is a brave fellow. 

Clo. Believe me, thou talkest of an admir¬ 
able conceited fellow. Has he any unbraided 
wares ? 204 

Serv. He hath ribbons of all the colours i’ the 
rainbow ; points more than all the lawyers in 
Bohemia can learnedly handle, though they 
come to him by the gross; inkles, caddises, 
cambrics, lawns. Why, he sings ’em over as 
they were gods or goddesses ; you would think 
a smock were a she-angel, he so chants to the 
sleeve-hand and the work about the square 
on’t. 212 

Clo. Prithee bring him in ; and let him ap¬ 
proach singing. 

Per. Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous 
words in’s tunes. [Exit Servant .] 216 

Clo. You have of these pedlars, that have 
more in them than you’d think, sister. 

Per. Ay, good brother, or go about to think. 

Enter Autolycus, singing. 

“ Lawn as white as driven snow ; 220 

Cypress black as e’er was crow ; 

Gloves as sweet as damask roses ; 

Masks for faces and for noses ; 

Bugle bracelet, necklace amber, 

Perfume for a lady’s chamber; 22s 

Golden quoifs and stomachers 
For my lads to give their dears ; 

Pins and poking-sticks of steel; 

What maids lack from head to heel. 

Come buy of me, come; come buy, come 
buy; 230 

Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry. 

Come buy.” 

Clo. If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou 
shouldst take no money of me; but being en¬ 
thrall’d as I am, it will also be the bondage of 
certain ribbons and gloves. 236 

Mop. I was promis’d them against the feast; 
but they come not too late now. 

Dor. He hath promis’d you more than that, 
or there be liars. 240 

Mop. He hath paid you all he promis d you. 


May be he has paid you more, which will shame 
you to give him again. 243 

Clo. Is there no manners left among maids ? 
Will they wear their plackets where they should 
bear their faces ? Is there not milking-time, 
when you are going to bed, or kiln-hole, to 
whistle off these secrets, but you must be tittle- 
tattling before all our guests? ’T is well they 
are whisp’ring. Clamour your tongues, and not 
a word more. 251 

Mop. I have done. Come, you promis’d me a 
tawdry-lace and a pair of sweet gloves. 

Clo. Have I not told thee how I was cozen’d 
by the way and lost all my money ? 255 

Aut. And indeed, sir, there are cozeners 

abroad ; therefore it behoves men to be wary. 

Clo. Fear not thou, man, thou shalt lose 
nothing here. 2M 

Aut. I hope so, sir; for I have about me 
many parcels of charge. 

Clo. What hast here ? Ballads ? 

Mop. Pray now, buy some. I love a ballad 
in print, o’ life, for then we are sure they are 
true. 264 

Aut. Here’s one to a very doleful tune, how 
a usurer’s wife was brought to bed of twenty 
money-bags at a burden, and how she long’d 
to eat adders’ heads and toads carbonado’d. 
Mop. Is it true, think you ? 

Aut. Very true, and but a month old. 270 

Dor. Bless me from marrying a usurer ! 

Aut. Here’s the midwife’s name to’t, one 
Mistress Tale-porter, and five or six honest 
wives that were present. Why should I carry 
lies abroad ? 275 

Mop. Pray you now, buy it. 

Clo. Come on, lay it by, and let’s first see 
moe ballads. We’ll buy the other things 

anon. 278 

Aut. Here’s another ballad of a fish that ap¬ 
peared upon the coast on Wednesday the four¬ 
score of April, forty thousand fathom above 
water, and sung this ballad against the hard 
hearts of maids. It was thought she was a 
woman and was turned into a cold fish for she 
would not exchange flesh with one that lov’d 
her. The ballad is very pitiful and as true. 286 
Dor. Is it true too, think you ? 

Aut. Five justices’ hands at it, and wit¬ 
nesses more than my pack will hold. 

Clo. Lay it by too. Another. 

Aut. This is a merry ballad, but a very 
pretty one. 292 

Mop. Let’s have some merry ones. 

Aut. Why, this is a passing merry one and 
goes to the tune of “ Two maids wooing a 
man.” There’s scarce a maid westward but 
she sings it. ’T is in request, I can tell you. 207 
Mop. We can both sing it. If thou’It bear 
a part, thou shalt hear. ’T is in three parts. 
Dor. We had the tune on’t a month ago. so* 
Aut. I can bear my part; you must know 
’t is my occupation. Have at it with you. 

Song. 

A. Get you hence, for I must go 
Where it fits not you to know. 





440 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


iv. iv. 


D. Whither? M. 0 , whither? D. Whither? 
M. It becomes thy oath full well, aoe 

Thou to me thy secrets tell. 

D. Me too, let me go thither. 

M. Or thou goest to the grange or mill. 

D. If to either, thou dost ill. 310 

A. Neither. D. What, neither ? A. Neither. 

J). Thou hast sworn my love to be. 

M. Thou hast sworn it more to me. 

Then whither goest ? Say, whither ? su 

Clo. We ’ll have this song out anon by our¬ 
selves. My father and the gentlemen are in 
sad talk, and we ’ll not trouble them. Come, 
bring away thy pack after me. Wenches, I’ll 
buy for you both. Pedlar, let’s have the first 
choice. Follow me, girls. 320 

[Exit with Dorcas and Mopsa .] 
Aut. And you shall pay well for ’em. 

“Will you buy any tape, 

Or lace for your cape, 

My dainty duck, my dear-a ? 

Any silk, any thread, 325 

Any toys for your head, 

Of the new’st and fin’st, fin’st wear-a? 
Come to the pedlar ; 

Money’s a meddler, 

That doth utter all men’s ware-a.” 330 

[Exit. 

[Re-enter Servant.] 

Serv. Master, there is three carters, three 
shepherds, three neat-herds, three swine-herds, 
that have made themselves all men of hair. 
They call themselves Saltiers; and they have 
a dance which the wenches say is a gallimaufry 
of gambols, because they are not in’t; but [335 
they themselves are o’ the mind, if it be not 
too rough for some that know little but bowl¬ 
ing, it will please plentifully. 339 

Shep. Away! we ’ll none on’t. Here has 
been too much homely foolery already. I 
know, sir, we weary you. 

Pol. You weary those that refresh us. 
Pray, let’s see these four threes of herds¬ 
men. 344 

Serv. One three of them, by their own re¬ 
port, sir, hath danc’d before the King; and 
not the worst of the three but jumps twelve 
foot and a half by the squire. 

Shep. Leave your prating. Since these good 
men are pleas’d, let them come in ; but quickly 
now. 35i 

Serv. Why, they stay at door, sir. [Exit.] 

Here a dance of twelve Satyrs. 

Pol. 0 , father, you ’ll know more of that 
hereafter. 

[To Cam.] Is it not too far gone ? ’T is time 
to part them. 

He’s simple and tells much. [To Flor.] How 
now, fair shepherd 1 355 

Your heart is full of something that does 
take 

Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was 
young 

And handed love as you do, I was wont 


To load my she with knacks. I would have 
ransack’d 

The pedlar’s silken treasury and have pour’d 
it . 

To her acceptance ; you have let him go 
And nothing marted with him. If your lass 
Interpretation should abuse and call this 
Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited 
For a reply ; at least if you make a care 365 
Of happy holding her. 

Flo. Old sir, I know 

She prizes not such trifles as these are. 

The gifts she looks from me are pack’d and 
lock’d 

Up in my heart; which I have given already, 
But not deliver’d. 0 , hear me breathe my 
life 370 

Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem. 
Hath sometime lov’d ! I take thy hand, this 
hand. 

As soft as dove’s down and as white as it, 

Or Ethiopian’s tooth, or the fann’d snow that’s 
bolted # 374 

By the northern blasts twice o’er. 

Pol. What follows this ? 

How prettily the young swain seems to wash 
The hand was fair before ! I have put you out. 
But to your protestation ; let me hear 
What you profess. 

Flo. Do, and be witness to’t. 

Pol. And this my neighbour too ? 

Flo. And he, and more 

Than he, and men, the earth, the heavens, and 
all: 38 i 

That, were I crown’d the most imperial 
monarch, 

Thereof most worthy, were I the fairest youth 
That ever made eye swerve, had force and 
knowledge 

More than was ever man’s, I would not prize 
them 385 

Without her love ; for her employ them all; 
Commend them and condemn them to her 
service 

Or to their own perdition. 

Pol. Fairly offer’d. 

Cam. This shows a sound affection. 

Shep. But, my daughter, 

Say you the like to him ? 

Per. I cannot speak soo 

So well, nothing so well; no, nor mean better. 
By the pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out 
The purity of his. 

Shep. Take hands, a bargain ! 

And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness 
to’t: 

I give my daughter to him, and will make 395 
Her portion equal his. 

Flo. 0 , that must be 

I’ the virtue of your daughter. One being dead, 
I shall have more than you can dream of yet. 
Enough then for your wonder. But, come on, 
Contract us ’fore these witnesses. 

Shep. Come, your hand ; 404 

And, daughter, yours. 

Pol. Soft, swain, a while, beseech you. 

Have you a father ? 





IV. IV. 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


44i 


Flo. I have ; but what of him ? 

Pol. Knows he of this ? 

Flo. He neither does nor shall. 

Pol. Methinks a father 
Is at the nuptial of his son a guest 405 

That best becomes the table. Pray you once 
more, 

Is not your father grown incapable 
Of reasonable affairs ? Is he not stupid 
With age and alt’ring rheums ? Can he speak ? 
hear ? 

Know man from man ? dispute his own es¬ 
tate ? 410 

Lies he not bed-rid ? and again does nothing 
But what he did being childish ? 

Flo. No, good sir ; 

He has his health, and ampler strength indeed 
Than most have of his age. 

Fol. By my white beard, 

You offer him, if this be so, a wrong 415 

Something unfilial. Reason my son 
Should choose himself a wife, but as good reason 
The father, all w'hose joy is nothing else 
But fair posterity, should bold some counsel 
In such a business. 

Flo. I yield all this ; 420 

But for some other reasons, my grave sir, 
Which’t is not fit you know, I not acquaint 
My father of this business. 

Pol. Let him know’t. 

Flo. He shall not. 

Pol. Prithee, let him. 

Flo. No, he must not. 

Shep. Let him, my son. He shall not need to 
grieve 425 

At knowing of thy choice. 

Flo. Come, come, he must not. 

Mark our contract. 

Pol. Mark your divorce, young sir, 

[Discovering himself .J 

Whom son I dare not call. Thou art too base 
To be acknowledg’d. Thou a sceptre’s heir, 
That thus affects a sheep-hook! Thou old 
traitor, 430 

I am sorry that by hanging thee I can 
But shorten thy life one week. And thou, fresh 
piece 

Of excellent witchcraft, who of force must know 
The royal fool thou cop’st with, — 

Shep. O, my heart! 

Pol. I ’ll have thy beauty scratch’d with 
briers, and made 435 

More homely than thy state. For thee, fond 
toy, 

If I may ever know thou dost but sigh 
That thou no more shalt see this knack, as never 
I mean thou shalt, we ’ll bar thee from succes¬ 
sion, 

Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin, 440 
Far than Deucalion off. Mark thou my words. 
Follow us to the court. Thou churl, for this 
time, 

Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee 
From the dead blow of it. And you, enchant¬ 
ment, — 

Worthy enough a herdsman, yea, him too, 445 
That makes himself, but for our honour therein, 


Unworthy thee, — if ever henceforth thou 
These rural latches to his entrance open, 

Or hoop his body more with thy embraces, 

I will devise a death as cruel for thee 45 * 

As thou art tender to’t. [Exit. 

Per. Even here undone ! 

I was not much afeard; for once or twice 
I was about to speak, and tell him plainly 
The self-same sun that shines upon his court 
Hides not his visage from our cottage, but 466 
Looks on alike. Will’t please you, sir, be 
gone ? 

I told you what would come of this. Beseech 


you, 


Of your own state take care. This dream of 
mine, — 

Being now awake, I ’ll queen it no inch farther, 
But milk my ewes and weep. 

Cam. Why, how now, father ! 4<so 

Speak ere thou diest. 

Shep. I cannot speak, nor think, 

Nor dare to know that which I know. 0 sir ! 
You have undone a man of fourscore three, 
That thought to fill his grave in quiet, yea, 

To die upon the bed my father died, 466 

To lie close by his honest bones ; but now 
Some hangman must put on my shroud and lay 
me 

Where no priest shovels in dust. 0 cursed 
wretch, 

That knew’st this was the Prince, and wouldst 
adventure 

To mingle faith with him I Undone ! undone ! 
If I might die within this hour, I have liv’d 471 
To die when I desire. [Exit. 

Flo. Why look you so upon me ? 

I am but sorry, not afeard ; delay’d, 

But nothing alt’red. What I was, I am ; 

More straining on for plucking back, not follow¬ 
ing 476 

My leash unwillingly. 

Cam. Gracious my lord, 

You know your father’s temper. At this time 
He wifi allow no speech, which I do guess 
You do not purpose to him ; and as hardly 
Will he endure your sight as yet, I fear. 48o 
Then, till the fury of his Highness settle, 

Come not before him. 

Flo. I not purpose it. 

I think, Camillo ? 

Cam. Even he, my lord. 

Per. How often have I told you’t would be 
thus ! 

How often said, my dignity would last 486 
But till’t were known ! 

Flo. It cannot fail but by 

The violation of my faith ; and then 
Let Nature crush the sides o’ the earth together 
And mar the seeds within ! Lift up thy looks. 
From my succession wipe me, father ; I 490 
Am heir to my affection. 

Cam. Be advis’d. 

Flo. I am, and by my fancy. If my reason 
Will thereto be obedient, I have reason ; 

If not, my senses, better pleas’d with madness, 
Do bid it welcome. 

Cam. This is desperate, sir. m 








442 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


IV. IV. 


Flo. So call it, but it does fulfil my vow ; 

I needs must think it honesty. Camillo, 

Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may 
Be thereat gleaned, for all the sun sees or 
The close earth wombs or the profound seas 
hides 600 

In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath 
To this my fair belov’d ; therefore, I pray you, 
As you have ever been my father’s honour’d 
friend, 

When he shall miss me, — as, in faith, I mean 
not 

To see him any more, — cast your good counsels 
Upon his passion ; let myself and Fortune eoe 
Tug for the time to come. This you may know 
And so deliver: I am put to sea 
With her who here I cannot hold on shore ; 
And most opportune to our need I have 6io 
A vessel rides fast by, but not prepar’d 
For this design. What course I mean to hold 
Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor 
Concern me the reporting. 

Cam. 0 my lord l 

I would your spirit were easier for advice, sis 
Or stronger for your need. 

Flo. Hark, Perdita! 

[Drawing her aside.] 
I ’ll hear you [to Cam.] by and by. 

Cam. He’s irremoveable, 

Resolv’d for flight. Now were I happy, if 
His going I could frame to serve my turn, 

Save him from danger, do him love and hon¬ 
our, S20 

Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia 
And that unhappy king, my master, whom 
I so much thirst to see. 

Flo. Now, good Camillo ; 

I am so fraught with curious business that 
I leave out ceremony. 

Cam. Sir, I think S25 

You have heard of my poor services, i’ the love 
That I have borne your father ? 

Flo. Very nobly 

Have you deserv’d. It is my father’s music 
To speak your deeds, not little of his care 
To have them recompens’d as thought on. 

Cam. Well, my lord, 

If you may please to think I love the King C3i 
And through him what ’s nearest to him, 
which is 

Your gracious self, embrace but my direction. 
If your more ponderous and settled project 
May suffer alteration, on mine honour, 535 

I ’ll point you where you shall have such re¬ 
ceiving 

As shall become your Highness ; where you 
may 

Enjoy your mistress, from the whom, I see, 
There’s no disjunction to be made, but by — 
As heavens forefend ! — your ruin ; marry 
her, ' 540 

And, with my best endeavours in your ab¬ 
sence, 

Your discontenting father strive to qualify 
And bring him up to liking. 

Flo. How, Camillo, 

May this, almost a miracle, be done ? 


That I may call thee something more than 
man * 545 

And after that trust to thee. 

Cam. Have you thought on 

A place whereto you ’ll go ? 

Flo. Not any yet: 

But as the unthought-on accident is guilty 
To what we wildly do, so we profess 
Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and 
flies 650 

Of every wind that blows. 

Cam. Then list to me. 

This follows: if you will not change your pur¬ 
pose 

But undergo this flight, make for Sicilia, 

And there present yourself and your fair prin¬ 
cess, 

For so I see she must be, ’fore Leontes. ess 
She shall be habited as it becomes 
The partner of your bed. Methinks I see 
Leontes opening his free arms and weeping 
His welcomes forth; asks thee, the son, for¬ 
giveness, 

As ’twere i’ the father’s person; kisses the 
hands _ seo 

Of your fresh princess; o’er and o’er divides 
him 

’Twixt his unkindness and his kindness; the 
one 

He chides to hell and bids the other grow 
Faster than thought or time. 

Flo. Worthy Camillo, 

What colour for my visitation shall I 565 

Hold up before him ? 

Cam. Sent by the King your father 

To greet him and to give him comforts. Sir, 
The manner of your bearing towards him, with 
What you as from your father shall deliver, 
Things known betwixt us three, I ’ll write you 
down ; 570 

The which shall point you forth at every sitting 
What you must say ; that he shall not perceive 
But that you have your father’s bosom there 
And speak his very heart. 

Flo. I am bound to you. 

There is some sap in this. 

Cam. A cause more promising 

Than a wild dedication of yourselves 570 

To unpath’d waters, undream’d shores, most 
certain 

To miseries enough; no hope to help you, 

But as you shake off one to take another ; 
Nothing so certain as your anchors, who b«* 
Do their best office, if they can but stay yon 
Where you ’ll be loath to be. Besides, you know, 
Prosperity’s the very bond of love, 

Whose fresh complexion and whose heart to¬ 
gether 

Affliction alters. 

Per. One of these is true. 685 

I think affliction may Subdue the cheek, 

But not take in the mind. 

Cam. Yea, say you so ? 

There shall not at your father’s house these 
seven years 
Be born another such. 

Flo. 


My good Camillo, 






IV. IV. 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


443 


She is as forward of her breeding as oso 

She is i’ the rear o’ our birth. 

Cam. I cannot say’t is pity 

She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress 
To most that teach. 

Per. Your pardon, sir ; for this 

I ’ll blush you thanks. 

Flo. My prettiest Perdita ! 

But O, the thorns we stand upon ! Camillo, bos 
P resei'ver of my father, now of me, 

The medicine of our house, how shall we do ? 
We are not furnish’d like Bohemia’s son, 

Nor shall appear in Sicilia. 

Cam. My lord, 

Fear none of this. I think you know my for¬ 
tunes 600 

Do all lie there. It shall be so my care 
To have you royally appointed as if 
The scene you play were mine. For instance, sir, 
That you may know you shall not want, one 
word. {They talk aside.] eo4 

Re-enter Autolycus. 

Aut. Ha, ha ! what a fool Honesty is ! and 
Trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentle¬ 
man ! I have sold all my trumpery ; not a 
counterfeit stone, not a ribbon, glass, pomander, 
brooch, table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, 
shoe-tie, bracelet, horn-ring, to keep my pack [6io 
from fasting. They throng who should buy 
first, as if my trinkets had been hallowed, and 
brought a benediction to the buyer ; by which 
means I saw whose purse was best in picture, 
and what I saw, to my good use I rememb’red. 
My clown, who wants but something to be [eis 
a reasonable man, grew so in love with the 
wenches’ song, that he would not stir his petti¬ 
toes till he had both tune and words ; which so 
drew the rest of the herd to me that all their 
other senses stuck in ears. You might have [620 
pinched a placket, it was senseless ; ’t was no¬ 
thing to geld a codpiece of a purse ; I would 
have fil’d keys off that hung in chains. No 
hearing, no feeling, but my sir’s song, and ad¬ 
miring the nothing of it. So that in this time 
of lethargy I pick’d and cut most of their [025 
festival purses ; and had not the old man come 
in with a whoo-bub against his daughter and 
the King’s son and scar’d my choughs from the 
chaff, I had not left a purse alive in the whole 
army. [ Camillo , Florizel, and Perdita 

come forward.] 

Cam. Nay, but my letters, by this means 
being there 631 

So soon as you arrive, shall clear that doubt. 

Flo. And those that you ’ll procure from 
King Leontes ? 

Cam. Shall satisfy your father. 

Per. Happy be you ! 

All that you speak shows fair. 

Cam. • Who have we here ? 

[Seeing Autolycus.] 
We ’ll make an instrument of this, omit 636 

Nothing may give us aid. 

Aut. If they have overheard me now, why, 
hanging. 639 

Cam. How now, good fellow ! why shak’st 


thou so ? Fear not, man ; here’s no harm in¬ 
tended to thee. 

Aut. I am a poor fellow, sir. 64a 

Cam. Why, be so still; here’s nobody will 
steal that from thee. Yet for the outside of thy 
poverty we must make an exchange ; therefore 
disease thee instantly, — thou must think 
there ’s a necessity in’t, — and change gar¬ 
ments with this gentleman. Though the penny¬ 
worth on his side be the worst, yet hold thee, 
there’s some boot. 650 

Aut. I am a poor fellow, sir. [Aside.] I 
know ye well enough. 

Cam. Nay, prithee, dispatch. The gentle¬ 
man is half flay’d already. 

Aut. Are you in earnest, sir? [Aside.] I 
smell the trick on’t. ese 

Flo. Dispatch, I prithee. 

Aut. Indeed, I have had earnest; but I can¬ 
not with conscience take it. 

Cam. Unbuckle, unbuckle. 660 

[.Florizel and Autolycus exchange 

garments.] 

Fortunate mistress, —let my prophecy 
Come home to ye ! — you must retire yourself 
Into some covert. Take your sweetheart’s hat 
And pluck it o’er your brows, muffle your face, 
Dismantle you, and, as you can, disliken ecs 

The truth of your own seeming; that you 
may — 

For I do fear eyes over — to shipboard 
Get undescri’d. 

Per. I see the play so lies 

That I must bear a part. 

Cam. No remedy. «69 

Have you done there ? 

Flo. Should I now meet my father, 

He would not call me son. 

Cam. Nay, you shall have no hat. 

[Giving it to Perdita.] 
Come, lady, come. Farewell, my friend. 

Aut. Adieu, sir. 

Flo. O Perdita, what have we twain for¬ 
got ! 

Pray you, a word. 

Cam. [Aside.] What I do next, shall be to 
tell the King 675 

Of this escape and whither they are bound ; 
Wherein my hope is I shall so prevail 
To force him after ; in whose company 
I shall re-view Sicilia, for whose sight 
I have a woman’s longing. 

Flo. Fortune speed us ! 

Thus we set on, Camillo, to the sea-side. esi 

Cam. The swifter speed the better. 

[Exeunt [ Florizel , Perdita , and Ca¬ 
millo]. 

Aut. I understand the business, I hear it. 
To have an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble 
hand, is necessary for a cut-purse ; a good nose 
is requisite also, to smell out work for the [ose 
other senses. I see this is the time that the un¬ 
just man doth thrive. What an exchange had 
this been without boot ! What a boot is here 
with this exchange ! Sure the gods do this year 
connive at us, and we may do anything ex- [coi 
tempore. The Prince himself is about a piece 





444 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


IV. IV. 


of iniquity, stealing away from his father with 
his clog at his heels. If I thought it were a 
piece of honesty to acquaint the King withal, I 
would not do ’t. I hold it the more knavery [095 
to conceal it; and therein am I constant to 
my profession. 

Re-enter Clown and Shepherd. 

Aside, aside ; here is more matter for a hot 
brain. Every lane’s end, every shop, church, 
session, hanging, yields a careful man work. 701 
Clo. See, see ; what a man you are now ! 
There is no other way hut to tell the King she ’s 
a changeling and none of your flesh and blood. 
Shep. Nay, but hear me. 

Clo. Nay, but hear me. 

Shep. Go to, then. 708 

Clo. She being none of your flesh and blood, 
your flesh and blood has not offended the King ; 
and so your flesh and blood is not to be punish’d 
by him. Show those things you found about 
her, those secret things, all but what she has 
with her. This being done, let the law go 
whistle. I warrant you. 715 

Shep. I will tell the King all, every word, 
yea, and his son’s pranks too ; who, I may say, 
is no honest man, neither to his father nor to 
me, to go about to make me the King’s brother- 

in-law. 720 

Clo. Indeed, brother-in-law was the farthest 
off you could have been to him, and then your 
blood had been the dearer by I know how much 
an ounce. 

Aut. [ Aside.] Very wisely, puppies ! 725 

Shep. Well, let us to the King. There is that 
in this fardel will make him scratch his beard. 

Aut. [Aside.] I know not what impediment 
this complaint may be to the flight of my master. 
Clo. Pray heartily he be at palace. 730 

Aut. [Aside.] Though I am not naturally 

honest, I am so sometimes by chance. Let me 
ocket up my pedlar’s excrement. [Takes off 
is false heard..] How now, rustics ! whither are 
you bound ? 735 

Shep. To the palace, an it like your worship. 
Aut. Your affairs there ? What, with whom, 
the condition of that fardel, the place of your 
dwelling, your names, your ages, of what hav¬ 
ing, breeding, and anything that is fitting to 
be known, discover ? 741 

Clo. We are but plain fellows, sir. 

Aut. A lie ; you are rough and hairy. Let 
me have no lying. It becomes none but trades¬ 
men, and they often give us soldiers the lie; 
but we pay them for it with stamped coin, not 
stabbing steel; therefore they do not give us 
the lie. 748 

Clo. Your worship had like to have given us 
one, if you had not taken yourself with the 
manner. 

Shep. Are you a courtier, an’t like you, 
sir ? 752 

Aut. Whether it like me or no, I am a cour¬ 
tier. Seest thou not the air of the court in these 
enfoldings ? Hath not my gait in it the mea¬ 
sure of the court ? Receives not thy nose court- 
odour from me ? Reflect I not on thy baseness 


court-contempt ? Think’st thou, for that I in¬ 
sinuate, or touse from thee thy business, I am 
therefore no courtier ? I am courtier cap-a-pie, 
and one that will either push on or pluck [761 
back thy business there ; whereupon I com¬ 
mand thee to open thy affair. 

Shep. My business, sir, is to the King. 

Aut. What advocate hast thou to him ? 7 « 

Shep. I know not, an’t like you. 

Clo. Advocate’s the court-word for a phea¬ 
sant. Say you have none. 

Shep. None, sir ; I have no pheasant, cock 
nor hen. 

Aut. How blessed are we that are not sim¬ 
ple men! 

Yet Nature might have made me as these are, 
Therefore I will not disdain. 

Clo. This cannot be but a great courtier. 
Shep. His garments are rich, but he wears 
them not handsomely. . 776 

Clo. He seems to be the more noble in being 
fantastical. A great man, I ’ll warrant; I know 
by the picking on’s teeth. 

Aut. The fardel there ? What’s i’ the far¬ 
del ? Wherefore that box ? . 781 

Shep. Sir, there lies such secrets in this far¬ 
del and box, which none must know but the 
King ; and which he shall know within this 
hour, if I may come to the speech of him. 785 
Aut. Age, thou hast lost thy labour. 

Shep. Why, sir ? 

Aut. The King is not at the palace. He is 
gone aboard a new ship to purge melancholy 
and air himself ; for, if thou be’st capable of 
things serious, thou must know the King is 
full of grief. 791 

Shep. So ’tis said, sir; about his son, that 
should have married a shepherd’s daughter. 

Aut. If that shepherd be not in hand-fast, 
let him fly. The curses he shall have, the tor¬ 
tures he shall feel, will break the back of man, 
the heart of monster. 

Clo. Think you so, sir ? 7»s 

Aut. Not he alone shall suffer what wit can 
make heavy and vengeance bitter, but those 
that are germane to him, though remov’d fifty 
times, shall all come under the hangman ; 
which though it be great pity, yet it is neces¬ 
sary. An old sheep-whistling rogue, a ram- [eos 
tender, to offer to have his daughter come into 
grace ! Some say he shall be ston’d ; but that 
death is too soft for him, say I. Draw our 
throne into a sheep-cote ! All deaths are too 
few, the sharpest too easy. 

Clo. Has the old man e’er a son, sir, do you 
hear, an’t like you, sir ? sio 

Aut. He has a son, who shall be flay’d alive ; 
then ’nointed over with honey, set on the head 
of a wasp’s nest; then stand till he be three 
quarters and a dram dead; then recover’d 
again with aqua-vitse or some other hot in¬ 
fusion ; then, raw as he is, and in the hot- [sis 
test day prognostication proclaims, shall he be 
set against a brick-wall, the sun looking with a 
southward eye upon him, where he is to behold 
him with flies blown to death. But what talk 
we of these traitorly rascals, whose mis- [820 




THE WINTER’S TALE 


445 


V. i. 


eries are to be smil’d at, their offences being so 
capital ? Tell me, for you seem to be honest 
plain men, what you have to the King. Being 
something gently consider’d, I ’ll bring you 
where he is aboard, tender your persons to his 
presence, whisper him in your behalfs ; and if 
it be in man besides the King to effect your 
suits, here is man shall do it. 828 

Clo. He seems to be of great authority. 
Close with him, give him gold; and though 
authority be a stubborn bear, yet he is oft led 
by the nose with gold. Show the inside of 
your purse to the outside of his hand, and no 
more ado. Remember “ston’d,” and “flay’d 
alive.” 83 * 

Shep. An’t please you, sir, to undertake 
the business for us, here is that gold I have. 
I ’ll make it as much more, and leave this 
young man in pawn till I bring it you. 

Aut. After I have done what I promised ? 
Shep. Ay, sir. 840 

Aut. Well, give me the moiety. Are you a 
party in this business ? 

Clo. In some sort, sir; but though my case 
be a pitiful one, I hope I shall not be flay’d 
out of it. 

Aut. O, that’s the case of the shepherd’s 
son. Hang him, he ’ll be made an example. 846 
Clo. Comfort, good comfort 1 We must to 
the King and show our strange sights. He 
must know ’tis none of your daughter nor my 
sister ; we are gone else. Sir, I will give you as 
much as this old man does when the business is 
performed, and remain, as he says, your pawn 
till it be brought you. 853 

Aut. I will trust you. Walk before toward 
the sea-side; go on the right hand. I will but 
look upon the hedge and follow you. 

Clo. We are blest in this man, as I may say, 
even blest. 

Shep. Let’s before as he bids us. He was 
provided to do us good. 8 eo 

[Exeunt Shepherd and Clown.] 
Aut. If I had a mind to be honest, I see 
Fortune would not suffer me ; she drops booties 
in my mouth. I am courted now with a double 
occasion, gold and a means to do the Prince 
my master good ; which who knows how that 
may turn back to my advancement ? I will [sss 
bring these two moles, these blind ones, aboard 
him. If he think it fit to shore them again, and 
that the complaint they have to the King con¬ 
cerns him nothing, let him call me rogue for 
being so far officious; for I am proof against 
that title and what shame else belongs to’t. 
To him will I present them. There may be 
matter in it. [Exit. «73 


ACT V 

Scene I. [A room in Leontes ' 1 palace.] 

Enter Leontes, Cleomenes, Dion, Paulina, 
and Servants. 

Cleo. Sir, you have done enough, and have 
perform’d 

A saint-like sorrow. No fault could you make, 


Which you have not redeem’d; indeed, paid 
down 

More penitence than done trespass. At the last 
Do as the heavens have done, forget your 
evil; « 

With them forgive yourself. 

Leon. Whilst I remember 

Her and her virtues, I cannot forget 
My blemishes in them, and so still think of 
The wrong I did myself ; which was so much 
That heirless it hath made my kingdom, and io 
Destroy’d the sweet’st companion that e’er 
man 

Bred his hopes out of. 

Paul. True, too true, my lord. 

If, one by one, you wedded all the world, 

Or, from the all that are, took something good 
To make a perfect woman, she you kill’d is 
Would be unparallel’d. 

Leon. I think so. Kill’d ! 

She I kill’d ! I did so ; but thou strik’st me 
Sorely, to say I did. It is as bitter 
Upon thy tongue as in my thought. Now, good, 
now. 

Say so but seldom. 

Cleo. Not at all, good lady. jo 

You might have spoken a thousand things that 
would 

Have done the time more benefit and grac’d 
Your kindness better. 

Paul. You are one of those 

Would have him wed again. 

Dion. If you would not so, 

You pity not the state, nor the remembrance 25 
Of his most sovereign name ; consider little 
What dangers, by his Highness’ fail of issue, 
May drop upon his kingdom and devour 
Incertain lookers on. What were more holy 
Than to rejoice the former queen is well ? so 
What holier than, for royalty’s repair, 

For present comfort and for future good, 

To bless the bed of majesty again 
With a sweet fellow to’t ? 

Paul. There is none worthy, 

Respecting her that’s gone. Besides, the 
gods as 

Will have fulfill’d their secret purposes ; 

For has not the divine Apollo said, 

Is’t not the tenour of his oracle, 

That King Leontes shall not have an heir 
Till his lost child be found? which that it 
shall, so 

Is all as monstrous to our human reason 
As my Antigonus to break his grave 
And come again to me ; who, on my life, 

Did perish with the infant. ’T is your counsel 
My lord should to the heavens be contrary, 45 
Oppose against their wills. [To Leontes.] Care 
not for issue; 

The crown will find an heir. Great Alexander 
Left his to the worthiest; so his successor 
Was like to be the best. 

Leon. Good Paulina, 

Who hast the memory of Hermione, bo 

I know, in honour, 0 , that ever I 
Had squar’d me to thy counsel I then, even 
now, 




446 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


V. 1. 


I might have look’d upon my queen’s full eyes, 
Have taken treasure from her lips — 

Paul. And left them 

More rich for what they yielded. 

Leon. Thou speak’st truth. 

No more such wives ; therefore, no wife. One 
worse, . # f 6 

And better us’d, would make her sainted spirit 
Again possess her corpse, and on this stage, 
(Where we offenders now appear) soul-vex’d, 
Begin, “ And why to me — ? ” 

Paul. Had she such power, eo 

She had just cause. 

Leon. She had ; and would incense me 

To murder her I married. 

Paul. I should so. 

Were I the ghost that walk’d, I’d bid you 
mark 

Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in’t 
You chose her ; then I ’d shriek, that even your 
ears os 

Should rift to hear me ; and the words that 
follow’d 

Should be “ Remember mine.” 

Leon. Stars, stars, 

And all eyes else dead coals! Fear thou no wife; 
I ’ll have no wife, Paulina. 

Paul. Will you swear 

Never to marry but by my free leave ? ?o 

Leon. Never, Paulina ; so be blest my spirit! 
Paul. Then, good my lords, bear witness to 
his oath. 

Cleo. You tempt him over-much. 

Paul. Unless another, 

As like Hermione as is her picture, i* 

Affront his eye. 

Cleo. Good madam, — 

Paul. I have done. 

Yet, if my lord will marry, —if you will, sir, 
No remedy, but you will, — give me the office 
To choose you a queen. She shall not be so 
young 

As was your former; but she shall be such 
As, walk’d your first queen’s ghost, it should 
take joy so 

To see her in your arms. 

Leon. My true Paulina, 

We shall not marry till thou bid’st us. 

Paul. That 

Shall be when your first queen’s again in 
breath ; 

Never till then. 

Enter a Servant. 

Serv. One that gives out himself Prince Flo- 
rizel, ss 

Son of Polixenes, with his princess, she 
The fairest I have yet beheld, desires access . 
To your high presence. 

Leon. What with him ? He comes not 

Like to his father’s greatness. His approach, 
So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us oo 
’T is not a visitation fram’d, but forc’d 
By need and accident. What train ? 

Serv. But few, 

And those but mean. 

Leon. His princess, say you, with him ? 


Serv. Ay, the most peerless piece of earth, 
I think, 

That e’er the sun shone bright on. 

Paul. O Hermione, 

As every present time doth boast itself »« 

Above a better gone, so must thy grave 
Give way to what’s seen now ! Sir, you your- 
self 

Have said and writ so, but your writing now 
Is colder than that theme, ” She had not been, 
Nor was not to be equall’d ; ” — thus your verse 
Flow’d with her beauty once. ’T is shrewdly 
ebb’d, 

To say you have seen a better. 

Serv. Pardon, madam: 

The one I have almost forgot, — your pardon, — 
The other, when she has obtain’d your eye, ms 
Will have your tongue too. This is a creature, 
Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal 
Of all professors else, make proselytes 
Of who she but bid follow. 

Paul. How ? Not women ! 

Serv. Women will love her, that she is a 
woman # 110 

More worth than any man ; men, that she is 
The rarest of all women. 

Leon. Go, Cleomenes ; 

Yourself, assisted with your honour’d friends. 
Bring them to our embracement. Still, ’tis 
strange 1U 

[.Exeunt [Cleomenes and others]. 
He thus should steal upon us. 

Paul. Had our prince, 

Jewel of children, seen this hour, he had pair’d 
Well with this lord. There was not full a month 
Between their births. 

Leon. Prithee, no more; cease. Thou 
know’st 

He dies to me again when talk’d of. Sure, i?.o 
When I shall see this gentleman, thy speeches 
Will bring me to consider that which may 
Unfurnish me of reason. They are come. 

Be-enter Cleomenes and others , with Flohizel 
and Perdita. 

Your mother was most true to wedlock, Prince, 
For she did print your royal father off, 126 
Conceiving you. Were I but twenty-one, 

Your father’s image is so hit in you, 

His very air, that! should call you brother, 128 
As I did him, and speak of something wildly 
By us perform’d before. Most dearly welcome ! 
And your fair princess, — goddess ! — 0 , alas 1 
I lost a couple, that ’twixt heaven and earth 
Might thus have stood begetting wonder as 
You, gracious couple, do ; and then I lost — 
All mine own folly — the society, 135 

Amity too, of your brave father, whom, 
Though bearing misery, I desire my life 
Once more to look on him. 

Flo. By his command 

Have I here touch’d Sicilia, and from him 
Give you all greetings that a king, at friend, 
Can send his brother ; and, but infirmity m 
Which waits upon worn times hath something 
seiz’d 

His wish’d ability, he had liirqself 







THE WINTER’S TALE 


447 


v. ii. 


The lands and waters ’twixt your throne and 
his 144 

Measur’d to look upon you ; whom he loves — 
He bade me say so — more than all the sceptres 
And those that bear them living’. 

Leon. O my brother, 

Good gentleman ! the wrongs I have done thee 
stir 

Afresh within me, and these thy offices, 

So rarely kind, are as interpreters ico 

Of my behind-hand slackness. Welcome hither, 
As is the spring to the earth. And hath he too 
Expos’d this paragon to the fearful usage, 

(At least ungentle,) of the dreadful Neptune, 
To greet a man not worth her pains, much 
less i 65 

The adventure of her person ? 

Flo. Good my lord, 

She came from Libya. 

Leon. Where the warlike Smalus, 

That noble honour’d lord, is fear’d and lov’d ? 
Flo. Most royal sir, from thence ; from him, 
whose daughter 

His tears proclaim’d his, parting with her; 

thence, ieo 

A prosperous south-wind friendly, we have 
cross’d, 

To execute the charge my father gave me 
For visiting your Highness. My best train 
I have from your Sicilian shores dismiss’d ; 
Who for Bohemia bend, to signify ies 

Not only my success in Libya, sir, 

But my arrival and my wife’s in safety 
Here where we are. 

Leon. The blessed gods 

Purge all infection from our air whilst you 
Do climate here ! You have a holy father, no 
A graceful gentleman, against whose person, 
So sacred as it is, I have done sin ; 

For which the heavens, taking angry note, 
Have left me issueless ; and your father’s blest, 
As he from heaven merits it, with you n« 

Worthy his goodness. What might I have been, 
Might I a son and daughter now have look’d 
on, 

Such goodly things as you ? 

Enter a Lord. 

Lord. Most noble sir. 

That which I shall report will bear no credit, 
Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great 
sir, 180 

Bohemia greets you from himself by me ; 
Desires you to attach his son, who has — 

His dignity and duty both cast off — 

Fled from'his father, from his hopes, and with 
A shepherd’s daughter. 

Leon. Where’s Bohemia ? Speak. 

Lord. Here in your city ; I now came from 
him. . 186 

I speak amazedly ; and it becomes 
My marvel and my message. To your court 
Whiles he was hast’ning, in the chase, it seems, 
Of this fair couple, meets he on the way i°o 
The father of this seeming lady, and 
Her brother, having both their country quitted 
With this young prince. 


Flo. Camillo has betray’d me ; 

Whose honour and whose honesty till now i »4 
Endur’d all weathers. 

Lord. Lay ’t so to his charge: 

He’s with the King your father. 

Leon. Who ? Camillo ? 

Lord. Camillo, sir ; I spake with him ; who 
now 

Has these poor men in question. Never saw I 
Wretches so quake. They kneel, they kiss the 
earth, 

Forswear themselves as often as they speak. 200 
Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them 
With divers deaths in death. 

Per. O my poor father ! 

The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have 
Our contract celebrated. 

Leon. You are married ? 

Flo. We are not, sir, nor are we like to be. 205 
The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first; 

The odds for high and low’s alike. 

Leon. My lord, 

Is this the daughter of a king ? 

Flo. She is, 

When once she is my wife. 

Leon. That “ once,” I see by your good 
father’s speed, 210 

Will come on very slowly. I am sorry, 

Most sorry, you have broken from his liking 
Where you were tied in duty, and as sorry 
Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty, 
That you might well enjoy her. 

Flo. Dear, look up. 

Though Fortune, visible an enemy, 210 

Should chase us with my father, power no jot 
Hath she to change our loves. Beseech you, sir, 
Remember since you ow’d no more to time 
Than I do now. With thought of such affec¬ 
tions, 220 

Step forth mine advocate. At your request 
My father will grant precious things as trifles. 
Leon. Would he do so, I’d beg your precious 
mistress, 

Which he counts but a trifle. 

Paul. Sir, my liege, 

Your eye hath too much youth in ’t. Not a 
month 226 

’Fore your queen died, she was more worth 
such gazes 

Than what you look on now. 

Leon. I thought of her, 

Even in these looks I made. [To Florizel .] But 
your petition 

Is yet unanswer’d. I will to your father. 

Your honour not o’erthrown by your desires, 230 
I am friend to them and you ; upon which er¬ 
rand 

I now go toward him ; therefore follow me 
And mark what way I make. Come, good my 
lord. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. [Before Leontes ’ palace.] 
Enter Autolycus and a Gentleman. 

Aut. Beseech you, sir, were you present at 
this relation ? 

1 . Gent. I was by at the opening of the far- 




448 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


v. iL 


del, heard the old shepherd deliver the manner 
how he found it; whereupon, after a little 
amazedness, we were all commanded out of the 
chamber; only this methought I heard the 
shepherd say, he found the child. a 

Aut. I would most gladly know the issue of it. 

1 . Gent . I make a broken delivery of the 

business ; but the changes I perceived in the 
King and Camillo were very notes of admira¬ 
tion. They seem’d almost, with staring on one 
another, to tear the cases of their eyes- There 
was speech in their dumbness, language in their 
very gesture ; they look’d as they had heard [is 
of a world ransom’d, or one destroyed. A not¬ 
able passion of wonder appeared in them ; but 
the wisest beholder, that knew no more but 
seeing, could not say if the importance were joy 
or sorrow ; but in the extremity of the one, it 
must needs be. 21 

Enter another Gentleman. 

Here comes a gentleman that haply knows 
more. The news, Rogero ? 

2 . Gent. Nothing but bonfires. The oracle is 
fulfill’d ; the King’s daughter is found ; such 
a deal of wonder is broken out within this hour 
that ballad-makers cannot be able to express it. 

Enter a third Gentleman. 

Here comes the Lady Paulina’s steward : [28 
he can deliver you more. How goes it now, sir ? 
This news which is call’d true is so like an 
old tale, that the verity of it is in strong suspi¬ 
cion. Has the King found his heir ? 32 

3 . Gent. Most true, if ever truth were preg¬ 
nant by circumstance. That which you hear 
you ’ll swear you see, there is such unity in the 
proofs. The mantle of Queen Hermione’s, her 
jewel about the neck of it, the letters of An- 
tigonus found with it, which they know to be 
his character, the majesty of the creature in 
resemblance of the mother, the affection of [39 
nobleness which nature shows above her breed¬ 
ing, and many other evidences proclaim her 
with all certainty to be the King’s daughter. 
Did you see the meeting of the two kings ? 

2 . Gent. No. 45 

3 . Gent. Then have you lost a sight which 
was to be seen, cannot be spoken of. There 
might you have beheld one joy crown another, 
so and in such manner that it seem’d sorrow 
wept to take leave of them, for their joy waded 
in tears. There was casting up of eyes, [eo 
holding up of hands, with countenances of such 
distraction that they were to be known by 
garment, not by favour. Our king, being ready 
to leap out of himself for joy of his found 
daughter, as if that joy were now become a [55 
loss, cries, “ 0 , thy mother, thy mother ! ” then 
asks Bohemia forgiveness ; then embraces his 
son-in-law ; then again worries he his daugh¬ 
ter with clipping her; now he thanks the 
old shepherd, which stands by like a weather- 
bitten conduit of many kings’ reigns. I [eo 
never heard of such another encounter, which 
lames report to follow it and undoes description 
to do it. 


2 . Gent. What, pray you, became of Anti- 

gonus, that carried hence the child ? «s 

3 . Gent. Like an old tale still, which will 

have matter to rehearse, though credit be asleep 
and not an ear open. He was torn to pieces 
with a bear; this avouches the shepherd’s son, 
who has not only his innocence, which seems 
much, to justify him, but a handkerchief and 
rings of his that Paulina knows. » 

1 . Gent. What became of his bark and his 
followers ? 

3 . Gent. Wreck’d the same instant of their [re 
master’s death and in the view of the shepherd ; 
so that all the instruments which aided to expose 
the child were even then lost when it was found. 
But 0 , the noble combat that ’twixt joy and 
sorrow was fought in Paulina ! She had one [so 
eye declin’d for the loss of her husband, an¬ 
other elevated that the oracle was fulfill’d. 
She lifted the Princess from the earth, and so 
locks her in embracing, as if she would pin her 
to her heart that she might no more be in dan¬ 
ger of losing. 85 

1 . Gent. The dignity of this act was worth 
the audience of kings and princes ; for by such 
was it acted. 

3 . Gent. One of the prettiest touches of all, 
and that which angl’d for mine eyes, caught [90 
the water though not the fish, was when, at the 
relation of the Queen’s death,with the manner 
how she came to’t bravely confess’d and la¬ 
mented by the King, how attentiveness wounded 
his daughter; till, from one sign of dolour to 
another, she did with an “ Alas,” I would [so 
fain say, bleed tears, for I am sure my heart 
wept blood. Who was most marble there 
changed colour; some swooned, all sorrowed. 
If all the world could have seen’t, the woe had 
been universal. 100 

1 . Gent. Are they returned to the court ? 

3 . Gent. No. The Princess hearing of her 
mother’s statue, which is in the keeping of 
Paulina, — a piece many years in doing and 
now newly perform’d by that rare Italian 
master, Julio Romano, who, had he him- [105 
self eternity and could put breath into his 
work, would beguile Nature of her custom, so 
perfectly he is her ape. He so near to Hermi- 
one hath done Hermione that they say one 
would speak to her and stand in hope of an¬ 
swer. Thither with all greediness of affection 
are they gone, and there they intend to sup. 112 

2 . Gent. I thought she had some great mat¬ 

ter there in hand ; for she hath privately twice 
or thrice a day, ever since the death of Hermi¬ 
one, visited that removed house. Shall we 
thither and with our company piece the re¬ 
joicing ? 117 

1 . Gent. Who would be thence that has the 
benefit of access ? Every wink of an eye some 
new grace will be born. Our absence makes us 
unthrifty to our knowledge. Let’s along. 121 
[Exeunt [ Gentlemen ]. 

Aut. Now, had I not the dash of my former 
life in me, would preferment drop on my head. 

I brought the old man and his son aboard the 
I Prince, told him I heard them talk of a far- 




THE WINTER’S TALE 


449 


v. iii. 


del and I know not what; but he at that [125 
time, overfond of the shepherd’s daughter, so 
he then took her to be, who began to be much 
sea-sick, and himself little better, extremity of 
weather continuing, this mystery remained un¬ 
discover’d. But ’tis all one to me; for had I 
been the finder out of this secret, it would not 
have relish’d among my other discredits. 133 

Enter Shepherd and Clown. 

Here come those I have done good to against 
my will, and already appearing in the blossoms 
of their fortune. 

Shep. Come, boy ; I am past moe children, 
but thy sons and daughters will be all gentle¬ 
men born. 138 

Clo. You are well met, sir. You deni’d to 
fight with me this other day, because I was no 
gentleman born. See you these clothes ? Say 
you see them not and think me still no gentle¬ 
man born. You were best say these robes 
are not gentlemen born. Give me the lie, do, 
and try whether I am not now a gentleman 
born. i 46 

Aut. I know you are now, sir, a gentleman 
born. 

Clo. Ay, and have been so any time these 
four hours. 

Shep. And so have I, boy. 149 

Clo. So you have ; but I was a gentleman 
born before my father. For the King’s son 
took me by the hand, and call’d me brother; 
and then the two kings call’d my father 
brother ; and then the Prince my brother and 
the Princess my sister call’d my father father ; 
and so we wept, and there was the first gentle- 
man-like tears that ever we shed. ica 

Shep. We may live, son, to shed many more. 
Clo. Ay; or else ’t were hard luck, being in 
so preposterous estate as we are. 159 

Aut. I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon 
me all the faults I have committed to your 
worship, and to give me your good report to 
the Prince my master. 

Shep. Prithee, son, do; for we must be gen¬ 
tle, now we are gentlemen. ice 

Clo. Thou wilt amend thy life ? 

Aut. Ay, an it like your good worship. 

Clo. Give me thy hand : I will swear to the 
Prince thou art as honest a true fellow as any 
is in Bohemia. 170 

Shep. You may say it, but not swear it. 

Clo. Not swear it, now I am a gentleman ? 
Let boors and franklins say it, I ’ll swear it. 
Shep. How if it be false, son ? ire 

Clo. If it be ne’er so false, a true gentleman 
may swear it in the behalf of his friend ; and 
I ’ll swear to the Prince thou art a tall fellow of 
thy hands and that thou wilt not be drunk ; 
but I know thou art no tall fellow of thy hands 
and that thou wilt be drunk ; but I ’ll swear it, 
and I would thou wouldst be a tall fellow of 
thy hands. 1*2 

Aut. I will prove so, sir, to my power. 

Clo. Ay, by any means prove a tall fellow. 
If I do not wonder how thou dar’st venture to 
be drunk, not being a tall fellow, trust me not. 


Hark ! the kings and the princes, our kindred, 
are going to see the Queen’s picture. Come, 
follow us ; we ’ll be thy good masters. m 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. [A chapel in Paulina's house.] 

Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Florizel, Per- 
dita, Camillo, Paulina, Lords, etc. 

Leon. O grave and good Paulina, the great 
comfort 

That I have had of thee ! 

Paul. What, sovereign sir, 

I did not well I meant well. All my services 
You have paid home; but that you have 
vouchsaf’d, 

With your crown’d brother and these your con¬ 
tracted 5 

Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit, 
It is a surplus of your grace, which never 
My life may last to answer. 

Leon. 0 Paulina, 

We honour you with trouble. But we came 
To see the statue of our queen. Your gallery 10 
Have we pass’d through, not without much 
content 

In many singularities ; but we saw not 
That which my daughter came to look upon, 
The statue of her mother. 

Paul. As she liv’d peerless, 

So her dead likeness, I do well believe, re 

Excels whatever yet you look’d upon 
Or hand of man hath done ; therefore I keep it 
Lonely, apart. But here it is. Prepare 
To see the life as lively mock’d as ever 
Still sleep mock’d death. Behold, and say’t is 
well. 20 

[Paulina draws a curtain , and dis¬ 
covers Hermione standing like a 
statue.] 

I like your silence ; it the more shows off 
Your wonder; but yet speak. First, you, my 
li . ege; 

Comes it not something near ? 

Leon. Her natural posture ! 

Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed 
Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she 26 
In thy not chiding, for she was as tender 
As infancy and grace. But yet, Paulina, 
Hermione was not so much wrinkled, nothing 
So aged as this seems. 

Pol. 0 , not by much. 

Paul. So much the more our carver’s excel¬ 
lence, 39 

Which lets go by some sixteen years and makes 
her 

As she liv’d now. 

Leon. As now she might have done, 

So much to my good comfort, as it is 
Now piercing to my soul. 0 , thus she stood, 
Even with such life of majesty, warm life, se 
As now it coldly stands, when first. I woo’d 
her! 

I am asham’d ; does not the stone rebuke me 
For being more stone than it ? O royal piece 
There’s magic in thy majesty, which has 
My evils conjur’d to remembrance, and 40 






45° 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


v. ill. 


From thy admiring daughter took the spirits, 
Standing like stone with thee. 

Per. And give me leave, 

And do not say’t is superstition, that 
I kneel and then implore her blessing. Lady, 
Dear queen, that ended when I but began, 45 
Give me that hand of yours to kiss. 

Paul. 0 , patience! 

The statue is but newly fix’d, the colour ’s 
Not dry. 

Cam. My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid 
on, 

Which sixteen winters cannot blow away, bo 
So many summers dry. Scarce any joy 
Did ever so long live ; no sorrow 
But kill’d itself much sooner. 

Pol. Dear my brother, 

Let him that was the cause of this have power 
To take off so much grief from you as he bs 
Will piece up in himself. 

Paul. Indeed, my lord, 

If I had thought the sight of my poor image 
Would thus have wrought you, —for the stone 
is mine — 

I ’d not have show’d it. 

Leon. Do not draw the curtain. 

Paul. No longer shall you gaze on’t, lest 
your fancy 60 

May think anon it moves. 

Leon. Let be, let he. 

Would I were dead, but that, methinks, al¬ 
ready — 

What was he that did make it ? See, my lord, 
Would you not deem it breath’d, and that 
those veins 

Did verily bear blood ? 

Pol. Masterly done! 65 

The very life seems warm upon her lip. 

Leon. The fixure of her eye has motion in’t, 
As we are mock’d with art. 

Paul. I ’ll draw the curtain. 

My lord’s almost so far transported that 
He ’ll think anon it lives. 

Leon. 0 sweet Paulina, 70 

Make me to think so twenty years together ! 

No settled senses of the world can match 
The pleasure of that madness. Let’t alone. 
Paul. I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr’d 
you ; but 

I could afflict you farther. 

Leon. Do, Paulina; 75 

For this affliction has a taste as sweet 
As any cordial comfort. Still, methinks, 

There is an air comes from her. What fine 
chisel 

Could ever yet cut breath ? Let no man mock 
me, 

For I will kiss her. 

Paul. Good my lord, forbear. 80 

The ruddiness upon her lip is wet; 

You ’ll mar it if you kiss it, stain your own 
With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain ? 
Leon. No, not these twenty years. 

Per. So long could I 

Stand by, a looker on. 

Paul. Either forbear, 85 

Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you 


For more amazement. If you can behold it, 

I ’ll make the statue move indeed, descend 
And take you by the hand ; but then you ’ll 
think — 

Which I protest against — I am assisted 00 
By wicked powers. 

Leon. What you can make her do, 

I am content to look on ; what to speak, 

I am content to hear; for’t is as easy 
To make her speak as move. 

Paul. It is requir’d 

You do awake your faith. Then all stand still, 
Or, those that think it is unlawful business 
I am about, let them depart. 

Leon. Proceed; 

No foot shall stir. 

Paul. Music, awake her; strike ! 

[Music.] 

’T is time; descend; be stone no more; 

approach. 99 

Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come, 

I ’ll fill your grave up. Stir, nay, come away, 
Bequeath to death your numbness ; for from 
him 

Dear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs. 

[Hermione comes down.] 
Start not; her actions shall be holy as 
You hear my spell is lawful. Do not shun her 
Until you see her die again, for then ioe 

You kill her double. Nay, present your hand. 
When she was young you woo’d her ; now in 
age 

Is she become the suitor ? 

Leon. 0 , she’s warm! 

If this be magic, let it be an art no 

Lawful as eating. 

Pol. She embraces him. 

Cam. She hangs about his neck. 

If she pertain to life let her speak too. 

Pol. Ay, and make ’t manifest where she 
has liv’d, 

Or how stolen from the dead. 

Paul. That she is living, 

Were it but told you, should be hooted at us 
Like an old tale ; but it appears she lives, 
Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while. 
Please you to interpose, fair madam : kneel 
And pray your mother’s blessing. Turn, good 
lady ; 120 

Our Perdita is found. 

Her. You gods, look down 

And from your sacred vials pour your graces 
Upon my daughter’s head! Tell me, mine 
own, 

Where hast thou been preserv’d ? where liv’d P 
how found 

Thy father’s court ? for thou shalt hear that I, 
Knowing by Paulina that the oracle 12s 

Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserv’d 
Myself to see the issue. 

Paul. There’s time enough for that; 

Lest they desire upon this push to trouble 
Your joys with like relation. Go together, 130 
You precious winners all; your exultation 
Partake to every one. I, an old turtle, 

Will wing me to some wither’d bough and 
there 




THE WINTER’S TALE 


v. iii. 


My mate, that’s never to be found again, 
Lament till I am lost. 

Leon. 0 , peace, Paulina ! 135 

Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent, 
As I by thine a wife ; this is a match, 

And made between ’si by vows. Thou hast 
found mine ; 

But how, is to he question’d ; for I saw her, 139 
As I thought, dead, and have in vain said many 
A prayer upon her grave. I ’ll not seek far — 
For him, I partly know his mind — to find thee 
An honourable husband. Come, Camillo, 

And take her by the hand, whose worth and 
honesty 


45 1 


Is richly noted and here justified i« 

By us, a pair of kings. Let’s from this place. 
What! look upon my brother. Both your par¬ 
dons, 

That e’er I put between your holy looks 
My ill suspicion. This your son-in-law 
And son unto the King, whom heavens direct¬ 
ing, 159 

Is troth-plight to your daughter. Good Paulina, 
Lead us from hence, where we may leisurely 
Each one demand and answer to his part 
Perform’d in this wide gap of time since first 
We were dissever’d. Hastily lead awav. i «6 

[Exeunt. 




THE TEMPEST 


The Tempest first appeared in print as the opening- play in the First Folio. This fact has, 
curiously enough, been taken as a reason for considering it Shakespeare’s last drama; but more 
substantial evidence exists for placing it thus late. One limit is fixed by its presence in a list of 
plays performed during the marriage festivities of King James’s daughter Elizabeth in the early 
spring of 1613. The other is less definite, but is approximately indicated by the author’s use of 
details from various accounts of the wreck of Sir George Somers in 1609. Within these limits* 
1610 to 1613, opinion varies. Metrical evidence associates The Tempest with Cymbeline and 
The Winter's Tale, but does not decide their relative order. Those who place the play in 1612 
regard it as having been specially written for the betrothal or the marriage of the Princess, ad¬ 
ducing in support the large spectacular element and the nature of the masque in the fourth act. 
Further attempts to strengthen the argument by finding in Prospero a portrait of King James, 
and in the supposed drowning of Ferdinand references to the death of Prince Henry, are not 
convincing; nor does the mere fact of performance at the wedding prove anything, since the 
numerous other plays then acted were revivals. The Revels accounts contain an entry stating that 
The Tempest was presented at Whitehall on Hallowmas night, 1611, and though this is now known 
to have been forged, it may have been well founded, since sixty years before the forgery Malone 
had stated, on evidence no longer accessible, that he knew the play existed in the autumn of 1611. 
On the whole, there is no evidence quite strong enough to counterbalance the standing presump¬ 
tion in favor of Malone’s accuracy, so that 1611 remains the most probable date. There is thus 
nothing to hinder us from regarding the play as the last completed by Shakespeare alone. 

For the main thread of the plot no source has been discovered. The resemblance to Die Schone 
Sidea of Jakob Ayrer of Nuremberg, who died in 1605, is much less striking when the whole of 
Ayrer’s play is read than when the points of likeness are extracted. In both plays we have a 
prince given to magic, and driven into exile with a daughter who marries the son of his enemy; 
an attendant spirit; and — most striking of all — the imposition of log-carrying upon the captive 
prince, and the fixing of his sword in his scabbard. But there is absolutely no similarity in char¬ 
acter, and Ayrer’s devil has nothing in common with Ariel, save his function as a supernatural 
servant. The fixing of the sword is a commonplace of magic, and even the carrying or splitting 
of logs is found as a task imposed by a magician on a captive prince in folk-tales having no con¬ 
nection with the present plays. The most that can be said is that both dramas may go back to 
a common origin, which, however, may have been far from immediate. “A fellow-actor’s de¬ 
scription ” of the German play is of course a possibility, especially since English comedians are 
known to have been in Nuremberg in 1604 and 1606; but a positive statement is not warranted 
by the evidence. 

Of the origin of minor details we can speak with more assurance. Shakespeare was well read in 
the literature of travel of his time, and evidences of this abound in the present case. In his descrip¬ 
tions of the island and of the storm he drew especially from the narratives of Sylvester Jourdan 
and William Strachey, who wrote accounts of the wreck on the Bermudas of one of the ships be¬ 
longing to the expedition to Virginia led by Somers and Gates in 1609. Information with regard 
to this and similar adventures may well have reached him from oral sources also. Gonzalo’s 
commonwealth (ii. i. 147 ff.) was suggested by two passages in Florio’s translation of Montaigne 
(1603). Prospero’s abjuration speech (v. i. 33 ff.) is influenced by a passage in Golding’s Ovid. 
Setebos is taken from Eden’s History of Travaile (1577), where the name occurs as that of the 
devil-god of the Patagonian giants. Ariel occurs in Isaiah, and is the name of a prince of spirits in 
cabalistic literature. Miranda is evidently a significant coinage, like Perdita and Marina; and 
Caliban may be merely an anagram for ‘ ‘ cannibal.” The island is clearly not meant to be iden¬ 
tified with Bermuda or any other. 


THE TEMPEST 


[DRAMATIS PERSON/E] 

Ai/ONso, king of Naples. 

Sebastian, his brother. 

Prospero, the right duke of Milan. 

Antonio, his brother, the usurping duke of Milan. 

Ferdinand, son to the kiug of Naples. 

Gonzalo, an honest old Counsellor. 

Adrian, ) T ■, 

Francisco, ) Lor< ^ 8, 

Caliban, a savage and deformed Slave. 

Trinculo, a Jester. 

Stephano, a drunken Butler. 

[Other Spirits attending on Prospero.] 
Scene : [A ship at sea ;] an uninhabited island. 


Master of a Ship. 

Boatswain. 

Mariuers. 

Miranda, daughter to Prospero. 

Ariel, an airy Spirit. 

Iris, 

Ceres, 

Juno, [■ Spirits. 

Nymphs, 

Reapers, J 


ACT I 

Scene I. [On a ship at sea :| a tempestuous 
noise of thunder and lightning heard. 

Enter a Ship-Master and a Boatswain. 

Mast. Boatswain ! 

Boats. Here, master ; what cheer ? 

Mast. Good ; speak to the mariners. Fall 
to’t, yarely, or we run ourselves aground. Be¬ 
stir, bestir. [Exit, s 

Enter Mariners. 

Boats. Heigh, my hearts ! cheerly, cheerly, 
my hearts! yare, yare ! Take in the topsail. 
Tend to the master’s whistle. — Blow till thou 
burst thy wind, if room enough ! 

Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Ferdi¬ 
nand, Gonzalo, and others. 

Alon. Good boatswain, have care. Where’s 
the master ? Play the men. 11 

Boats. I pray now, keep below. 

Ant. Where is the master, boatswain ? 

Boats. Do you not hear him ? You mar our 
labour. Keep your cabins ; you do assist the 
storm. 

Gon. Nay, good, be patient. is 

Boats. When the sea is. Hence! What 
cares these roarers for the name of king ? To 
cabin ! silence ! trouble us not. 

Gon. Good, yet remember whom thou hast 
aboard. 21 

Boats. None that I more love than myself. 
You are a counsellor ; if you can command 
these elements to silence, and work the peace 
of the present, we will not hand a rope more ; use 
your authority. If you cannot, give thanks you 
have liv’d so long, and make yourself ready in 
your cabin for the mischance of the hour, if it 
so hap. — Cheerly, good hearts ! — Out of our 
way, I say. < [Exit. 29 

Gon. I have great comfort from this fellow. 


Methinks he hath no drowning mark upon him ; 
his complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, 
good Fate, to his hanging ; make the rope of 
his destiny our cable, for our own doth little 
advantage. If he be not born to be hang’d, our 
case is miserable. [Exeunt. 36 

Re-enter Boatswain. 


Boats. Down with the topmast! yare ! lower, 
lower ! Bring her to try wi’ the main-course. 
A plague (A cry within.) 

Enter Sebastian, Antonio, and Gonzalo. 


upon this howling ! They are louder than the 
weather or our office. — Yet again! What [40 
do.you here ? Shall we give o’er and drown? 
Have you a mind to sink ? 

Seb. A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, 
blasphemous, incharitable dog! 

Boats. Work you, then. 45 

Ant. Hang, cur ! hang, you whoreson, in¬ 
solent noisemaker ! We are less afraid to be 


drown’d than thou art. 

Gon. I ’ll warrant him for drowning though 
the ship were no stronger than a nut-shell and 
as leaky as an unstanched wench. 51 

Boats. Lay her a-hold, a-hold ! Set her two 
courses off to sea again ! Lay her off. 


Enter Mariners wet. 


Mariners. All lost! To prayers, to prayers ! 

All lost ! 65 

Boats. What, must our mouths be cold ? 

Gon. The King and Prince at prayers ! Let’s 
assist them, 

For our case is as theirs. 

Seb. I’m out of patience. 

Ant. We are merely cheated of our lives by 
drunkards. 

This wide-chapp’d rascal — would thou mightst 
lie drowning eo 

The washing of ten tides ! 

Gon. He ’ll be hang’d yet, 





454 


THE TEMPEST 


1. 11 . 


Though every drop of water swear against it 
And gape at wid’st to glut him. 

[A confused noise within. 

Mercy on us ! 

We split, we split! Farewell, my wife and 
children ! 6 c 

Farewell, brother !_ We split, we split, we split! 
Ant. Let’s all sink wi’ the King. 

Seb. Let’s take leave of him. [Exit. 

Gon. Now would I give a thousand furlongs 
of sea for an acre of barren ground, long heath, 
brown furze, anything. The wills above be 
done ! but I would fain die a dry death. 72 

lExeunt. 


Scene II. [The island. Before Prospero's cell.] 

Enter Prospero and Miranda. 

Mir. If by your art, my dearest father, you 
have 

Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. 
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking 
pitch, 

But that the sea, mounting to the welkin’s 
cheek. 

Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffered 5 

With those that I saw suffer ! A brave vessel, 
Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her, 
Dash’d all to pieces ! 0 , the cry did knock 
Against my very heart. Poor souls, they per¬ 
ish’d. 

Had I been any god of power, I would 10 

Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere 
It should the good ship so have swallow’d and 
The fraughting souls within her. 

Pros. Be collected; 

No more amazement. Tell your piteous heart 
There’s no harm done. 

Mir. O, woe the day ! 

Pros. No harpi. 

I have done nothing but in care of thee, 10 
Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who 
Art ignorant of what thou art, nought know¬ 
ing 

Of whence I am, nor that I am more better 
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell, 20 
And thy no greater father. 

Mir. More to know 

Did never meddle with my thoughts. 

Pros. ’T is time 

I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand, 
And pluck my magic garment from me. So, 

[Lays down his mantle.] 
Lie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; 

have comfort. 25 

The direful spectacle of the wreck, which 
touch’d 

The very virtue of compassion in thee, 

I have with such provision in mine art 
So safely ordered that there is no soul — 

No, not so much perdition as an hair so 

Betid to any creature in the vessel 
Which thou heard’st cry, which thou saw’st 
sink. Sit down; 

For thou must now know farther. 

Mir. You have often 

Begun to tell me what I am, but stopp’d 


And left me to a bootless inquisition, 3 s 

Concluding, “Stay, not yet.’’ 

Pros. The hour’s now come ; 

The very minute bids thee ope thine ear. 

Obey and be attentive. Canst thou remember 
A time before we came unto this cell ? 

I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast 
not 40 

Out three years old. 

Mir. Certainly, sir, I can. 

Pros. By what ? By any other house or per¬ 
son ? 

Of anything the image tell me, that 
Hath kept with thy remembrance. 

Mir. ’T is far off 

And rather like a dream than an assurance « 
That my remembrance warrants. Had I not 
Four or five women once that tended me ? 

Pros. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But 
how is it 

That this lives in thy mind ? What seest thou 

else 

In the dark backward and abysm of time ? so 
If thou rememb’rest aught ere thou cam’st here, 
How thou cam’st here thou may’st. 

Mir. But that I do not. 

Pros. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve 
year since, 

Thy father was the Duke of Milan and S 4 
A prince of power. 

Mir. Sir, are not you my father ? 

Pros. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and 
She said thou wast my daughter; and thy fa¬ 
ther 

Was Duke of Milan, and his only heir 
And princess no worse issued. 

Mir. O the heavens ! 

What foul play had we, that we came from 
thence ? oo 

Or blessed was’t we did ? 

Pros. Both, both, my girl. 

By foul play, as thou say’st, were we heav’d 
thence, 

But blessedly holp hither. 

Mir. O, my heart bleeds 

To think o’ the teen that I have turn’d you to, 
Which is from my remembrance ! Please you, 
farther. e& 

Pros. My brother and thy uncle, call’d An¬ 
tonio — 

I pray thee, mark me — that a brother should 
Be so perfidious ! — he whom next thyself 
Of all the world I lov’d, and to him put 
The manage of my state ; as at that time 70 

Through all the signories it was the first, 

And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed 
In dignity, and for the liberal arts 
Without a parallel; those being all my study, 
The government I cast upon my brother 76 
And to my state grew stranger, being trans¬ 
ported 

And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle — 
Dost, thou attend me ? 

Mir. Sir, most lieedfully. 

Pros. Being once perfected how to grant 
suits, 

How to deny them, who to advance and who so 







1.11. 


THE TEMPEST 


455 


To trash for overtopping, new created 
The creatures that were mine, I say, or chang’d 
’em, 

Or else new form’d ’em ; having both the key 
Of officer and office, set all hearts i’ the state 
To what tune pleas’d his ear; that now he 
_ was 85 

The ivy which had hid my princely trunk, 

And suck’d my verdure out on’t. Thou at- 
tend’st not. 

Mir. 0, good sir, I do. 

Pros. I pray thee, mark me. 

1 , thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated 
To closeness and the bettering of my mind 90 
With that which, but by being so retir’d, 
O’er-priz’d all popular rate, in my false brother 
Awak’d an evil nature : and my trust, 

Like a good parent, did beget of him 
A falsehood, in its contrary as great 95 

As my trust was ; which had indeed no limit, 

A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded, 
Not only with what my revenue yielded, 

But what my power might else exact, — like 
one 

Who having into truth, by telling of it, 100 
Made such a sinner of his memory 
To credit his own lie, — he did believe 
He was indeed the Duke. Out o’ the substitu¬ 
tion, 

And executing the outward face of royalty, 
With all prerogative, hence his ambition grow¬ 
ing — 105 

Dost thou hear ? 

Mir. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness. 
Pros. To have no screen between this part 
he play’d 

And him he play’d it for, he needs will be 
Absolute Milan. Me, poor man ! — my library 
Was dukedom large enough — of temporal roy¬ 
alties no 

He thinks me now incapable ; confederates — 
So dry he was for sway — wi’ the King of 
Naples 

To give him annual tribute, do him homage, 
Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend 
The dukedom yet unbow'd — alas, poor Mi¬ 
lan ! — 116 

To most ignoble stooping. 

Mir. O the heavens i 

Pros. Mark his condition and the event, 
then tell me 

If this might be a brother. 

Mir. I should sin 

To think but nobly of my grandmother. 

Good wombs have borne bad sons. 

Pros. Now the condition. 

This King of Naples, being an enemy 121 

To me inveterate, hearkens my brother’s suit; 
Which was, that he, in lieu o’ the premises, 

Of homage and I know not how much tribute, 
Should presently extirpate me and mine 126 
Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan 
With all the honours on my brother; whereon, 
A treacherous army levied, one midnight 
Fated to the purpose did Antonio open 
The gates of Milan ; and, i’ the dead of dark¬ 
ness, wo 


The ministers for the purpose hurried thence 
Me and thy crying self. 

Mir. Alack, for pity! 

I, not rememb’ring how I cried out then, 

Will cry it o’er again. It is a hint m 

That wrings mine eyes to’t. 

Pros. Hear a little further, 

And then I ’ll bring thee to the present business 
Which now ’s upon’s, without the which this 
story 

Were most impertinent. 

Mir. Wherefore did they not 

That hour destroy us ? 

Pros. Well demanded, wench ; 

My tale provokes that question. Dear, they 
durst not i4* 

(So dear the love my people bore me) set 
A mark so bloody on the business; but 
With colours fairer painted their foul ends. 

In few, they hurried us aboard a bark, 

Bore us some leagues to sea ; where they pre¬ 
pared 146 

A rotten carcass of a butt, not rigg’d, 

Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats 
Instinctively have quit it. There they hoist us, 
To cry to the sea that roar’d to us, to sigh 
To the winds whose pity, sighing back again, 160 
Did us but loving wrong. 

Mir. Alack, what trouble 

Was I then to you! 

Pros. 0 , a cherubin 

Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst 
smile, 

Infused with a fortitude from heaven, 

When I have deck'd the sea with drops full 
salt, i 65 

Under my burden groan’d ; which rais’d in me 
An undergoing stomach, to bear up 
Against what should ensue. 

Mir. How came we ashore ? 

Pros. By Providence divine. 

Some food we had and some fresh water 
that leo 

A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, 

Out of his charity, who being then appointed 
Master of this design, did give us, with 
Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries, 
Which since have steaded much; so, of his 
gentleness, ie6 

Knowing I lov’d my books, he furnish’d me 
From mine own library with volumes that 
I prize above my dukedom. 

Mir. Would I might 

But ever see that man ! 

Pros. Now I arise. 

[Puts on his robe.] 
Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. 1™ 
Here in this island we arriv’d ; and here 
Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more 
profit 

Than other princess can that have more time 
For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful. 

Mir. Heavens thank you for’t! And now, I 
pray you, sir, _ 175 

For still’t is beating in my mind, your reason 
For raising this sea-storm ? 

Pros. Know thus far forth. 







45 6 


THE TEMPEST 


I. 1L 


By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune, 
Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies 
Brought to this shore; and by my pre¬ 
science 180 

I find my zenith doth depend upon 
A most auspicious star, whose influence 
If now I court not but omit, my fortunes 
Will ever after droop. Here cease more ques¬ 
tions. 

Thou art inclin’d to sleep; ’t is a good dul- 
ness, iso 

And give it way. I know thou canst not choose. 

[.Miranda sleeps .] 

Come away, servant, come ; I am ready now. 
Approach, my Ariel; come. 

Enter Ariel. 

Art. All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! 
I come 

To answer thy best pleasure, be’t to fly, iso 

To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride 
On the curl’d clouds. To thy strong bidding 
task 

Ariel and all his quality. 

Pros. Hast thou, spirit, 

Perform’d to point the tempest that I bade 
thee ? 

Ari. To every article. 195 

I boarded the king’s ship ; now on the beak, 
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, 

I flam’d amazement. Sometime I’d divide, 
And burn in many places. On the topmast, 

The yards and bowsprit, would I flame dis¬ 
tinctly, 200 

Then meet and join. Jove’s lightnings, the 
precursors 

O’ the dreadful thunder-claps, more momen¬ 
tary 

And sight-outrunning were not; the fire and 
cracks 

Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune 
Seem to besiege, and make his bold waves 
tremble, 205 

Yea, his dread trident shake. 

Pros. My brave spirit! 

Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil 
Would not infect his reason ? 

Ari. Not a soul 

But felt a fever of the mad, and play’d 
Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners 210 
Plung’d in the foaming brine and quit the ves¬ 
sel, 

Then all afire with me. The King’s son, Ferdi¬ 
nand, 

With hair up-staring, — then like reeds, not 
hair, — 

Was the first man that leap’d ; cried, “ Hell is 
empty, 214 

And all tne devils are here.” 

Pros. Why, that’s my spirit! 

But was not this nigh shore ? 

Ari. Close by, my master. 

Pros. But are they, Ariel, safe ? 

Ari. Not a hair perish’d ; 

On their sustaining garments not a blemish, 

But fresher than before; and, as thou bad’st 
me, 


In troops I have dispers’d them ’bout the 
isle. . . 220 

The King’s son have I landed by himself, 
Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs 
In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting, 

His arms in this sad knot. 

Pros. Of the King’s ship 

The mariners say how thou hast dispos’d, 225 
And all the rest o’ the fleet. 

Ari. Safely in harbour 

Is the King’s ship; in the deep nook, where 
once 

Thou call’dst me up at midnight to fetch dew 
From the stifl-vex’d Bermoothes, there she ’s 
hid; 

The mariners all under hatches stow’d, 230 
Who, with a charm join’d to their suft’red la¬ 
bour, 

I have left asleep ; and for the rest o’ the fleet, 
Which I dispers’d, they all have met again, 
And are upon the Mediterranean float 
Bound sadly home for Naples, 235 

Supposing that they saw the King’s ship 
wreck’d 

And his great person perish. 

Pros. Ariel, thy charge 

Exactly is perform’d ; but there’s more work. 
What is the time o’ the day ? 

Ari. Past the mid season. 

Pros. At least two glasses. The time ’twixt 
six and now 240 

Must by us both be spent most preciously. 

Ari. Is there more toil ? Since thou dost 
give me pains, 

Let me remember thee what thou hast pro¬ 
mis’d, 

Which is not yet perform’d me. 

Pros. How now ? moody ? 

What is’t thou canst demand ? 

Ari. My liberty. 248 

Pros. Before the time be out ? No more ! 
Ari. I prithee, 

Remember I have done thee worthy service. 
Told thee no lies, made thee no mistakings, 
serv’d 

Without or grudge or grumblings. Thou did 
promise 

To bate me a full year. 

Pros. Dost thou forget 250 

From what a torment I did free thee ? 

Ari. No. 

Pros. Thou dost, and think’st it much to 
tread the ooze 
Of the salt deep, 

To run upon the sharp wind of the north, 

To do me business in the veins o’ the earth 25# 
When it is bak’d with frost. 

Ari. I do not, sir. 

Pros. Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast 
thou forgot 

The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and 
envy 

Was grown into a hoop? Hast thou forgot 
her? 

Ari. No, sir. 

Pros. Thou hast. Where was she born ? 
Speak; tell me. 260 






1.11. 


THE TEMPEST 


457 


Ari. Sir, in Argier. 

Pros. O, was she so ? I must 

Once in a month recount what thou hast been, 
Which thou forget’st. This damn’d witch 
Sycorax, 

For mischiefs manifold and sorceries terrible 
To enter human hearing, from Argier, 205 
Thou know’st, was banish’d ; for one thing she 
did 

They would not take her life. Is not this 
true ? 

Ari. Ay, sir. 

Pros. This blue-ey’d hag was hither brought 
with child, 

And here was left by the sailors. Thou, my 
slave, 270 

As thou report’st thyself, was then her ser¬ 
vant ; 

And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate 
To act her earthy and abhorr’d commands, 
Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee, 
By help of her more potent ministers 275 

And in her most unmitigable rage, 

Into a cloven pine ; within which rift 
Imprison’d thou didst painfully remain 
A dozen years ; within which space she died 
And left thee there, where thou didst vent thy 
groans 280 

As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this 
island — 

Save for the son that she did litter here, 

A freckl’d whelp, hag-born, — not honour’d 
with 

A human shape. 

Ari. Yes, Caliban her son. 

Pros. Dull thing, I say so ; he, that Cali¬ 
ban 285 

Whom now I keep in service. Thou best 
know’st 

What torment I did find thee in; thy groans 
Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the 
breasts 

Of ever angry bears. It was a torment 
To lay upon the damn’d, which Sycorax 200 

Could not again undo. It was mine art, 

When I arriv’d and heard thee, that made 
gape 

The pine, and let thee out. 

Ari. I thank thee, master. 

Pros. If thou more murmur’st, I will rend 
an oak 

And peg thee in his knotty entrails till 295 

Thou hast howl’d away twelve winters. 

Ari. Pardon, master; 

I will be correspondent to command 
And do my spiriting gently. 

Pros. Do so, and after two days 

I will discharge thee. 

Ari. That’s my noble master! 

What shall I do? say what. What shall I 

do ? soo 

Pros. Go make thyself like a nymph o’ the 
sea; be subject 

To no sight but thine and mine, invisible 
To every eyeball else. Go take this shape 
And hither come in’t. Go, hence with dili¬ 
gence ! [Exit Ariel. 


Awake, dear heart, awake! Thou hast slept 
well; 305 

Awake! 

Mir. The strangeness of your story put 
Heaviness in me. 

Pros. Shake it off. Come on, 

We ’ll visit Caliban my slave, who never 
Yields us kind answer. 

Mir. ’T is a villain, sir, 

I do not love to look on. 

Pros. * But, as ’t is, 310 

We cannot miss him. He does make our fire, 
Fetch in our wood, and serves in offices 
That profit us. What, ho ! slave ! Caliban ! 
Thou earth, thou ! speak. 

Cal. (Within.) There’s wood enough within. 

Pros. Come forth, I say! there’s other busi¬ 
ness for thee. sis 

Come, thou tortoise ! when ? 


Re-enter Ariel like a water-nymph. 

Fine apparition ! My quaint Ariel, 

Hark in thine ear. 

Ari. My lord, it shall be done. 

[Exit. 

Pros. Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil 
himself 

Upon thy wicked dam, come forth ! 320 

Enter Caliban. 


Cal. As wicked dew as e’er my mother 
brush’d 

With raven’s feather from unwholesome fen 
Drop on you both ! A south-west blow on ye 
And blister you all o’er! 

Pros. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt 
have cramps, 325 

Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up ; ur¬ 
chins 

Shall, for that vast of night that they may 
work, 

All exercise on thee ; thou shalt be pinch’d 
As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more sting¬ 
ing 

Than bees that made ’em. 

Cal. I must eat my dinner. 

This island’s mine, by Sycorax my mother, 331 
Which thou tak’st from me. When thou cam’st 
first, 

Thou strok’dst me and made much of me, 
wouldst give me 

Water with berries in’t, and teach me how 
To name the bigger light, and how the less, 335 
That burn by day and night; and then I lov’d 
thee 

And show’d thee all the qualities o’ the isle, 
The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and 
fertile. 

Curs’d be I that did so ! All the charms 
Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you ! 
For I am all the subjects that you have, 341 
Which first was mine own king ; and here you 
sty me 

In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from 
me 

The rest o’ the island. 

Pros. Thou most lying slave, 







458 


THE TEMPEST 


I. ii. 


Whom stripes may move, not kindness ! I have 
us’d thee, 345 

Filth as thou art, with human care, and lodg’d 
thee 

In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate 
The honour of my child. 

Cal. 0 ho, O ho ! would’t had been done ! 
Thou didst prevent me ; I had peopl’d else 350 
This isle with Calibans. 

[Pros.] Abhorred slave, 

Which any print of goodness wilt not take, 
Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee, 

Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee 
each hour 

One thing or other. When thou didst not, sav¬ 
age, 355 

Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble 
like 

A thing most brutish, I endow’d thy purposes 
With words that made them known. But thy 
vile race, 

Though thou didst learn, had that in ’t which 
good natures 

Could not abide to be with ; therefore wast 

thoU 360 

Deservedly confin’d into this rock, 

Who hadst deserv’d more than a prison. 

Cal. You taught me language ; and my profit 
on’t 

Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid 

yOU 364 

For learning me your language ! 

Pros. Hag-seed, hence ! 

Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou ’rt best, 
To answer other business. Shrug’st thou, mal¬ 
ice ? 

If thou neglect’st or dost unwillingly 
What I command, I ’ll rack thee with old 
cramps, 369 

Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar 
That beasts shall tremble at thy din. 

Cal. No, pray thee. 

[Aside. ] I must obey. His art is of such power 
It would control my dam’s god, Setebos, 

And make a vassal of him. 

Pros. So, slave ; hence ! 375 

[Exit Caliban. 

Re-enter Ariel, invisible, playing and singing; 
Ferdinand [ following ]. 

Ariel’s Song. 

Come unto these yellow sands, 

And then take hands. 

Curtsied when you have, and kiss’d 
The wild waves whist, 

Foot it feat.ly here and there, 38 o 

And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. 
Burden (dispersedly). Hark, hark ! 

Bow-wow. 

The watch-dogs bark ! 

Bow-wow. 

Ari. Hark, hark ! I hear 

The strain of strutting chanticleer 3*5 
Cry, “ Cock-a-diddle-dow.” 

Fer. Where should this music be ? I’ the air 
or the earth ? 


It sounds no more ; and, sure, it waits upon 
Some god o’ the island. Sitting on a bank, 
Weeping again the King my father’s wreck, 390 
This music crept by me upon the waters, 
Allaying both their fury and my passion 
With its sweet air ; thence I have follow’d it, 
Or it hath drawn me rather. But’t is gone. 
No, it begins again. 395 

Ariel’s Song. 

Full fathom five thy father lies ; 

Of his bones are coral made ; 

Those are pearls that were his eyes : 

Nothing of him that doth fade 
But doth suffer a sea-change 400 

Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymplis hourly ring his knell: 

Burden. Ding-dong. 

[Ari.] Hark ! now I hear them, — ding-dong, 
bell. 

Fer. The ditty does remember my drown’d 
father. 406 

This is no mortal business, nor no sound 
That the earth owes. I hear it now above 
me. 

Pros. The fringed curtains of thine eye ad¬ 
vance 

And say what thou seest yond. 

Mir. What is’t ? A spirit ? 

Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir, 410 
It carries a brave form. But’t is a spirit. 

Pros. No, wench; it eats and sleeps and 
hath such senses 

As we have, such. This gallant which thou 
seest 

Was in the wreck ; and, but he’s something 
stain’d 

With grief, that’s beauty’s canker, thou 
mightst call him 416 

A goodly person. He hath lost his fellows 
And strays about to find ’em. 

Mir. I might call him 

A thing divine ; for nothing natural 
I ever saw so noble. 

Pros. [Aside.] It goes on, I see, 

As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit! I ’ll 
free thee 410 

Within two days for this. 

Fer. Most sure, the goddess 

On whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe my 
prayer 

May know if you remain upon this island, 

And that you will some good instruction give 
How I may bear me here. My prime request, 423 
Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder ! 
If you be maid or no ? 

Mir. ' No wonder, sir, 

But certainly a maid. 

Fer. My language ! heavens 1 

I am the best of them that speak this speech, 
Were I but where ’t is spoken. 

Pros. How ? the best ? 

What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard 
thee ? 431 

Fer. A single thing, as I am now, that won¬ 
ders 




II. 1. 


THE TEMPEST 


459 


To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear 
me ; 

And that he does I weep. Myself am Naples, 
Who with mine eyes, never since at ebb, be¬ 
held 435 


The King my father wreck’d. 

Mir. Alack, for mercy ! 

Fer. Yes, faith, and all his lords ; the Duke 
of Milan 

And his brave son being twain. 

Pros. [Aside.] The Duke of Milan 

And his more braver daughter could control 
thee, 

If now’t were fit to do’t. At the first sight 440 
They have chang’d eyes. Delicate Ariel, 

I ’ll set thee free for this. [To Fer.] A word, 
good sir; 

I fear you have done yourself some wrong ; a 
word. 

Mir. Why speaks my father so ungently ? 
This 

Is the third man that e’er I saw, the first 445 
That e’er I sigh’d for. Pity move my father 
To be inclin’d my way ! 

Fer. O, if a virgin, 

And your affection not gone forth, I ’ll make 
you 

The Queen of Naples. 

Pros. Soft, sir! one word more. 

[Aside.] They are both in either’s powers ; but 
this swift business 450 

I must uneasy make, lest too li^ht winning 
Make the prize light. [To Fer.] One word 
more ; I charge thee 

That thou attend me. Thou dost here usurp 
The name thou ow’st not; and hast put thyself 
Upon this island as a spy, to win it 455 

From me, the lord on’t. 

Fer. No, as I am a man. 

Mir. There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a 
temple. 

If the ill spirit have so fair a house, 

Good things will strive to dwell with’t. 

Pros. Follow me. 

Speak not you for him; he ’s a traitor. 

Come, 460 

I ’ll manacle thy neck and feet together. 
Sea-water shalt thou drink ; thy food shall be 
The fresh-brook mussels, wither’d roots and 
husks 

Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow. 


Fer. t No ; 

I will resist such entertainment till 455 

Mine enemy has more power. 

[He draws , and is charmed from 
moving. 

Mir. -0 dear father, 

Make not too rash a trial of him, for 
He’s gentle and not fearful. 

Pros. What ! I say ; 

My foot my tutor ? Put thy sword up, traitor, 
Who mak’st a show but dar’st not strike, thy 
conscience 470 

Is sopossess’d with guilt. Come from thy ward, 
For I can here disarm thee with this stick 
And make thy weapon drop. 

Mir. Beseech you, father. 


Pros. Hence ! hang not on my garments. 
Mir. Sir, have pity; 

I ’ll be his surety. 

Pros. Silence ! one word more 475 

Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. 
What 1 

An advocate for an impostor ! hush ! 

Thou think’st there is no more such shapes as 
he, 

Having seen but him and Caliban. Foolish 
wench! 

To the most of men this is a Caliban, 48 o 

And they to him are angels. 

Mir. My affections 

Are then most humble ; I have no ambition 
To see a goodlier man. 

Pros. _ Come on; obey. 

Thy nerves are in their infancy again 
And have no vigour in them. 

Fer. So they are. 

My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up. 

My father s loss, the weakness which I feel, 
The wreck of all my friends, nor this man’s 
threats, 

To whom I am subdu’d, are but light to 


me, 

Might I but through my prison once a day 400 
Behold this maid. All corners else o’ the earth 
Let liberty make use of ; space enough 
Have I in such a prison. 

Pros. [Aside.] It works. [To Fer.] Come on. 
— Thou hast done well, fine Ariel! [To Fer.] 
Follow me. 

[To Ari.] Hark what thou else shalt do me. 

Mir. Be of comfort ; 

My father’s of a better nature, sir, 4i>« 

Than he appears by speech. This is unwonted 
Which now came from him. 

Pros. [To Ari.] Thou shalt be as free 

As mountain winds ; but then exactly do 
All points of my command. 

Ari. To the syllable, coo 

Pros. [To Mir. and Fer.] Come, follow. 
Speak not for him. [Exeunt. 


ACT II 

Scene I. [Another part of the island.] 

Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gon- 
zalo, Adrian, Francisco, and others. 

Gon. Beseech you, sir, be merry ; you have 
cause, 

So have we all, of joy ; for our escape 
Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe 
Is common ; every day some sailor’s wife, 

The masters of some merchant, and the mer¬ 
chant 6 

Have just our theme of woe ; but for the mir- 
acle, 

I mean our preservation, few in millions 
Can speak like us. Then wisely, good sir, 
weigh 

Our sorrow with our comfort. 

Alon. Prithee, peace. 

Seb. He receives comfort like cold porridge. » 




460 


THE TEMPEST 


II. L 


Ant. The visitor will not give him o’er so. 
Seb. Look, he’s winding up the watch of 
his wit ; by and by it will strike. 

Gon. Sir,— 

Seb. One. Tell. 16 

Gon. When every grief is entertain’d that’s 
offer’d, 

Comes to the entertainer — 

Seb. A dollar. 

Gon. Dolour comes to him, indeed; you 
have spoken truer than you purpos’d. 20 

Seb. You have taken it wiselier than I meant 
you should. 

Gon. Therefore, my lord, — 

Ant. Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his 
tongue ! 

Alon. I prithee, spare. 25 

Gon. Well, I have done. But yet, — 

Seb. He will be talking. 

Ant. Which, of he or Adrian, for a good 
wager, first begins to crow ? 

Seb. The old cock. so 

Ant. The cockerel. 

Seb. Done. The wager ? 

Ant. A laughter. 

Seb. A match ! 34 

Adr. Though this island seem to be desert,— 
Seb. Ha, ha, ha! Antonio ! So you ’re paid. 
Adr. Uninhabitable and almost inaccessi¬ 
ble,- 

Seb. Yet,— 

Adr. Yet,— 

Ant. He could not miss’t. 40 

Adr. It must needs be of subtle, tender, and 
delicate temperance. 

Ant. Temperance was a delicate wench. 

Seb. Ay, and a subtle ; as he most learnedly 
deliver’d. « 

Adr. The air breathes upon us here most 
sweetly. 

Seb. As if it had lungs and rotten ones. 

Ant. Or as’t were perfum’d by a fen. 

Gon. Here is everything advantageous to 
life. 

Ant. True ; save means to live. so 

Seb. Of that there ’s none, or little. 

Gon. How lush and lusty the grass looks! 
How green! 

Ant. The ground indeed is tawny. 

Seb. With an eye of green in’t. so 

Ant. He misses not much. 

Seb. No; he doth but mistake the truth 
totally. 

Gon. But the rarity of it is, — which is in¬ 
deed almost beyond credit, — 

Seb. As many vouch’d rarities are. so 

Gon. That our garments, being, as they 
were, drench’d in the sea, hold notwithstand¬ 
ing their freshness and glosses, being rather 
new-dy’d than stain’d with salt water. 

Ant. If but one of his pockets could speak, 
would it not say he lies ? 66 

Seb. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report. 
Gon. Methinks our garments are now as 
fresh as when we put them on first in Afric, at 
the marriage of the King’s fair daughter Clari- 
bel to the King of Tunis. n 


Seb. ’T was a sweet marriage, and we pros¬ 
per well in our return. 

Adr. Tunis was never grac’d before with 
such a paragon to their queen. 75 

Gon. Not since widow Dido’s time. 

Ant. Widow ! a pox o’ that! How came that 
widow in ? Widow Dido ! 

Seb. What if he had said “ widower iEneas ” 
too ? Good Lord, how you take it! so 

Adr. “ Widow Dido ” said you ? You make 
me study of that. She was of Carthage, not of 
Tunis. 

Gon. This Tunis, sir, was Carthage. 

Adr. Carthage ? 

Gon. I assure you, Carthage. •* 

Ant. His word is more than the miraculous 
harp. 

Seb. He hath rais’d the wall and houses too. 
Ant. What impossible matter will he make 
easy next ? 

Seb. I think he will carry this island home 
in his pocket and give it his son for an apple. »i 
Ant. And, sowing the kernels of it in the 
sea, bring forth more islands. 

Gon. Ay. 

Ant. Why, in good time. 

Gon. Sir, we were talking that our garments 
seem now as fresh as when we were at Tunis at 
the marriage of your daughter, who is now 
Queen. 

Ant. And the rarest that e’er came there. 
Seb. Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido. >00 
Ant. O, widow Dido ! ay, widow r Dido. 

Gon. Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the 
first day I wore it ? I mean, in a sort. 

Ant. That sort was well fish’d for. 

Gon. When I wore it at your daughter’s 
marriage ? iob 

Alon. You cram these words into mine ears 
against 

The stomach of my sense. Would I had never 
Married my daughter there! for, coming 
thence, 

My son is lost and, in my rate, she too, 

Who is so far from Italy removed no 

I ne’er again shall see her. O thou mine heir 
Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish 
Hath made his meal on thee ? 

Fran. Sir, he may live. 

I saw him beat the surges under him, 

And ride upon their backs. He trod the 
water, 

Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted ns 
The surge most swoln that met him. His bold 
head 

’Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oared 
Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke 
To the shore, that o’er his wave-worn basis 
bowed, 120 

As stooping to relieve him. I not doubt 
He came alive to land. 

Alon. No, no, he’s gone. 

Seb. Sir, you may thank yourself for this 
great loss, 

That would not bless our Europe with your 
daughter. 

But rather lose her to an African ; 126 





THE TEMPEST 


461 


11. i. 


Where she at least is banish’d from your eye, 
Who hath cause to wet the grief on’t. 

Alon. Prithee, peace. 

Seb. You were kneel’d to and importun’d 
otherwise 

By all of us, and the fair soul herself 
Weigh’d between loathness and obedience, at 
Which end o’ the beam should bow. We have 
lost your son, isi 

I fear, for ever. Milan and Naples have 
Moe widows in them of this business’ making 
Than we bring men to comfort them. 

The fault’s your own. 

Alon. So is the dear’st o’ the loss. 

Gon. My lord Sebastian, 136 

The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness 
And time to speak it in. You rub the sore, 
When you should bring the plaster. 

Seb. Very well. 

Ant. And most chirurgeonly. wo 

Gon. It is foul weather in us all, good sir, 
When you are cloudy. 

Seb. Foul weather ? 

Ant. Very foul. 

Gon. Had I plantation of this isle, my lord, — 
Ant. He’d sow’t with nettle-seed. 

Seb. Or docks, or mallows. 

Gon. And were the king on’t, what would I 

do ? 145 

Seb. Scape being drunk for want of wine. 
Gon. I’ the commonwealth I would by con¬ 
traries 

Execute all things ; for no kind of traffic 
Would I admit; no name of magistrate ; 149 

Letters should not be known ; riches, poverty, 
And use of service, none ; contract, succession, 
Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none ; 
No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil; 

No occupation ; all men idle, all; 

And women too, but innocent and pure ; isb 
N o sovereignty ; — 

Seb. Yet he would be king on’t. 

Ant. The latter end of his commonwealth 
forgets the beginning-. 

Gon. All things in common nature should 
produce is» 

Without sweat or endeavour : treason, felony, 
Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, 
Would I not have ; but nature should bring 
forth, 

Of it own kind, all foison, all abundance, 

To feed my innocent people. 

Seb. No marrying ’mong his subjects ? i 65 

Ant. None, man ; all idle ; whores and knaves. 
Gon. I would with such perfection govern, 
sir, 

To excel the golden age. 

Seb. Save his Majesty! 

Ant. Long live Gonzalo ! 

Gon. And, — do you mark me, sir ? 

Alon. Prithee, no more ; thou dost talk no¬ 
thing to me. _ 171 

Gon. I do well believe your Highness; and 
did it to minister occasion to these gentlemen, 
who are of such sensible and nimble lungs that 
they always use to laugh at nothing. 475 

Ant. ’T was you we laugh’d at. 


Gon. Who in this kind of merry fooling am 
nothing to you. So you may continue and laugh 
at nothing still. 

Ant. What a blow was there given ! iso 
Seb. An it had not fallen flatlong. 

Gon. You are gentlemen of brave mettle ; 
you would lift the moon out of her sphere, if 
she would continue in it five weeks without 
changing. 

Enter Ariel [ invisible ], playing solemn music. 

Seb. We would so, and then go a bat-fowling. 
Ant. Nay, good my lord, be not angry. iss 
Gon. No, I warrant you ; I will not adven¬ 
ture my discretion so weakly. Will you laugh 
me asleep, for I am very heavy? 

Ant. Go sleep, and hear us. 190 

[All sleep except Alon., Seb., and 
Ant/\ 

Alon. What, all so soon asleep ! I wish mine 
eyes 

Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts. 
I find 

They are inclin’d to do so. 

Seb. Please you, sir, 

Do not omit the heavy offer of it. 

It seldom visits sorrow ; when it doth, 195 

It is a comforter. 

Ant. We two, my lord, 

Will guard your person while you take your 
rest, 

And watch your safety. 

Alon. Thank you. Wondrous heavy. 

[Alonso sleeps. Exit Ariel.] 
Seb. What a strange drowsiness possesses 
them ! 199 

Ant. It is the quality o’ the climate. 

Seb.' ' Why 

Doth it not then our eyelids sink ? I find not 
Myself dispos’d to sleep. 

Ant. Nor I; my spirits are nimble. 

They fell together all, as by consent; 

They dropp’d, as by a thunder-stroke. What 
might, 

Worthy Sebastian, 0 , what might — ? No 
more: — 205 

And yet methinks I see it in thy face, 

What thou shouldst be. The occasion speaks 
thee, and 

My strong imagination sees a crown 
Dropping upon thy head. 

Seb. What, art thou waking ? 

Ant. Do you not hear me speak ? 

Seb. I do ; and surely 

It is a sleepy language, and thou speak’st 211 
Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say ? 
This is a strange repose, to be asleep 
With eyes wide open ; standing, speaking, 
moving, 

And yet so fast asleep. 

Ant. Noble Sebastian, 215 

Thou let’st thy fortune sleep — die, rather; 
wink’st 

Whiles thou art waking. 

Seb. Thou dost snore distinctly ; 

There’s meaning in thy snores. 

Ant. I am more serious than my custom; you 





462 


THE TEMPEST 


II. L 


Must be so too. if heed me ; which to do 320 
Trebles thee o’er. 

Seb. Well, I am standing water. 

Ant. I ’ll teach you how to flow. 

Seb. Do so. To ebb 

Hereditary sloth instructs me. 

Ant. 0 , 

If you but knew how you the purpose cherish 
Whiles thus you mock it ! how, in strip¬ 
ping it, 225 

You more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed, 

Most often do so near the bottom run 
By their own fear or sloth. 

Seb. Prithee, say on. 

The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim 
A matter from thee, and a birth indeed 230 
Which throes thee much to yield. 

Ant. Thus, sir: 

Although this lord of weak remembrance, this, 
Who shall be of as little memory 
When he is earth’d, hath here almost per¬ 
suaded — 

For he ’s a spirit of persuasion, only 235 

Professes to persuade— the King his son’s 
alive, 

’T is as impossible that he ’s undrown’d 
As he that sleeps here swims. 

Seb. I have no hope 

That he’s undrown’d. 

Ant. 0 , out of that no hope 

What great hope have you! No hope that 
way is 240 

Another way so high a hope that even 
Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond, 

But doubt discovery there. Will you grant 
with me 

That Ferdinand is drown’d ? 

Seb. He’s 

Ant. Then, tell me, 

Who’s the next heir of Naples ? 

Seb. _ Claribel. 245 

Ant. She that is Queen of Tunis; she that 
dwells 

Ten leagues beyond man’s life ; she that from 
Naples 

Can have no note, unless the sun were post — 
The man i’ the moon’s too slow — till new¬ 
born chins 

Be rough and razorable; she that — from 
whom 250 

We all were sea-swallow’d, though some cast 


again, 

And by that destiny to perform an act 
Whereof what’s past is prologue, what to come 
In yours and my discharge. 

Seb. What stuff is this ! How say you ? 
’Tis true, my brother’s daughter’s Queen of 
Tunis; 255 

So is she heir of Naples ; ’twixt which regions 
There is some space. 

Ant. A space whose every cubit 

Seems to cry out, “ How shall that Claribel 
Measure us back to Naples ? Keep in Tunis, 
And let Sebastian wake.” Say, this were 
death 200 

That now hath seiz’d them ; why, they were 
no worse 


Than now they are. There be that can rule 
Naples 

As well as he that sleeps ; lords that can prate 
As amply and unnecessarily 
As this Gonzalo ; I myself could make 206 

A chough of as deep chat. 0 , that you bore 
The mind that I do ! what a sleep were this 
For your advancement I Do you understand 
me ? 

Seb. Methinks I do. 

Ant. And how does your content 

Tender your own good fortune ? 

Seb. I remember 270 

You did supplant your brother Prospero. 

Ant. True. 

And look how well my garments sit upon me ; 
Much feater than before. My brother’s ser¬ 
vants 

Were then my fellows ; now they are my men. 
Seb. But, for your conscience ? 276 

Ant. Ay, sir, where lies that ? If’t were a 
kibe, 

’T would put me to my slipper ; but I feel not 
This deity in my bosom. Twenty consciences, 
That stand ’twixt me and Milan, candied be 
they 

And melt ere they molest! Here lies your 
brother, 280 

No better than the earth he lies upon 
If he were that which now he’s like, that’s 
dead; 

Whom I, with this obedient steel, three inches 
of it, 

Can lay to bed for ever ; whiles you, doing thus, 
To the perpetual wink for aye might put 235 
This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who 
Should not upbraid our course. For all the 
rest, 

They ’ll take suggestion as a cat laps milk; 
They ’ll tell the clock to any business that 289 
We say befits the hour. 

Seb. Thy case, dear friend, 

Shall be my precedent; as thou got’st Milan, 

I ’ll come by Naples. Draw thy sword. One 
stroke 

Shall free thee from the tribute which thou 
payest. 

And I the King shall love thee. 

An*. Draw together; 

And when I rear my hand, do you the like, 295 
To fall it on Gonzalo. 

Seb. O, but one word. 

[ They talk apart.] 
Re-enter Ariel [invisible], with music and song. 

Ari. My master through his art foresees the 
danger 

That you, his friend, are in ; and sends me 
forth — 

For else his project dies — to keep them living. 

[Sings in Gonzalo's ear. 
While you here do snoring lie, 30* 

Open-ey’d Conspiracy 
His time doth take. 

If of life you keep a care, 

Shake off slumber, and beware; 

Awake, awake ! 305 






II. ii. 


THE TEMPEST 


463 


Ant. Then let us both be sudden. 

Gon. Now, good angels 

Preserve the King. [ Wakes Alon.] 

Alon. Why, how now ? Ho, awake ! Why 
are you drawn ? 

Wherefore this ghastly looking ? 

Gon. What’s the matter ? 

Seb. Whiles we stood here securing your 
repose, 310 

Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellow¬ 
ing 

Like bulls, or rather lions. Did’t not wake 
you ? 

It struck mine ear most terribly. 

Alon. I heard nothing. 

Ant. O, ’twas a din to fright a monster’s 
ear, 

To make an earthquake! Sure, it was the 
roar si5 

Of a whole herd of lions. 

Alon. Heard you this, Gonzalo ? 

Gon. Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a hum¬ 
ming, 

And that a strange one too, which did awake 
me. 

I shak’d you, sir, and cried. As mine eyes 
open’d, 

I saw their weapons drawn. There was a 
noise, 320 

That’s verily. ’T is best we stand upon our 
guard, 

Or that we quit this place. Let’s draw our 
weapons. 

Alon. Lead off this ground ; and let’s make 
further search 
For my poor son. 

Gon. Heavens keep him from these beasts! 
For he is, sure, i’ the island. 

Alon. Lead away. 326 

Ari. Prospero my lord shall know what I 
have done. 

So, King, go safely on to seek thy son. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. [Another part of the island.] 

Enter Caliban with a burden of wood. A noise 
of thunder heard. 

Cal. All the infections that the sun sucks up 
From hogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall and make 
him 

By inch-meal a disease ! His spirits hear me 
And yet I needs must curse. But they ’ll nor 
pinch, 

Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i’ the 
mire, . 6 

Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark 
Out of my way, unless he bid ’em ; but 
For every trifle are they set upon me, 
Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at 
me 

And after bite me, then like hedgehogs 
which 10 

Lie tumbling in my barefoot way and mount 
Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I 
All wound with adders who with cloven 
tongues 

Do hiss me into madness. 


Enter Trinculo. 

Lo, now, lo! 

Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me 16 
For bringing wood in slowly. I ’ll fall flat; 
Perchance he will not mind me. 

Trin. Here’s neither bush nor shrub, to bear 
off any weather at all, and another storm 
brewing ; I hear it sing i’ the wind. Yond same 
black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a [20 
foul bombard that would shed his liquor. If it 
should thunder as it did before, I know not 
where to hide my head ; yond same cloud can¬ 
not choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we 
here ? A man or a fish ? Dead or alive ? A [25 
fish ; he smells like a fish ; a very ancient and 
fish-like smell; a kind of not-of-the-newest 
Poor-John. A strange fish ! Were I in England 
now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, 
not a holiday fool there but would give a [30 
piece of silver. There would this monster make 
a man ; any strange beast there makes a man. 
When they will not give a doit to relieve a 
lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead 
Indian. Legg’d like a man! and his fins like 
arms! Warm o’ my troth! I do now let [35 
loose my opinion, hold it no longer: this is no 
fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered 
by a thunderbolt. [Thunder.] Alas, the storm 
is come again ! My best way is to creep under 
his gaberdine; there is no other shelter [*o 
hereabout. Misery acquaints a man with 
strange bedfellows. I will here shroud till the 
dregs of the storm be past. 

Enter Stephano, singing [.* a bottle in his hand], 

Ste. “ I shall no more to sea, to sea. 

Here shall I die ashore — ’’ « 

This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man’s 
funeral. Well, here’s my comfort. [ Drinks . 

(Sings.) “ The master, the swabber, the boat¬ 
swain, and I, 

The gunner and his mate 
Lov’d Moll, Meg, and Marian, and Margery, bo 
B ut none of us car’d for Kate ; 

For she had a tongue with a tang, 

Would cry to a sailor, Go hang! 

She lov’d not the savour of tar nor of pitch, 
Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did 
itch; os 

Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang ! ” 

This is a scurvy tune too ; but here’s my com¬ 
fort. [Drinks. 

Cal. Do not torment me ! Oh ! ss 

Ste. What’s the matter? Have we devils 

here ? Do you put tricks upon’s with savages 
and men of Ind, ha? I have not scap’d drown¬ 
ing to be afeard now of your four legs; for it 
hath been said, “ As proper a man as ever went 
on four legs cannot make him give ground ”; 
and it shall be said so again while Stephano 
breathes at nostrils. « 

Cal. The spirit torments me ! Oh ! 

Ste. This is some monster of the isle with 
four legs, who hath got, as I take it, an ague. 
Where the devil should he learn our language ? 





464 


THE TEMPEST 


11. it 


I will give him some relief, if it he hut for 
that. If I can recover him and keep him tame 
and get to Naples with him, he’s a present for 
any emperor that ever trod on neat’s-leather. 73 
Cal. Do not torment me, prithee; I ’ll bring 
my wood home faster. 

Ste. He’s in his fit now and does not talk 
after the wisest. He shall taste of my bottle ; 
if he have never drunk wine afore, it will go 
near to remove his fit. If I can recover him 
and keep him tame, I will not take too much 
for him; he shall pay for him that hath him, 
and that soundly. 81 

Cal. Thou dost me yet hut little hurt; thou 
wilt anon, I know it by thy trembling. Now 
Prosper works upon thee. 84 

Ste. Come on your ways. Open your mouth ; 
here is that which will give language to you, 
eat. Open your mouth ; this will shake your 
shaking, I can tell you, and that soundly. You 
cannot tell who’s your friend. Open your chaps 
again. 89 

Trin. I should know that voice; it should 
be — but he is drown’d; and these are devils. 
0 defend me ! 

Ste. Four legs and two voices; a most deli¬ 
cate monster! His forward voice now is t.o 
speak well of his friend ; his backward voice is 
to utter foul speeches and to detract. If all the 
wine in my bottle will recover him, I will help 
his ague. Come. Amen! I will pour some in 
thy other mouth. 99 

Trin. Stephano! 

Ste. Doth thy other mouth call me ? Mercy, 
merdy ! This is a devil, and no monster. I will 
leave him ; I have no long spoon. 103 

Trin. Stephano! If thou beest Stephano, 
touch me and speak to me; for I am Trinculo, — 
be not afeard — thy good friend Trinculo. ioe 
Ste. If thou beest Trinculo, come forth. I ’ll 
pull thee by the lesser legs. If any be Trin- 
culo’s legs, these are they. Thou art very 
Trinculo indeed ! How cam’st thou to be the 
siege of this moon-calf ? Can he vent Trin- 
culos? 111 

Trin. I took him to be kill’d with a thunder¬ 
stroke. But art thou not drown’d, Stephano ? 
I hope now thou art not drown’d. Is the storm 
over-blown? I hid me under the dead moon¬ 
calf’s gaberdine for fear of the storm. And art 
thou living, Stephano ? 0 Stephano, two Nea¬ 
politans scap’d! 117 

Ste. Prithee, do not turn me about; my 
stomach is not constant. 

Cal. [Aside.] These be fine things, an if 
they be not sprites. 

That’s a brave god and bears celestial liquor. 

I will kneel to him. 122 

Ste. How didst thou scape ? How cam’st 
thou hither ? Swear by this bottle how thou 
cam’st hither, — I escap’d upon a butt of sack 
which the sailors heaved o’erboard — by this 
bottle, which I made of the bark of a tree with 
mine own hands since I was cast ashore. 128 
Cal. I ’ll swear upon that bottle to be thy 
true subject; for the liquor is not earthly. 

Ste. Here ; swear then how thou escap’dst. 


Trin. Swam ashore, man, like a duck. I can 
swim like a duck, I ’ll be sworn. 133 

Ste. Here, kiss the book. Though thou canst 
swim like a duck, thou art made like a goose. 
Trin. 0 Stephano, hast any more of this ? 
Ste. The whole butt, man. My cellar is in a 
rock by the seaside where my wine is hid. How 
now, moon-calf ! how does thine ague ? 189 

Cal. Hast thou not dropp’d from heaven ? 
Ste. Out o’ the moon, I do assure thee. I was 
the man i’ the moon when time was. 

Cal. I have seen thee in her and I do adore 
thee. 

My mistress show’d me thee and thy dog and 
thy bush. 1 44 

Ste. Come, swear to that; kiss the book. I 
will furnish it anon with new contents. Swear. 

Trin. By this good light, this is a very shal¬ 
low monster ! I afeard of him ! A very weak 
monster ! The man i’ the moon ! A most poor 
credulous monster! Well drawn, monster, in 
good sooth! _ 150 

Cal. I ’ll show thee every fertile inch o’ the 
island ; 

And I will kiss thy foot. I prithee, be my god. 

Trin. By this light, a most perfidious and 
drunken monster ! When’s god’s asleep, he ’ll 
rob his bottle. 156 

Cal. I ’ll kiss thy foot. I ’ll swear myself 
thy subject. 

Ste. Come on then ; down, and swear. 

Trin. I shall laugh myself to death at this 
puppy-headed monster. A most scurvy mon¬ 
ster ! I could find in my heart to beat him — 
Ste. Come, kiss. iei 

Trin. But that the poor monster’s in drink. 
An abominable monster ! 

Cal. I ’ll show thee the best springs ; I ’ll 
pluck thee berries ; 

I ’ll fish for thee and get thee wood enough, i 6 s 
A plague upon the tyrant that I serve ! 

I ’ll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee, 
Thou wondrous man. 

Trin. A most ridiculous monster, to make a 
wonder of a poor drunkard ! 170 

Cal. I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs 
grow; 

And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts ; 
Show thee a jay’s nest and instruct thee how 
To snare the nimble marmoset. I ’ll bring thee 
To clust’ring filberts and sometimes I’ll get 
thee 175 

Young scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go 
with me ? 

Ste. I prithee now, lead the way without 
any more talking. Trinculo, the King and all 
our company else being drown’d, we will in¬ 
herit here. Here ! bear my bottle. Fellow 
Trinculo, we ’ll fill him by and by again. m 
Cal. (Sings drunlcenly.) 

Farewell, master ; farewell, farewell! 
Trin. A howling monster; a drunken mon¬ 
ster ! 

Cal. No more dams I ’ll make for fish ; 

Nor fetch in firing iss 

At requiring ; 

Nor scrape trenchering, nor wash dish. 




III. i. 


THE TEMPEST 


465 


’Ban, ’Ban, Cacaliban 
Has a new master, get a new man. 
Freedom, hey-day! hey-day, freedom 1 free¬ 
dom, hey-day, freedom! 191 

Ste. O brave monster! Lead the way. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT III 

Scene I. [Before Prospero's cell.] 

Enter Ferdinand, bearing a log. 

Fer. There be some sports are painful, and 
their labour 

Delight in them sets off ; some kinds of base¬ 
ness 

Are nobly undergone, and most poor matters 
Point to rich ends. This my mean task 
Would be as heavy to me as odious, but s 
The mistress which I serve quickens what’s 
dead 

And makes my labours pleasures. O, she is 
Ten times more gentle than her father’s 
crabbed, 

And he’s compos’d of harshness. I must remove 
Some thousands of these logs and pile them up, 
Upon a sore injunction. My sweet mistress n 
Weeps when slie sees me work, and says such 
baseness 

Had never like executor. I forget; 

But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my 
labours, u 

Most busy least, when I do it. 

Enter Miranda ; and Prospero [at a distance , 
unseen]. 

Mir. Alas, now, pray you, 

Work not so hard. I would the lightning had 
Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin’d to 
pile! 

Pray, set it down and rest you. When this 
burns, 

’T will weep for having wearied you. My 
father 

Is hard at study ; pray now, rest yourself; 20 

He’s safe for these three hours. 

Fer. O most dear mistress, 

The sun will set before I shall discharge 
What I must strive to do. 

Mir. If you ’ll sit down, 

I’ll bear your logs the while. Pray, give me 
that; 24 

I ’ll carry it to the pile. 

Fer. No, precious creature ; 

I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, 
Than you should such dishonour undergo, 
While I sit lazy by. 

Mir. It would become me 

As well as it does you ; and I should do it 
With much more ease, for my good will is to 
it, # 30 

And yours it is against. 

Pros. Poor worm, thou art infected ! 

This visitation shows it. 

Mir. You look wearily. 

Fer. No, noble mistress ; ’t is fresh morning 
with me 


When you are by at night. I do beseech you — 
Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers — sb 
W hat is your name ? 

Mir. Miranda. — O my father, 

I have broke your hest to say so ! 

Fer. Admir’d Miranda! 

Indeed the top of admiration ! worth 
What’s dearest to the world! Full many a lady 
I have ey’d with best regard, and many a 
time 40 

The harmony of their tongues hath into bond- 
age 

Brought my too diligent ear; for several vir¬ 
tues 

Have I lik’d several women, never anv 
With so full soul, but some defect in her 
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow’d 
And put it to the foil; but you, O you, 

So perfect and so peerless, are created 
Of every creature’s best! 

Mir. I do not know 

One of my sex ; no woman’s face remember, 
Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I 
seen bo 

More that I may call men than you, good 
friend, 

And my dear father. How features are abroad, 
I am skilless of ; but, by my modesty, 

The jewel in my dower, I would not wish 
Any companion in the world but you, bs 

Nor can imagination form a shape, 

Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle 
Something too wildly, and my father’s pre¬ 
cepts 

I therein do forget. 

Fer. I am in my condition 

A prince, Miranda ; I do think, a king; eo 
I would, not so ! — and would no more endure 
This wooden slavery than to suffer 
The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul 
speak. 

The very instant that I saw you, did 
My heart fly to your service : there resides, os 
To make me slave to it ; and for your sake 
Am I this patient log-man. 

Mir. Do you love me ? 

Fer. 0 heaven, 0 earth, bear witness to this 
sound, 

And crown what I profess with kind event 
If I speak true ! if hollowly, invert to 

What best is boded me to mischief ! I 
Beyond all limit of what else i’ the world 
Do love, prize, honour you. 

Mir. I am a fool 

To weep at what I am glad of. 

Pros. Fair encounter 

Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain 
grace n 

On that which breeds between ’em ! 

Fer. Wherefore weep you ? 

Mir. At mine unworthiness, that dare not 
offer. 

What I desire to give, and much less take 
What I shall die to want. But this is trifling ; 
And all the more it seeks to hide itself, «o 
The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful 
cunning! 





4 66 


THE TEMPEST 


hi. n. 


And prompt me, plain and holy innocence ! 

I am your wife, if you will marry me ; 

If not, I ’ll die your maid. To be your fellow 
You may deny me ; but I ’ll be your servant, ss 
Whether you will or no. 

Fer. My mistress, dearest; 

And I thus humble ever. 

Mir. My husband, then ? 

Fer. Ay, with a heart as willing 
As bondage e’er of freedom. Here’s my hand. 
Mir. And mine, with my heart in ’t. And 
now farewell 90 

Till half an hour hence. 

Fer. A thousand thousand ! 

[Exeunt [Fer. and Mir. severally]. 
Pros. So glad of this as they I cannot be, 
Who are surpris’d withal; but my rejoicing 
At nothing can be more. I ’ll to my book, 

For yet ere supper-time must I perform 35 
Much business appertaining. [Exit. 

Scene II. [Another part of the island.] 
Enter Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo. 

Ste. Tell not me. When the butt is out, we 
will drink water ; not a drop before ; therefore 
bear up, and board ’em. Servant-monster, 
drink to me. * 

Trin. Servant-monster! the folly of this 
island ! They say there’s but five upon this 
isle : we are three of them ; if the other two be 
brain’d like us, the state totters. » 

Ste. Drink, servant-monster, when I bid 
thee. Thy eyes are almost set in thy head. 

Trin. Where should they be set else ? He 
were a brave monster indeed, if they were set 
in his tail. is 

Ste. My man-monster hath drown’d his 

tongue in sack. For my part, the sea cannot 
drown me; I swam, ere I could recover the 
shore, five and thirty leagues off and on. By 
this light, thou shalt be my lieutenant, monster, 
or my standard. is 

Trin. Your lieutenant, if you list; he’s no 
standard. 

Ste. We ’ll not run, Monsieur Monster. 

Trin. Nor go neither ; but you ’ll lie like 
dogs and yet say nothing neither. 23 

Ste. Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if 
thou beest a good, moon-calf. 

Cal. How does thy honour? Let me lick 
thy shoe. 

I ’ll not serve him ; he’s not valiant. 27 

Trin. Thou liest, most ignorant monster ! I 
am in case to justle a constable. Why, thou 
debosh’d fish, thou, was there ever man a cow¬ 
ard that hath drunk so much sack as I to-day ? 
Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being but half a 
fish and half a monster ? 33 

Cal. Lo, how he mocks me ! Wilt thou let 
him, my lord ? 

Trin. “Lord” quoth he! That a monster 
should be such a natural! 

Cal. Lo, lo, again! Bite him to death, I 
prithee. 38 

Ste. Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your 
head. If you prove a mutineer, — the next 


tree! The poor monster’s my subject and he 
shall not suffer indignity. 

Cal. I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be 
pleas’d to hearken once again to the suit 1 
made to thee ? . " 

Ste. Marry, will I; kneel and repeat it. I 
will stand, and so shall Trinculo. 

Enter Ariel, invisible. 

Cal. As I told thee before, I am subject to a 
tyrant, a sorcerer, that by his cunning hath 
cheated me of the island. 69 

Ari. Thou liest. 

Cal. Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou. 

I would my valiant master would destroy thee ! 

I do not lie. 64 

Ste. Trinculo, if you trouble him any more 
in’s tale, by this hand, I will supplant some of 
your teeth. 

Trin. Why, I said nothing. 

Ste. Mum, then, and no more. Proceed. 

Cal. I say, by sorcery he got this isle ; so 
From me he got it. If thy greatness will 
Revenge it on him, —for I know thou dar’st, 
But this thing dare not, — 

Ste. That’s most certain. 

Cal. Thou shalt be lord of it and I ’ll serve 
thee. 65 

Ste. How now shall this be compass’d ? Canst 
thou bring me to the party ? 

Cal. Yea, yea, my lord. I ’ll yield him thee 
asleep, 

Where thou mayst knock a nail into his head. 
Ari. Thou liest; thou canst not. ™ 

Cal. What a pied ninny’s this ! Thou scurvy 
patch! 

I do beseech thy greatness, give him blows 
And take his bottle from him. When that’s 
gone 

He shall drink nought but brine ; for I ’ll not 
show him 

Where the quick freshes are. w 

Ste. Trinculo, run into no further danger. 
Interrupt the monster one word further, and, 
by this hand, I ’ll turn my mercy out o’ doors 
and make a stock-fish of thee. 

Trin. Why, what did I ? I did nothing. I ’ll 
go farther off. 

Ste. Didst thou not say he lied ? 

Ari. Thou liest. 

Ste. Do I so? Take thou that. [Beats Trin.] 
As you like this, give me the lie another time, so 
Trin. I did not give the lie. Out o’ your wits 
and hearing too ? A pox o’ your bottle! this 
can sack and drinking do. A murrain on your 
monster, and the devil take your fingers ! 

Cal. Ha, ha, ha ! »« 

Ste. Now, forward with your tale. Prithee, 
stand farther off. 

Cal. Beat him enough. After a little time 
I ’ll beat him too. 

Ste. Stand farther. Come, proceed. 

Cal. Why, as I told thee, ’t is a custom with 
him, 96 

I’ the afternoon to sleep. There thou mayst 
brain him, 

Having first seiz’d his books, or with a log 






hi. in. 


THE TEMPEST 


467 


Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake, 
Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember 
First to possess his hooks ; for without them 100 
He’s but a sot, as I am, nor hath not 
One spirit to command. They all do hate him 
As rootedly as I. Burn but his books. 

He has brave utensils, — for so he calls them, — 
Which, when he has a house, he ’ll deck withal. 
And that most deeply to consider is ioe 

The beauty of his daughter. He himself 
Calls her a nonpareil. I never saw a woman 
But only Sycorax my dam and she ; 

But she as far surpasseth Sycorax 
As greatest does least. 

Ste. Is it so brave a lass ? 

Cal. Ay, lord; she will become thy bed, I 
warrant, 112 

And bring thee forth brave brood. 

Ste. Monster, I will kill this man. His 
daughter and I will be king and queen, — save 
our Graces! — and Trinculo and thyself shall 
be viceroys. Dost thou like the plot, Trinculo ? 

Trin. Excellent. ns 

Ste. Give me thy hand. I am sorry I beat 
thee ; but, while thou liv’st, keep a good tongue 
in thy head. 121 

Cal. Within this half hour will he be 

asleep. 

Wilt thou destroy him then ? 

Ste. Ay, on mine honour. 

Ari. This will I tell my master. 

Cal. Thou mak’st me merry; I am full of 
pleasure. 126 

Let us be jocund. Will you troll the catch 
You taught me but while-ere ? 

Ste. At thy request, monster, I will do rea¬ 
son, any reason. Come on, Trinculo, let us sing. 

\Sings. 

Flout ’em and scout ’em 130 

And scout ’em and flout ’em ; 

Thought is free. 

Cal. That’s not the tune. 

[Ariel plays the tune on a tabor and 


pipe. 

Ste. What is this same ? 

Trin. This is the tune of our catch, played 
by the picture of Nobody. m 

Ste. If thou beest a man, show thyself in thy 
likeness. If thou be’st a devil, take’t as thou 
list. 

Trin. 0 , forgive me my sins ! 

Ste. He that dies pays all debts. I defy 
thee. Mercy upon us ! 141 

Cal. Art thou afeard ? 

Ste. No, monster, not I. 

Cal. Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises. 
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and 
hurt not. _ # 145 

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments 
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices 
That, if I then had wak’d after long sleep, 
Will make me sleep again ; and then, in dream¬ 


ing, 

The clouds methought would open and show 
riches iso 

Ready to drop upon me, that, when I wak’d, 

I cried to dream again. 


Ste. This will prove a brave kingdom to me, 
where I shall have my music for nothing. 

Cal. When Prospero is destroy’d. 155 

Ste. That shall be by and by. I remember 
the story. 

Trin. The sound is going away. Let’s fol¬ 
low it, and after do our work. 

Ste. Lead, monster; we ’ll follow. I would 
I could see this taborer ; he lays it on. i«i 

Trin. Wilt come ? I ’ll follow Stephano. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. [Another part of the island.] 

Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gon- 
zalo, Adrian, Francisco, etc. 

Gon. By ’r lakin, I can go no further, sir; 
My old bones ache. Here’s a maze trod in¬ 
deed 

Through forth-rights and meanders! By your 
patience, 

I needs must rest me. 

Alon. Old lord, I cannot blame thee, 

Who am myself attach’d with weariness s 
To the dulling of my spirits. Sit down, and rest. 
Even here I will put off my hope and keep it 
No longer for my flatterer. He is drown’d 
Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks 
Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him 
go. 10 

Ant. [Aside to <Se 6 .] I am right glad that 
he’s so out of hope. 

Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose 
That you resolv’d to effect. 

Seb. [Aside to Ant.] The next advantage 
Will we take throughly. 

Ant. [Aside to Let it be to-night; 

For, now they are oppress’d with travel, they is 
Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance 
As when they are fresh. 

Solemn and strange music; and Prospero on 
the top invisible. Enter several strange shapes , 
bringing in a banquet; and dance about it with 
gentle actions of salutation; and , inviting the 
King , etc ., to eat , they depart. 

Seb. [Aside to Ant.] I say, to-night. No 
more. 

Alon. What harmony is this? My good 
friends, hark! 

Gon. Marvellous sweet music ! 

Alon. Give us kind keepers, heavens ! What 
were these ? 20 

Seb. A living drollery. Now I will believe 
That there are unicorns, that in Arabia 
There is one tree, the phoenix’ throne, one 
phoenix 

At this hour reigning there. 

Ant. I ’ll believe both ; 

And what does else want credit, come to me, 23 
And I’ll be sworn ’tis true. Travellers ne’er 
did lie, 

Though fools at home condemn ’em. 

Gon. If in Naples 

I should report this now, would they believe 
me? 

If I should say, I saw such islanders — 





468 


THE TEMPEST 


hi. iii. 


For, eertes, these are people of the island — 
Who, though they are ot monstrous shape, yet, 
note, si 

Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of 
Our human generation you shall find 
Many, nay, almost any. 

Pros. [Aside.] Honest lord, 

Thou hast said well; for some of you there 
present 35 

Are worse than devils. 

Alon. I cannot too much muse 

Such shapes, such gesture, and such sound, ex¬ 
pressing, 

Although they want the use of tongue, a kind 
Of excellent dumb discourse. 

Pros. [Aside.] Praise in departing. 

Fran. They vanish’d strangely. 

Seb. No matter, since 

They have left their viands behind, for we 
have stomachs. 41 

Will’t please you taste of what is here ? 

Alon. Not I. 

Gon. Faith, sir, you need not fear. When 
we were boys, 

Who would believe that there were mountain¬ 
eers 

Dew-lapp’d like bulls, whose throats had hang¬ 
ing at ’em 45 

Wallets of flesh ? or that there were such men 
Whose heads stood in their breasts ? which 
now we find 

Each putter-out of five for one will bring us 
Good warrant of. 

Alon. I will stand to and feed, 

Although my last. No matter, since I feel 50 
The best is past. Brother, my lord the Duke, 
Stand to and do as we. 

Thunder and lightning. Enter Ariel, lilce a 

harpy; claps his wings upon the table; and, 

with a quaint device, the banquet vanishes. 

Ari. You are three men of sin, whom Des- 
tiny, 

That hath to instrument this lower world 
And what is in ’t, the never-surfeited sea f>s 
Hath caus’d to belch up you ; and on this 
island 

Where man doth not inhabit; you ’mongst 
men 

Being most unfit to live. I have made you 
mad ; 

And even with such-like valour men hang and 
drown 

Their proper selves. 

[Alon., Seb., etc., draw their swords.] 
You fools ! I and my fellows 
Are ministers of Fate. The elements, ei 

Of whom your swords are temper’d, may as 
well 

Wound the loud winds, or with bemock’d-at 
stabs 

Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish 
One dowle that’s in my plume. My fellow- 
ministers 65 

Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt, 

Your swords are now too massy for your 
strengths 


And will not be uplifted. But remember — 
For that’s my business to you — that you three 
From Milan did supplant good Prospero ; 70 

Expos’d unto the sea, which hath requit it, 
Him and his innocent child ; for which foul 
deed 

The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have 
Incens’d the seas and shores, yea, all the crea¬ 
tures, 

Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso, 76 
They have bereft; and do pronounce by me 
Ling’ring perdition, worse than any death 
Can be at once, shall step by step attend 
You and your ways; whose wraths to guard 
you from — 

Which here, in this most desolate isle, else 
falls so 

Upon your heads — is nothing but heart’s sor¬ 
row 

And a clear life ensuing. 

He vanishes in thunder; then, to soft music , 
enter the shapes again , and dance, with mocks 
and mows, and carrying out the table. 

Pros. Bravely the figure of this harpy hast 
thou 

Perform’d, my Ariel; a grace it had, devour¬ 
ing. 

Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated 86 
In what thou hadst to say ; so, with good life 
And observation strange, my meaner ministers 
Their several kinds have done. My high 
charms work, 

And these mine enemies are all knit up 
In their distractions. They now are in my 
power; oc 

And in these fits I leave them, while I visit 
Young Ferdinand, whom they suppose is 
drown’d, 

And his and mine lov’d darling. [Exit above.] 
Gon. I’ the name of something holy, sir, why 
. stand you 94 

In this strange stare ? 

Alon. 0 , it is monstrous, monstrous ! 

Methought the billows spoke and told me of 

it; 

The winds did sing it to me, and the thunder, 
That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc’d 
The name of Prosper ; it did bass my trespass. 
Therefore ray son i’ the ooze is bedded, and 10c 
I ’ll seek him deeper than e’er plummet sounded 
And with him there lie mudded. [Exit.] 

Seb. But one fiend at a time, 

I ’ll fight their legions o’er. 

Ant. I ’ll be thy second. 

[Exeunt [ 8 e 6 . and Ant.]. 
Gon. All three of them are desperate : their 
great guilt, 

Like poison given to work a great time 
after, 105 

Now gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech 
you 

That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly 
And hinder them from what this ecstasy 
May now provoke them to. 

Adr. Follow, I pray you. 

[Exeunt. 




IV. i. 


THE TEMPEST 


469 


ACT IV 

Scene I. [Before Prosperous cell.] 

Enter Prospero, Ferdinand, and Miranda. 

Pros. If I have too austerely punish’d you, 
Your compensation makes amends, for I 
Have given you here a third of mine own life, 
Or that for which I live ; who once again 
I tender to thy hand. All thy vexations * 
Were but my trials of thy love, and thou 
Hast strangely stood the test. Here, afore 
Heaven, 

I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand, 

Do not smile at me that I boast her off, 

For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise 10 
And make it halt behind her. 

Fer. I do believe it 

Against an oracle. 

Pros. Then, as my gift and thine own acqui¬ 
sition 

Worthily purchas’d, take my daughter. But 
If thou dost break her virgin-knot before 10 
All sanctimonious ceremonies may 
With full and holy rite be minist’red, 

No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall 
To make this contract grow ; but barren Hate, 
Sour-eyed Disdain and Discord shall bestrew 20 
The union of your bed with weeds so loathly 
That you shall hate it both. Therefore take 
heed, 

As Hymen’s lamps shall light you. 

Fer. As I hope 

For quiet days, fair issue, and long life, 

With such love as’t is now, the murkiest den, 
The most opportune place, the strong’st sug¬ 
gestion 26 

Our worser genius can, shall never melt 
Mine honour into lust, to take away 
The edge of that day’s celebration 
When I shall think or Phoebus’ steeds are 
founder’d 30 

Or Night kept chain’d below. 

Pros. Fairly spoke. 

Sit then and talk with her ; she is thine own. 
What, Ariel! my industrious servant, Ariel! 

Enter Ariel. 

Ari. What would my potent master ? Here 
I am. 

Pros. Thou and thy meaner fellows your last 
service 36 

Did worthily perform ; and I must use you 
In such another trick. Go bring the rabble, 
O’er whom I give thee power, here to this 
place. 

Incite them to quick motion ; for I must 
Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple « 
Some vanity of mine art. It is my promise, 
And they expect it from me. 

Ari. > Presently ? 

Pros. Ay, with a twink. 

Ari. Before you can say “ come ” and “ go,” 
And breathe twice and cry “so, so,” « 
Each one, tripping on his toe, 

Will be here with mop and mow. 

Do you love me, master ? No ? 


Pros. Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do not ap¬ 
proach 

Till thou dost hear me call. 

Ari. Well, I conceive. « 

[Exit. 

Pros. Look thou be true; do not give dal¬ 
liance 

Too much the rein. The strongest oaths are 
straw 

To the fire i’ the blood. Be more abstemious, 
Or else, good night your vow ! 

Fer. I warrant you, sir ; 

The white cold virgin snow upon my heart «s 
Abates the ardour of my liver. 

Pros. Well. 

Now come, my Ariel! bring a corollary, 

Rather than want a spirit. Appear, and pertly ! 
No tongue ! all eyes! Be silent. [Soft music. 

Enter Iris. 

Iris. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich 
leas so 

Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and pease ; 
Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling 
sheep, 

And flat meads thatch’d with stover, them to 
keep; 

Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims, 
Which spongy April at thy hest betrims 65 
To make cold nymphs chaste crowns ; and thy 
brown groves, 

Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves, 
Being lass-lorn ; thy pole-clipp’d vineyard : 

And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard, 
Where thou thyself dost air ; — the queen o’ 
the sky, to 

Whose watery arch and messenger am I, 

Bids thee leave these, and with her sovereign 
grace, [Juno descends. 

Here on this grass-plot, in this very place, 

To come and sport; here peacocks fly amain. 
Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain. to 

Enter Ceres. 

Cer. Hail, many-coloured messenger, that 
ne’er 

Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter ; 

Who with tny saffron wings upon my flowers 
Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers, 

And with each end of thy blue bow dost 
crown 89 

My bosky acres and my unshrubb’d down, 

Rich scarf to my proud earth ; why hath thy 
queen 

Summon’d me hither, to this short-grass’d 
green ? 

Iris. A contract of true love to celebrate; 
And some donation freely to estate 8 » 

On the blest lovers. 

Cer. Tell me, heavenly bow, 

If Venus or her son, as thou aost know, 

Do now attend the Queen ? Since they did plot 
The means that dusky Dis my daughter got, 
Her and her blind boy’s scandal’d company 00 
I have forsworn. 

Iris. Of her society 

Be not afraid. I met her deity 




470 


THE TEMPEST 


IV. l. 


Cutting the clouds towards Paphos, and her 
son 

Dove-drawn with her. Here thought they to 
have done 

Some wanton charm upon this man and 
maid, 95 

Whose vows are, that nn bed-right shall he 
paid 

Till Hymen’s torch he lighted ; but in vain. 
Mars’s hot minion is return’d again ; 

Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows, 
Swears he will shoot no more, but play with 
sparrows 100 

And be a boy right out. 

Cer. Highest queen of state, 

Great Juno, comes ; I know her by her gait. 

[Enter Juno.] 

Juno. How does my bounteous sister ? Go 
with me 

To bless this twain, that they may prosperous 
be 

And honour’d in their issue. [ They sing. 106 

Juno. Honour, riches, marriage-blessing, 
Long continuance, and increasing, 
Hourly joys be still upon you! 

Juno sings her blessings on you. 

\Cer.] Earth’s increase, foison plenty, no 
Barns and garners never empty, 

Vines with clustering bunches growing, 
Plants with goodly burden bowing. 
Spring come to you at the farthest 
In the very end of harvest ! us 

Scarcity and want shall shun you ; 
Ceres’ blessing so is on you. 

Fer. This is a most majestic vision, and 
Harmonious charmingly. May I be bold 
To think these spirits ? 

Pros. Spirits, which by mine art 

I have from their confines call’d to enact 121 
My present fancies. 

Fer. Let me live here ever ; 

So rare a wond’red father and a wise 
Makes this place Paradise. 

Pros. Sweet, now, silence ! 

Juno and Ceres whisper seriously. 125 

There’s something else to do; hush, and be 
mute, 

Or else our spell is marr’d. 

[Juno and Ceres whisper , and send 
Iris on employment. 

Iris. You nymphs, call’d Naiads, of the 
winding brooks, 

With your sedg’d crowns and ever-harmless 
looks, 

Leave your crisp channels, and on this green 
land 130 

Answer your summons ; Juno does command. 
Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate 
A contract of true love ; be not too late. 

Enter certain Nymphs. 

You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary, 
Come hither from the furrow and be merry. 135 
Make holiday ; your rye-straw hats put on 
And these fresh nymphs encounter every one 
In country footing. 


Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they 
join with the Nymphs in a graceful dance; 
towards the end whereof Prospero starts sud¬ 
denly, and speaks; after which , to a strange , 
hollow , and confused noise, they heavily vanish. 

Pros. [Aside.] I had forgot that foul con¬ 
spiracy 

Of the beast Caliban and his confederates no 
Against my life. The minute of their plot 
Is almost come. [To the Spirits .] Well done ! 
avoid. No more! 

Fer. This is strange. Your father’s in some 
passion 

That works him strongly. 

Mir. Never till this day m 

Saw I him touch’d with anger, so distemper’d. 

Pros. You do look, my son, in a mov’d sort, 
As if you were dismay’d. Be cheerful, sir, 

Our revels now are ended. These our actors, 

As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 

Are melted into air, into thin air ; 160 

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, 

The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve 
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff \ 
As dreams are made on, and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex’d, — \ 

Bear with my weakness — my old brain is 
troubled. 

Be not disturb’d with my infirmity. ieo 

If you be pleas’d, retire into my cell 

And there repose. A turn or two I ’ll walk, 

To still my beating mind. 

Fer. Mir. We wish your peace. 

[Exeunt. 

Pros. Come with a thought. I thank thee, 
Ariel ; come. 

Enter Ariel. 

Ari. Thy thoughts I cleave to. What’s thy 
pleasure ? 

Pros. Spirit, ias 

We must prepare to meet with Caliban. 

Ari. Ay, my commander. When I presented 
Ceres, 

I thought to have told thee of it, but I fear’d 
Lest I might anger thee. 

Pros. Say again, where didst thou leave 
> these varlets ? i 7 « 

Ari. I told you, sir, they were red-hot with 
drinking ; 

So full of valour that they smote the air 
For breathing in their faces ; beat the ground 
For kissing of their feet; yet always bending 
Towards their project. Then I beat my tabor ; 
At which, like unback’d colts, they prick’d 
their ears, m 

Advanc’d their eyelids, lifted up their noses 
As they smelt music. So I charm’d their ears 
That calf-like they my lowing follow’d through 
Tooth’d briers, sharp furzes, pricking gorse, 
and thorns, iso 

Which ent’red their frail shins. At last I left 
them 




THE TEMPEST 


47 1 


V. i. 


I’ the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell, 
There dancing up to the chins, that the foul 
lake 

O’erstunk their feet. 

Pros. This was well done, my bird. 

Thy shape invisible retain thou still. iss 

The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither, 
For stale to catch these thieves. 

Art. I go, I go. 

[Exit. 

Pros. A devil, a born devil, on whose nature 
Nurture can never stick ; on whom my pains, 
Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost; i»o 
And as with age his body uglier grows, 

So his mind cankers. I will plague them all, 
Even to roaring. 

Re-enter Ariel, loaden with glittering apparel , 
etc. 

Come, hang them on this line. 

[Prospero and Ariel remain , invisible .] Enter 
Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo, all 
wet. 


Cal. Pray you, tread softly, that the blind 
mole may not 

Hear a foot fall; we now are near his cell. 

Ste. Monster, your fairy, which you say is 
a harmless fairy, has done little better than 
play’d the Jack with us. 

Trin. Monster, I do smell all horse-piss, at 
which my nose is in great indignation. 200 

Ste. So is mine. Do you hear, monster ? If 
I should take a displeasure against you, look 


you, — 

Trin. Thou wert but a lost monster. 

Cal. Good my lord, give me thy favour still. 
Be patient, for the prize I ’ll bring thee to 205 
Shall hoodwink this mischance; therefore 
speak softly. 

All’s hush’d as midnight yet. 

Trin. Ay, hut to lose our bottles in the pool,— 
Ste. There is not only disgrace and dishonour 
in that, monster, hut an infinite loss. 210 

Trin. That’s more to me than my wetting; 
yet this is your harmless fairy, monster! 

Ste. I will fetch off my bottle, though I he 
o’er ears for my labour. 

Cal. Prithee, my king, he quiet. See’st thou 
here, . 21 ® 

This is the mouth o’ the cell. No noise, and 
enter. 

Do that good mischief which may make this 
island 

Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban, 

For aye thy foot-licker. 

Ste. Give me thy hand. I do begin to have 
bloody thoughts. 221 

Trin. 0 King Stephano ! 0 peer ! O worthy 
Stephano! look what a wardrobe here is for 
thee! . 

Cal. Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash. 
Trin. O, ho, monster! we know what be¬ 
longs to a frippery. 0 King Stephano ! 226 

Ste. Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this 
hand, I ’ll have that gown. 

Trin. Thy Grace shall have it. 


Cal. The dropsy drown this fool! what do 
you mean 230 

To dote thus on such luggage ? Let’s alone 
And do the murder first. If he awake, 

From toe to crown he ’ll fill our skins with 
pinches, 

Make us strange stuff. 234 

Ste. Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line, is 
not this my jerkin ? Now is the jerkin under 
the line. Now, jerkin, you are like to lose your 
hair and prove a bald jerkin. 

Trin. Do, do; we steal by line and level, 
an’t like your Grace. 240 

Ste. I thank thee for that jest; here’s a gar¬ 
ment for’t. Wit shall not go unrewarded while 
I am king of this country. “Steal by line and 
level ” is an excellent pass of pate; there’s an¬ 
other garment for’t. 245 

Trin. Monster, come, put some lime upon 
your fingers, and away with the rest. 

Cal. I will have none on ’t. We shall lose 
our time, 

And all he turn’d to barnacles, or to apes 
With foreheads villanous low. 260 

Ste. Monster, lay-to your fingers. Help to 
bear this away where my hogshead of wine is, 
or I ’ll turn you out of my kingdom. Go to, 
carry this. 

Trin. And this. 

Ste. Ay, and this. 25® 

A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits , 
in shape of dogs and hounds , hunting them 
about , Prospero and Ariel setting them on. 

Pros. Hey, Mountain, hey ! 

Ari. Silver ! there it goes, Silver! 

Pros. Fury, Fury! there, Tyrant, there 1 
hark ! hark! 

[Cal., Ste., and Trin. are driven 
out.] 

Go charge my goblins that they grind their 
joints 

With dry convulsions, shorten up their sinews 
With aged cramps, and more pinch-spotted 
make them 261 

Than pard or cat o’ mountain. 

Ari. Hark, they roar! 

Pros. Let them be hunted soundly. At this 
hour 

Lies at my mercy all mine enemies. 

Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou 239 
Shalt have the air at freedom. For a little 
Follow, and do me service. [Exeunt. 


ACT V 

Scene I. [Before Prosperous cell.] 

Enter Prospero in his magic robes , and Ariel. 

Pros. Now does my project gather to a head. 
My charms crack not; my spirits obey ; and 
Time 

Goes upright with his carriage. How’s the day ? 
Ari. On the sixth hour ; at which time, my 
lord, 

You said our work should cease. 




47 2 


THE TEMPEST 


v. 1. 


Pros. I did say so, 

When first I rais’d the tempest. Say, my 
spirit, 6 

How fares the King and’s followers ? 

Ari. Confin’d together 

In the same fashion as you gave in charge, 

Just as you left them ; all prisoners, sir. 

In the line-grove which weather-fenas your 
cell; io 

They cannot budge till your release. The 
King, 

His brother, and yours, abide all three dis¬ 
tracted, 

And the remainder mourning over them, 
Brimful of sorrow and dismay ; but chiefly 
Him that you term’d, sir, “The good old 
lord, Gonzalo,” is 

His tears run down his beard, like winter’s 
drops 

From eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly 
works ’em 

That if you now beheld them, your affections 
Would become tender. 

Pros. Dost thou think so, spirit ? 

Ari. Mine would, sir, were I human. 

Pros. And mine shall. 

Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feel¬ 
ing 21 

Of their afflictions, and shall not myself, 

One of their kind, that relish all as sharply 
Passion as they, be kindlier mov’d than thou 
art ? 

Though with their high wrongs I am struck to 
the quick, 25 

Yet with my nobler reason ’gainst my fury 
Do I take part. The rarer action is 
In virtue than in vengeance. They being peni¬ 
tent, 

The sole drift of my purpose doth extend 
Not a frown further. Go release them, Ariel. 30 
My charms I ’ll break, their senses I ’ll restore, 
And they shall be themselves. 

Ari. I ’ll fetch them, sir. 

[Exit. 

Pros. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing 
lakes, and groves, 

And ye that on the sands with printless foot 
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him 35 
When he comes back ; you demi-puppets that 
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, 
Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose 
pastime 

Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice 
To hear the solemn curfew ; by whose aid, «> 
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm’d 
The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous 
winds, 

And ’twixt the green sea and the azur’d vault 
Set roaring war ; to the dread rattling thunder 
Have I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak 45 
With his own bolt; the strong-bas’d promon¬ 
tory 

Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck’d 
up 

The pine and cedar ; graves at my command 
Have wak’d their sleepers, op’d, and let ’em 
forth 


By my so potent art. But this rough magic so 
I here abjure, and, when I have requir’d 
Some heavenly music, which even now I do, 

To work mine end upon their senses that 
This airy charm is for, I ’ll break my staff, 
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, ss 

And deeper than did ever plummet sound 
I ’ll drown my book. [ Solemn music. 

Here enters Ariel before: then Alonso, with a 
frantic gesture , attended by Gonzalo ; Sebas¬ 
tian and Antonio in like manner , attended 
by Adrian and Francisco. They all enter the 
circle which Prospero had made , and there 
stand charmed; which Prospero observing , 
speaks. 

A solemn air and the best comforter 
To an unsettled fancy cure thy brains, 

Now useless, boil’d within thy skull! There 
stand, 60 

For you are spell-stopp’d. 

Holy Gonzalo, honourable man, 

Mine eyes, even sociable to the shew of thine, 
Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace, 
And as the morning steals upon the night, es 
Melting the darkness, so their rising senses 
Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle 
Their clearer reason. O good Gonzalo, 

My true preserver, and a loyal sir 
To him tn ou follow’st! I will pay thy graces 70 
Home both in word and deed. Most cruelly 
Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter. 
Thy brother was a furtherer in the act. 

Thou art pinch’d for’t now, Sebastian. Flesh 
and blood, 

You, brother mine, that entertain’d ambition, 7 « 
Expell’d remorse and nature, whom, with Sebas¬ 
tian, 

Whose inward pinches therefore are most 
strong. 

Would here have kill’d your king, I do forgive 
thee, 

Unnatural though thou art. Their understand¬ 
ing 

Begins to swell, and the approaching tide «o 
Will shortly fill the reasonable shore 
That now lie foul and muddy. Not one of them 
That yet looks on me, or would know me ! 
Ariel, 

Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell; 

I will disease me, and myself present as 

As I was sometime Milan. Quickly, spirit; 
Thou shalt ere long be free. 

Ariel sings and helps to attire him. 

Ari. “ Where the bee sucks, there suck I. 

In a cowslip’s bell I lie ; 

There I couch when owls do cry. »o 
On the bat’s back I do fly 
After summer merrily. 

Merrily, merrily shall I live now 
Under the blossom that hangs on the 
bough.” 

Pros. Why, that’s my dainty Ariel! I shall 
miss thee ; as 

But yet thou shalt have freedom. So, so, so. 




THE TEMPEST 


473 


V. i. 


To the King’s ship, invisible as thou art; 

There shalt thou find the mariners asleep 
Under the hatches. The master and the boat¬ 
swain 

Being awake, enforce them to this place, 100 
And presently, I prithee. 

Art. I drink the air before me, and return 
Or ere your pulse twice beat. [Exit. 

Gon. All torment, trouble, wonder, and 
amazement u* 

Inhabits here. Some heavenly power guide us 
Out of this fearful country ! 

Pros. Behold, sir King, 

The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero. 

For more assurance that a living prince 
Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body ; 
And to thee and thy company I bid no 

A hearty welcome. 

Alon. Whe’er thou be’st he or no, 

Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me, 

As late I have been, I not know. Thy pulse 
Beats as of flesh and blood ; and, since I saw 
thee, 

The affliction of my mind amends, with which, 
I fear, a madness held me. This must crave, no 
An if this be at all, a most strange story. 

Thy dukedom I resign and do entreat 
Thou pardon me my wrongs. But how should 
Prospero 

Be living and be here ? 

Pros. First, noble friend, 

Let me embrace thine age, whose honour can¬ 
not 

Be measur’d or confin’d. 

Gon. Whether this be 

Or be not, I ’ll not swear. 

Pros. You do yet taste 

Some subtleties o’ the isl e, t hat will not let you 
Believe things certain. Welcome, my friends 
all ! 

[Aside to Seb. and Ant .]_ But you, my brace of 
lords, were I so minded, 

I here could pluck his Highness’ frown upon 
you 

And justify you traitors. At this time 
I will tell no tales. 

Seb. [Aside. ] The devil speaks in him. 
Pros. . No. 

For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother 
Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive mi 
T hy rankest fault; all of them ; and require 
My dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know, 
Thou must restore. 

Alon. If thou be’st Prospero, 

Give us particulars of thy preservation, 135 
How thou hast met us here, whom three hours 
since 

Were wreck’d upon this shore, where I have 
lost — 

How sharp the point of this remembrance is ! — 
My dear son Ferdinand. 

Pros. I am woe for’t, sir. 

Alon. Irreparable is the loss, and Patience no 
Says it is past her cure. 

Pros. I rather think 

You have not sought her help, of whose soft 
grace 


For the like loss I have her sovereign aid 
And rest myself content. 

Alon. You the like loss! 

Pros. As great to me as late ; and, support¬ 
able 145 

To make the dear loss, have I means much 
weaker 

Than you may call to comfort you, for I 
Have lost my daughter. 

Alon. A daughter ? 

0 heavens, that they were living both in Na¬ 
ples, 

The King and Queen there ! That they were, I 
wish i 5 o 

Myself were mudded in that oozy bed 
Where my son lies. When did you lose your 
daughter ? 

Pros. In this last tempest. I perceive, these 
lords 

At this encounter do so much admire 
That they devour their reason and scarce think 
Their eyes do offices of truth, their words is 6 
Are natural breath ; but, howsoe’er you have 
Been rustled from your senses, know for certain 
That I am Prospero and that very duke 
WKich was thrust forth of Milan, who most 
strangely i«i 

Upon this shore, where you were wreck’d, was 
landed, 

To be the lord on’t. No more yet of this; 

For ’t is a chronicle of day by day, 

Not a relation for a breakfast nor 
Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir; 105 
This cell’s my court. Here have I few atten¬ 
dants, 

And subjects none abroad. Pray you, look in. 
My dukedom since you have given me again, 

I will requite you with as good a thing; 

At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye no 
As much as me my dukedom. 

Here Prospero discovers Ferdinand and Mi¬ 
randa playing at chess. 

Mir. Sweet lord, you plav me false. 

Fer. No, my dearest love, 

I would not for the world. 

Mir. Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should 
wrangle, 

And I would call it fair play. 

Alon. If this prove i» 

A vision of the island, one dear son 
Shall I twice lose. 

Seb. A most high miracle 1 

Fer. Though the seas threaten, they are 
merciful; 

I have curs’d them without cause. [Kneels.] 
Alon. Now all the blessings 

Of a glad father compass thee about! no 

Arise, and say how thou cam’st here. 

Mir. O, wonder I 

How many goodly creatures are there here 1 
How beauteous mankind isl 0 brave new 
world, 

That has such people in’t! 

Pros. ’T is new to thee. 

Alon. What is this maid with whom thou 
wast at play ? 188 




474 


THE TEMPEST 


v. 1. 


Your eld’st acquaintance cannot be three hours. 
Is she the goddess that hath sever’d us, 

And brought us thus together ? 

Fer. Sir, she is mortal, 

But by immortal Providence she’s mine. 

I chose her when I could not ask my father 190 
For his advice, nor thought I had one. She 
Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan, 

Of whom so often I have heard renown, 

But never saw before ; of whom I have 
Receiv’d a second life ; and second father iw 
This lady makes him to me. 

Alon. I am hers. 

But, O, how oddly will it sound that I 
Must ask my child forgiveness ! 

Pros. There, sir, stop. 

Let us not burden our remembrances with 
A heaviness that’s gone. 

Gon. I have inly wept, 200 

Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you 
gods, 

And on this couple drop a blessed crown ! 

For it is you that have chalk’d forth the way 
Which brought us hither. 

Alon. I say, Amen, Gonzalo ! 

Gon. Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his 
issue 205 

Should become Kings of Naples ? 0 , rejoice 
Beyond a common joy, and set it down 
With gold on lasting pillars: in one voyage 
Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis, 

And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife 210 
Where he himself was lost, Prospero his duke¬ 
dom 

In a poor isle, and all of us ourselves 
When no man was his own. 

Alon. [To Fer. and Mir.] Give me your 
hands. 

Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart 
That doth not wish you joy ! 

Gon. Be it so! Amen! 

Re-enter Ariel, with the Master and Boat¬ 
swain amazedly following. 

O, look, sir, look, sir! here is more of us. 216 
I prophesi’d, if a gallows were on land, 

This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy, 
That swear’st grace o’erboard, not an oath on 
shore ? 

Hast thou no mouth by land ? What is the 
news ? 220 

Boats. The best news is, that we have safely 
found 

Our king and company; the next, our ship — 
Which, but three glasses since, we gave out 
split — 

Is tight and yare and bravely rigg’d as when 
We first put out to sea. 

Ari. [Aside to Pros.] Sir, all this service 225 
Have I done since I went. 

Pros. [Aside to Ari.] My tricksy spirit! 
Alon. These are not natural events ; they 
strengthen 

From strange to stranger. Say, how came you 
hither ? 

Boats. If I did think, sir, I were well 

awake, 


I’d strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep, 
And — how we know not — all clapp’d under 
hatches; 231 

Where but even now with strange and several 
noises 

Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains, 
And moe diversity of sounds, all horrible, 

We were awak’d ; straightway, at liberty ; 235 
Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld 
Our royal, good, and gallant ship, our master 
Cap’ring to eye her. On a trice, so please 
you, 

Even in a dream, were we divided from them 
And were brought moping hither. 

Ari. [Aside to Pros.] Was’t well done ? 
Pros. [Aside to Ari.] Bravely, my dili¬ 
gence. Thou shalt be free. 241 

Alon. This is as strange a maze as e’er men 
trod ; 

And there is in this business more than nature 
Was ever conduct of. Some oracle 
Must rectify our knowledge. 

Pros. _ Sir, my liege, 245 

Do not infest your mind with beating on 
The strangeness of this business. At pick’d 
leisure, 

Which shall be shortly, single I ’ll resolve you, 
Which to you shall seem probable, of every 
These happen’d accidents ; till when, be cheer¬ 
ful 250 

And think of each thing well. [Aside to Ari.] 
Come hither, spirit. 

Set Caliban and his companions free ; 

Untie the spell. [Exit Ariel.] How fares my 
gracious sir ? 

There are yet missing of your company 
Some few odd lads that you remember not. 255 

Re-enter Ariel, driving in Caliban, Ste- 
phano and Trinculo, in their stolen ap¬ 
parel. 

Ste. Every man shift for all the rest, and let 
no man take care for himself ; for all is but 
fortune. Coragio, bully-monster, eoragio ! 

Trin. If these be true spies which I wear in 
my head, here’s a goodly sight. 200 

Cal. 0 Setebos, these be brave spirits in¬ 
deed ! 

How fine my master is 1 I am afraid 
He will chastise me. 

Seb. Ha, ha! 

What things are these, my lord Antonio ? 

Will money buy ’em ? 

Ant. Very like ; one of them 

Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable. 266 
Pros. Mark but the badges of these men, 
my lords, 

Then say if they be true. This mis-shapen 
knave, 

His mother was a witch, and one so strong 
That could control the moon, make flows and 
ebbs, 270 

And deal in her command without her power. 
These three have robb’d me; and this demi¬ 
devil — 

For he’s a bastard one — had plotted with 
them 




Epi. 


THE TEMPEST 


475 


To take my life. Two of these fellows you 
Must know and own ; this thing of dark¬ 
ness I 275 

Acknowledge mine. 

Cal. I shall be pinch’d to death. 

Alon. Is not this Stephano, my drunken 
butler? 

Seb. He is drunk now. Where had he wine ? 

Alon. And Trinculo is reeling ripe. Where 
should they 

Find this grand liquor that hath gilded ’em ? 
How cam’st thou in this pickle ? 281 

Trin. I have been in such a pickle since I 
saw you last that, I fear me, will never out of 
my hones. I shall not fear fly-blowing. 

Seb. Why, how now, Stephano ! 286 

Ste. O, touch me not; I am not Stephano, 
but a cramp. 

Pros. You’d be king o’ the isle, sirrah ? 

Ste. I should have been a sore one then. 

Alon. This is a strange thing as e’er I 
look’d on. [Pointing to Caliban. 

Pros. He is as disproportion’d in his man¬ 
ners 290 

As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell; 

Take with you your companions. As you look 
To have my pardon, trim it handsomely. 

Cal. Ay, that I will; and I ’ll be wise here¬ 
after 

And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass 
Was I, to take this drunkard for a god 295 
And worship this dull fool I 

Pros. Go to ; away! 

Alon. Hence, and bestow your luggage where 
you found it. 

Seb. Or stole it, rather. 

[Exeunt Cal., Ste., and Trin.] 

Pros. Sir, I invite your Highness and your 
train 300 

To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest 
For this one night; which, part of it, I ’ll 
waste 

With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall 
make it 


Go quick away, — the story of my life 
And the particular accidents gone by 305 

Since I came to this isle. And in the morn 
I ’ll bring you to your ship and so to Naples, 
Where I have hope to see the nuptial 
Of these our dear-belov’d solemnized : 

And thence retire me to my Milan, where 310 
Every third thought shall be my grave. 

Alon. I long 

To hear the story of your life, which must 
Take the ear strangely. 

Pros. I ’ll deliver all; 

And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales, 
And sail so expeditious that shall catch sis 
Your royal fleet far off. [Aside to Ari.] My 
Ariel, chick, 

That is thy charge. Then to the elements 
Be free, and fare thou well ! Please you, draw 
near. [Exeunt omnes. 

EPILOGUE 

SPOKEN BY PROSPERO. 

Now my charms are all o’erthrown, 

And what strength I have’s mine own, 
Which is most faint. Now, ’t is true, 

I must be here confin’d by you, 

Or sent to Naples. Let me not, g 

Since I have my dukedom got 
And pardon’d the deceiver, dwell 
In this bare island by your spell; 

But release me from my bands 

With the help of your good hands. 10 

Gentle breath of yours my sails 

Must fill, or else my project fails, 

Which was to please. Now I want 
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant, 

And my ending is despair, 16 

Unless I be reliev’d by prayer, 

Which pierces so that it assaults 
Mercy itself and frees all faults. 

As you from crimes would pardon’d be, 
Let your indulgence set me free. [Exit. 20 










HISTORIES 


THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN 


King John is the only undoubtedly Shakespearean play not entered in the Stationers’ Register, 
nor is there any trace of its having been printed before there appeared in the First Folio the text 
on which the present edition is based. A mention in Meres’s list in 1598 gives a later limit for 
the date of production; and an earlier limit is approximately fixed by the date of its source, 
which was published in 1591 , and cannot have been written earlier than about 1587 . Within 
this range of ten years we have no good external evidence. Attempts to find allusions to current 
politics are negatived by the existence of the supposed allusions in the source also. Modern 
critics vary in their judgments between 1593 and 1596 , and considerations of metre and style 
point rather to the earlier of these dates, and make it probable that the play was written 
between Richard III and Richard II. 

About the middle of the sixteenth century Bishop Bale had made the reign of John the subject 
of an historical morality with a virulently Protestant purpose ; but it does not appear that this 
piece was used in any of the later dramatic treatments of the theme. In 1591 was published 
The Troublesome Raigne of John , King of England , an anonymous historical play in two parts, 
written in blank verse of considerable power. On this Shakespeare founded the present drama, 
without seeking either to corroborate or to correct, by reference to the chronicles, the very 
legendary history of his source. The earlier author not only disregarded chronology, but invented, 
altered, or ignored the facts with the greatest freedom. Like Bale, though to a less degree, he 
gave his work an anti-Papal bias. He invented the part played by the Bastard Faulconbridge ; 
he combined in one person the Archduke of Austria, who had imprisoned Richard I and was 
dead at the time of the play, with the Viscount of Limoges, before whose castle Cceur-de-lion 
had received his mortal wound ; he made Arthur younger than he was, and kept Constance a 
widow, for purposes of dramatic effectiveness; and he omitted all mention of Magna Charta, 
and with it of the constitutional element in the quarrel between John and his barons. Such are 
only a few of the violations of historical accuracy which mark almost every scene. 

Shakespeare’s method of treating the work of his predecessor was peculiar. He re-wrote 
practically every line, and he condensed the two parts into five acts of moderate length. He 
selected some scenes and rejected others, but to the action he added almost nothing. On several 
occasions he economized by representing an action as just completed (e. g ., the second corona¬ 
tion), instead of showing it on the stage. He cut out the long comic scene in which Faulcon¬ 
bridge exposes the immorality of the monasteries; and in general he gave up the attempt to 
picture John as a Protestant hero. 

With much gain in compactness and rapidity of action, these changes involved also some loss. 
The play was left without a leading motive or a truly central character, and some details are 
not wholly intelligible. Thus the reasons of the Bastard’s hatred of Austria, and of his ill- 
natured speech on the betrothal of Lewis and Blanch (n. i. 504 ff.), are not clear without the 
prominence given in The Troublesome Raigne to the legendary view of Coeur-de-lion’s death at 
Austria’s hands in the one case, and in the other to Eleanor’s scheme for marrying Faulcon¬ 
bridge himself to Blanch. More serious is the loss of motive in the poisoning of the King by 
the monk, — a deed easily intelligible in the older play on account of the prominence given 
throughout to the hostility between John and the Church. 

Shakespeare’s additions consist chiefly in the elaboration of character. Most notable are the 
cases of Constance and the Bastard. The speeches of both are greatly increased in number and 
length; and the passion of Constance is developed from a slight indication in The Troublesome 
Raigne , to a representation, which, though verging on the sentimental and hysterical, has been 
taken as the supreme utterance of motherly love in literature. Faulconbridge is made more con¬ 
sistent and more important, being given the role embodying the sturdy sense and patriotism of 
the loyal Englishman, and voicing, especially in his last speech, what comes as near being a cen¬ 
tral theme as the play possesses. 


THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN 


[DRAMATIS PERSON/E 


King John. 

Prince Henry, son to the king. 

Arthur, duke of Bretagne, nephew to the king. 
The Earl of Pembroke. 

The Earl of Essex. 

The Earl of Salisbury. 

The Lord Bigot. 

Hubert de Burgh. 

Robert Faulconbridge. 

Philip the Bastard, his half-brother. 

James Gurney, servant to Lady Faulconbridge. 
Peter of Pomfret, a prophet. 


Philip, king of France. 

Lewis, the Dauphin. 

Lymoges, duke of Austria. 

Cardinal Pandulph, the Pope’s legate. 

Melun, a French Lord. 

Chatillon, ambassador from France to King John. 

Queen Eleanor, mother to King John. 

Constance, mother to Arthur. 

Blanch of Spain, niece to King John. 

Lady Faulconbridge, widow to Sir Robert Faulcon- 
bridge. 


Lords, Citizens of Angiers, Sheriff, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants. 
Scene : Partly in England , and partly in France.'] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [ King John's palace : a room of state.] 

Enter King John, Queen Eleanor, Pem¬ 
broke, Essex, Salisbury [and others ], with 
Chatillon. 

K. John. Now, say, Chatillon, what would 
France with us ? 

Chat. Thus, after greeting, speaks the King 
of France 

In my behaviour to the majesty, 

The borrowed majesty, of England here. 

El. A strange beginning: “borrowed maj¬ 
esty ! ” 6 

K. John. Silence, good mother; hear the 
embassy. 

Chat. Philip of France, in right and true 
behalf 

Of thy deceased brother Geoffrey’s son, 

Arthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim 
To this fair island and the territories, 10 

To Ireland, Poictiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, 
Desiring thee to lay aside the sword 
Which sways usurpingly these Several titles, 
And put the same into young Arthur’s hand, 
Thy nephew and right royal sovereign. is 

K. John. What follows if we disallow of 
this ? 

Chat. The proud control of fierce and bloody 
war, 

To enforce these rights so forcibly withheld. 

K. John. Here have we war for war and 
blood for blood, 

Controlment for controlment : so answer 
France. 20 

Chat. Then take my king’s defiance from my 
mouth, 

The farthest limit of my embassy. 

K. John. Bear mine to him, and so depart 
in peace. 


Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France; 

For ere thou canst report I will be there, 2s 
The thunder of my cannon shall be heard. 

So hence ! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath 
And sullen presage of your own decay. 

An honourable conduct let him have. 
Pembroke, look to’t. Farewell, Chatillon. 30 
[Exeunt Chatillon and Pembroke. 
El. What now, my son! have I not ever 
said 

How that ambitious Constance would not cease 
Till she had kindled France and all the world 
Upon the right and party of her son ? 

This might have been prevented and made 
whole 36 

With very easy arguments of love, 

Which now the manage of two kingdoms must 
With fearful bloody issue arbitrate. 

K. John. Our strong possession and our right 
for us. 

El. Your strong possession much more than 
your right, 

Or else it must go wrong with you and me. 

So much my conscience whispers in your ear, 
Which none but heaven and you and I shall 
hear. 

Enter a Sheriff [and whispers to Essex]. 

Essex. My liege, here is the strangest con¬ 
troversy 

Come from the country to be judg’d by you *5 
That e’er I heard. Shall I produce the men ? 

K. John. Let them approach. 

— Our abbeys and our priories shall pay 
This expedition’s charge. 

Enter Robert Faulconbridge and Philip. 

What men are you ? 

East. Your faithful subject I, a gentleman 
Born in Northamptonshire, and eldest son, « 
As I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge, 




480 


KING JOHN 


I. i. 


A soldier by the honour-giving hand 
Of Coeur-de-lion knighted in tne field. 

K. John. What art thou ? es 

Bob . The son and heir to that same Faulcon- 
bridge. 

K. John. Is that the elder, and art thou the 
heir ? 

You came not of one mother then, it seems. 

Bast. Most certain of one mother, mighty 
king; 

That is well known; and, as I think, one 
father; 60 

But for the certain knowledge of that truth 
I put you o’er to heaven and to my mother. 

Of that I doubt, as all men’s children may. 

El. Out on thee, rude man ! thou dost shame 
thy mother 

And wound her honour with this diffidence. 65 

Bast. I, madam ? No, I have no reason for 
it. 

That is my brother’s plea and none of mine ; 
The which if he can prove, ’a pops me out 
At least from fair five hundred pounds a year. 
Heaven guard my mother’s honour and my 
land! 70 

K. John. A good blunt fellow. Why, being 
younger born, 

Doth he lay claim to thine inheritance ? 

Bast. I know not why, except to get the 
land; 

But once he slander’d me with bastardy. 

But whe’er I be as true begot or no, 75 

That still I lay upon my mother’s head ; 

But that I am as well begot, my liege, — 

Fair fall the bones that took the pains for 
me! — 

Compare our faces and be judge yourself. 

If old Sir Robert did beget us both so 

And were our father, and this son like him, 

O old Sir Robert, father, on my knee 
I give heaven thanks I was not like to thee 1 

K. John. Why, what a madcap hath heaven 
lent us here ! 

El. He hath a trick of Cceur-de-lion’s face ; so 
The accent of his tongue affecteth him. 

Do you not read some tokens of my son 
In the large composition of this man ? 

K. John. Mine eye hath well examined his 
parts 

And finds them perfect Richard. Sirrah, 
speak, 90 

What doth move you to claim your brother’s 
land? 

Bast. Because he hath a half-face, like my 
father. 

With half that face would he have all my 
land,— 

A half-fac’d groat five hundred pound a year! 

Rob. My gracious liege, when that my father 
liv’d, 95 

Your brother did employ my father much, — 

Bast. Well, sir, by this you cannot get my 
land. 

Your tale must be how he employ’d my mother. 

Rob. And once dispatch’d him in an embassy 
To Germany, there with the Emperor 100 

To treat of high affairs touching that time. 


The advantage of his absence took the King 
And in the meantime sojourn’d at my father’s; 
Where how he did prevail I shame to speak. 
But truth is truth. Large lengths of seas and 
shores 105 

Between my father and my mother lay, 

As I have heard my father speak himself, 
When this same lusty gentleman was got. 

Upon his death-bed he by will bequeath’d 
His lands to me, and took it on his death no 
That this my mother’s son was none of his; 
And if he were, he came into the world 
Full fourteen weeks before the course of time. 
Then, good my liege, let me have what is mine, 
My father’s land, as was my father’s will. us 
K. John. Sirrah, your brother is legitimate. 
Your father’s wife did after wedlock bear him, 
And if she did play false, the fault was hers ; 
Which fault lies on the hazards of all hus¬ 
bands 

That marry wives. Tell me, how if my brother, 
Who, as you say, took pains to get this son, m 
Had of your father claim’d this son for his ? 

In sooth, good friend, your father might have 
kept 

This calf bred from his cow from all the world ; 
In sooth he might; then, if he were my 
brother’s, 12s 

My brother might not claim him, nor your 
father, 

Being none of his, refuse him. This concludes: 
My mother’s son did get your father’s heir ; 
Your father’s heir must have your father’s 
land. 

Rob. Shall then my father’s will be of no 
force i 3 * 

To dispossess that child which is not his ? 

Bast. Of no more force to dispossess me, sir, 
Than was his will to get me, as I think. 

El. Whether hadst thou rather be a Faul- 
conbridge 

And like thy brother, to enjoy thy land, 135 

Or the reputed son of Coeur-de-lion, 

Lord of thy presence and no land beside ? 

Bast. Madam, an if my brother had my 
shape, 

And I had his, Sir Robert’s his, like him ; 

And if my legs were two such riding-rods, 140 
My arms such eel-skins stuff’d, my face so thin 
That in mine ear I durst not stick a rose 
Lest men should say, Look, where three-far¬ 
things goes! 

And, to his shape, were heir to all this land, — 
Would I might never stir from off this place 1 — 
I would give it every foot to have this face ; ne 
I would not be Sir Nob in any case. 

El. I like thee well. Wilt thou forsake thy 
fortune, 

Bequeath thy land to him and follow me ? 

I am a soldier, and now bound to France. vso 
Bast. Brother, take you my land, I ’ll take 
my chance. 

Your face hath got five hundred pound a year, 
Yet sell your face for five pence and ’t is dear. 
Madam, I’ll follow you unto the death. 

El. Nay, I would have you go before me 
thither. 155 




1.1. 


KING JOHN 


481 


Bast. Our country manners give our betters 
way. 

K. John. Wkat is thy name? 

Bast. Philip, my liege, so is ray name begun ; 
Philip, good old Sir Robert’s wife’s eldest son. 
K. John. From henceforth bear his name 
whose form thou bearest. ieo 

Kneel thou down Philip, but arise more great, 
Arise Sir Richard and Plantagenet. 

Bast. Brother by the mother’s side, give me 
your hand; 

My father gave me honour, yours gave land. 
Now blessed be the hour, by night or day, ibs 
W hen I was got, Sir Robert was away ! 

El. The very spirit of Plantagenet ! 

I am thy grandam, Richard ; call me so. 

Bast. Madam, by chance but not by truth ; 
what though ? 

Something about, a little from the right, 170 
In at the window, or else o’er the hatch. 
Who dares not stir by day must walk by night, 
And have is have, however men do catch. 
Near or far off, well won is still well shot, 

And I am I, howe’er I was begot. 175 

K. John. Go, Faulconbridge, now hast thou 
thy desire ; 

A landless knight makes thee a landed squire. 
Come, madam, and come, Richard, we must 
speed 

For France, for France, for it is more than need. 
Bast. Brother, adieu ; good fortune come to 
thee 1 _ iso 

For thou wast got i’ the way of honesty. 

[Exeunt all but Bastard. 
A foot of honour better than I was ; 

But many a many foot of land the worse. 

Well, now can I make any Joan a lady. 

“Good den, Sir Richard!” “ God-a-mercy, 
fellow ! ” iso 

find if his name be George, I ’ll call him Peter ; 
For new-made honour doth forget men’s names ; 
’T is too respective and too sociable 
For your conversion. Now your traveller, 

He and his toothpick at my worship’s mess, wo 
— And when my knightly stomach is suffic’d, 
Why then I suck my teeth and catechise 
My picked man of countries. “ My dear sir,” 
Thus, leaning on mine elbow, I begin, 

“ I shall beseech you ” — that is question 
now; 198 

And then comes answer like an Absey book. 

“ 0 sir,” says answer, “ at your best command ; 
At your employment; at your service, sir.” 
“No, sir,” says question, “I, sweet sir, at 
yours.” 

And so, ere answer knows what question 
would, 100 

Saving in dialogue of compliment, 

And talking of the Alps and Apennines, 

The Pyrenean and the river Po, 

It draws toward supper in conclusion so. 

But this is worshipful society *° 5 

And fits the mounting spirit like myself, 

For he is but a bastard to the time 
That doth not smack of observation. 

And so am I, whether I smack or no ; 

And not alone in habit and device, * t0 


Exterior form, outward accoutrement, 

But from the inward motion to deliver 
Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age’s tooth ; 
Which, though I will not practise to deceive, 
Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn ; 21B 

For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising. 
But who comes in such haste in riding-robes ? 
What woman-post is this ? Hath she no hus¬ 
band 

That will take pains to blow a horn before her ? 

Enter Lady Faulconbridge and James 
Gurney. 

0 me ! ’t is my mother. How now, good lady ! 
What brings you here to court so hastily ? 221 

Lady F. Where is that slave, thy brother ? 
Where is he, 

That holds in chase mine honour up and down ? 
Bast. My brother Robert ? Old Sir Robert’s 
son ? 

Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man ? 225 
Is it Sir Robert’s son that you seek so ? 

Lady F. Sir Robert’s son! Ay, thou un¬ 
reverend boy. 

Sir Robert’s son. Why scorn’st thou at Sir 
Robert ? 

He is Sir Robert’s son, and so art thou. 

Bast. James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave 
a while ? 230 

Gur. Good leave, good Philip. 

Bast. Philip ! sparrow ! James, 

There’s toys abroad ; anon I ’ll tell thee more. 

[Exit Gurney. 

Madam, I was not old Sir Robert’s son. 

Sir Robert might have eat his part in me 
Upon Good-Friday and ne’er broke his fast. 236 
Sir Robert could do well; marry, to confess, 
Could he get me ? Sir Robert could not do it; 
We know his handiwork. Therefore, good 
mother, 

To whom am I beholding for these limbs ? 

Sir Robert never holp to make this leg. 240 
Lady F. Hast tnou conspired with thy 
brother too, 

That for thine own gain shouldst defend mine 
honour ? 

What means this scorn, thou most untoward 
knave ? 

Bast. Knight, knight, good mother, Basi* 
lisco-like. 

What! I am dubb’d ! I have it on my shoul¬ 
der. 

But, mother, I am not Sir Robert’s son ; 

I have disclaim’d Sir Robert and my land ; 
Legitimation, name, and all is gone. 

Then, good my mother, let me know my 
father; 

Some proper man, I hope. Who was it, 
mother ? . 250 

Lady F. Hast thou denied thyself a Faulcon¬ 
bridge ? 

Bast. As faithfully as I deny the devil. 

Lady F. King Richard Coeur-de-lion was 
thy father. 

By long and vehement suit I was seduc’d 
To make room for him in ray husband’s 
bed. * 8 t 






482 


KING JOHN 


11. L 


Heaven lay not my transgression to my charge ! 
Thou art the issue of my dear offence, 

Which was so strongly urg’d past my defence. 
Bast. Now, by this light, were I to get 
again, 

Madam, I would not wish a better father. 200 
Some sins do bear their privilege on earth, 

And so doth yours; your fault was not your 
folly. 

Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose, 
Subjected tribute to commanding love, 

Against whose fury and unmatched force 26c 
The aweless lion could not wage the fight, 

Nor keep his princely heart from Richard’s 
hand. 

Pie that perforce robs lions of their hearts 
May easily win a woman’s. Ay, my mother, 
With all my heart I thank thee for my 
father! 270 

Who lives and dares but say thou didst not 
well 

When I was got, I ’ll send his soul to hell. 
Come, lady, 1 will show thee to my kin ; 

And they shall say, when Richard me begot, 
If thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin. 275 
Who says it was, he lies ; I say’t was not. 

[Exeunt. 

[ACT II] 

Scene [I. France.] Before Angiers. 

Enter Austria [and forces, drums, etc., on one 
side : on the other] King Philip of France 
[and his power] ; Lewis, Arthur, Con¬ 
stance [and attendants]. 

Lew. Before Angiers well met, brave Aus¬ 
tria. 

Arthur, that great forerunner of thy blood, 
Richard, that robb’d the lion of his heart 
And fought the holy wars in Palestine, 

By this brave duke came early to his grave ; b 
A nd for amends to his posterity, 

At our importance hither is he come 
To spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf, 

And to rebuke the usurpation 
Of thy unnatural uncle, English John. 10 

Embrace him, love him, give him welcome 
hither. 

Arth. God shall forgive you Cceur-de-lion’s 
death 

The rather that you give his offspring life, 
Shadowing their right under your wings of 
war. 

I give you welcome with a powerless hand, is 
But with a heart full of unstained love. 
Welcome before the gates of Angiers, Duke. 
Lew. A noble boy! Who would not do thee 
right ? 

Aust. Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss 
As seal to this indenture of my love 20 

That to my home I will no more return 
Till Angiers and the right thou hast in France, 
Together with that pale, that white-fac’d 
shore, 

Whose foot spurns back the ocean’s roaring 
tides 


And coops from other lands her islanders, ^ 25 
Even till that England, hedg’d in with the main, 
That water-walled bulwark, still secure 
And confident from foreign purposes, 

Even till that utmost corner of the west 
Salute thee for her king ; till then, fair boy, 30 
Will I not think of home, but follow arms. 
Const. O, take his mother’s thanks, a wid¬ 
ow’s thanks, 

Till your strong hand shall help to give him 
strength 

To make a more requital to your love ! 

Aust. The peace of heaven is theirs that lift 
their swords 3 ® 

In such a just and charitable war. 

K. Phi. Well then, to work ! Our cannon 
shall be bent 

Against the brows of this resisting town. 

Call for our chiefest men of discipline 
To cull the plots of best advantages. *0 

We ’ll lay before this town our royal bones, 
Wade to the market-place in Frenchmen’s 
blood, 

But we will make it subject to this boy. 

Const. Stay for an answer to your embassy, 
Lest unadvis’d you stain your swords with 
blood. 

My Lord Chatillon may from England bring 
That right in peace which here we urge in war, 
And then we shall repent each drop of blood 
That hot rash haste so indirectly shed. 

Enter Chatillon. 

K. Phi. A wonder, lady! Lo, upon thy 
wish, 1* 

Our messenger Chatillon is arriv’d ! 

What England says, say briefly, gentle lord ; 
We coldly pause for thee ; Chatillon, speak. 
Chat. Then turn your forces from this paltry 
siege 

And stir them up against a mightier task. 56 
England, impatient of your just demands, 

Hath put himself in arms. The adverse winds, 
Whose leisure I have stay’d, have given him 
time 

To land his legions all as soon as I; 

His marches are expedient to this town, eo 
His forces strong, his soldiers confident. 

With him along is come the mother-queen, 

An Ate, stirring him to blood and strife ; 

With her her niece, the Lady Blanch of Spain ; 
With them a bastard of the king’s deceas’d ; so 
And all the unsettled humours of the land, 
Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries 
With ladies’ faces and fierce dragons’ spleens, 
Have sold their fortunes at their native homes, 
Bearing their birthrights proudly on their 
backs, 70 

To make a hazard of new fortunes here. 

In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits 
Than now the English bottoms have waft o’er 
Did never float upon the swelling tide, 

To do offence and scath in Christendom. 71 
The interruption of their churlish drums 
Cuts off more circumstance. They are at hand, 

[Drum beats. 

To parley or to fight; therefore prepare. 




KING JOHN 


483 


11. i. 


K. Phi. How much unlook’d for is this ex¬ 
pedition ! 

Aust. By how much unexpected, by so 
much so 

We must awake endeavour for defence, 

For courage mounteth with occasion. 

Let them be welcome then ; we are prepar’d. 

Enter King John, Eleanor, Blanch, the 
Bastard, Pembroke, and others. 

K. John. Peace be to France, if France in 
peace permit 

Our just and lineal entrance to our own ; so 
If not, bleed France, and peace ascend to hea¬ 
ven, 4 

Whiles we, God’s wrathful agent, do correct 
Their proud contempt that beats His peace to 
heaven. 

K. Phi. Peace be to England, if that war re¬ 
turn 

From France to England, there to live in 
peace. »o 

England we love ; and for that England’s sake 
With burden of our armour here we sweat. 
This toil of ours should be a work of thine ; 
But thou from loving England art so far, 

That thou hast under-wrought his lawful 
king, 95 

Cut off the sequence of posterity, 

Out-faced infant state, and done a rape 
Upon the maiden virtue of the crown. 

Look here upon thy brother Geoffrey’s face. 
These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of 
his; 100 

This little abstract doth contain that large 
Which died in Geoffrey ; and the hand of Time 
Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume. 
That Geoffrey was thy elder brother born, 

And this his son; England wa 3 Geoffrey’s 
right, 106 

And this is Geoffrey’s : in the name of God 
How comes it then that thou art call’d a king, 
When living blood doth in these temples beat, 
Which owe the crown that thou o’ermaster- 
est ? 

K. John. From whom hast thou this great 
commission, France, 110 

To draw my answer from thy articles? 

K. Phi. From that supernal judge, that stirs 
good thoughts 

In any breast of strong authority, 

To look into the blots and stains of right. 

That judge hath made me guardian to this 
boy; ns 

Under whose warrant I impeach thy wrong 
And by whose help I mean to chastise it. 

K. John. Alack, thou dost usurp authority. 

K. Phi. Excuse; it is to beat usurping 
down. 

El. Who is it thou dost call usurper, 
France ? 120 

Const. Let me make answer; thy usurping 
son. 

El. Out, insolent! thy bastard shall be king 
That thou mayst be a queen, and check the 
world! 

Const. My bed was ever to thy son as true 


As thine was to thy husband ; and this boy 126 
Liker in feature to his father Geoffrey 
Than thou and John in manners, being as like 
As rain to water, or devil to his dam. 

My boy a bastard ! By my soul, 1 think 
His father never was so true begot. 130 

It cannot be, an if thou wert his mother. 

El. There’s a good mother, boy, that blots 
thy father. 

Const. There’s a good grandam, boy, that 
would blot thee. 

Aust. Peace ! 

Bast. Hear the crier. 

Aust. What the devil art thou ? 

Bast. One that will play the devil, sir, with 
you, 186 

An ’a may catch your hide and you alone. 

You are the hare of whom the proverb goes, 
Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard. 
I’ll smoke your skin-coat, an I catch you 
right. 

Sirrah, look to’t ; i’ faith, I will, i’ faith, no 
Blanch. 0 , well did he become that lion’s 
robe, 

That did disrobe the lion of that robe ! 

Bast. It lies as sightly on the back of him 
As great Alcides’ shows upon an ass. 

But, ass, I ’ll take that burden from your 
back, ns 

Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack. 
Aust. What cracker is this same that deafs 
our ears 

With this abundance of superfluous breath ? 
King Philip, determine what we shall do 
straight. 

K. Phi. Women and fools, break off your 
conference. 100 

King John, this is the very sum of all: 

England and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, 
In right of Arthur do I claim of thee. 

Wilt thou resign them and lay down thy arms ? 
K. John. My life as soon. I do defy thee, 
France. 156 

Arthur of Bretagne, yield thee to my hand, 
And out of my dear love I ’ll give thee more 
Than e’er the coward hand of France can win. 
Submit thee, boy. 

El. Come to thy grandam, child. 

Const. Do, child, go to it grandam, child ; igo 
G ive grandam kingdom, and it grandam will 
Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig. 

There’s a good grandam. 

Arth. Good my mother, peace. 

I would that I were low laid in my grave ; 

I am not worth this coil that’s made for me. 
El. His mother shames him so, poor boy, he 
weeps. lea 

Const. Now shame upon you, whe’er she 
does or no ! 

His grandam’s wrongs, and not his mother’s 
shames, 

Draws those heaven-moving pearls from his 
poor eyes, 

Which Heaven shall take in nature of a fee ; 1™ 
Ay, with these crystal beads Heaven shall be 
brib’d 

To do him justice and revenge on you. 





484 


KING JOHN 


II. X. 


El. Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and 
earth! 

Const. Thou monstrous injurer of heaven 
and earth, 

Call not me slanderer ! Thou and thine usurp 
The dominations, royalties^ and rights its 

Of this oppressed boy. This is thy eldest son’s 
son, 

Infortunate in nothing but in thee. 

Thy sins are visited in this poor child ; 

The canon of the law is laid on him, iso 

Being but the second generation 
Removed from thy sin-conceiving womb. 

' K. John. Bedlam, have done. 

Const. I have but this to say, 

That he is not only plagued for her sin, 

But God hath made her sin and her the plague 
On this removed issue, plagued for her iss 
And with her plague ; her sin his injury, 

Her injury the beadle to her sin, 

All punish’d in the person of this child, 

And all for her. A plague upon her ! wo 

El. Thou unadvised scold, I can produce 
A will that bars the title of thy son. 

Const. Ay, who doubts that ? A will! a 
wicked will; 

A woman’s will; a cank’red grandam’s will! 
K. Phi. Peace, lady! pause, or be more 
temperate. ws 

It ill beseems this presence to cry aim 
To these ill-tuned repetitions. 

Some trumpet summon hither to the walls 
These men of Angiers. Let us hear them speak 
Whose title they admit, Arthur’s or John’s. 200 

Trumpet sounds. Enter a Citizen upon the 
walls [attended]. 

Cit. Who is it that hath warn’d us to the 
walls ? 

K. Phi. ’T is France, for England. 

K. John. England, for itself. 

You men of Angiers, and my loving sub¬ 
jects, — 

K. Phi. You loving men of Angiers, Ar¬ 
thur’s subjects, 

Our trumpet call’d you to this gentle parle — 
K. John. For our advantage ; therefore hear 
us first. 200 

These flags of France, that are advanced here 
Before the eye and prospect of your town, 
Have hither march’d to your endamagement. 
The cannons have their bowels full of wrath, 210 
And ready mounted are they to spit forth 
Their iron indignation ’gainst your walls. 

All preparation for a bloody siege 
And merciless proceeding by these French 214 
Confronts your city’s eyes, your winking gates ; 
And but for our approach those sleeping stones, 
That as a waist doth girdle you about, 

By the compulsion of their ordinance 
By this time from their fixed beds of lime 
Had been dishabited, and wide havoc made 220 
For bloody power to rush upon your peace. 

But on the sight of us your lawful king, 

Who painfully with much expedient march 
Have brought a countercheck before your 
gates, 


To save unscratch’d your city’s threat’ned 
cheeks, 225 

Behold, the French amaz’d vouchsafe a parle ; 
And now, instead of bullets wrapp’d in fire, 

To make a shaking fever in your walls, 

They shoot but calm words folded up in smoke, 
To make a faithless error in your ears ; 230 

Which trust accordingly, kind citizens, 

And let us in, your king, whose labour’d spirits, 
Forwearied in this action of swift speed, 

Crave harbourage within your city walls. 

K. Phi. When I have said, make answer to 

us both. 235 

Lo, in this right hand, whose protection 
Is most divinely vow’d upon the right 
Of him it holds, stands young Plantagenet, 

Son to the elder brother of this man, 

And king o’er him and all that he enjoys. 24c 
For this down-trodden equity, we tread 
In warlike march these greens before your 
town, 

Being no further enemy to you 
Than the constraint of hospitable zeal 
In the relief of this oppressed child 245 

Religiously provokes. Be pleased then 
To pay that duty which you truly owe 
To him that owes it, namely this young prince ; 
And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear, 
Save in aspect, hath all offence seal’d up : 250 

Our cannons’ malice vainly shall be spent 
Against the invulnerable clouds of heaven ; 
And with a blessed and unvex’d retire, 

With unhack’d swords and helmets all un¬ 
bruis’d, 

We will bear home that lusty blood again 255 

Which here we came to spout against your 
town, 

And leave your children, wives, and you in 
peace. 

But if you fondly pass our profFer’d offer, 

’T is not the roundure of your old-fac’d walls 
Can hide you from our messengers of war, 200 
Though all these English and their discipline 
Were harbour’d in their rude circumference. 
Then tell us, shall your city call us lord, 

In that behalf which we have challeng’d it ? 

Or shall we give the signal to our rage 205 

And stalk in blood to our possession ? 

Cit. In brief, we are the King of England’s 
subjects. 

For him, and in his right, we hold this town. 

K. John. Acknowledge then the King, and 
let me in. 

Cit. That can we not; but he that proves 
the King, 270 

To him will we prove loyal. Till that time 
Have we ramm’d up our gates against the 
world. 

K. John. Doth not the crown of England 
prove the King ? 

And if not that, I bring you witnesses, 

Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England’s 
breed, — 275 

Bast. Bastards, and else. 

K. John. To verify our title with their lives. 
K. Phi. As many and as well-born bloods as 
those — 





KING JOHN 


II. i. 


435 


Bast. Some bastards too. 

K. Phi. Stand in his face to contradict his 
claim. 280 

Cit. Till you compound whose right is wor¬ 
thiest, 

We for the worthiest hold the right for both. 

K. John. Then God forgive the sin of all 
those souls 

That to their everlasting residence, 

Before the dew of evening fall, shall fleet 285 
In dreadful trial of our kingdom’s king ! 

K. Phi. Amen, amen! Mount, chevaliers ! 
To arms! 

Bast. Saint George, that swinged the dragon, 
and e'er since 

Sits on his horseback at mine hostess’ door, 
Teach us some fence ! [To Aust .] Sirrah, were 
I at home, 200 

At your den, sirrah, with your lioness, 

I would set an ox-head to your lion’s hide. 

And make a monster of you. 

Aust. Peace ! no more. 

Bast. 0 , tremble, for you hear the lion 
roar. 

K. John. Up higher to the plain, where 
we ’ll set forth 205 

In best appointment all our regiments. 

Bast. Speed then, to take advantage of the 
field. 

K. Phi. It shall be so ; and at the other hill 
Command the rest to stand. God and our 
right! [Exeunt. 

Here after excursions, enter the Herald of 
France, with trumpets , to the gates. 

F. Her. You men of Angiers, open wide your 
gates, 300 

And let young Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, in, 
Who by the hand of France this day hath made 
Much work for tears in many an English mother, 
Whose sons lie scattered on the bleeding ground. 
Many a widow’s husband grovelling lies, 305 

Coldly embracing the discoloured earth ; 

And victory, with little loss, doth play 
Upon the dancing banners of the French, 

Who are at hand, triumphantly displayed, 

To enter conquerors and to proclaim 310 

Arthur of Bretagne England’s king and yours. 

Enter English Herald, with trumpet. 

E. Her. Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring 
your bells, 

King John, your king and England’s, doth ap¬ 
proach, 

Commander of this hot malicious day. 

Their armours, that march’d hence so silver- 

bright, 316 

Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen’s blood. 
There stuck no plume in any English crest 
That is removed by a staff of France. 

Our colours do return in those same hands 
That did display them when we first march’d 
forth ; 820 

And, like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come 
Our lusty English, all with purpled hands, 

Dy’d in the dying slaughter of their foes. 

Open your gates and give the victors way. 


Cit. Heralds, from off our towers we might 
behold, 325 

From first to last, the onset and retire 
Of both your armies, whose equality 
By our best eyes cannot be censured. 

Blood hath bought blood and blows have an¬ 
swer’d blows ; 

Strength match’d with strength, and power 
confronted power. 330 

Both are alike ; and both alike we like. 

One must prove greatest. While they weigh so 
even, 

We hold our town for neither, yet for both. 

Re-enter the two Kings, with their powers, at sev¬ 
eral doors. 

K. John. France, hast thou yet more blood 
to cast away ? 

Say, shall the current of our right run on ? 336 
Whose passage, vex’d with thy impediment. 
Shall leave his native channel and o’erswell 
With course disturb’d even thy confining shores, 
Unless thou let his silver water keep 
A peaceful progress to the ocean. 340 

K. Phi. England, thou hast not sav’d one 
drop of blood, 

In this hot trial, more than we of France ; 
Rather, lost more. And by this hand I swear, 
That sways the earth this climate overlooks, 
Before we will lay down our just-borne arms, 
We ’ll put thee down, ’gainst whom these arms 
we bear, 34a 

Or add a royal number to the dead, 

Gracing the scroll that tells of this war’s loss 
With slaughter coupled to the name of kings. 
Bast. Ha, majesty! how high thy glory 
towers, 360 

When the rich blood of kings is set on fire ! 

O, now doth Death line his dead chaps with 
steel; 

The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs; 
And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men, 
In undetermin’d differences of kings. 356 

Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus ? 
Cry, havoc ! kings. Back to the stained field, 
You equal potents, fiery-kindled spirits ! 

Then let confusion of one part confirm 
The other’s peace. Till then, blows, blood, and 
death! 3 M 

K. John. Whose party do the townsmen yet 
admit ? 

K. Phi. Speak, citizens, for England, who’s 
your king ? 

Cit. The King of England, when we know 
the King. 

K. Phi. Know him in us, that here hold up 
his right. 

K. John. In us, that are our own great deputy, 
And bear possession of our person here, see 
Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you. 

Cit. A greater power than we denies all this; 
And till it be undoubted, we do lock 
Our former scruple in our strong-barr’d gates, 
Kings of our fear, until our fears, resolv’d, 371 
Be by some certain king purg’d and depos’d. 
Bast. By heaven, these scroyles of Angiers 
flout you, kings, 




4 86 


KING JOHN 


ii. i 


And stand securely on their battlements 
As in a theatre, whence they gape and point 375 
At your industrious scenes and acts of death. 
Your royal presences be rul’d by me: 

Do like the mutines of Jerusalem, 

Be friends a while, and both conjointly bend 
Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town. 380 
By east and west let France and England mount 
Their battering cannon charged to the mouths, 
Till their soul-fearing clamours have brawl’d 
down 

The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city. 

I’d play incessantly upon these jades, ass 

Even till unfenced desolation 

Leave them as naked as the vulgar air. 

That done, dissever your united strengths, 

And part your mingled colours once again ; 
Turn face to face and bloody point to point; 390 
Then, in a moment, Fortune shall cull forth 
Out of one side her happy minion, 

To whom in favour she shall give the day, 

And kiss him with a glorious victory. 

How like you this wild counsel, mighty states ? 
Smacks it not something of the policy ? 39s 

K. John. Now, by the sky that hangs above 
our heads, 

I like it well. France, shall we knit our powers 
And lay this Angiers even with the ground ; 
Then after fight who shall be king of it ? 400 

Bast. An if thou hast the mettle of a king, 
Being wrong’d as we are by this peevish town, 
Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery, 

As we will ours, against these saucy walls ; 

And when that we have dash’d them to the 
ground, *ob 

Why then defy each other, and pell-mell 
Make work upon ourselves, for heaven or hell. 
K. Phi. Let it be so. Say, where will you 
assault ? 

K. John. We from the west will send de¬ 
struction 

Into this city’s bosom. 410 

Aust. I from the north. 

K. Phi. Our thunder from the south 

Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town. 
Bast. 0 prudent discipline! From north to 
south, 

Austria and France shoot in each other’s mouth. 
I ’ll stir them to it. Come, away, away ! 415 

Cit. Hear us, great kings! Vouchsafe a while 
to stay, 

And I shall show you peace and fair-fac’d 
league, 

Win you this city without stroke or wound, 
Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds, 
That here come sacrifices for the field. 420 

Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings. 

K. John. Speak on with favour; we are bent 
to hear. 

Cit. That daughter there of Spain, the Lady 
Blanch, 

Is niece to England. Look upon the years 
Of Lewis the Dauphin and that lovely maid. 425 
If lusty Love should go in quest of beauty, 
Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch ? 
If zealous Love should go in search of virtue, 
Where should he find it purer than in Blanch ? 


If Love ambitious sought a match of birth, 430 
Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady 
Blanch ? 

Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth, 

Is the young Dauphin every way complete ; 

If not complete of, say he is not she ; 

And she again wants nothing, to name want, 435 
If want it be not that she is not he. 

He is the half part of a blessed man, 

Left to be finished by such as she ; 

And she a fair divided excellence, 

Whose fulness of perfection lies in him. 44c 
0 , two such silver currents, when they join, 

Do glorify the banks that bound them in ; 

And two such shores to two such streams made 
one, 

Two such controlling bounds shall you be, 
kings, 

To these two princes, if you marry them. 445 
This union shall do more than battery can 
To our fast-closed gates ; for at this match, 
With swifter spleen than powder can enforce, 
The mouth of passage shall we fling wide ope, 
And give you entrance; but without this 
match, 460 

The sea enraged is not half so deaf, 

Lions more confident, mountains and rocks 
More free from motion, no, not Death himself 
In mortal fury half so peremptory, 

As we to keep this city. 

Bast. Here’s a stay 466 

That shakes the rotten carcass of old Death 
Out of his rags ! Here’s a large mouth, indeed, 
That spits forth death and mountains, rocks 
and seas, 

Talks as familiaily of roaring lions 

As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs ! 400 

What cannoneer begot this lusty blood ? 

He speaks plain cannon fire, and smoke, and 
bounce; 

He gives the bastinado with his tongue: 

Our ears are cudgell’d ; not a word of his 
But buffets better than a fist of France. 4 gs 
Z ounds ! I was never so bethump’d with words 
Since I first call’d my brother’s father dad. 

El. Son, list to this conjunction, make this 
match; 

Give with our niece a dowry large enough ; 

For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie 470 
Thy now unsur’d assurance to the crown, 

That yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe 
The bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit. 

I see a yielding in the looks of France ; 

Mark, how they whisper. Urge them while 
their souls 476 

Are capable of this ambition, 

Lest zeal, now melted by the windy breath 
Of soft petitions, pity, and remorse. 

Cool and congeal again to what it was. 

Cit. Why answer not the double majes¬ 
ties 480 

This friendly treaty of our threat’ned town ? 
K. Phi. Speak England first, that hath been 
forward first 

To speak unto this city. What say you ? 

K. John. If that the Dauphin there, thy 
princely son, 




II. I. 


KING JOHN 


487 


Can in this book of beauty read, “ I love,” **6 
Her dowry shall weigh equal with a queen j 
For Anjou and fair Touraine, Maine, Poictiers, 
And all that we upon this side the sea, 

Except this city now by us besieg’d, 

Find liable to our crown and dignity, 490 

Shall gild her bridal bed, and make her rich 
In titles, honours, and promotions, 

As she in beautv, education, blood, 

Holds hand with any princess of the world. 

K. Phi. What say’st thou, boy ? Look in 
the lady’s face. 495 

Lew. I do, my lord ; and in her eye I find 
A wonder, or a wondrous miracle, 

The shadow of myself form’d in her eye ; 
Which, being but the shadow of your son, 
Becomes a sun and makes your son a 
shadow. coo 

I do protest I never lov’d myself 
Till now infixed I beheld myself 
Drawn in the flattering table of her eye. 

[ Whispers with Blanch. 
Bast. Drawn in the flattering table of her eye ! 
Hang’d in the frowning wrinkle of her 
brow! 605 

And quarter’d in her heart! he doth espy 
Himself love’s traitor. This is pity now, 
That, hang’d and drawn and quarter’d, there 
should be 

In such a love so vile a lout as he. 

Blanch. My uncle’s will in this respect is 
mine. 510 

If he see aught in you that makes him like. 
That anything he sees, which moves his liking, 
I can with ease translate it to my will; 

Or if you will, to speak more properly, 

I will enforce it easily to my love. 615 

Further I will not flatter you, my lord, 

That all I see in you is worthy love, 

Than this, that nothing do I see in you, 
Though churlish thoughts themselves should be 
your judge, 

That I can find should merit any hate. 620 

K. John. What say these young ones ? What 
say you, my niece ? 

Blanch. That she is bound in honour still to 
do 

What you in wisdom still vouchsafe to say. 

K. John. Speak then, Prince Dauphin. Can 
you love this lady ? 

Lew. Nay, ask me if I can refrain from 
love; e* 6 

For I do love her most unfeignedly. 

K. John. Then do I give Volquessen, Tou¬ 
raine, Maine, 

Poictiers, and Anjou, these five provinces, 

With her to thee ; and this addition more, 

Full thirty thousand marks of English coin. 630 
Philip of France, if thou be pleas’d withal, 
Command thy son and daughter to join hands. 
K. Phi. It likes us well. Young princes, 
close your hands. 

Aust. And your lips too; for I am well 
assur’d 

That I did so when I was first assur’d. mb 

K. Phi. Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your 
gates, 


Let in that amity which you have made ; 

For at Saint Mary’s Chapel presently 
The rites of marriage shall be solemniz’d. 

Is not the Lady Constance in this troop ? 54# 

I know she is not, for this match made up 
Her presence would have interrupted much. 
Where is she and her son ? Tell me, who 
knows. 

Lew. She is sad and passionate at your 
Highness’ tent. 

K. Phi. And, by my faith, this league that 
we have made 545 

Will give her sadness very little cure. 

Brother of England, how may we content 
This widow lady ? In her right we came. 
Which we, God knows, have turn’d another 
way, 

To our own vantage. 

K. John. We will heal up all; 550 

For we ’ll create young Arthur Duke of Bre¬ 
tagne 

And Earl of Richmond ; and this rich fair 
town 

We make him lord of. Call the Lady Con¬ 
stance ; 

Some speedy messenger bid her repair 

To our solemnity. I trust we shall, see 

If not fill up the measure of her will, 

Yet in some measure satisfy her so 
That we shall stop her exclamation. 

Go we, as well as haste will suffer us, 

To this unlook’d for, unprepared pomp. boo 
[Exeunt [all but the Bastard]. 
Bast. Mad world ! mad kings ! mad com¬ 
position 1 

John, to stop Arthur’s title in the whole, 

Hath willingly departed with a part; 

And France, whose armour conscience buckled 
on, 

Whom zeal and charity brought to the field 665 
As God’s own soldier, rounded in the ear 
With that same purpose-changer, that sly 
devil, 

That broker that still breaks the pate of faith, 
That daily break-vow, he that wins of all, 

Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, 
maids, 670 

Who, having no external thing to lose 
But the word “ maid,” cheats the poor maid of 
that, 

That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling Com¬ 
modity, 

Commodity, the bias of the world, — 

The world, who of itself is peised well, »7b 
Made to run even upon even ground, 

Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias, 

This sway of motion, this Commodity, 

Makes it take head from all indifferency, 

From all direction, purpose, course, intent; eso 
And this same bias, this Commodity, 

This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word, 
Clapp’d on the outward eye of fickle France, 
Hath drawn him from his own determin’d aim, 
From a resolv’d and honourable war 685 

To a most base and vile-concluded Deace. 

And why rail I on this Commodity ? 

But for because he hath not woo’d me yet; 





488 


KING JOHN 


hi. L 


Not that, I have the power to clutch my hand, 
When his fair angels would salute my palm ; ooo 
But for my hand, as unattempted yet, 

Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich. 

Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail 
And say there is no sin but to be rich ; 

And being rich, my virtue then shall be so5 
To say there is no vice but beggary. 

Since kings break faith upon commodity, 

Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee. 

[Exit. 


ACT [III] 

[Scene I. The French King's pavilion .] 
Enter Constance, Arthur, and Salisbury. 

Const. Gone'to be married! Gone to swear a 
peace ! 

False blood to false blood join’d 1 Gone to be 
friends ! 

Shall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those 
provinces ? 

It is not so ; thou hast misspoke, misheard. 

Be well advis’d, tell o’er thy tale again. e 
It cannot be ; thou dost but say’t is so. 

I trust I may not trust thee, for thy word 
Is but the vain breath of a common man. 
Believe me, I do not believe thee, man ; 

I have a king’s oath to the contrary. 10 

Thou shalt be punish’d for thus frighting me, 
For I am sick and capable of fears, 

Oppress’d with wrongs, and therefore full of 
fears, 

A widow, husbandless, subject to fears, 

A woman, naturally born to fears ; is 

And though thou now confess thou didst but 
jest, 

With my vex’d spirits I cannot take a truce, 
But they will quake and tremble all this day. 
What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head ? 
Why dost thou look so sadly on my son ? 20 

What means that hand upon that breast of 
thine ? 

Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum, 
Like a proud river peering o’er his bounds ? 

Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words ? 
Then speak again ; not all thy former tale, 25 
But this one word, whether thy tale be true. 
Sal. As true as I believe you think them 
false 

That give you cause to prove my saying true. 
Const. 0 , if thou teach me to believe this 
sorrow. 

Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die, 30 
And let belief and life encounter so 
As doth the fury of two desperate men 
Which in the very meeting fall and die. 

Lewis marry Blanch! O boy, then where art 
thou ? 

France friend with England, what becomes 
of me ? 35 

Fellow, be gone ! I cannot brook thy sight. 
This news hath made thee a most ugly man. 
Sal. What other harm have I, good lady, 
done, 

But spoke the harm that is by others done ? 


Const. Which harm within itself so hei¬ 
nous is ** 

As it makes harmful all that speak of it. 

Arth. I do beseech you, madam, be content. 
Const. If thou that bid’st me be content 
wert grim, 

Ugly, and sland’rous to thy mother’s womb, 
Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains, « 
Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious, 
Patch’d with foul moles and eye-offending 
marks, 

I would not care, I then would be content; 

For then I should not love thee, no, nor thou 
Become thy great birth nor deserve a crown. eo 
But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy, 
Nature and Fortune join’d to make thee great. 
Of Nature’s gifts thou mayst with lilies boast 
And with the half-blown rose. But Fortune, O, 
She is corrupted, chang’d, and won from 
thee ; os 

She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John ; 
And with her golden hand hath pluck’d on 
France 

To tread down fair respect of sovereignty, 

And made his majesty the bawd to theirs. 
France is a bawd to Fortune and King John, so 
That strumpet Fortune, that usurping John ! 
Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn ? 
Envenom him with words, or get thee gone 
And leave those woes alone which I alone 
Am bound to under-bear. 

Sal. Pardon me, madam, 

I may not go without you to the kings. so 

Const. Thou mayst, thou shalt; I will not 
go with thee. 

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud ; 

For Grief is proud and makes his owner stoop. 
To me and to the state of my great grief 7* 
Let kings assemble ; for my grief’s so great 
That no supporter but the huge firm earth 
Can hold it up. Here I and sorrow sit; 

Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. 

[<Seais herself on the ground .] 

Enter King John, King Philip, Lewis, 
Blanch, Eleanor, the Bastard, Aus¬ 
tria [and Attendants]. 


K. Phi. ’T is true, fair daughter ; and this 
blessed day to 

Ever in France shall be kept festival. 

To solemnize this day the glorious sun 
Stays in his course and plays the alchemist, 
Turning with splendour of his precious eye 
The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold, so 
The yearly course that brings this day about 
Shall never see it but a holiday. 

Const. A wicked day, and not a holy day ! 

[Rising.] 

What hath this day deserv’d? What hath it 
done, 

That it in golden letters should be set so 

Among the high tides in the calendar ? 

Nay, rather turn this day out of the week, 

This day of shame, oppression, perjury. 

Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child 
Pray that their burdens may not fall this 
day, 90 




hi. i. KING 


Lest that their hopes prodigiously be cross’d ; 
But on this day let seamen fear no wreck ; 

No bargains break that are not this day made. 
This day, all things begun come to ill end, 

Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change ! 96 
K. Phi. By heaven, lady, you shall have no 
cause 

To curse the fair proceedings of this day. 

Have I not pawn’d to you my majesty ? 

Const. You have beguil’d me with a coun¬ 
terfeit 

Resembling majesty, which, being touch’d 
and tried, 100 

Proves valueless. You are forsworn, forsworn ! 
You came in arms to spill mine enemies’ blood, 
But now in arms you strengthen it with yours. 
The grappling vigour and rough frown of war 
Is cold in amity and painted peace, 105 

And our oppression hath made up this league. 
Arm, arm, you heavens, against these per¬ 
jur’d kings! 

A widow cries ; be husband to me, heavens ! 
Let not the hours of this ungodly day 
Wear out the day in peace ; but, ere sunset, no 
Set armed discord ’twixt these perjur’d kings ! 
Hear me, 0 , hear me 1 

Aust. Lady Constance, peace ! 

Const. War! war! no peace ! Peace is to me 
a war. 

0 Lymoges ! 0 Austria! thou dost shame 
That bloody spoil. Thou slave, thou wretch, 
thou coward! no 

Thou little valiant, great in villainy ! 

Thou ever strong upon the stronger side ! 

Thou Fortune’s champion that dost never fight 
But when her humorous ladyship is by 
To teach thee safety ! thou art perjur’d too, no 
And sooth’st up greatness. What a fool art thou, 
A ramping fool, to brag and stamp and swear 
Upon my party ! Thou cold-blooded slave, 

Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side, 
Been sworn my soldier, bidding me depend ns 
Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength, 
And dost thou now fall over to my foes ? 

Thou wear a lion’s hide ! Doff it for shame, 
And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs. 
Aust. 0 , that a man should speak those 
words to me ! no 

Bast. And hang a calf’s-skin on those recre¬ 
ant limbs. 

Aust. Thou dar’st not say so, villain, for thy 
life. 

Bast. And hang a calf’s-skin on those recre¬ 
ant limbs. 

K. John. We like not this ; thou dost forget 
thyself. 

Enter Pandulph. 

K. Phi. Here comes the holy legate of the 
Pope. # _ 136 

Pand. Hail, you anointed deputies of hea¬ 
ven ! 

To thee, King John, my holy errand is. 

I Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal, 

And from Pope Innocent the legate here, 

Do in his name religiously demand 140 

Why thou against the Church, our holy mother, 


JOHN 489 


So wilfully dost spurn ; and force perforce 
Keep Stephen Langton, chosen Archbishop 
Of Canterbury, from that holy see ? 

This, in our foresaid Holy Father’s name, uc 
Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee. 

K. John. What earthy name to interroga¬ 
tories 

Can task the free breath of a sacred king ? 
Thou canst not, Cardinal, devise a name 
So slight, unworthy, and ridiculous, 150 

To charge me to an answer, as the Pope. 

Tell him this tale; and from the mouth of 
England 

Add thus much more, that no Italian priest 
Shall tithe or toll in our dominions ; 

But as we, under Heaven, are supreme head, ies 
So under Him that great supremacy, 

Where we do reign, we will alone uphold, 
Without the assistance of a mortal hand. 

So tell the Pope, all reverence set apart 
To him and his usurp’d authority. 100 

K. Phi. Brother of England, you blaspheme 
in this. 

K. John. Though you and all the kings of 
Christendom 

Are led so grossly by this meddling priest, 
Dreading the curse that money may buy out; 
And by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust, ios 
Purchase corrupted pardon of a man 
Who in that sale sells pardon from himself, 
Though you and all the rest so grossly led 
This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish, 
Yet I alone, alone do me oppose no 

Against the Pope and count his friends my foes. 
Pand. Then, by the lawful power that I 
have, 

Thou shalt stand curs’d and excommunicate ; 
And blessed shall he be that doth revolt 
From his allegiance to an heretic ; tie 

And meritorious shall that hand be call’d, 
Canonized and worshipp’d as a saint, 

That takes away by any secret course 
Thy hateful life. 

Const. 0 , lawful let it be 

That I have room with Rome to curse a while! 
Good father Cardinal, cry thou amen m 

To my keen curses ; for without my wrong 
There is no tongue hath power to curse him 
right. 

Pand. There’s law and warrant, lady, for 
my curse. 

Const. And for mine too. When law can do 
no right, i »6 

Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong. 

Law cannot give my child his kingdom here, 
For he that holds his kingdom holds the law ; 
Therefore, since law itself is perfect wrong, 
How can the law forbid my tongue to curse ? ioc 
Pand. Philip of France, on peril of a curse, 
Let go the hand of that arch-heretic ; 

And raise the power of France upon liis head, 
Unless he do submit himself to Rome. 

El. Look’st thou pale, France? Do not let 
go thy hand. ns 

Const. Look to that, devil, lest that France 
repent^ 

And by disjoining hands, hell lose a soul. 







490 


KING JOHN 


hi. L 


Aust. King: Philip, listen to the Cardinal. 

Bast. And hang a calf’s-skin on his recreant 
limbs. 

Aust. Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these 
wrongs, 200 

Because — 

Bast. Your breeches best may carry them. 

K. John. Philip, what say’st thou to the Car¬ 
dinal ? 

Const. What should he say, but as the Car¬ 
dinal ? 

Lew. Bethink you, father ; for the difference 

Is purchase of a heavy curse from Rome, 205 

Or the light loss of England for a friend. 
Forego the easier. 

Blanch. That’s the curse of Rome. 

Const. 0 Lewis, stand fast! The devil 
tempts thee here 

In likeness of a new untrimmed bride. 

Blanch. The Lady Constance speaks not from 
her faith, 210 

But from her need. 

Const. O, if thou grant my need, 

Which only lives but by the death of faith, 
That need must needs infer this principle, 

That faith would live again by death of need. 
0 then, tread down my need, and faith mounts 

up; 215 

Keep my need up, and faith is trodden down ! 

K. John. The King is mov’d, and answers 
not to this. 

Const. 0 , be remov’d from him, and answer 
well! 

Aust. Do so, King Philip ; hang no more in 
doubt. 

Bast. Hang nothing but a calf’s-skin, most 
sweet lout. 220 

K. Phi. I am perplex’d, and know not what 
to say. 

Pand. What canst thou say but will perplex 
thee more, 

If thou stand excommunicate and curs’d ? 

K. Phi. Good reverend father, make my 
person yours, 

And tell me how you would bestow yourself. 225 
This royal hand and mine are newly knit, 

And the conjunction of our inward souls 
Married in league, coupled and link’d together 
With all religious strength of sacred vows. 

The latest breath that gave the sound of 
words 230 

Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love 
Between our kingdoms and our royal selves ; 
And even before this truce, but new before, 

No longer than we well could wash our hands 
To dap this royal bargain up of peace, 235 

Heaven knows, they were besmear’d and over¬ 
stain’d 

With slaughter’s pencil, where revenge did 
paint 

The fearful difference of incensed kings : 

And shall these hands, so lately purg’d of blood, 
So newly join’d in love, so strong in both, 240 
Unyoke this seizure and this kind regreet ? 
Play fast and loose with faith? So jest with 
heaven, 

Make such unconstant children of ourselves, 


As now again to snatch our palm from palm, 
Unswear faith sworn, and on the marriage-bed 
Of smiling Peace to march a bloody host, 24 « 
And make a riot on the gentle brow 
Of true Sincerity ? 0 , holy sir, 

My reverend father, let it not be so! 

Out of your grace devise, ordain, impose *“ 
Some gentle order; and then we shall be blest 
To do your pleasure and continue friends. 

Pand. All form is formless, order orderless, 
Save what is opposite to England’s love. 
Therefore to arms I Be champion of our Church, 
Or let the Church, our mother, breathe her 
curse, 256 

A mother’s curse, on her revolting son. 

France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the 
tongue, 

A chafed lion by the mortal paw, 

A fasting tiger safer by the tooth, 26# 

Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost 
hold. 

K. Phi. I may disjoin my hand, but not my 
faith. 

Pand. So mak’st thou faith an enemy to 
faith; 

And like a civil war set’st oath to oath, 

Thy tongue against thy tongue. 0 , let thy vow 
First made to heaven, first be to heaven per¬ 
form’d, 266 

That is, to be the champion of our Church ! 
What since thou swor’st is sworn against thy¬ 
self 

And may not be performed by thyself, 

For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss 270 
Is most amiss when it is truly done, 

And being not done, where doing tends to ill, 
The truth is then most done not doing it. 

The better act of purposes mistook 

Is to mistake again ; though indirect, 275 

Yet indirection thereby grows direct, 

And falsehood falsehood cures, as fire cools 
fire 

Within the scorched veins of one new-burn’d. 

It is religion that doth make vows kept; 

But thou hast sworn against religion, 260 

By what thou swear’st against the thing thou 
swear’st, 

And makest an oath the surety for thy truth 
Against an oath. The truth thou art unsure 
To swear, swears only not to be forsworn ; 

Else what a mockery should it be to swear ! 285 
But thou dost swear only to be forsworn ; 

And most forsworn, to keep what thou dost 
swear. 

Therefore thy later vows against thy first 
Is in thyself rebellion to thyself ; 

And better conquest never canst thou make 20# 
Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts 
Against these giddy loose suggestions ; 

Upon which better part our prayers come in, 

If thou vouchsafe them. But if not, then know 
The peril of our curses light on thee tas 

So heavy as thou shalt not shake them off, 

But in despair die under their black weight. 
Aust. Rebellion, flat rebellion ! 

Bast. Will’t not be ? 

Will not a calf’s-skin stop that mouth of thine ? 





KING JOHN 


49 1 


in. iii. 


Lew. Father, to arms ! 

Blanch. Up on thy wedding-day ? 

Against the blood that thou hast married ? soi 
What, shall our feast be kept with slaughtered 
men ? 

Shall braying trumpets and loud churlish 
drums, 

Clamours of hell, be measures to our pomp ? 

O husband, hear me ! Ay, alack, how new 308 
Is husband in my mouth ! Even tor that name, 
Which till this time my tongue did ne’er pro¬ 
nounce, 

Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms 
Against mine uncle. 

Const. _ 0 , upon my knee, 

Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee, 3 io 
Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom 
Forethought by Heaven ! 

Blanch. Now shall I see thy love. What 
motive may 

Be stronger with thee than the name of wife ? 

Const. That which upholdeth him that thee 
upholds, 3 i 8 

His honour. O, thine honour, Lewis, thine 
honour! 

Lew. I muse your Majesty doth seem so 
cold, 

When such profound respects do pull you on. 

Pand. I will denounce a curse upon his head. 

K. Phi. Thou shalt not need. England, I 
will fall from thee. 320 

Const. 0 fair return of banish’d majesty ! 

El. O foul revolt of French inconstancy ! 

K. John. France, thou shalt rue this hour 
within this hour. 

Bast. Old Time the clock-setter, that bald 
sexton Time, 

Is it as he will ? Well then, France shall rue. 

Blanch. The sun’s o’ercast with blood ; fair 
day, adieu ! 326 

Which is the side that I must go withal ? 

I am with both ; each army hath a hand ; 

And in their rage, I having hold of both, 

They whirl asunder and dismember me. 330 

Husband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win ; 
Uncle, I needs must pray that thou mayst 
lose; 

Father, I may not wish the fortune thine ; 
Grandam, I will not wish thy wishes thrive. 
Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose ; 335 

Assured loss before the match be play’d. 

Lew. Lady, with me, with me thy fortune 
lies. 

Blanch. There where my fortune lives, there 
my life dies. 

K. John. Cousin, go draw our puissance 
together. # _ [Exit Bastard .] 

France, I am burn’d up with inflaming wrath, 
A rage whose heat hatn this condition, 341 
That nothing can allay, nothing but blood, 

The blood, and dearest-valued blood, of France. 

K. Phi. Thy rage shall burn thee up, and 
thou shalt turn 

To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire. 
Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy. 84 « 

K. John. No more than he that threats. To 
arms let’s hie! [Exeunt. 


Scene H. [The same. Plains near Angiers.] 

Alarums , excursions. Enter the Bastard, with 
Austria's head. 

Bast. Now, by my life, this day grows won¬ 
drous hot. 

Some airy devil hovers in the sky 
And pours down mischief. Austria’s head lie 
there, 

Enter King John, Arthur, and Hubert. 

While Philip breathes. 

K. John. Hubert, keep this boy. Philip, 
make up. 5 

My mother is assailed in our tent, 

And ta’en, I fear. 

Bast. My lord, I rescued her ; 

Her Highness is in safety, fear you not. 

But on, my liege ; for very little pains 

Will bring this labour to an happy end. 10 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III. The same.\ 

Alarums , excursions, retreat. Enter King John, 
Eleanor, Arthur, the Bastard, Hubert, 
and Lords. 

K. John. [To Eleanor .] So shall it be ; your 
Grace shall stay behind 
So strongly guarded. [To Arthur.] Cousin, 
look not sad. 

Thy grandam loves thee ; and thy uncle will 
As dear be to thee as thy father was. 

Arth. 0 , this will make my mother die with 

J ^rief! s 

ohn. [To the Bastard.] Cousin, away for 
England ! haste before ; 

And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags 
Of hoarding abbots ; imprisoned angels 
Set at liberty. The fat ribs of peace 
Must by the hungry now be fed upon. 10 

Use our commission in his utmost force. 

Bast. Bell, book, and candle shall not drive 
me back, 

When gold and silver becks me to come on. 

I leave your Highness. Grandam, I will pray, 
If ever I remember to be holy, is 

For your fair safety ; so, I kiss your hand. 

El. Farewell, gentle cousin. 

K. John. Coz, farewell. 

[Exit Bastard.] 
El. Come hither, little kinsman ; hark, a 
word. 

K. John. Come hither, Hubert. 0 my gentle 
Hubert, 

We owe thee much ! Within this wall of flesh 
There is a soul counts thee her creditor, *i 
And with advantage means to pay thy love ; 
And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath 
Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. 

Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say, m 
B ut I will fit it with some better time. 

By heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham’d 
To say what good respect I have of thee. 

Hub. I am much bounden to your Majesty. 
K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to 
say so yet, so 







49 2 


KING JOHN 


III. IV. 


But thou shalt have; and creep time ne’er so 
slow, 

Yet it shall come for me to do thee good. 

I had a thing to say, hut let it go. 

The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day, 
Attended with the pleasures of the world, as 
Is all too wanton and too full of gawds 
To give me audience. If the midnight bell 
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth, 
Sound on into the drowsy ear of night, — 

If this same were a churchyard where we 
stand, 40 

And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs, 

Or if that surly spirit, melancholy, 

Had bak’d thy blood and made it heavy, thick, 
Which else runs tickling up and down the veins, 
Making that idiot, laughter, keep men’s eyes 
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment, 

A passion hateful to my purposes, 

Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes, 
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply 
Without a tongue, using conceit alone, go 

Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of 
words ; 

Then, in despite of brooded watchful day, 

I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts. 

But, ah, I will not! yet I love thee well; 

And, by my troth, I think thou lov’st me 
well. os 

Hub. So well, that what you bid me under¬ 
take, 

Though that my death were adjunct to my act 
By heaven, I would do it. 

K. John. Do not I know thou wouldst ? 
Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye 
On yon young boy. I ’ll tell thee what, my 
friend, _ co 

He is a very serpent in my way; 

And wheresoe’er this foot of mine doth tread, 
He lies before me. Dost thou understand me ? 
Thou art his keeper. 

Hub. And I ’ll keep him so, 

That he shall not offend your Majesty. 

K. John. Death, es 

Hub. My lord? 

K. John. A grave. 

Hub. He shall not live. 

K. John. Enough. 

I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee. 
Well, I ’ll not say what I intend for thee. 
Remember. Madam, fare you well. 

I ’ll send those powers o’er to your Majesty. 70 
El. My blessing go with thee ! 

K. John. For England, cousin, go. 

Hubert shall be your man, attend on you 
With all true duty. On toward Calais, ho ! 

[Exeunt. 

Scene [IV. The same. The French Icing's 
tent.] 

Enter King Philip, Lewis, Pandulph, and 
Attendants. 

K. Phi. So, by a roaring tempest on the 
flood, 

A whole armado of convicted sail 
la scattered and disjoin’d from fellowship. 


Pand. Courage and comfort! all shall yet 
go well. 

K. Phi. What can go well, when we have 
run so ill ? < ® 

Are we not beaten ? Is not Angiers lost ? 
Arthur ta’en prisoner? Divers dear friends 
slain ? 

And bloody England into England gone, 
O’erbearing interruption, spite of France ? 
Lew. What he hath won, that hath he forti¬ 
fied. 

So hot a speed with such advice dispos’d, 

Such temperate order in so fierce a cause, 

Doth want example. Who hath read or heard 
Of any kindred action like to this ? 

K. Phi. Well could I bear that England had 
this praise, i® 

So we could find some pattern of our shame. 

Enter Constance. 

Look, who comes here ! a grave unto a soul; 
Holding the eternal spirit, against her will, 

In the vile prison of afflicted breath. 

I prithee, lady, go away with me. *0 

Const. Lo, now ! now see the issue of your 
peace. 

K. Phi. Patience, good lady ! comfort, gen¬ 
tle Constance! 

Const. No, I defy all counsel, all redress, 
But that which ends all counsel, true redress, 
Death, death. 0 amiable lovely death ! 25 

Thou odoriferous stench ! sound rottenness ! 
Arise forth from the couch of lasting night, 
Thou hate and terror to prosperity, 

And I will kiss thy detestable bones 
And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows so 
And ring these fingers with thy household 
worms 

And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust 
And be a carrion monster like thyself. 

Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smil’st 
And buss thee as thy wife. Misery’s love, as 
0 , come to me ! 

K. Phi. 0 fair affliction, peace I 
Const. No, no, I will not, having breath to 
cry. 

0 , that my tongue were in the thunder’s 
mouth ! 

Then with a passion would I shake the world ; 
And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy 40 
Which cannot hear a lady’s feeble voice, 

Which scorns a modern invocation. 

Pand. Lady, you utter madness, and not 
sorrow. 

Const. Thou art not holy to belie me so ; 

I am not mad. This hair I tear is mine ; 

My name is Constance ; I was Geoffrey’s wife ; 
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost. 

I am not mad ; I would to heaven I were ! 

For then, ’tis like I should forget myself. 

O, if 1 could, what grief should I forget! go 
Preach some philosophy to make me mad, 

And thou shalt be canoniz’d, Cardinal; 

For being not mad, but sensible of grief, 

My reasonable part produces reason 

How I may be deliver’d of these woes, gf 

And teaches me to kill or hang myself. 





III. IV. 


KING JOHN 


493 


If I were mad, I should forget my son. 

Or madly think a babe of clouts were he. 

I am not mad ; too well, too well I feel 
The different plague of each calamity. eo 

K. Phi. Bind up those tresses. 0 , what love 
I note 

In the fair multitude of those her hairs ! 

Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen, 
Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends 
Do glue themselves in sociable grief, os 

Like true, inseparable, faithful loves, 

Sticking together in calamity. 

Const. To England, if you will. 

K. Phi. Bind up your hairs. 

Const. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will 
I do it ? 

I tore them from their bonds and cried aloud, to 
O that these hands could so redeem my son 
As they have given these hairs their liberty ! ” 
But now I envy at their liberty, 

And will again commit them to their bonds, 
Because my poor child is a prisoner. 75 

And, father Cardinal, I have heard you say 
That we shall see and know our friends in 
heaven. 

If that be true, I shall see my boy again ; 

For since the birth of Cain, the first male 
child, 

To him that did but yesterday suspire, so 
There was not such a gracious creature born. 
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud 
And chase the native beauty from his cheek, 
And he will look as hollow as a ghost, 

As dim and meagre as an ague’s fit, es 

And so he ’ll die ; and, rising so again. 

When I shall meet him in the court of heaven 
I shall not know him: therefore never, never 
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more. 

Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of 
grief. so 

Const. He talks to me that never had a son. 
K. Phi. You are as fond of grief as of your 
child. 

Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent 
child. 

Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, 
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, 95 
Remembers me of all his gracious parts, 

Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form ; 
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief ? 

Fare you well! Had you such a loss as I, 

I could give better comfort than you do. 100 
I will not keep this form upon my head, 

When there is such disorder in my wit. 

0 Lord ! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son ! 

My life, my joy, my food, my all the world ! 

My widow-comfort, and my sorrows’ cure ! ios 

[Exit. 

K. Phi. I fear some outrage, and I ’ll follow 
her. [Exit. 

Lew. There’s nothing in this world can make 
me joy. 

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale 
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man ; 

And bitter shame hath spoil’d the sweet world’s 
taste, 

That it yields nought but shame and bitterness. 


Pand. Before the curing of a strong disease, 
Even in the instant of repair and health, 

The fit is strongest; evils that take leave, 

On their departure most of all show evil. no 
What have you lost by losing of this day ? 

Lew. All days of glory, joy, and happiness. 
Pand. If you had won it, certainly you had. 
No, no ; when Fortune means to men most 
good, 

She looks upon them with a threat’ning eye. 120 
’T is strange to think how much King John hath 
lost 

In this which he accounts so clearly won. 

Are not you griev’d that Arthur is his prisoner ? 
Lew. As heartily as he is glad he hath him. 
Pand. Your mind is all as youthful as your 
blood. 120 

Now hear me speak with a prophetic spirit; 

For even the breath of what I mean to speak 
Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub, 
Out of the path which shall directly lead 
Thy foot to England’s throne ; and therefore 
mark. 130 

John hath seiz’d Arthur ; and it cannot be 
That, whiles warm life plays in that infant’s 
veins, 

The misplac’d John should entertain an hour, 
One minute, nay. one quiet breath of rest. 

A sceptre snatch’d with an unruly hand 135 
Must be as boisterously maintain’d as gain’d ; 
And he that stands upon a slippery place 
Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up. 

That John may stand, then Arthur needs must 
fall: 

So be it; for it cannot be but so. 140 

Lew. But what shall I gain by young 
Arthur’s fall ? 

Pand. You, in the right of Lady Blanch 
your wife, 

May then make all the claim that Arthur did. 
Lew. And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did. 
Pand. How green you are and fresh in this 
old world! 145 

John lays you plots ; the times conspire with 
you ; 

For he that steeps his safety in true blood 
Shall find but bloody safety and untrue. 

This act so evilly borne shall cool the hearts 
Of all his people and freeze up their zeal, iso 
That none so small advantage shall step forth 
To check his reign, but they will cherish it; 

No natural exhalation in the sky, 

No scope of nature, no distemper’d day, 

No common wind, no customed event, lee 

But they will pluck away his natural cause 
And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs, 
Abortives, presages, and tongues of heaven, 
Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John. 

Lew. May be he will not touch young Arthur’s 
life, wo 

But hold himself safe in his prisonment. 

Pand. O, sir, when he shall hear of your 
approach, 

If that young Arthur be not gone already, 

Even at that news he dies ; and then the hearts 
Of all his people shall revolt from him, ioe 
And kiss the lips of unacquainted change, 






494 


KING JOHN 


IV. 1. 


And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath 
Out of the bloody fingers’ ends of John. 
Methinks I see this hurly all on foot; 

And, 0 , what better matter breeds for you 170 
Than I have nam’d! The bastard Faulcon- 
bridge 

Is now in England, ransacking the Church, 
Offending charity. If but a dozen French 
Were there in arms, they would be as a call 
To train ten thousand English to their side, its 
O r as a little snow, tumbled about. 

Anon becomes a mountain. 0 noble Dauphin, 
Go with me to the King. ’T is wonderful 
What may be wrought out of their discontent, 
Now that their souls are topful of offence. iso 
For England go ; I will whet on the King. 

Lew. Strong reasons make strong actions ; 
let us go. 

If you say ay, the King will not say no. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT IV 

Scene I. [A room in a castle .] 

Enter Hubert and Executioners. 

Hub. Heat me these irons hot, and look thou 
stand 

Within the arras. When I strike my foot 
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, 

And bind the boy which you shall find with me 
Fast to the chair. Be heedful. Hence, and 
watch. b 

1 . Exec. I hope your warrant will bear out 
the deed. 

Hub. Uncleanly scruples ! fear not you. 
Look to’t. [Exeunt Executioners .] 

Young lad, come forth ; I have to say with you. 

Enter Arthur. 

Arth. Good morrow, Hubert. 

Hub. Good morrow, little prince. 

Arth. As little prince, having so great a title 
To be more prince, as may be. You are sad. n 
Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. 

Arth. Mercy on me ! 

Methinks nobody should be sad but I. 

Yet, I remember, when I was in France, 

Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, is 
Only for wantonness. By my Christendom, 

So I were out of prison and kept sheep, 

I should be merry as the day is long ; 

And so I would be here, but that I doubt 
My uncle practises more harm to me. 20 

He is afraid of me and I of him. 

Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey’s son ? 

No, indeed, is’t not; and I would to heaven 
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. 
Hub. [Aside.] If I talk to him, with his 
innocent prate 25 

He will awake my mercy which lies dead ; 
Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch. 

Arth. Are you sick, Hubert ? You look pale 
to-day. 

In sooth, I would you were a little sick. 

That I might sit all night and watch with you. 
I warrant I love you more than you do me. 31 


Hub. [Aside.] His words do take possession 
of my bosom. 

Bead here, voung Arthur. [Showing a paper.] 
[Aside.] How now, foolish rheum ! 
Turning dispiteous torture out of door 1 
I must be brief, lest resolution drop s« 

Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears. 

Can you not read it ? Is it not fair writ ? 

Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect. 
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine 
eyes? 

Hub. Young boy, I must. 

Arth. And will you ? 

Hub. And I will. 

Arth. Have you the heart? When your 
head did but ache, 41 

I knit my handkercher about your brows, 

The best I had, a princess wrought it me, 

And I did never ask it you again ; 

And with my hand at midnight held your head, 
And like the watchful minutes to the hour, 46 
Still and anon cheer’d up the heavv time, 
Saying, “ What lack you ? ” and ‘‘Where lies 
your grief ? ” 

Or “ What good love may I perform for you ? ” 
Many a poor man’s son would have lien still co 
And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you ; 
But you at your sick service had a prince. 

Nay, you may think my love was crafty love 
And call it cunning. Do, an if you will; 

If heaven be pleas’d that you must use me ill, 
Why then you must. Will you put out mine 
eyes, ee 

These eyes that never did nor never shall 
So much as frown on you ? 

Hub. I have sworn to do it; 

And with hot irons must I burn them out. 

Arth. Ah, none but in this iron age would 
do it! 60 

The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, 
Approaching near these eyes, would drink my 
tears. 

And quench his fiery indignation 
Even in the matter of mine innocence ; 

Nay, after that, consume away in rust, 66 

But for containing fire to harm mine eye. 

Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer’d 
iron ? 

An if an angel should have come to me 
And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, 
I would not have believ’d him,—no tongue 
but Hubert’s. t 

Hub. Come forth. [Stamps.] 

[Re-enter Executioners, with a cord, irons, etc.] 
Do as I bid you do. 

Arth. 0 , save me, Hubert, save me! My 
eyes are out 

Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. 
Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him 
here. 7* 

Arth. Alas, what need you be so boisterous- 
rough ? 

I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. 

For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! 
Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away, 
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb ; *• 





IV. ii. 


KING JOHN 


495 


I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, 
Nor look upon the iron angerly. 

Thrust but these naeu away, and I’ll forgive 
you, 

Whatever torment you do put me to. 

Hub. Go, stand within ; let me alone with 
him. 85 

1 . Exec. I am best pleas’d to be from such a 
deed. [Exeunt Executioners .] 

Arth. Alas, I then have chid away my 
friend! 

He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart. 

Let him come back, that his compassion may 
Give life to yours. 

Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself, so 

Arth. Is there no remedy ? 

Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. 

Arth. 0 heaven, that there were but a mote 
in yours, 

A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, 

Any annoyance in that precious sense ! 

Then feeling what small things are boisterous 
there, os 

Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. 
Hub. Is this your promise ? Go to, hold your 
tongue. 

Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of 
tongues 

Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes. 
Let me not hold my tongue, let me not, 
Hubert; ioo 

Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, 

So I may keep mine eyes. 0 , spare mine eyes, 
Though to no use but still to look on you I 
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold 
And would not harm me. 

Hub. I can heat it, boy. ios 

Arth. No, in good sooth ; the fire is dead with 
grief, 

Being create for comfort, to be us’d 
In nndeserv’d extremes. See else yourself ; 
There is no malice in this burning coal; 

The breath of heaven has blown nis spirit out 
And strew’d repentant ashes on his head. in 
Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, 
boy. 

Arth. An if you do, you will but make it 
blush 

And glow with shame of your proceedings, 
Hubert. 

Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes; ns 
And like a dog that is compell’d to fight, 
Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. 
All things that you should use to do me wrong 
Deny their office ; only you do lack 
That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, 
Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses. m 
Hub. Well, see to live; I will not touch 
thine eye 

For all the treasure that thine uncle owes. 

Yet am I sworn and I did purpose, boy, 

With this same very iron to burn them out. m 
Arth. 0 , now you look like Hubert! all this 
while 

You were disguis’d. 

Hub. Peace ; no more. Adieu. 

Your uncle must not know but you are dead. 


I ’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports; 
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure 130 
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, 
Will not offend thee. 

Arth. 0 heaven ! I thank you, Hubert. 

Hub. Silence ; no more. Go closely in with 
me. 

Much danger do I undergo for thee. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. [King John’s palace.] 

Enter King John, Pembroke, Salisbury, 
and other Lords. 

K. John. Here once again we sit, once again 
crown’d, 

And look’d upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes. 
Pem. This “once again,” but that your 
Highness pleas’d, 

Was once superfluous. You were crown’d be¬ 
fore, 

And that high royalty was ne’er pluck’d off, s 
The faiths of men ne’er stained with revolt; 
Fresh expectation troubled not the land 
With any long’d-for change or better state. 

Sal. Therefore, to be possess’d with double 
pomp, 

To guard a title that was rich before, io 

To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, 

To throw a perfume on the violet, 

To smooth the ice, or add another hue 
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light 
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, 
Is wasteful and ridiculous excess. i« 

Pem. But that your royal pleasure must be 
done, 

This act is as an ancient tale new told, 

And in the last repeating troublesome, 

Being urged at a time unseasonable. 20 

Sal. In this the antique and well noted face 
Of plain old form is much disfigured ; 

And, like a shifted wind unto a sail, 

It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about, 
Startles and frights consideration, 26 

Makes sound opinion sick, and truth sus¬ 
pected 

For putting on so new a fashion’d robe. 

Pem. When workmen strive to do better 
than well, 

They do confound their skill in covetousness ; 
And oftentimes excusing of a fault 30' 

Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse, 
As patches set upon a little breach 
Discredit more in hiding of the fault 
Than did the fault before it was so patch’d. 
Sal. To this effect, before you were new 
crown’d, 

We breath’d our counsel; but it pleas’d your 
Highness 

To overbear it, and we are all well pleas’d, 
Since all and every part of what we would 
Doth make a stand at what your Highness will. 
K. John. Some reasons of this double coro¬ 
nation ** 

I have possess’d you with, and think them 
strong; 

And more, more strong, when lesser is my 
fear, 




49 6 


KING JOHN 


iv. ii. 


I shall indue you with. Meantime but ask 
What you would have reform’d that is not 
well, 

And well shall you perceive how willingly 45 
I will both hear and grant you your requests. 
Pem. Then I — as one that am the tongue 
of these 

To sound the purposes of all their hearts, 

Both for myself and them, but, chief of all, 
Your safety, for the which myself and them 60 
Bend their best studies, — heartily request 
The enfranchisement of Arthur; whose re¬ 
straint 

Doth move the murmuring lips of discontent 
To break into this dangerous argument: 

If what in rest you have in right you hold, 55 
Why then your fears, which, as they say, at¬ 
tend 

The steps of wrong, should move you to mew 
up 

Your tender kinsman and to choke his days 
With barbarous ignorance and deny his youth 
The rich advantage of good exercise. so 

That the time’s enemies may not have this 
To grace occasions, let it be our suit 
That you have bid us ask his liberty ; 

Which for our goods we do no further ask 
Than whereupon our weal, on you depend¬ 
ing, es 

Counts it your weal he have his liberty. 

Enter Hubert. 

K. John. Let it be so; I do commit his 
youth 

To your direction. Hubert, what news with 
you? _ [Taking him apart.] 

Pem. This is the man should do the bloody 
deed; 

He show’d his warrant to a friend of mine. 70 
The image of a wicked heinous fault 
Lives in his eye ; that close aspect of his 
Does show the mood of a much troubled breast; 
And I do fearfully believe ’tis done, 

What we so fear’d he had a charge to do. 

Sal. The colour of the King doth come 
and go 

Between his purpose and his conscience, 

Like heralds ’twixt two dreadful battles set. 
His passion is so ripe, it needs must break. 
Pem. And when it breaks, I fear will issue 
thence so 

The foul corruption of a sweet child’s death. 

K. John. We cannot hold mortality’s strong 
hand. 

Good lords, although my will to give is living, 
The suit which you demand is gone and dead. 
He tells us Arthur is deceas’d to-night. so 

Sal. Indeed we fear’d his sickness was past 
cure. 

Pem. Indeed we heard how near his death 
he was 

Before the child himself felt he was sick. 

This must be answer’d either here or hence. 

K. John. Why do you bend such solemn 
brows on me ? so 

Think you I bear the shears of Destiny ? 

Have I commandment on the pulse of life ? 


Sal. It is apparent foul play; and ’t is 
shame 

That greatness should so grossly offer it. 

So thrive it in your game! and so, farewell. 95 
Pem. Stay yet, Lord Salisbury; I ’ll go with 
thee, 

And find the inheritance of this poor child, 

His little kingdom of a forced grave. 

That blood which ow’d the breadth of all this 
isle, 

Three foot of it doth hold ; bad world the 
while! 100 

This must not be thus borne. This will break 
out 

To all our sorrows, and ere long I doubt. 

[Exeunt [Lords]. 
K. John. They burn in indignation. I repent. 

Enter a Messenger. 

There is no sure foundation set on blood, 

No certain life achiev’d by others’ death. 105 
A fearful eye thou hast. Where is that blood 
That I have seen inhabit in those cheeks ? 

So foul a sky clears not without a storm ; 

Pour down thy w r eather. How goes all in 
France ? 

Mess. From France to England. Never such 
a power no 

For any foreign preparation 
Was levied in the body of a land. 

The copy of your speed is learn’d by them ; 

For when you should be told they do prepare, 
The tidings comes that they are all arriv’d, ns 
K. John. 0 , where hath our intelligence been 
drunk ? 

Where hath it slept ? Where is my mother’s 
care, 

That such an army could be drawn in France, 
And she not hear of it ? 

Mess. My liege, her ear 

Is stopp’d with dust; the first of April died 120 
Your noble mother: and, as I hear, my lord, 
The Lady Constance in a frenzy died 
Three days before ; but this from Rumour’s 
tongue 

I idly heard : if true or false I know not. 

K. John. Withhold thy speed, dreadful occa¬ 
sion ! 125 

0 , make a league with me, till I have pleas’d 
My discontented peers ! What! mother dead ! 
How wildly then walks my estate in France ! 
Under whose conduct came those powers of 
France 12s 

That thou for truth giv’st out are landed here ? 
Mess. Under the Dauphin. 

Enter the Bastard and Peter of Pomfret. 

K. John. Thou hast made me giddy 

With these ill tidings. — Now, what says the 
world 

To your proceedings ? Do not seek to stuff 
My head with more ill news, for it is full. im 
Bast. But if you be afeard to hear the worst, 
Then let the worst unheard fall on your head. 
K. John. Bear with me, cousin, for I was 
amaz’d 

Under the tide ; but now I breathe again 




iv. ii. 


KING JOHN 


497 


Aloft the flood, and can give audience 
To any tongue, speak it of what it will. uo 
Bast. How I nave sped among the clergy¬ 
men, 

The sums I have collected shall express. 

But as I travell’d hither through the land, 

I find the people strangely fantasied ; 

Possess’d with rumours, full of idle dreams, us 
Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear. 
And here’s a prophet, that I brought with me 
From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I 
found 

With many hundreds treading on his heels; 

To whom he sung, in rude harsh-sounding 
rhymes, 160 

That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon, 

Your Highness should deliver up your crown. 
K. John. Thou idle dreamer, wherefore 
didst thou so ? 

Peter. Foreknowing that the truth will fall 
out so. 

K. John. Hubert, away with him ; imprison 
him; ins 

And on that day at noon, whereof he says 
I shall yield up my crown, let him be hang’d. 
Deliver him to safety, and return, 

For I must use thee. 

[Exit Hubert with Peter.] 
O my gentle cousin, 

Hear’st thou the news abroad, who are arriv’d ? 
Bast. The French, my lord; men’s mouths 
are full of it. iei 

Besides, I met Lord Bigot and Lord Salisbury, 
With eyes as red as new-enkindled fire, 

And others more, going to seek the grave 
Of Arthur, whom they say is kill’d to-night im 
O n your suggestion. 

K. John. Gentle kinsman, go 

And thrust thyself into their companies. 

I have a way to win their loves again. 

Bring them before me. 

Bast. I will seek them out. 

K. John. Nay, but make haste; the better 
foot before. _ ito 

O, let me have no subject enemies 
When adverse foreigners affright my towns 
With dreadful pomp of stout invasion ! 

Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels, 

And fly like thought from them to me again. 175 
Bast. The spirit of the time shall teach me 
speed. _ [Exit. 

K. John. Spoke like a sprightful noble 
gentleman. 

Go after him ; for he perhaps shall need 
Some messenger betwixt me and the peers ; 
And be thou he. 

Mess. With all my heart, my liege. 

[Exit.] 

K. John. My mother dead ! m 

Re-enter Hubert. 

Hub. My lord, they say five moons were seen 
to-night; 

Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about 
The other four in wondrous motion. 

K. John. Five moons! 

Hub. Old men and beldams in the streets 


Do prophesy upon it dangerously. m 

Young Arthur’s death is common in their 
mouths; 

And when they talk of him, they shake their 

heads 

And whisper one another in the ear; 

And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer’s 
wrist, iso 

Whilst lie that hears makes fearful action 
With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling 
eyes. 

I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus, 
The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool, i »4 
With open mouth swallowing a tailor’s news ; 
Who, with his shears and measure in his hand, 
Standing on slippers, which his nimble haste 
Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet, 

Told of a many thousand warlike French 
That were embattailed and rank’d in Kent. 200 
Another lean unwash’d artificer 
Cuts off his tale and talks of Arthur’s death. 
K. John. Why seek’st thou to possess me 
with these fears ? 

Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur’s death ? 
Thy hand hath murd’red him. I had a mighty 
cause 205 

To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill 
him. 

Hub. No had, my lord ! Why, did you not 
provoke me ? 

K. John. It is the curse of kings to be at¬ 
tended 

By slaves that take their humours for a warrant 
To break within the bloody house of life, 210 
And on the winking of authority 
To understand a law, to know the meaning 
Of dangerous majesty, when perchance it 
frowns 

More upon humour than advis’d respect. 

Hub. Here is your hand and seal for what I 
did. 215 

K. John. O, when the last account ’twixt 
heaven and earth 

Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal 
Witness against us to damnation ! 

How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds 
Make deeds ill done ! Hadst not thou been by, 
A fellow by the hand of nature mark’d, 221 

Quoted, and sign’d to do a deed of shame, 

This murder had not come into my mind ; 

But taking note of thy abhorr’d aspect, 
Finding thee fit for bloody villainy, 225 

Apt ; liable to be employ’d in danger, 

I faintly broke with thee of Arthur’s death ; 
And thou, to be endeared to a king, 

Made it no conscience to destroy a prince. 

Hub. My lord, — 230 

K. John. Hadst thou but shook thy head or 
made a pause 

When I spake darkly what I purposed, 

Or turn’d an eye of doubt upon my face, 

As bid me tell my tale in express words, 

Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me 
break off, 236 

And those thy fears might have wrought fears 
in me. 

But thou didst understand me by my signs 






49 8 


KING JOHN 


iv. iii. 


And didst in signs again parley with sin ; 

Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent, 
And consequently thy rude hand to act 2*0 
The deed, which both our tongues held vile to 
name. 

Out of my sight, and never see me more ! 

My nobles leave me ; and my state is braved, 
Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers ; 
Nay, in the body of this fleshly land, 245 

This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath, 
Hostility and civil tumult reigns 
Between my conscience and my cousin’s death. 

Hub. Arm you against your other enemies, 

I ’ll make a peace between your soul and you. 
Young Arthur is alive. This hand of mine 201 
Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand, 

Not painted with the crimson spots of blood. 
Within this bosom never ent’red yet 
The dreadful notion of a murderous thought; 
And you have slander’d nature in my form, 25a 
Which, howsoever rude exteriorly, 

Is yet the cover of a fairer mind 
Than to be butcher of an innocent child. 

K. John. Doth Arthur live ? O, haste thee 
to the peers, 200 

Throw this report on their incensed rage, 

And make them tame to their obedience ! 
Forgive the comment that my passion made 
Upon thy feature ; for my rage was blind, 

And foul imaginary eyes of blood 205 

Presented thee more hideous than thou art. 

0 . answer not, but to my closet bring 
The angry lords with all expedient haste. 

I conjure thee but slowly ; run more fast. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. [Before the castle .] 

Enter Arthur, on the walls. 

Arth. The wall is high, and yet will I leap 
down. 

Good ground, be pitiful and hurt me not! 
There’s few or none do know me ; if they did, 
This ship-boy’s semblance hath disguis’d me 
quite. 

I am afraid, and yet I ’ll venture it. * 

If I get down, and do not break my limbs, 

I ’ll find a thousand shifts to get away. 

As good to die and go, as die and stay. 

[Leaps down.] 

0 me ! my uncle’s spirit is in these stones. 
Heaven take my soul, and England keep my 
bones! [Dies. 10 

Enter Pembroke, Salisbury, and Bigot. 

Sal. Lords, I will meet him at Saint Ed- 
mundsbury. 

It is our safety, and we must embrace 
This gentle offer of the perilous time. 

Pem. Who brought that letter from the 
Cardinal ? 

Sal. The Count Melun, a noble lord of 
France; is 

Whose private with me of the Dauphin’s love 
Is much more general than these lines import. 
Big. To-morrow morning let us meet him 
then. 


Sal. Or rather then set forward ; for’t will 
be 

Two long days’ journey, lords, or ere we 
meet. 20 

Enter the Bastard. 

Bast. Once more to-day well met, distem¬ 
per’d lords! 

The King by me requests your presence 
straight. 

Sal. The King hath dispossess’d himself 
of us. 

We will not line his thin bestained cloak 
With our pure honours, nor attend the foot 26 
That leaves the print of blood where’er it 
walks. 

Return and tell him so. We know the worst. 

Bast. Whate’er you think, good words, I 
think, were best. 

Sal. Our griefs, and not our manners, rea¬ 
son now. 

Bast. But there is little reason in your 
grief: 8 ° 

Therefore ’t were reason you had manners 
now. 

Pem. Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege. 

Bast. ’T is true, to hurt his master, no man 
else. 

Sal. This is the prison. What is he lies 
here ? [ Seeing Arthur. 1 

Pem. O death, made proud with pure ana 
princely beauty! 36 

The earth had not a hole to hide this deed. 

Sal. Murder, as hating what himself hath 
done, 

Doth lay it open to urge on revenge. 

Big. Or, when he doom’d this beauty to 
a grave, 

Found it too precious-princely for a grave. <« 

Sal. Sir Richard, what think you ? Have 
you beheld, 

Or have you read or heard, or could you think ? 
Or do you almost think, although you see, 

That you do see ? Could thought, without this 
object, 

Form such another ? This is the very top, 45 
The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest, 
Of murder’s arms. This is the bloodiest shame, 
The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke, 

That ever wall-ey’d wrath or staring rage 
Presented to the tears of soft remorse. co 

Pem. All murders past do stand excus’d in 
this; 

And this, so sole and so unmatchable, 

Shall give a holiness, a purity, 

To the yet unbegotten sin of times ; 

And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest, ec 
Exampled by this heinous spectacle. 

Bast. It is a damned and a bloody work ; 
The graceless action of a heavy hand, 

If that it be the work of any hand. 

Sal. If that it be the work of any hand ! e« 
We had a kind of light what would ensue. 

It is the shameful work of Hubert’s hand, 

The practice and the purpose of the King ; 
From whose obedience I forbid my soul, 
Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life, as 





KING JOHN 


499 


v. i. 


And breathing 1 to his breathless excellence 
The incense of a vow, a holy vow, 

Never to taste the pleasures of the world, 
Never to be infected with delight, 

Nor conversant with ease and idleness, io 

Till I have set a glory to this head, 

By giving it the worship of revenge. 

Pem. Big. Our souls religiously confirm thy 
words. 

Enter Hubert. 

Hub. Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking 
you. 

Arthur doth live; the King hath sent for 
you. 75 

Sal. O, he is bold and blushes not at death. 
Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone ! 
Hub I am no villain. 

Sal. Must I rob the law ? 

[Drawing his sword.] 
Bast. Your sword is bright, sir ; put it up 
again. 

Sal. Not till I sheathe it in a murderer’s 
skin. so 

Hub. Stand back, Lord Salisbury, stand 
back, I say; 

By heaven, I think my sword’s as sharp as 
yours. 

I would not have you, lord, forget yourself, 

Nor tempt the danger of my true defence, 

Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget as 
Your worth, your greatness and nobility. 

Big. Out, dunghill! dar’st thou brave a 
nobleman ? 

Hub. Not for my life ; but yet I dare defend 
My innocent life against an emperor. 

Sal. Thou art a murderer. 

Hub. Do not prove me so ; 

Yet I am none. Whose tongue soe’er speaks 
false, #t 

Not truly speaks ; who speaks not truly, lies. 
Pem. Cut him to pieces. 

Bast. Keep the peace, I say. 

Sal. Stand by, or I shall gall you, Faulcon- 
bridge. 

Bast. Thou wert better gall the devil, Salis¬ 
bury. 95 

If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot, 

Or teach thv hasty spleen to do me shame, 

I ’ll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime; 
Or I ’ll so maul you and your toasting-iron, 
That you shall think the devil is come from 
hell. ioo 

Big. What wilt thou do, renowned Faulcon- 
bridge ? 

Second a villain and a murderer ? 

Hub. Lord Bigot, I am none. 

Big. Who kill’d this prince ? 

Hub. ’Tis not an hour since I left him well. 
I honour’d him, I lov’d him, and will weep ios 
My date of life out for his sweet life’s loss. 

Sal. Trust not those cunning waters of his 
eyes, 

For villainy is not without such rheum; 

And he, long traded in it, makes it seem 
Like rivers of remorse and innocency. no 

Away with me, all you whose souls abhor 


The uncleanly savours of a slaughter-house ; 
For I am stifled with this smell of sin. 

Big. Away toward Bury, to the Dauphin 
there! 

Pem. There, tell the King, he may inquire 
us out. [Exeunt Lords, ne 

Bast. Here’s a good world! Knew you of 
this fair work ? 

Beyond the infinite and boundless reach 
Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death, 

Art thou damn’d, Hubert. 

Hub. Do but hear me, sir. 

Bast. Ha! I ’ll tell thee what; no 

Thou ’rt damn’d as black — nay, nothing is so 
black ; 

Thou art more deep damn’d than Prince Lucifer. 
There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell 
As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child. 
Hub. Upon my soul — 

Bast. If thou didst but consent 

To this most cruel act, do but despair; no 
And if thou want’st a cord, the smallest thread 
That ever spider twisted from her womb 
Will serve to strangle thee ; a rush will be a 
beam 

To hang thee on ; or wouldst thou drown thy¬ 
self, n» 

Put but a little water in a spoon, 

And it shall be as all the ocean, 

Enough to stifle such a villain up. 

I do suspect thee very grievously. 

Hub. If I in act, consent, or sin of thought, 
Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath iso 
Which was embounded in this beauteous clay, 
Let hell want pains enough to torture me. 

I left him well. 

Bast. Go, bear him in thine arms. 

I am amaz’d, methinks, and lose my way i*o 
Among the thorns and dangers of this world. 
How easy dost thou take all England up! 

From forth this morsel of dead royalty, 

The life, the right and truth of all this realm 
Is fled to heaven ; and England now is left i« 
To tug and scamble and to part by the teeth 
The unowed interest of proud-swelling state. 
Now for the bare-pick’d bone of majesty 
Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest 
And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace. ioo 
Now powers from home and discontents at home 
Meet in one line ; and vast confusion -waits, 

As doth a raven on a sick-fallen beast, 

The imminent decay of wrested pomp. 

Now happy he whose cloak and cincture can ibs 
H old out this tempest. Bear away that child, 
And follow me with speed. I ’ll to the King. 

A thousand businesses are brief in hand, 

And heaven itself doth frown upon the land. 

\Exeunt. 

ACT [V] 

Scene I. [King John 1 s palace.] 

Enter King John, Pandulph, and Attendants. 

K. John. Thus have I yielded up into your 
hand 

The circle of my glory. [ Giving the crown.] 






5°° 


KING JOHN 


V. 11. 


Pand. Take again 

From this my hand, as holding of the Pope 
Your sovereign greatness and authority. 

K. John. Now keep your holy word. Go 
meet the French, s 

And from his Holiness use all your power 
To stop their marches ’fore we are inflam’d. 
Our discontented counties do revolt; 

Our people quarrel with obedience, 

Swearing allegiance and the love of soul 10 
To stranger blood, to foreign royalty. 

This inundation of mistemp’red humour 
Rests by you only to be qualified. 

Then pause not; for the present time’s so sick, 
That present medicine must be minist’red, is 
Or overthrow incurable ensues. 

Pand. It was my breath that blew this tem¬ 
pest up, 

Upon your stubborn usage of the Pope; 

But since you are a gentle convertite, 19 

My tongue shall hush again this storm of war, 
And make fair weather in your blust’ringland. 
On this Ascension-day, remember well, 

Upon your oath of service to the Pope, 

Go I to make the French lay down their arms. 

[Exit. 

K. John. Is this Ascension-day ? Did not the 
prophet 25 

Say that before Ascension-day at noon 
My crown I should give off ? Even so I have. 

I did suppose it should be on constraint; 

But, heaven be thank’d, it is but voluntary. 

Enter the Bastard. 

Bast. All Kent hath yielded ; nothing there 
holds out 30 

But Dover castle. London hath receiv’d, 

Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers. 
Your nobles will not hear you, but are gone 
To offer service to your enemy, 

And wild amazement hurries up and down ss 
The little number of your doubtful friends. 

E. John. Would not my lords return to me 
again 

After they heard young Arthur was alive ? 
Bast. They found him dead and cast into 
the streets, 

An empty casket, where the jewel of life 40 
By some damn’d hand was robb’d and ta’en 
away. 

K. John. That villain Hubert told me he did 
live. 

Bast. So, on my soul, he did, for aught he 
knew. 

But wherefore do you droop ? Why look you 
sad ? 

Be great in act, as you have been in thought. *s 
Let not the world see fear and sad distrust 
Govern the motion of a kingly eye. 

Be stirring as the time ; be fire with fire ; 
Threaten the threatener and outface the brow 
Of bragging Horror ; so shall inferior eyes, so 
That borrow their behaviours from the great, 
Grow great by your example and put on 
The dauntless spirit of resolution. 

Away, and glister like the god of war, 

When he intendeth to become the field. 6 s 


Show boldness and aspiring confidence. 

What, shall they seek the lion in his den, 

And fright him there, and make him tremble 
there ? 

0 , let it not be said ! Forage, and run 
To meet displeasure farther from the doors, «• 
And grapple with him ere he come so nigh. 

K. John. The legate of the Pope hath been 
with me, 

And I have made a happy peace with him ; 
And he hath promis’d to dismiss the powers 
Led by the Dauphin. 

Bast. O inglorious league ! «s 

Shall we, upon the footing of our land, 

Send fair-play orders and make compromise, 
Insinuation, parley, and base truce 
To arms invasive ? Shall a beardless boy, 

A cock’red silken wanton, brave our fields, to 
A nd flesh his spirit in a warlike soil. 

Mocking the air with colours idly spread, 

And find no check ? Let us, my liege, to arms. 
Perchance the Cardinal cannot make your 
peace ; 

Or if he do, let it at least be said 76 

They saw we had a purpose of defence. 

K. John. Have thou the ordering of this pre¬ 
sent time. 

Bast. Away, then, with good courage ! Yet, 
I know, 

Our party may well meet a prouder foe. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [The Dauphin's camp at Saint 
Edmundsbury .] 

Enter , in arms , Lewis, Salisbury, Melun, 
Pembroke, Bigot, and Soldiers. 

Lew. My Lord Melun, let this be copied out, 
And keep it safe for our remembrance. 

Return the precedent to these lords again, 
That, having our fair order written down, 

Both they and we, perusing o’er these notes, s 
May know wherefore we took the sacrament 
And keep our faiths firm and inviolable. 

Sal. Upon our sides it never shall be broken. 
And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear 
A voluntary zeal and an unurg’d faith 10 

To your proceedings, yet believe me, Prince, 

I am not glad that such a sore of time 
Should seek a plaster by contemn’d revolt, 

And heal the inveterate canker of one wound 
By making many 0 ? it grieves my soul, is 
That I must draw this metal from my side 
To be a widow-maker ! 0 , and there 
Where honourable rescue and defence 
Cries out upon the name of Salisbury ! 

But such is the infection of the time, 2# 

That, for the health and physic of our right, 
We cannot deal but with the very hand 
Of stern injustice and confused wrong. 

And is’t not pity, O my grieved friends, 

That we, the sons and children of this isle, » 
Were born to see so sad an hour as this ; 
Wherein we step after a stranger, march 
Upon her gentle bosom, and fill up 
Her enemies’ ranks — I must withdraw and 
weep 




V. ii. KING 


Upon the spot of this enforced cause — so 

To pace the gentry of a land remote, 

And follow unacquainted colours here ? 

What, here ? 0 nation, that thou couldst re¬ 
move ! 

That Neptune’s arms, who clippeth thee about, 
Would bear thee from the knowledge of thy¬ 
self, SB 

And grapple thee unto a pagan shore, 

Where these two Christian armies might com¬ 
bine 

The blood of malice in a vein of league, 

And not to spend it so unneighbourly ! 

Lew. A noble temper dost thou show in this ; 
And great affections wrestling in thy bosom 4i 
Doth make an earthquake of nobility. 

O, what a noble combat hast thou fought 
Between compulsion and a brave respect! 

Let me wipe off this honourable dew, 45 

That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks. 

My heart hath melted at a lady’s tears, 

Being an ordinary inundation ; 

But this effusion of such manly drops, 49 

This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul, 
Startles mine eyes, and makes me more amaz’d 
Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven 
Figur’d quite o’er with burning meteors. 

Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury, 

And with a great heart heave away the storm. 
Commend these waters to those baby eyes go 
T hat never saw the giant world enrag’d, 

Nor met with fortune other than at feasts, 

Full of warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping. 
Come, come ; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as 
deep 60 

Into the purse of rich prosperity 
As Lewis himself ; so, nobles, shall you all, 
That knit your sinews to the strength of mine. 

Enter Pandulph. 

And even there, methinks, an angel spake. 
Look, where the holy legate comes apace, os 
To give us warrant from the hand of Heaven, 
And on our actions set the name of right 
With holy breath. 

Pand. Hail, noble Prince of France ! 

The next is this, King John hath reconcil’d 
Himself to Rome ; his spirit is come in, 70 
That so stood out against the Holy Church, 

The great metropolis and see of Rome ; 
Therefore thy threatening colours now wind up, 
And tame the savage spirit of wild war, 

That, like a lion fostered up at hand, 75 

It may lie gently at the foot of Peace, 

And be no further harmful than in show. 

Lew. Your Grace shall pardon me, I will not 
back. 

I am too high-born to be propertied, 

To be a secondary at control, so 

Or useful serving-man and instrument 
To any sovereign state throughout the world. 
Your breath first kindled the dead coal of 
wars 

Between this chastis’d kingdom and myself, 
And brought in matter that should feed this 
fire: *6 

And now’t is far too huge to be blown out 


JOHN 


With that same weak wind which enkindled it. 
You taught me how to know the face of right, 
Acquainted me with interest to this land, 

Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart; 

And come ye now to tell me John hath made 
His peace with Rome ? What is that peace to 
me ? 

I, by the honour of my marriage-bed, 

After young Arthur, claim this land for mine ; 
And, now it is half-conquer’d, must I back 95 
Because that John hath made his peace with 
Rome ? 

Am I Rome’s slave ? What penny hath Rome 
borne, 

What men provided, what munition sent, 

To underprop this action ? Is ’t not I 

That undergo this charge ? Who else but I, 100 

And such as to my claim are liable, 

Sweat in this business and maintain this war ? 
Have I not heard these islanders shout out 
“ Vive le roi ! ” as I have bank’d their towns ? 
Have I not here the best cards for the 
game, iob 

To win this easy match play’d for a crown ? 
And shall I now give o’er the yielded set ? 

No, on my soul, it never shall be said. 

Pand. You look but on the outside of this 
work. 

Lew. Outside or inside, I will not return no 
Till my attempt so much be glorified 
As to my ample hope was promised 
Before I drew this gallant head of war, 

And cull’d these fiery spirits from the world, 
To outlook conquest and to win renown 11s 
Even in the jaws of danger and of death. 

[Trumpet sounds .] 

What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us ? 

Enter the Bastard, attended. 

Bast. According to the fair play of the 
world, 

Let me have audience. I am sent to speak, 

My holy lord of Milan, from the King. no 

I come, to learn how you have dealt for him ; 
And, as you answer, I do know the scope 
And warrant limited unto my tongue. 

Pand. The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite, 
And will not temporize with my entreaties. 12B 
He flatly says he ’ll not lay down his arms. 
Bast. By all the blood that ever fury 
breath’d, 

The youth says well. Now hear our English 
King, 

For thus his royalty doth speak in me. 

He is prepar’d, and reason too he should. is* 
This apish and unmannerly approach. 

This harness’d masque and unadvised revel, 
This unhair’d sauciness and boyish troops, 

The King doth smile at, and is well prepar’d 
To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy 
arms, i 3 s 

From out the circle of his territories. 

That hand which had the strength, even at 
your door, 

To cudgel you and make you take the hatch. 
To dive like buckets in concealed wells, 

To crouch in litter of your stable planks, «• 





502 


KING JOHN 


V. IV. 


To lie like pawns lock’d up in chests and trunks, 
To hug with swine, to seek sweet safety out 
In vaults and prisons, and to thrill and shake 
Even at the crying of your nation’s crow, 
Thinking his voice an armed Englishman ; hs 
S hall that victorious hand be feebled here, 
That in your chambers gave you chastisement ? 
No ! Know the gallant monarch is in arms 
And like an eagle o’er his aery towers, 

To souse annoyance that comes near his 
nest. iso 

And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts, 

You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb 
Of your dear mother England, blush for shame ; 
For your own ladies and pale-visag’d maids 
Like Amazons come tripping after drums, iss 
Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change, 
Their needles to lances, and their gentle hearts 
To fierce and bloody inclination. 

Lew. There end thy brave, and turn thy face 
in peace; 

We grant thou canst outscold us. Fare thee 
well! _ iso 

We hold our time too precious to be spent 
With such a brabbler. 

Pand. Give me leave to speak. 

Bast. No, I will speak. 

Lew. We will attend to neither. 

Strike up the drums ; and let the tongue of war 
Plead for our interest and our being here. iso 
Bast. Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will 
cry out; 

And so shall you, being beaten. Do but start 
An echo with the clamour of thy drum, 

And even at hand a drum is ready brac’d 
That shall reverberate all as loud as thine, no 
Sound but another, and another shall 
As loud as thine rattle the welkin’s ear 
And mock the deep-mouth’d thunder; for at 
hand, 

Not trusting to this halting legate here, 

Whom he hath used rather for sport than 
need, . ns 

Is warlike John ; and in his forehead sits 
A bare-ribb’d Death, whose office is this day 
To feast upon whole thousands of the French. 
Lew. Strike up our drums, to find this dan¬ 
ger out. 

Bast. And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do 
not doubt. [Exeunt, wo 

Scene III. [The field of battle.'] 
Alarums. Enter King John and Hubert. 

K. John. How goes the day with us? O, 
tell me, Hubert. 

Hub. Badly, I fear. How fares your Maj¬ 
esty ? 

K. John. This fever, that hath troubled me 
so long, 

Lies heavy on me. 0 , my heart is sick ! 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faul- 
conbridge, « 

Desires your Majesty to leave the field 
And send him word by me which way you go. 


K. John. Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the 
abbey there. 

Mess. Be of good comfort; for the great 
supply 

That was expected by the Dauphin here, io 
Are wreck’d three nights ago on Goodwin 
Sands. 

This news was brought to Richard but even 
now. 

The French fight coldly, and retire themselves. 

K. John. Ay me! this tyrant fever burns 
me up, 

And will not let me welcome this good news. n> 
Set on toward Swinstead. To my litter straight. 
Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IY. [Another part of the field.] 

Enter Salisbury, Pembroke, and Bigot. 

Sal. I did not think the King so stor’d with 
friends. 

Pern. Up once again! Put spirit in the 
French. 

If they miscarry, we miscarry too. 

Sal. That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge, 
In spite of spite, alone upholds the day. 6 

Pem. They say King John sore sick hath 
left the field. 

Enter Melun, wounded. 

Mel. Lead me to the revolts of England 
here. 

Sal. When we were happy we had other 
names. 

Pem. It is the Count Melun. 

Sal. Wounded to death. 

Mel. Fly, noble English, you are bought 
and sold ! io 

Unthread the rude eye of rebellion 
And welcome home again discarded faith. 

Seek out King John and fall before his feet; 
For if the French be lords of this loud day, 

He means to recompense the pains you take is 
By cutting off your heads. Thus hath he 
sworn 

And I with him, and many moe with me, 

Upon the altar at Saint Edmundsbury ; 

Even on that altar where we swore to you 
Dear amity and everlasting love. jo 

Sal. May this be possible ? May this be 
true ? 

Mel. Have I not hideous death within my 
view, 

Retaining but a quantity of life, 

Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax 
Resolveth from his figure ’gainst the fire ? jo 
W hat in the world should make me now de¬ 
ceive, 

Since I must lose the use of all deceit ? 

Why should I then be false, since it is true 
That I must die here and live hence by truth ? 
I say again, if Lewis do win the day, so 

He is forsworn if e’er those eyes of yours 
Behold another day break in the east; 

But even this night, whose black contagious 
breath 





v. vi. 


KING JOHN 


Already smokes about the burning' crest 
Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun, 36 
Even this ill night, your breathing shall ex¬ 
pire. 

Paying the fine of rated treachery 
Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives, 
If Lewis by your assistance win the day. 
Commend me to one Hubert with your king. *o 
The love of him, and this respect besides, 

For that my grandsire was an Englishman, 
Awakes my conscience to confess all this ; 

In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence 
From forth the noise and rumour of the field, <6 
Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts 
In peace, and part this body and my soul 
With contemplation and devout desires. 

Sal. We do believe thee; and beshrew my 
soul 

But I do love the favour and the form so 

Of this most fair occasion, by the which 
We will untread the steps of damned flight, 
And like a bated and retired flood, 

Leaving our rankness and irregular course, 
Stoop low within those bounds we have o’er- 
look’d, m 

And calmly run on in obedience 
Even to our ocean, to our great King John. 

My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence ; 
For I do see the cruel pangs of death 
Right in thine eye. Away, my friends ! New 
flight ; co 

And happy newness, that intends old right. 

[.Exeunt [leading off Melun]. 


Scene V. [The French camp.] 

Enter Lewis and his train. 

Lew. The sun of heaven methought was 
loath to set, 

But stay’d and made the western welkin blush, 
When English measure backward their own 
ground 

In faint retire. 0 , bravely came we off, 

When with a volley of our needless shot, 5 
After such bloody toil, we bid good night ; 
And wound our tott’ring colours clearly up, 
Last in the field, and almost lords of it! 

Enter a Messenger. 


Mess. Where is my prince, the Dauphin ? 

Lew. Here : what news ? 

Mess. The Count Melun is slain ; the Eng¬ 
lish lords 

By his persuasion are again fallen off, 

And your supply, which you have wish’d so 
long, 

Are cast away and sunk on Goodwin Sands. 

Lew. Ah, foul shrewd news! Beshrew thy 
very heart! 

I did not think to be so sad to-night _ 

As this hath made me. Who was he that said 
King John did fly an hour or two before 
The stumbling night did part our weary 
powers ? 

Mess. Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord. 

Lew. Well; keep good quarter and good care 
to-night. 20 


503 


The day shall not be up so soon as I, 

To try the fair adventure of to-morrow. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene VI. [An open place in the neighbourhood 
of Swinstead Abbey.] 

Enter the Bastard and Hubert, severally. 

Hub. Who’s there ? speak, ho! Speak 
quickly, or I shoot. 

Bast. A friend. What art thou ? 

Hub. Of the part of England. 

Bast. Whither dost thou go ? 

Hub. What’s that to thee ? 

Bast. Why may not I demand 

Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine ? s 
Hubert, I think ? 

Hub. Thou hast a perfect thought. 

I will upon all hazards well believe 
Thou art my friend, that know’st my tongue 
so well. 

Who art thou ? 

Bast. Who thou wilt; and if thou please, 
Thou may’st befriend me so much as to think 10 
I come one way of the Plantagenets. 

Hub. Unkind remembrance ! thou and eye¬ 
less night 

Have done me shame. Brave soldier, pardon 
me, 

That any accent breaking from thy tongue 
Should scape the true acquaintance of mine 
ear. is 

Bast. Come, come ; sans compliment, what 
news abroad ? 

Hub. Why, here walk I in the black brow of 
night, 

To find you out. 

Bast. Brief, then ; and what’s the news ? 
Hub. 0 , my sweet sir, news fitting to the 
night, 

Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible. 20 

Bast. Show me the very wound of this ill 
news. 

I am no woman, I ’ll not swoon at it. 

Hub. The King, I fear, is poison’d by a 
monk. 

I left him almost speechless ; and broke out 
To acquaint you with this evil, that you might 
The better arm you to the sudden time 26 
Than if you had at leisure known of this. 

Bast. How did he take it ? Who did taste to 
him ? 

Hub. A monk, I tell you ; a resolved villain, 
Whose bowels suddenly burst out. The King 30 
Yet speaks and peradventure may recover. 
Bast. Who didst thou leave to tend his Maj¬ 
esty? 

Hub. Why, know you not the lords are all 
come back, 

And brought Prince Henry in their company ? 
At whose request the King hath pardon’d 
them, . _ 36 

And they are all about his Majesty. 

Bast. Withhold thine indignation, mighty 
heaven, 

And tempt us not to bear above our power ! 

I ’ll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night* 




KING 


Passing these flats, are taken by the tide ; 40 

These Lincoln Washes have devoured them ; 
Myself, well mounted, hardly have escap’d. 
Away before ; conduct me to the King. 

I doubt he will be dead or ere I come. [ Exeunt. 

Scene VII. [The orchard at Swinstead Abbey.\ 
Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury, and Bigot. 

P. Hen. It is too late. The life of all his 
blood 

Is touch’d corruptibly, and his pure brain, 
Which some suppose the soul’s frail dwelling- 
house, 

Doth by the idle comments that it makes 
Foretell the ending of mortality. b 

Enter Pembroke. 

Pem. His Highness yet doth speak, and 
holds belief 

That, being brought into the open air, 

It would allay the burning quality 
Of that fell poison which assaileth him. 

P. Hen. Let him be brought into the orchard 
here. 10 

Doth he still rage ? [Exit Attendants .] 

Pem. He is more patient 

Than when you left him ; even now he sung. 

P. Hen. O vanity of sickness! fierce ex¬ 
tremes 

In their continuance will not feel themselves. 
Death, having prey’d upon the outward parts, 
Leaves them invisible ; and his siege is now is 
Against the mind, the which he pricks and 
wounds 

With many legions of strange fantasies, 

Which, in their throng and press to that last 
hold, 

Confound themselves. ’T is strange that death 
should sing. 20 

I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, 

Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death, 
And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings 
His soul and body to their lasting rest. 

Sal. Be of good comfort, Prince; for you 
are born 25 

To set a form upon that indigest 
Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude. 

King John is brought in. 

K. John. Ay, marry, now my soul hath el¬ 
bow-room ; 

It would not out at windows nor at doors. 
There is so hot a summer in my bosom, 30 

That all my bowels crumble up to dust. 

I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen 
Upon a parchment, and against this fire 
Do I shrink up. 

P. Hen. How fares your Majesty ? 

K. John. Poison’d,— ill fare — dead, forsook, 
cast off ; 35 

And none of you will bid the Winter come 
To thrust his icy fingers in my maw, 

Nor let my kingdom’s rivers take their course 
Through my burn’d bosom, nor entreat the 
north 

To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips 


JOHN v. vii. 


And comfort me with cold. I do not ask you 
much, # 41 

I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait 
And so ingrateful, you deny me that. 

P. Hen. O that there were some virtue in 
my tears, 

That might relieve you ! 

K. John. The salt in them is hot. 

Within me is a hell, and there the poison 46 
Is as a fiend confin’d to tyrannize 
On unreprievable condemned blood. 

Enter the Bastard. 

Bast. O, I am scalded with my violent mo¬ 
tion 

And spleen of speed to see your Majesty ! 

K. John. 0 cousin, thou art come to set mine 
eye. 

The tackle of my heart is crack’d and burn’d, 
And all the shrouds wherewith my life should 
sail 

Are turned to one thread, one little hair. 

My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, 65 
Which holds but till thy news be uttered ; 

And then all this thou seest is but a clod 
And module of confounded royalty. 

Bast. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward, 
Where Heaven He knows how we shall answer 
him; eo 

For in a night the best part of my power, 

As I upon advantage did remove, 

Were in the Washes all unwarily 
Devoured by the unexpected flood. 

[The king dies .] 
Sal. You breathe these dead news in as dead 
an ear. es 

My liege ! my lord ! But now a king, now thus. 
P. Hen. Even so must I run on, and even so 
stop. 

What surety of the world, what hope, what 
stay, 

When this was now a king, and now is clay ? 
Bast. Art thou gone so ? I do but stay be¬ 
hind 70 

To do the office for thee of revenge, 

And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven, 
As it on earth hath been thy servant still. 

Now, now, you stars that move in your right 
spheres, 

Where be your powers ? Show now your 
mended faiths, 75 

And instantly return with me again. 

To push destruction and perpetual shame 
Out of the weak door of our fainting land. 
Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be 
sought; 

The Dauphin rages at our very heels. so 

Sal. It seems you know not, then, so much 
as we. 

The Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest, 

Who half an hour since came from the Dau¬ 
phin, 

And brings from him such offers of our peace 
As we with honour and respect may take, 35 
With purpose presently to leave this war. 

Bast. He will the rather do it when he sees 
Ourselves well sinewed to our defence, 





v. vii. 


KING JOHN 


Sal. Nay, ’t is in a manner done already ; 
For many carriages he hath despatch’d 90 
To the sea-side, and put his cause and quar¬ 
rel 

To the disposing of the Cardinal; 

With whom yourself, myself, ana other lords, 
If you think meet, this afternoon will post 
To consummate this business happily. 95 

Bast. Let it be so ; and you, my noble 
prince, 

With other princes that may best be spar’d, 
Shall wait upon your father’s funeral. 

P. Hen. At Worcester must his body be in- 
terr’d ; 

For so he will’d it. 

Bast. Thither shall it then ; 100 

And happily may your sweet self put on 
The lineal state and glory of the land ! 

To whom, with all submission, on my knee 


505 


I do bequeath my faithful services 
And true subjection everlastingly. ioa 

Sal. And the like tender of our love we 
make, 

To rest without a spot for evermore. 

P. Hen. I have a kind soul that would give 
you thanks 

And knows not how to do it but with tears. 109 
Bast. O, let us pay the time but needful woe, 
Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs. 
This England never did, nor never shall, 

Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, 

But when it first did help to wound itself. 

Now these her princes are come home again, 115 
Come the three corners of the world in arms. 
And we shall shock them. Nought shall make 
us rue, 

If England to itself do rest but true. 

[Exeunt. 




THE LIFE AND DEATH OF RICHARD THE SECOND 


Richard II was first published in an anonymous quarto in 1597 . A second quarto, printed 
from the first, but with Shakespeare’s name on the title-page, appeared in 1598 . Neither of these 
editions contained the abdication scene (iv. i. 154 - 318 ), which is supposed to have been suppressed 
owing to Queen Elizabeth’s sensitiveness on such subjects, but it appears in the Third Quarto 
( 1608 ), and is found in all the later editions. The Fourth Quarto, printed from the third, as the 
third was from the second, is dated 1615 , and was the main source of the text of the First Folio. 
But in addition to some corrections, alterations, and omissions for acting purposes, the First 
Folio has been thought to show that its editors had access to a manuscript of the abdication 
scene from which they amended the imperfect text of that part of the Fourth Quarto. Thus for 
the main part of the play the best authority is the First Quarto ; for the abdication scene, the 
First Folio ; and on these the present text is accordingly based. 

Apart from the date of publication we have only internal evidence as to date of production. 
The subject may have been suggested by Marlowe’s Edward II; but the style shows a marked 
departure from the Marlowesque rhetoric of Richard III , and takes it out of the period when 
Shakespeare was most under the influence of his great predecessor. Taking into consideration 
the frequency of rime on the one hand, and the absence of prose on the other, we may conclude 
that the drama was composed within a year of 1594 . 

The main source of the action is Holinshed’s Chronicles of England , Scotland , and Ireland , 
supplemented by Stowe’s Annals , but the chief interest lies in those elements that are due to the 
dramatist’s imagination. The parts played and the speeches uttered by the female characters are 
entirely Shakespeare’s. Historically, the Queen was only eleven years old at the date of her 
husband’s deposition ; and the Duchess of York was only the stepmother of Aumerle. The scene 
at the deathbed of John of Gaunt is represented in the chronicle by the bare statement of the 
fact of his death ; and there is no hint of the great speech on the glory of England. This speech, 
with others, such as the closing lines of King John , point to the inference that Shakespeare de¬ 
liberately used the opportunity given in the historical plays to appeal to the patriotic enthusiasm 
of his contemporaries. 

But the greatest achievement in the play is in the creation, or interpretation, of the character 
of Richard himself. The chronicle supplied the outline of his action, but little characterization 
beyond charges of self-indulgence and subjection to unworthy favorites. Richard’s love of the 
spectacular and his enjoyment of his own emotions even of misery and despair, along with his 
tendency to substitute fluent and poetical utterance for action, are all the conception of the 
dramatist. The resignation of the crown actually took place in the presence of a few lords in 
Richard’s chamber in the Tower, so that the amazing exhibition of sentimental vanity in the 
abdication scene is purely Shakespearean. The hints of the character of Bolingbroke are also 
mainly invented. Holinshed speaks of his popularity, but gives nothing of such causes of it as 
are indicated in the description of his courtship of the common people in I. iv. Throughout, 
even when the details of the episode are borrowed from the chronicle, as in the conspiracy in 
which Aumerle is involved, the speeches are purely imaginary, hardly any hint of the diction 
being derived from the sources. 

It is at least probable that this was the “ play of the deposing of Richard II ” which Essex 
and his associates procured to be performed in the streets of London on the eve of his attempted 
revolt in 1601 . It is clear that it is not the Richard II seen by Forman at the Globe in 1611 , 
since that play dealt chiefly with the earlier events of Richard’s reign. 

The spellings “ Bullingbroke,” “ Herford,” “ Barkly,” “ Callice,” and “ Cotshall ” or “ Colts- 
hold ” (Cotswold) in the old copies, indicate the Elizabethan pronunciation of these names. 


THE TRAGEDY OF RICHARD THE SECOND 


[DRAMATIS PERSONA! 


King Richard II. 

John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster, I uncles to the 
Edmund of Langley, duke of York, ) King. 

Henry, surnained Bolingbroke, duke of Hereford, son 
to John of Gaunt; afterwards King Henry IV. 

Dukb of Aumerle, son to the duke of York. 

Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk. 

Duke of Surrey. 

Earl of Salisbury. 

Lord Berkeley. 

Bushy, ) 

Bagot, > servants to King Richard. 

Green, ) 

Earl of Northumberland. 

Henry Percy, sumatned Hotspur, his son. 


Lord Ross. 

Lord Willoughby. 

Lord Fitzwater. 

Bishop of Carlisle. 

Abbot of Westminster. 

Lord Marshal. 

Sir Stephen Scroop. 

Sir Pierce of Exton. 

Captain of a baud of Welshmen. 
Two Gardeuers. 

Queen to King Richard. 
Duchess of York. 

Duchess of Gloucester. 

Lady attending on the Queen. 


Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Keeper, Messenger, Groom, and other Attendants. 


Scene : England and Wales.] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [ London. King Richard's palace .] 

Enter King Richard, John of Gaunt, with 
other Nobles and Attendants. 

K. Rich. Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured 
Lancaster, 

Hast thou, according to thy oath and band. 
Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son, 
Here to make good the boist’rous late appeal, 
Which then our leisure would not let us hear, s 
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mow¬ 
bray ? 

Gaunt. I have, my liege. 

K. Rich. Tell me, moreover, hast thou 
sounded him 

If he appeal the Duke on ancient malice, 

Or worthily, as a good subject should, 10 

On some known ground of treachery in him ? 
Gaunt. As near as I could sift him on that 
argument, 

On some apparent danger seen in him 
Aim’d at your Highness, no inveterate malice. 
K. Rich. Then call them to our presence. 
[Exeunt some Attendants.] Face to face, is 
And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will 
hear 

The accuser and the accused freely speak. 
High-stomach’d are they both, and full of ire, 
In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire. 

Enter Bolingbroke and Mowbray [with 
Attendants ]. 

Boling. Many years of happy days befall 20 
My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege! 

Mow. Each day still better other’s happiness, 
Until the heavens, envying earth’s good nap, 
Add an immortal title to your crown ! 


K. Rich. We thank you both; yet one but 
flatters us, 25 

As well appeareth by the cause you come, 
Namely, to appeal each other of high treason. 
Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object 
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mow¬ 
bray ? 

Boling. First, heaven be the record to my 
speech! 30 

In the devotion of a subject’s love, 

Tend’ring the precious safety of my prince, 
And free from other misbegotten hate, 

Come I appellant to this princely presence. 
Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee, »6 
And mark my greeting well; for what I speak 
My body shall make good upon this earth, 

Or my divine soul answer it in heaven. 

Thou art a traitor and a miscreant, 

Too good to be so, and too bad to live, 

Since the more fair and crystal is the sky, 

The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly. 

Once more, the more to aggravate the note, 
With a foul traitor’s name stuff I thy throat; 
And wish, so please my sovereign, ere I move, 
What my tongue speaks my right drawn sword 
may prove. 

Mow. Let not my cold words here accuse my 
zeal. 

’T is not the trial of a woman’s war, 

The bitter clamour of two eager tongues, 

Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain ; &<> 

The blood is hot that must be cool’d for this. 
Yet can I not of such tame patience boast 
As to be hush’d and nought at all to say. 

First, the fair reverence of your Highness 
curbs me 

From giving reins and spurs to my free speech, 
Which else would post until it had return’d 
These terms of treason doubled down his throat. 




S°8 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


1.1. 


Setting aside his high blood’s royalty, 

And let him be no kinsman to my liege, 

I do defy him, and I spit at him ; eo 

Call him a slanderous coward and a villain ; 
Which to maintain I would allow him odds, 
And meet him, were I tied to run afoot 
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps, 

Or any other ground inhabitable «s 

Where ever Englishman durst set his foot. 
Meantime let this defend my loyalty: 

By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie. 
Boling. Pale trembling coward, there I throw 
my gage, 

Disclaiming here the kindred of the King, ™ 
And lay aside my high blood’s royalty, 

Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to ex¬ 
cept. 

If guilty dread have left thee so much strength 
As to take up mine honour’s pawn, then stoop. 
By that and all the rites of knighthood else, « 
Will I make good against thee, arm to arm, 
What I have spoke, or thou canst worse devise. 
Mow. I take it up; and by that sword I 
swear, 

Which gently laid my knighthood on my 
shoulder, 

I ’ll answer thee in any fair degree, so 

Or chivalrous design of knightly trial; 

And when I mount, alive may I not light, 

If I be traitor or unjustly fight! 

K. Rich. What doth our cousin lay to Mow¬ 
bray’s charge ? 

It must be great that can inherit us ss 

So much as of a thought of ill in him. 

Boling. Look, what I speak, my life shall 
prove it true : 

That Mowbray hath receiv’d eight thousand 
nobles 

In name of lendings for your Highness’ soldiers, 
The which he hath detain’d for lewd employ¬ 
ments, 90 

Like a false traitor and injurious villain. 
Besides I say, and will in battle prove, 

Or here or elsewhere to the furthest verge 
That ever was surveyed by English eye, 

That all the treasons for these eighteen years as 
Complotted and contrived in this land 
Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and 
spring. 

Further I say, and further will maintain 
Upon his bad life to make all this good, 

That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester’s 
death, 100 

Suggest his soon-believing adversaries, 

And consequently, like a traitor coward, 

Sluic’d out his innocent soul through streams 
of blood; 

Which blood, like sacrificing Abel’s, cries, 
Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth, 
To me for justice and rough chastisement; 106 

And, by the glorious worth of my descent, 

This arm shall do it, or this life be spent. 

K. Rich. How high a pitch his resolution 
soars! 

Thomas of Norfolk, what say’st thou to this ? 
Mow. 0 , let my sovereign turn away his 
face in 


And bid his ears a little while be deaf, 

Till I have told this slander of his blood 
How God and good men hate so foul a liar. 

K. Rich. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes 
and ears. < nB 

Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom’s heir, 
As he is but my father’s brother’s son, 

Now, by my sceptre’s awe, I make a vow, 

Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood 
Should nothing privilege him, nor partialize no 
The unstooping firmness of my upright soul. 
He is our subject, Mowbray ; so art thou. 

Free speech and fearless I to thee allow. 

Mow. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy 
heart, 

Through the false passage of thy throat, thou 
liest. 

Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais 
Disburs’d I duly to his Highness’ soldiers; 

The other part reserv’d I by consent, 

For that my sovereign liege was in my debt 
Upon remainder of a dear account, no 

Since last I went to France to fetch his queen. 
Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester’s 
death 

I slew him not; but to my own disgrace 
Neglected my sworn duty in that case. 

For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster, ias 

The honourable father to my foe, 

Once did I lay an ambush for your life, 

A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul; 

But ere I last receiv’d the sacrament 
I did confess it, and exactly begg’d no 

Your Grace’s pardon ; and I hope I had it. 

This is my fault. As for the rest appeal’d, 

It issues from the rancour of a villain, 

A recreant and most degenerate traitor ; 

Which in myself I boldly will defend ; us 
And interchangeably hurl down my gage 
Upon this overweening traitor’s foot, 

To prove myself a loyal gentleman 
Even in the best blood chamber’d in his 
bosom. 

In haste whereof, most heartily I pray iso 

Your Highness to assign our trial day. 

K. Rich. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be rul’d 
by me; 

Let’s purge this choler without letting blood. 
This we prescribe, though no physician ; 

Deep malice makes too deep incision. us 

Forget, forgive ; conclude and be agreed ; 

Our doctors say this is no month to bleed. 

Good uncle, let this end where it begun ; 

We ’ll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your 
son. 

Gaunt. To be a make-peace shall become my 
age. iso 

Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk’s 

gage. 

K. Rich. And, Norfolk, throw down his. 
Gaunt. When, Harry, when ! 

Obedience bids I should not bid again. 

K. Rich. Norfolk, throw down, we bid; 
there is no boot. 

Mow. Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at 
thy foot; 106 

My life thou shalt command, but not my shame. 




1.11. 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


The one ray duty owes ; but my fair name, 
Despite of death that lives upon my grave, 

To dark dishonour’s use thou shalt not have. 

I am disgrac’d, impeach’d, and baffl’d here, wo 
Pierc’d to the soul with slander’s venom’d 
spear, 

The which no balm can cure but his heart- 
blood 

Winch breath’d this poison. 

K. Rich. Rage must be withstood; 

Give me his gage. Lions make leopards tame. 
Mow. Yea, but not change his spots. Take 
but my shame, . m 

And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord, 

The purest treasure mortal times afford 
Is spotless reputation ; that away, 

Men are but gilded loam or painted clay. 

A jewel in a ten-times-barr’d-up chest iso 

Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast. 

Mine honour is my life ; both grow in one ; 
Take honour from me, and my life is done. 
Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try ; 
In that I live, and for that will I die. xss 

K. Rich. Cousin, throw up your gage. Do 
you begin. 

Boling. 0 , God defend my soul from such 
deep sin! 

Shall I seem crest-fallen in my father’s sight, 
Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height is» 
Before this out-dar’d dastard ? Ere my tongue 
Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong, 
Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear 
The slavish motive of recanting fear, 

And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace, 
Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray’s 
face. [Exit Gaunt, ios 

K. Rich. We were not born to sue, but to 
command ; 

Which since we cannot do to make you friends, 
Be ready, as your lives shall answer it, 

At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert’s day ; 

There shall your swords and lances arbitrate 
The swelling difference of your settled hate. 201 
Since we cannot atone you, we shall see 
Justice design the victor’s chivalry. 

Lord Marshal, command our officers at arms 
Be ready to direct these home alarms. 20s 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [London. The Duke of Lancaster's 
palace.] 

Enter John of Gaunt with the Duchess of 
Gloucester. 

Gaunt. Alas, the part I had in Woodstock’s 
blood 

Doth more solicit me than your exclaims, 

To stir against the butchers of his life ! 

But since correction lieth in those hands 
WTiich made the fault that we cannot correct, b 
P ut we our quarrel to the will of Heaven ; 
WLo, when they see the hours ripe on earth, 
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders’ heads. 
Duch. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper 
spur ? 

Hath love in thy old blood no living fire ? 10 

Edward’s seven sons, whereof thyself art one, 


509 


Were as seven vials of his sacred blood, 

Or seven fair branches springing from one root. 
Borne of those seven are dried by nature’s 
course, 

Some of those branches by the Destinies cut; ib 
B ut Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Glouces¬ 
ter, 

One vial full of Edward’s sacred blood, 

One flourishing branch of his most royal root, 
Is crack’d, and all the precious liquor spilt, 

Is hack’d down, and his summer leaves all 
faded, 20 

By Envy’s hand and Murder’s bloody axe. 

Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine! That bed, 
that womb, 

That mettle, that self-mould, that fashion’d 
thee 

Made him a man ; and though thou liv’st and 
breath’st, 

Yet art thou slain in him. Thou dost consent 
In some large measure to thy father’s death, 26 
In that thou seest thy wretched brother die, 
Who was the model of thy father’s life. 

Call it not patience, Gaunt; it is despair. 

In suffering thus thy brother to be slaught’red, 
Thou show’st the naked pathway to thy life, 31 
Teaching stern Murder how to butcher thee. 
That which in mean men we intitle patience 
Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts. 

What shall I say ? To safeguard thine own 
life, 35 

The best way is to venge my Gloucester’s death. 

Gaunt. God’s is the quarrel; for God’s sub¬ 
stitute, 

His deputy anointed in His sight, 

Hath caus’d his death ; the which if wrong¬ 
fully, 

Let Heaven revenge ; for I may never lift <0 
An angry arm against His minister. 

Duch. Where then, alas, may I complain my¬ 
self ? 

Gaunt. To God, the widow’s champion and 
defence. 

Duch. Why, then, I will. Farewell, old 
Gaunt! 1 

Thou go’st to Coventry, there to behold « 
Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight. 

0 , sit my husband’s wrongs on Hereford’s 
spear, 

That it may enter butcher Mowbray’s breast! 
Or, if misfortune miss the first career, 

Be Mowbray’s sins so heavy in his bosom, bo 
That they may break his foaming courser’s 
back, 

And throw the rider headlong in the lists, 

A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford ! 
Farewell, old Gaunt! Thy sometimes brother’s 
wife 

With her companion grief must end her life, bs 

Gaunt. Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry. 
As much good stay with thee as go with me ! 

Duch. Yet one word more ; grief boundeth 
where it falls, 

Not with the empty hollowness, but weight. 

I take my leave before I have begun, 

For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done. 
Commend me to thy brother, Edmund York. 




RICHARD THE SECOND 


5 10 


Lo, this is all: — nay, yet depart not so ; 
Though this be all, do not so quickly go ; 

I shall remember more. Bid him — ah, what ?— 
With all good speed at Plashy visit me. ee 
Alack, and what shall good old York there see 
But empty lodgings and unfurnish’d walls, 
Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones ? 

And what hear there for welcome but my 
groans ? 70 

Therefore commend me; let him not come 
there, 

To seek out sorrow that dwells everywhere. 
Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die. 

The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. 

[ Exeunt . 

Scene III. [The lists at Coventry .] 

Enter the Lord Marshal and the Duke of 
Aumerle. 

Mar . My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford 
arm’d ? 

Aum. Yea, at all points ; and longs to enter 
in. 

Mar. The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and 
bold, 

Stays but the summons of the appellant’s 
trumpet. 

Aum. Why, then, the champions are pre¬ 
par’d, and stay 5 

For nothing but his Majesty’s approach. 

The trumpets sound, and the King enters with 
his nobles, Gaunt, Bushy, Bagot, Green, 
and others. When they are set, enter Mow¬ 
bray in arms, defendant , with a Herald. 

K. Rich. Marshal, demand of yonder cham¬ 
pion 

The cause of his arrival here in arms. 

Ask him his name, and orderly proceed 
To swear him in the justice of his cause. 10 
Mar. In God’s name and the King’s, say 
who thou art 

And why thou com’st thus knightly clad in 
arms, 

Against what man thou com’st, and what thy 
quarrel. 

Speak truly, on thy knighthood and thy oath ; 
And so defend thee Heaven and thy valour ! is 
Mow. My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke 
of Norfolk ; 

Who hither come engaged by my oath — 
Which God defend a knight should violate ! — 
Both to defend my loyalty and truth 
To God, my King, and my succeeding issue, 20 
Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me ; 
And, by the grace of God and this mine arm, 
To prove him, in defending of myself, 

A traitor to my God, my King, and me: 

And as I truly fight, defend me Heaven ! 25 

The trumpets sound. Enter Bolingbroke, ap¬ 
pellant, in armour, with a Herald. 

K. Rich. Marshal, ask yonder knight in 
arms, 

Both who he is and why he cometh hither 
Thus plated in habiliments of war, 


I. in. 


And formally, according to our law, 

Depose him in the justice of his cause. *• 

Mar. What is thy name ? and wherefore 
com’st thou hither, 

Before King Richard in his royal lists ? 
Against whom comest thou ? and what’s thy 
quarrel ? 

Speak like a true knight, so defend thee 
Heaven! 

Boling. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and 
Derby “ 

Am I; who ready here do stand in arms, 

To prove, by God’s grace and my body’s valour, 
In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, 
That he’s a traitor, foul and dangerous, 

To God of heaven, King Richard, and to 
me; *° 

And as I truly fight, defend me Heaven ! 

Mar. On pain of death, no person be so bold 
Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists, 

Except the Marshal and such officers 
Appointed to direct these fair designs. « 

Boling. Lord Marshal, let me kiss my sov¬ 
ereign’s hand, 

And bow my knee before his Majesty ; 

For Mowbray and myself are like two men 
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage. 

Then let us take a ceremonious leave «« 

And loving farewell of our several friends. 
Mar. The appellant in all duty greets your 
Highness, 

And craves to kiss your hand and take his 
leave. 

K. Rich. We will descend and fold him in 
our arms. 

Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right, m 
S o be thy fortune in this royal fight! 

Farewell, my blood ; which if to-day thou shed, 
Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead. 

Boling. O, let no noble eye profane a tear 
For me, if I be gor’d with Mowbray’s spear, eo 
As confident as is the falcon’s flight 
Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight. 

My loving lord, I take my leave of you ; 

Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle ; 

Not sick, although I have to do with death, m 
B ut lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath. 
Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet 
The daintiest last, to make the end most 
sweet: 

O thou, the earthly author of my blood, 

Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, 70 
Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up 
To reach at victory above my head, 

Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers; 
And with thy blessings steel my lance’s point, 
That it may enter Mowbray’s waxen coat, is 
And furbish new the name of John o’ Gaunt, 
Even in the lusty haviour of his son. 

Gaunt. God in thy good cause make thee 
prosperous! 

Be swift like lightning in the execution ; 

And let thy blows, doubly redoubled, so 

Fall like amazing thunder on the casque 
Of thy adverse pernicious enemy. 

Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant, and 
live. 




I. iii. 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


5 11 


Boling. Mine innocency and Saint George to 
thrive 1 

Mow. However God or Fortune cast my 
lot, 86 

There lives or dies, true to King Richard’s 
throne, 

A loyal, just, and upright gentleman. 

Never did captive with a freer heart 
Cast off his chains of bondage and embrace 
His golden uncontroll’d enfranchisement, »o 
More than my dancing soul doth celebrate 
This feast of battle with mine adversary. 

Most mighty liege, and my companion peers, 
Take from my mouth the wish of happy years. 
As gentle and as jocund as to jest »e 

Go I to fight; truth hath a quiet breast. 

K. Rich. Farewell, my lord ; securely I espy 
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye. 

Order the trial, Marshal, and begin. 

Mar. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and 
Derby, ioo 

Receive thy lance ; and God defend the right I 

Boling. Strong as a tower in hope, I cry 
amen. 

Mar. [To an officer.] Go bear this lance to 
Thomas, Duke of Norfolk. 

1 . Her. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and 

Derby 

Stands here for God, his sovereign, and him¬ 
self, 106 

On pain to be found false and recreant, 

To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mow¬ 
bray, 

A traitor to his God, his king, and him ; 

And dares him to set forward to the fight. 

2 . Her. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, 

Duke of Norfolk, no 

On pain to be found false and recreant, 

Both to defend himself and to approve 
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, 

To God, his sovereign, and to him disloyal; 
Courageously and with a free desire us 

Attending but the signal to begin. 

Mar. Sound, trumpets; and set forward, 
combatants. [A charge sounded. 

Stay! The King hath thrown his warder 
down. 

K. Rich. Let them lay by their helmets and 
their spears, 

And both return back to their chairs again. 120 
Withdraw with us ; and let the trumpets sound 
While we return these dukes what we decree. 

[A long flourish. 

Draw near 

And list what with our council we have done. 
For that our kingdom’s earth should not be 
soil’d 12s 

With that dear blood which it hath fostered ; 
And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect 
Of civil wounds plough’d up with neighbours’ 
sword; 

And for we think the ea^le-winged pride 
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts, iso 

With rival-hating envy, set on you 
To wake our peace, which in our country’s 
cradle 

Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep; 


Which, so rous’d up with boist’rous untun’d 
arums, 

With harsh - resounding trumpets’ dreadful 
bray, m 

And grating shock of wrathful iron arms, 
Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace 
And make us wade even in our kindred’s 
blood ; 

Therefore, we banish you our territories. 

You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life, i*o 

Till twice five summera have enrich’d our fields 
Shall not regreet our fair dominions, 

But tread the stranger paths of banishment. 
Boling. Your will be done. This must my 
comfort be, 

That sun that warms you here shall shine on 
me; i« 

And those his golden beams to you here lent 
Shall point on me and gild my banishment. 

K. Rich. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier 
doom, 

Which I with some unwillingness pronounce. 
The sly, slow hours shall not determinate wo 
The dateless limit of thy dear exile ; 

The hopeless word of “ never to return ” 
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life. 

Mow. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign 
liege, 

And all unlook’d for from your Highness’ 
mouth. iw 

A dearer merit, not so deep a maim 
As to be cast forth in the common air, 

Have I deserved at your Highness’ hands. 

The language I have learn’d these forty years, 
My native English, now I must forgo ; 100 

And now my tongue’s use is to me no more 
Than an unstringed viol or a harp, 

Or like a cunning instrument cas’d up, 

Or, being open, put into his hands 
That knows no touch to tune the harmony. i<v> 
Within my mouth you have engaol’d my tongue, 
Doubly portcullis’d with my teeth and lips ; 
And dull unfeeling barren ignorance 
Is made my gaoler to attend on me. 

I am too old to fawn upon a nurse, 120 

Too far in years to be a pupil now. 

What is thy sentence then but speechless death, 
Which robs my tongue from breathing native 
breath ? 

K. Rich. It boots thee not to be compassion¬ 
ate. 

After our sentence plaining comes too late, its 
Mow. Then thus I turn me from my coun¬ 


try’s light, 

To dwell in solemn shades of endless night. 

K. Rich. Return again, and take an oath 
with thee. 

Lay on our royal sword your banish’d hands ; 
Swear by the duty that you owe to God — 1*0 

Our part therein v e banish with yourselves — 
To keep the oath that we administer : 

Yotx never shall, so help you truth and God I 
Embrace each other’s love in banishment; 

Nor never look upon each other’s face ; ise 
Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile 
This louring tempest of your home-bred hate ; 
Nor never by advised purpose meet 





5 12 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


I. iii. 


To plot, contrive, or complot any ill 
’Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land. 
Boling. I swear. 

Mow. And I, to keep all this. 

Boling. Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy : — 
By this time, had the King permitted us, 

One of our souls had wand’red in the air, 1 as 

Banish’d this frail sepulchre of our flesh, 

As now our flesh is banish’d from this land ; 
Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm ; 
Since thou hast far to go, bear not along 
The clogging burden of a guilty soul. 200 

Mow. No, Bolingbroke ; if ever I were 
traitor, 

My name be blotted from the book of life, 

And I from heaven banish’d as from hence I 
But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know ; 
And all too soon, I fear, the King shall rue. 206 
Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray ; 
Save back to England, all the world’s my way. 

[Exit. 

K. Bich. Uncle, even in the glasses of thine 
eyes 

I see thy grieved heart. Thy sad aspect 
Hath from the number of his banish’d years 210 
Pluck’d four away. [To Boling] Six frozen 
winters spent, 

Return with welcome home from banishment. 
Boling. How long a time lies in one little 
word ! 

Four lagging winters and four wanton springs 
End in a word : such is the breath of kings. 215 
Gaunt. I thank my liege, that in regard of 
me 

He shortens four years of my son’s exile ; 

But little vantage shall I reap thereby, 

For, ere the six years that he hath to spend 
Can change their moons and bring their times 
about, . 220 

My oil-dri’d lamp and time-bewasted light 
Shall be extinct with age and endless night; 
My inch of taper will be burnt and done, 

And blindfold death not let me see my son. 

K. Rich. Why, uncle, thou hast many years 
to live. 225 

Gaunt. But not a minute, King, that thou 
canst, give. 

Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sor¬ 
row, 

And pluck nights from me, but not lend a 
morrow. 

Thou canst help Time to furrow me with age, 
But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage. 230 

Thy word is current with him for my death, 
But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath. 
K. Rich. Thy son is banish’d upon good ad¬ 
vice. 

Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave. 

Why at our justice seem’st thou then to lour ? 
Gaunt. Things sweet to taste prove in diges¬ 
tion sour. 236 

You urg’d me as a judge ; but I had rather 
You would have bid me argue like a father. 

O, had it been a stranger, not my child, 

To smooth his fault I should have been more 
mild. 2*0 

A partial slander sought I to avoid, 


And in the sentence my own life destroy’d. 
Alas, I look’d when some of you should say 
I was too strict to make mine own away ; 

But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue *« 
Against my will to do myseM this wrong. 

K. Rich. Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, bid 
him so. 

Six years we banish him, and he shall go. 

[Flourish. Exeunt [King Richard 
and train], 

Aum. Cousin, farewell! What presence must 
not know, 

From where you do remain let paper show. 250 

Mar. My lord, no leave take I; for I will 
ride, 

As far as land will let me, by your side. 

Gaunt. O, to what purpose dost thou hoard 
thy words, 

That thou return’st no greeting to thy friends ? 

Boling. I have too few to take my leave of 

you, 255 

When the tongue’s office should be prodigal 
To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart. 

Gaunt. Thy grief is but thy absence for a 
time. 

Boling. Joy absent, grief is present for that 
time. 

Gaunt. What is six winters? They are 

quickly gone. 200 

Boling. To men in joy; but grief makes 

one hour ten. 

Gaunt. Call it a travel that thou tak’st for 
pleasure. 

Boling. My heart will sigh when I miscall 
it so, 

Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage. 

Gaunt. The sullen passage of thy weary 
steps 205 

Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set 
The precious jewel of thy home return. 

Boling. Nay, rather, every tedious stride I 
make 

Will but remember me what a deal of world 
I wander from the jewels that I love. 270 

Must I not serve a long apprenticehood 
To foreign passages, and in the end, 

Having my freedom, boast of nothing else 
But that I was a journeyman to grief ? 

Gaunt. All places that the eye of heaven 
visits 276 

Are to a wise man ports and happy havens. 
Teach thy necessity to reason thus ; 

There is no virtue like necessity. 

Think not the King did banish thee, 

But thou the King. Woe doth the heavier 

sit 280 

Where it perceives it is but faintly borne. 

Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour 
And not the King exil’d thee ; or suppose 
Devouring pestilence hangs in our air 
And thou art flying to a fresher clime. 235 

Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it 
To lie that way thou goest, not whence thou 
com’st. 

Suppose the singing birds musicians, 

The grass whereon thou tread’st the presence 
strew’d, 






II. 1. 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


5*3 


The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more 
Than a delightful measure or a dance ; 291 

For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite 
The man that mocks at it and sets it light. 

Bolina. 0 , who can hold a fire in his hand 
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ? *>6 

Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite 
By bare imagination of a feast ? 

Or wallow naked in December snow 
By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat? 

O, no ! the apprehension of the good soo 

Gives hut the greater feeling to the worse. 

Fell Sorrow’s tooth doth never rankle more 
Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore. 
Gaunt. Come, come, my son, I ’ll bring thee 
on thy way; 

Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay. 
Boling. Then, England’s ground, farewell; 
sweet soil, adieu ; 306 

My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet! 
Where'er I wander, boast of this I can, 

Though banish’d, yet a trueborn Englishman. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [ The Court.] 

Enter the Kino, with Bagot and Green at 
one door; and the Duke of Aumerle at 
another. 

K. Rich. We did observe. Cousin Aumerle, 
How far brought you high Hereford on his way ? 
Aum. I brought high Hereford, if you call 
him so, 

But to the next highway, and there I left him. 
K. Rich. And say, what store of parting tears 
were shed ? b 

Aum. Faith, none for me ; except the north¬ 
east wind, 

Which then blew bitterly against our faces, 
Awak’d the sleeping x-heum, and so by chance 
Did grace our hollow parting with a tear. 

K. Rich. What said our cousin when you 
parted with him ? 10 

Aum. “Farewell!” 

And, for my heart disdained that my tongue 
Should so profane the word, that taught me 
craft 

To counterfeit oppression of such grief 
That words seem’d buried in my sorrow’s 
grave. is 

Marry, would the word “farewell” have 
length’ned hours 

And added years to his short banishment, 

He should have had a volume of farewells ; 

But since it would not, he had none of me. 

K. Rich. He is our cousin, cousin ; but’t is 
doubt, 2 ° 

When time shall call him home from banish¬ 
ment, 

Whether our kinsman come to see his friends. 
Ourself and Bushy, [Bagot here and Green] 
Observ’d his courtship to the common people ; 
How he did seem to dive into their hearts 26 
With humble and familiar courtesy, 

What reverence he did throw away on slaves, 
Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles 
And patient underbearing of his fortune, 


As’t were to banish their affects with him. so 
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench ; 

A brace of draymen bid God speed him well 
And had the tribute of his supple knee, 

With “ Thanks, my countrymen, my loving 
friends,” 

As were our England in reversion his, 35 

And he our subjects’ next degree in hope. 
Green. Well, he is gone ; and with him go 
these thoughts. 

Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland, 
Expedient manage must be made, my liege, 
Ere further leisure yield them further means 40 
For their advantage and your Highness’ loss. 
K. Rich. We will oui'self in person to this 
war ; 

And, for our coffers, with too great a court 
And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light, 
We are inforc’d to farm our royal realm ; 45 

The revenue whereof shall furnish us 
For our affairs in hand. If that come short, 
Our substitutes at home shall have blank char¬ 
ters ; 

Whereto, when they shall know what men are 
rich, 

They shall subscribe them for large sums of 
gold so 

And send them after to supply our wants ; 

For we will make for Ireland presently. 

Enter Bushy. 

[Bushy, what news ?] 

Bushy. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, 
my lord, 

Suddenly taken ; and hath sent post haste 
To entreat your Majesty to visit nim. 

K. Rich. Where lies he ? 

Bushy. At Ely House. 

K. Rich. Now put it, God, in the physician’s 
mind 

To help him to his grave immediately! «o 

The lining of his coffers shall make coats 
To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars. 
Come, gentlemen, let’s all go visit him. 

Pray God we may make haste, and come too 
late! 

[All.] Amen. [Exeunt. «« 

ACT II 

Scene I. [London. Ely House.] 

Enter John of Gaunt, sick , with the Duke of 
York, etc. 

Gaunt. Will the King come, that I may 
breathe my last 

In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth ? 
York. Vex not yourself, nor strive not with 
your breath ; 

For all in vain comes counsel to his ear. 

Gaunt. 0 , but they say the tongues of dying 
men b 

Enforce attention like deep harmony. 

Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent 
in vain, 

For they breathe truth that breathe their 
words in pain. 





5*4 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


II. i. 


He that no more must say is listen’d more 
Than they whom youth and ease have taught 
to glose. 10 

More are men’s ends mark’d than their lives 
before. 

The setting sun, and music at the close, 

As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, 
Writ in remembrance more than things long 
past. 

Though Richard my life’s counsel would not 
hear, 

My death’s sad tale may vet undeaf his ear.. 
York. No ; it is stopp’d with other flattering 
sounds, 

As praises, of whose taste the wise are found, 
Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound 
The open ear of youth doth always listen; 20 

Report of fashions in proud Italy, 

Whose manners still our tardy, apish nation 
Limps after in base imitation. 

Where doth the world thi*ust forth a vanity — 
So it be new, there’s no respect how vile — 25 

That is not quickly buzz’d into his ears ? 

Then all too late comes counsel to be heard 
Where will doth mutiny with wit’s regard. 
Direct not him whose way himself will choose ; 
’T is breath thou lack’st, and that breath wilt 
thou lose. 30 

Gaunt. Methinks I am a prophet new in¬ 
spir’d 

And thus expiring do foretell of him: 

His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last, 

For violent fires soon burn out themselves ; 
Small showers last long, but sudden storms are 
short; . 35 

He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes ; 
With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder; 
Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, 

Consuming means, soon preys upon itself. 

This royal throne of kings, this scept’red isle, 
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, 41 
This other Eden, demi-paradise, 

This fortress built by Nature for herself 
Against infection and the hand of war, 

This happy breed of men, this little world, 45 
This precious stone set in the silver sea, 

Which serves it in the office of a wall 
Or as a moat defensive to a house 
Against the envy of less happier lands, 

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this 
England^ so 

This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, 
Fear’d by their breed and famous by their 
birth, 

Renowned for their deeds as far from home, 
For Christian service and true chivalry, 

As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry, m 

Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son, 
This land of such dear souls, this dear dear 
land, 

Dear for her reputation through the world, 

Is now leas’d out, I die pronouncing it, 

Like to a tenement or pelting farm. 60 

England, bound in with the triumphant sea, 
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege 
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with 
shame, 


With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds. 
That England, that was wont to conquer 
others, 65 

Hath made a shameful conquest of itself. 

Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life, 
How happy then were my ensuing death 1 

Enter King Richard and Queen, Aumerle, 
Bushy, Green, Bagot, Ross, and Wil¬ 
loughby. 


York. The King is come. Deal mildly with 
his youth ; 

For young hot colts being rag’d do rage the 
more. 20 

Queen. How fares our noble uncle Lancaster ? 
K. Bich. What comfort, man ? How is’t 
with aged Gaunt P 

Gaunt. 0 , how that name befits my compo¬ 
sition ! 

Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old. 
Within me Grief hath kept a tedious fast; u 
And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt ? 
For sleeping England long time have I watch’d; 
Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt. 
The pleasure that some fathers feed upon, 79 
Is my strict fast; I mean, my children’s looks ; 
And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt. 
Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave, 
Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones. 
K. Bich. Can sick men play so nicely with 
their names ? 

Gaunt. No, misery makes sport to mock 
itself. . 85 

Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me, 

I mock my name, great King, to flatter thee. 
K. Bich. Should dying men flatter with 
those that live ? 

Gaunt. No, no, men living flatter those that 
die. 

E. Bich. Thou, now a-dying, say’st thou 
flatter’st me. e« 

Gaunt. 0 , no! thou diest, though I the 
sicker be. 

K. Bich. I am in health, I breathe, and see 
thee ill. 

Gaunt. Now He that made me knows I see 
thee ill; 

Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill. 

Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land »« 
Wherein thou liest in reputation sick ; 

And thou, too careless patient as thou art, 
Commit’st thy anointed body to the cure 
Of those physicians that first wounded thee. 

A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown, 100 
Whose compass is no bigger than thy head ; 
And yet, incaged in so small a verge, 

The waste is no whit lesser than thy land. 

O, had thy grandsire with a prophet’s eye 
Seen how his son’s son should destroy his sons. 
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy 
shame, ioe 

Deposing thee before thou wert possess’d, 
Which art .possess’d now to depose thyself. 
Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world, 

It were a shame to let this land by lease ; no 
But for thy world enjoying but this land, 

Is it not more than shame to shame it so ? 





RICHARD THE SECOND 


5 I 5 


ii. i. 


Landlord of England art thou now, not king. 
Thy state of law is bondslave to the law, 

And thou — 

K. Rich. A lunatic lean-witted fool, us 
Presuming on an ague’s privilege, 

Dar’st with thy frozen admonition 

Make pale our cheek, chasing the royal blood 

With fury from his native residence. 

Now, by my seat’s right royal maiesty, tao 
Wert tnou not brother to great Eaward’s son, 
This tongue that runs so roundlv in thy head 
Should run thy head from thy unreverent 
shoulders. 

Gaunt. O, spare me not, my brother Ed¬ 
ward’s son, 

For that I was his father Edward’s son. 120 
That blood already, like the pelican, 

Hast thou tapp’d out and drunkenly carous’d. 
My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul, 
Whom fair befall in heaven ’mongst happy 
souls! 

May be a precedent and witness good 130 

That thou respect’st not spilling Edward’s 
blood. 

Join with the present sickness that I have, 

And thy unkindness be like crooked age, 

To crop at once a too long wither’d flower. 

Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee 1 
These words hereafter thy tormentors be ! 130 

Convey me to my bed, then to my grave ; 

Love they to live that love and honour have. 

[Exit [borne off"by his Attendants]. 
K. Rich. And let them die that age and 
sullens have ; 

For both hast thou, and both become the grave. 
York. I do beseech your Majesty, impute 
his words 1*1 

To wayward sickliness and age in him. 

He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear 
As Harry Duke of Heretord, were he here. 

K. Rich. Right, you say true. As Hereford’s 
love, so his ; 145 

As theirs, so mine ; and all be as it is. 

Enter Northumberland. 

North. My liege, old Gaunt commends him 
to your Majesty. 

K. Rich. What says he ? 

North. Nay, nothing ; all is said. 

His tongue is now a stringless instrument; 
Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent. 
York. Be York tne next that must be bank¬ 
rupt so! # 

Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe. 

K. Rich. The ripest fruit first falls, and so 
doth he ; 

His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be. 

So much for that. Now for our Irish wars, we 
We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns, 
Which live like venom where no venom else 
But only they have privilege to live. 

And for these great affairs do ask some charge, 
Towards our assistance we do seize to us i«o 
The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables, 
Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess’d. 
York. How long shall I be patient? Ah, 
how long 


Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong ? 

Not Gloucester’s death, nor Hereford’s banish¬ 
ment, 186 

Not Gaunt’s rebukes, nor England’s private 
wrongs, 

Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke 
About his marriage, nor my own disgrace, 
Have ever made me sour my patient cheek, 

Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign’s face. 120 
I am the last of noble Edward’s sons. 

Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was 
first. 

In war was never lion rag’d more fierce, 

In peace was never gentle lamb more mild, 
Than was that young and princely gentle¬ 
man. i« 

His face thou hast, for even so look’d he, 
Accomplish’d with the number of thy hours ; 
But when he frown’d, it was against the French 
And not against his friends. His noble hand 
Did win what he did spend and spent not 
that i»o 

Which his triumphant father’s hand had won. 
His hands were guilty of no kindred blood, 

But bloody with the enemies of his kin. 

O Richard ! York is too far gone with grief, 

Or else he never would compare between. is* 

K. Rich. Why, uncle, what’s the matter ? 
York. 0 my liege, 

Pardon me, if you please ; if not, I, pleas’d 
Not to be pardon’d, am content withal. 

Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands 
The royalties and rights of banish’d Here¬ 
ford ? iso 

Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live ? 
Was not Gaunt just, and is not Harry true ? 

Did not the one deserve to have an heir ? 

Is not his heir a well-deserving son ? 

Take Hereford’s rights away, and take from 
Time 19* 

His charters and his customary rights ; 

Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day ; 

Be not thyself ; for how art thou a king 
But by fair sequence and succession ? 

Now, afore God — God forbid I say true ! — *oo 
If you do wrongfully seize Hereford’s rights, 
Call in the letters patents that he hath 
By his attorneys general to sue 
His livery, and deny his off’red homage, 

You pluck a thousand dangers on your head, 20s 
You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts 
And prick my tender patience to those 
thoughts 

Which honour and allegiance cannot think. 

K. Rich. Think what you will, we seize into 
our hands 

His plate, his goods, his money, and his 
lands. > _ 210 

York. I ’ll not be by the while. My liege, 
farewell! 

What will ensue hereof, there’s none can tell; 
But by bad courses may be understood 
That their events can never fallout good. 

[Exit. 

K. Rich. Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wilt¬ 
shire straight. *1* 

Bid him repair to us to Ely House 





RICHARD THE SECOND 


II. ii. 


5 l6 


To see this business. To-morrow next 
We will for Ireland ; and ’tis time, I trow: 
And we create, in absence of ourself, 

Our uncle York lord governor of England ; 220 

For he is just and always lov’d us well. 

Come on, our queen ; to-morrow must we part. 
Be merry, for our time of stay is short. 

[Flourish. Exeunt King , Queen , Au- 
merle , Bushy , Green , and Bagot. 

North. Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is 
dead. 

Boss. And living too ; for now his son is 
duke. 225 

Willo. Barely in title, not in revenues. 

North. Richly in both, if Justice had her 
right. 

Boss. My heart is great; but it must break 
with silence, 

Ere’t be disburden’d with a liberal tongue. 

North. Nay, speak thy mind ; and let him 
ne’er speak more 230 

That speaks thy words again to do thee harm ! 

Willo. Tends that thou wouldst speak to the 
Duke of Hereford ? 

If it be so, out with it boldly, man ; 

Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him. 

Boss. No good at all that I can do for 
him; 235 

Unless you call it good to pity him, 

Bereft and gelded of his patrimony. 

North. Now, afore God, ’tis shame such 
wrongs are borne 

In him, a royal prince, and many moe 
Of noble blood in this declining land. 240 

The King is not himself, but basely led 
By flatterers ; and what they will inform, 
Merely in hate, ’gainst any of us all, 

That will the King severely prosecute 
’Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our 
heirs. 245 

Boss. The commons hath he pill’d with 
grievous taxes, 

And quite lost their hearts ; the nobles hath he 
fined 

For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their 
hearts. 

Willo. And daily new exactions are devis’d, 
As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not 
what. 250 

But what, o’ God’s name, doth become of this ? 

North. Wars hath not wasted it, for warr’d 
he hath not. 

But basely yielded upon compromise 
That which his noble ancestors achiev’d with 
blows. 

More hath he spent in peace than they in 
wars. 255 

Boss. The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm 
in farm. 

Willo. The King’s grown bankrupt, like a 
broken man. 

North. Reproach and dissolution hangeth 
over him. 

Boss. He hath not money for these Irish 
wars, 

His burdenous taxations notwithstanding, 260 
But by the robbing of the banish’d Duke. 


North. His noble kinsman : most degenerate 
king! 

But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing, 
Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm ; 

We see the wind sit sore upon our sails, 265 
And yet we strike not, but securely perish. 

Boss. We see the very wreck that we must 
suffer: 

And unavoiaed is the danger now, 

For suffering so the causes of our wreck. 

North. Not so ; even through the hollow eyes 
of death 270 

I spy life peering ; but I dare not say 
How near the tidings of our comfort is. 

Willo. Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as 
thou dost ours. 

Boss. Be confident to speak, Northumber¬ 
land. 

We three are but thyself ; and, speaking so, 275 
Thy words are but as thoughts ; therefore, be 
bold. 

North. Then thus: I have from Le Port 
Blanc, a bay 

In Brittany, received intelligence 
That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord 
Cobham, 

[The son and heir of the Earl of Arundel,] 280 
That late broke from the Duke of Exeter, 

His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury, 

Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston, 

Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton, and 
Francis Coines, 

All these well furnish’d by the Duke of Bre¬ 
tagne 286 

With eight tall ships, three thousand men of 
war, 

Are making hither with all due expedience 
And shortly mean to touch our northern shore. 
Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay 
The first departing of the King for Ireland. 290 
If then w r e shall shake off our slavish yoke, 

Imp out our drooping country’s broken wing, 
Redeem from broking pawn the blemish’d 
crown, 

Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre’s gilt, 
And make high majesty look like itself, 295 
Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh ; 

But if you faint, as fearing to do so, 

Stay and be secret, and myself will go. 

Jrtoss. To horse, to horse! urge doubts to 
them that fear. 

Willo. Hold out my horse, and I will first be 
there. [Exeunt, soo 

Scene II. [Windsor Castle .] 

Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot. 

Bushy. Madam, your Majesty is too much 
sad. 

You promis’d, when you parted with the King, 
To lay aside life-harming heaviness 
And entertain a cheerful disposition. 

Queen. To please the King I did ; to please 
myself 6 

I cannot do it; yet I know no cause 
Why I should welcome such a guest as Grief, 
Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest 




II. ii. 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


5*7 


As my sweet Richard. Yet again, methinks, 
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune’s womb, 10 
Is coming towards me, and my inward soul 
With nothing trembles. At something it 
grieves, 

More than with parting from my lord the King. 
Bushy. Each substance of a grief hath 
twenty shadows, 

Which shows like grief itself, but is not so ; is 
For sorrow’s eyes, glazed witn blinding tears, 
Divides one thing entire to many objects, • 
Like perspectives, which rightly gaz’d upon 
Show nothing but confusion, ey’d awry 
Distinguish form ; so your sweet Majesty, 20 
Looking awry upon your lord’s departure, 

Find shapes of grief, more than himself, to 
wail; 

Which, look’d on as it is, is nought but shadows 
Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious Queen, 
More than your lord’s departure weep not. 

More’s not seen ; 25 

Or if it be, ’t is with false sorrow’s eye, 

Which for things true weeps things imaginary. 

Queen. It may be so ; but yet my inward soul 
Persuades me it is otherwise. Howe’er it be, 

I cannot but be sad ; so heavy sad 30 

As, though on thinking on no thought I think, 
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and 
shrink. 

Bushy. ’T is nothing but conceit, my gracious 
lady. 

Queen. ’T is nothing less : conceit is still de¬ 
riv’d 

From some forefather grief; mine is not so, 35 
For nothing hath begot my something grief, 

Or something hath the nothing that I grieve. 

’T is in reversion that I do possess ; 

But what it is, that is not yet known ; what, 

I cannot name ; ’t is nameless woe, I wot. *0 

Enter Green. 

Green. God save your Majesty ! and well met, 
gentlemen. 

I hope the King is not yet shipp’d for Ireland. 
Queen. Why hop’st thou so ? ’T is better 
hope he is ; 

For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope. 
Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not 
shipp’d ? 45 

Green. That he, our hope, might have retir’d 
his power, 

And driven into despair an enemy’s hope, 

Who strongly hath set footing in this land. 

The banish’d Bolingbroke repeals himself, 

And with uplifted arms is safe arriv’d bo 

At Ravenspurgh. 

ween. Now God in heaven forbid ! 

reen. Ah, madam, ’t is too true ; and, that 
is worse, 

The Lord Northumberland, his son young 
Henry Percy, 

The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby, 
With all their powerful friends, are fled to 
him. b 6 

Bushy. Why have you not proclaim’d North¬ 
umberland 

And all the rest revolted faction traitors ? 


Green. We have ; whereupon the Earl of 
Worcester 

Hath broken his staff, resign’d his steward¬ 
ship, 

And all the household servants fled with him eo 
To Bolingbroke. 

Queen. So, Green, thou art the midwife to 
my woe, 

And Bolingbroke my sorrow’s dismal heir. 

Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy, 
And I, a gasping new-deliver’d mother, 66 
Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join’d. 

Bushy. Despair not, madam. 

Queen. Who shall hinder me ? 

I will despair, and be at enmity 
With cozening hope. He is a flatterer, 

A parasite, a keeper back of death, 70 

Who gently would dissolve the bands of life, 
Which false hope lingers in extremity. 

Enter York. 

Green. Here comes the Duke of York. 

Queen. With signs of war about his aged 
neck. 

0 , full of careful business are his looks ! 76 

Uncle, for God’s sake, speak comfortable 
words. 

York. Should I do so, I should belie my 
thoughts. 

Comfort’s in heaven; and we are on the 
earth, 

Where nothing lives but crosses, cares, and 
grief. 

Your husband, he is gone to save far off, «o 
Whilst others come to make him lose at home. 
Here am I left to underprop his land, 

Who, weak with age, cannot support myself. 
Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit 
made ; 

Now shall he try his friends that flatter’d him. 

Enter a Servant. 

Serv. My lord, your son was gone before I 
came. 86 

York. He was ? Why, so ! go all which way 
it will! 

The nobles they are fled ; the commons they 
are cold, 

And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford’s side. 
Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Glouces¬ 
ter ; »o 

Bid her send me presently a thousand pound. 
Hold, take my ring. 

Serv. My lord, I had forgot to tell your lord- 
ship, 

To-day, as I came by, I called there, — 

But I shall grieve you to report the rest. »6 

York. What is’t, knave r 

Serv. An hour before I came, the Duchess 
died. 

York. God for his mercy! what a tide of 
woes 

Comes rushing on this woeful land at once ! 

I know not what to do. I would to God, too 
So my untruth had not provok’d him to it, 

The King had cut off my head with my 
brother’s. 





RICHARD THE SECOND 


ii. iii. 


5 l8 


What, are there no posts dispatch’d for Ire¬ 
land ? 

How shall we do for money for these wars ? 
Come, sister, — cousin, I would say, — pray, 
pardon me. ios 

Go, fellow, get thee home, provide some carts 
And bring away the armour that is there. 

[Exit Servant .] 

Gentlemen, will you go muster men ? 

If I know how or which way to order these 
affairs 

Thus disorderly thrust into my hands, no 

Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen : 

T’ one is my sovereign, whom both my oath 
And duty bids defend ; t’ other again 
Is my kinsman, whom the King hath wrong’d, 
Whom conscience and my kindred bids to 
right. ns 

Well, somewhat we must do. Come, cousin, I ’ll 
Dispose of you. 

Gentlemen, go, muster up your men, 

And meet me presently at Berkeley. 

I should to Plashy too, 120 

But time will not permit. All is uneven, 

And everything is left at six and seven. 

[Exeunt York and Queen. 

Bushy. The wind sits fair for news to go for 
Ireland, 

But none returns. For us to levy power 
Proportionable to the enemy 125 

Is all unpossible. 

Green. Besides, our nearness to the King in 
love 

Is near the hate of those love not the King. 

Bagot. And that’s the wavering commons, 
for their love 

Lies in their purses ; and whoso empties them 
By so much fills their hearts with deadly 
hate. i 3 i 

Bushy. Wherein the King stands generally 
condemn’d. 

Bagot. If judgement lie in them, then so do 
we, 

Because we ever have been near the King. 

Green. Well, I will for refuge straight to 
Bristol castle: 135 

The Earl of Wiltshire is already there. 

Bushy. Thither will I with you; for little 
office 

The hateful commons will perform for us, 
Except like curs to tear us all to pieces. 

Will you go along with us ? no 

Bagot. No ; I will to Ireland to his Majesty. 
Farewell! If heart’s presages be not vain, 

We three here part that ne’er shall meet 
again. 

Bushy. That’s as York thrives to beat back 
Bolingbroke. 

Green. Alas, poor duke ! the task he under¬ 
takes ns 

Is numb’ring sands and drinking oceans dry. 
Where one on his side fights, thousands will 
fly. 

Farewell at once, for once, for all, and ever. 

Bushy. Well, we may meet again. 

Bagot. I fear me, never. 

[Exeunt. 


Scene III. [ Wilds in Gloucestershire .] 

Enter Bolingbroke and Northumberland 
[with forces]. 

Boling. How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley 
now ? 

North. Believe me, noble lord, 

I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire. 

These high wild hills and rough uneven ways 
Draws out our miles, and makes them weari 
some; 

And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar, 
Making the hard way sweet and delectable. 

But I bethink me what a weary way 
From Ravenspurgh to Cotswold will be found 
In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your com¬ 
pany, 10 

Which, I protest, hath very much beguil’d 
The tediousness and process of my travel. 

But theirs is sweet’ned with the hope to have 
The present benefit which I possess ; 

And hope to joy is little less in joy « 

Than hope enjoy’d. By this the weary lords 
Shall make their way seem short, as mine hath 
done 

By sight of what I have, your noble company. 

Boling. Of much less value is my company 
Than your good words. But who comes here ? 

Enter Henry Percy. 

North. It is my son, young Harry Percy, 21 
Sent from my brother Worcester, whenceso¬ 
ever. 

Harry, how fares your uncle ? 

Percy. I had thought, my lord, to have 
learn’d his health of you. 

North. Why, is he not with the Queen ? 25 

Percy. No, my good lord ; he hath forsook 
the court, 

Broken his staff of office, and dispers’d 
The household of the King. 

North. What was his reason ? 

He was not so resolv’d when last we spake 
together. 

Percy. Because your lordship was pro¬ 
claimed traitor. sc 

But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurgh 
To offer service to the Duke of Hereford, 

And sent me over by Berkeley, to discover 
What power the Duke of York had levied 
there; 

Then with directions to repair to Ravens¬ 
purgh. 3 S 

North. Have you forgot the Duke of Here¬ 
ford, boy ? 

Percy. No, my good lord, for that is not 
forgot 

Which ne’er I did remember. To my know- 
ledge, 

I never in my life did look on him. 

North. Then learn to know him now ; this is 
the Duke. 40 

Percy. My gracious lord, I tender you my 
service, 

Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young ; 
Which elder days shall ripen and confirm 
To more approved service and desert. 





II. iii. 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


5 1 9 


Boling. I thank thee, gentle Percy ; and be 
sure 4& 

I count myself in nothing else so happy 
As in a soul rememb’ring my good friends ; 
And, as my fortune ripens with thy love, 

It shall be still thy true love’s recompense. 

My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus 
seals it. go 

North. How far is it to Berkeley ? and what 
stir 

Keeps good old York there with his men of 
war ? 

Percy. There stands the castle, by yon tuft 
of trees, 

Mann’d with three hundred men, as I have 
heard; 

And in it are the Lords of York, Berkeley, and 
Seymour; os 

None else of name and noble estimate. 

Enter Ross and Willoughby. 

North. Here come the Lords of Ross and 
Willoughby, 

Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste. 

Boling. Welcome, my lords. I wot your 
love pursues 

A banish’d traitor. All my treasury so 

Is yet but unfelt thanks, which more enrich’d 
Shall be your love and labour’s recompense. 

Ross. Your presence makes us rich, most 
noble lord. 

Willo. And far surmounts our labour to 
attain it. 

Boling. Evermore thanks, the exchequer of 
the poor, sg 

Which, till my infant fortune comes to years, 
Stands for my bounty. But who comes here ? 

Enter Berkeley. 

North. It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess. 

Berk. My Lord of Hereford, my message is 
to you. 

Boling. My lord, my answer is — to Lan¬ 
caster ; to 

And I am come to seek that name in England ; 
And I must find that title in your tongue, 
Before I make reply to aught you say. 

Berk. Mistake me not, my lord ; ’t is not my 
meaning 

To raze one title of your honour out. 75 

To you, my lord, I come, what lord you will, 
From the most gracious regent of this land, 
The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on 
To take advantage of the absent time 
And fright our native peace with self-borne 
arms. so 

Enter York [attended], 

Boling. I shall not need transport my words 
by you • 

Here comes his Grace in person. Mv noble 
uncle I • [Kneels.] 

York. Show me thy humble heart, and not 
thy knee, 

Whose duty is deceiveable and false. 

Boling. My gracious uncle — ** 

York. Tut, tut! 


Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle. 

1 am no traitor’s uncle ; and that word “ grace ” 
In an ungracious mouth is but profane. 

Why have those banish’d and forbidden legs 90 
Dar’d once to touch a dust of England’s 
ground ? 

But then more “ why ? ” Why have they dar’d 
to march 

So many miles upon her peaceful bosom, 
Frighting her pale-fac’d villages with war 
Ana ostentation of despised arms ? 95 

Com’st thou because the anointed King is 
hence ? 

Why, foolish boy, the King is left behind, 

And in my loyal bosom lies his power. 

Were I but now the lord of such hot youth 
As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself 
Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of 
men, 101 

From forth the ranks of many thousand French, 
O, then how quickly should this arm of mine, 
Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise thee 
And minister correction to thy fault! i<* 

Boling. My gracious uncle, let me know my 
fault. 

On what condition stands it and wherein ? 

York. Even in condition of the worst degree, 
In gross rebellion and detested treason. 

Thou art a banish’d man, and here art come no 
Before the expiration of thy time, 

In braving arms against thy sovereign. 

Boling. As I was banish’d, I was banish’d 
Hereford ; 

But as I come, I come for Lancaster. 

And, noble uncle, I beseech your Grace ns 
Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye. 
You are my father, for methinks in you 
I see old Gaunt alive. O. then, my father, 

Will you permit that I shall stand condemn’d 
A wandering vagabond ; my rights and royal¬ 
ties # 120 

Pluck’d from my arms perforce, and given 
away 

To upstart unthrifts ? Wherefore was I born ? 
If that my cousin king be King of England, 

It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster. 
You have a son, Aumerle, my noble cousin ; 125 
Had you first died, and he been thus trod down, 
He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father 
To rouse his wrongs and chase them to the bay. 
I am deni’d to sue my livery here, 

And yet my letters patents give me leave. wo 
My father’s goods are all distrain’d and sold, 
And these and all are all amiss employ’d. 

What would you have me do ? I am a subject, 
And I challenge law. Attorneys are denied me ; 
And therefore personally I lay my claim 135 
To my inheritance of free descent. 

North. The noble Duke hath been too much 
abus’d. 

Ross. It stands your Grace upon to do him 
right. 

Willo. Base men by his endowments are 
made great. 

York. My lords of England, let me tell you 
this: »*• 

I have had feeling of my cousin’s wrongs 




520 


And labour’d all I could to do him right; 

But in this kind to come, in braying arms, 

Be his own carver and cut out his way, 

To find out right with wrong, it may not be ; 
And you that do abet him in this kind 
Cherish rebellion and are rebels all. 

North. The noble Duke hath sworn his 
coming is 

But for his own ; and for the right of that 
We all have strongly sworn to give him aid ; ieo 
And let him ne’er see joy that breaks that oath ! 
York. Well, well, I see the issue of these 
arms. 

I cannot mend it, I must needs confess, 

Because my power is weak and all ill left; 

But if I could, by Him that gave me life, iss 
I would attach you all and make you stoop 
Unto the sovereign mercy of the King ; 

But since I cannot, be it known to you 
1 do remain as neuter. So, fare you well; 
Unless you please to enter in the castle ico 
And there repose you for this night. 

Boling. An offer, uncle, that we will accept. 
But we must win your Grace to go with us 
To Bristol castle, which they say is held 
By Bushy, Bagot, and their complices, ies 
The caterpillars of the commonwealth, 

Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away. 
York. It may be I will go with you ; but yet 
I ’ll pause, 

For I am loath to break our country’s laws. 

Nor friends nor foes, to me welcome you are. no 
Things past redress are now with me past care. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [A camp in Wales.] 

Enter Salisbury and a Welsh Captain. 

Cap. My Lord of Salisbury, we have stay’d 
ten clays, 

And hardly kept our countrymen together, 
And yet we hear no tidings from the King ; 
Therefore we will disperse ourselves. Fare¬ 
well ! 

Sal. Stay yet another day, thou trusty 
Welshman. 6 

The King reposeth all his confidence in thee. 
Cap. ’Tis thought the King is dead; we 
will not stay. 

The bay-trees in our country are all wither’d 
And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven ; 
The pale-fac’d moon looks bloody on the earth 
And lean-look’d prophets whisper fearful 
change; u 

Rich men look sad and ruffians dance and 
leap, 

The one in fear to lose what they enjoy, 

The other to enjoy by rage and war. 

These signs forerun the death or fall of kings. 
Farewell! Our countrymen are gone and fled, is 
As well assur’d Richard their king is dead. 

[Exit. 

Sal. Ah, Richard, with the eyes of heavy 
mind 

I see thy glory like a shooting star 

Fall to the base earth from the firmament. 20 

Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west, 


in. i. 


Witnessing storms to come, woe, and unrest. 
Thy friends are fled to wait upon thy foes, 

And crossly to thy good all fortune goes. 

[Exit. 

ACT III 

Scene I. [Bristol. Before the castle .] 

Enter Bolingbroke, York, Northumber¬ 
land, Ross, Percy, Willoughby, with 
Bushy and Green, prisoners. 

Boling. Bring forth these men. 

Bushy and Green, I will not vex your souls — 
Since presently your souls must part your 
bodies — 

With too much urging your pernicious lives ; 
For ’t were no charity; yet, to wash your 
blood 8 

From off my hands, here in the view of men 
I will unfold some causes of your deaths. 

You have misled a prince, a royal king, 

A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments, 

By you unhappied and disfigur’d clean. 10 

You have in manner with your sinful hours 
Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him, 
Broke the possession of a royal bed 
And stain’d the beauty of a fair queen’s cheeks 
With tears drawn from her eyes by your foul 
wrongs. 16 

Myself, a prince by fortune of my birth, 

Near to the King in blood, and near in love 
Till you did make him misinterpret me, 

Have stoop’d my neck under your injuries, 

And sigh’d my English breath in foreign 
clouds, 20 

Eating the bitter bread of banishment; 

Whilst you have fed upon my signories, 
Dispark’d my parks and fell’d my forest woods. 
From my own windows torn my household 
coat, 

Raz’d out my impress, leaving me no sign, 26 
Save men’s opinions and my living blood, 

To show the world I am a gentleman. 

This and much more, much more than twice 
all this, 

Condemns you to the death. See them delivered 
over 

To execution and the hand of death. so 

Bushy. More welcome is the stroke of death 
to me 

Than Bolingbroke to England. Lords, fare¬ 
well ! 

Green. My comfort is that heaven will take 
our souls 

And plague injustice with the pains of hell. 
Boling. My Lord Northumberland, see them 
dispatch’d. 36 

[Exeunt Northumberland and others , 
with the prisoners.] 

Uncle, you say the Queen is at your house ; 

For God’s sake, fairly let her be entreated ; 
Tell her I send to her my kind commends. 
Take special care my greetings be deliver’d. 
York. A gentleman of mine I have dis¬ 
patch’d 40 

With letters of your love to her at large. 


RICHARD THE SECOND 







Ill li. 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


5 21 


Boling. Thanks, gentle uncle. Come, lords, 
away, 

To fight with Glendower and his complices. 
Awhile to work, and after holiday. [ Exeunt. 

Scene II. [The coast of Wales. A castle in 
view.] 

Drums: flourish and colours. Enter King Rich¬ 
ard, the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, 
and Soldiers. 

K. Rich. Barkloughly castle call they this 
at hand ? 

Aum. Yea, my lord. How brooks your Grace 
the air, 

After your late tossing on the breaking seas ? 
K. Rich. Needs must I like it well; I weep 
for joy 

To stand upon my kingdom once again. e 

Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand, 
Though rebels wound thee with their horses’ 
hoofs. 

As a long-parted mother with her child 
Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meet¬ 
ing, 

So, weeping, smiling, gTeet I thee, my earth, 10 
And do thee favours with my royal hands. 

Feed not thy sovereign’s foe, my gentle earth, 
Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense ; 
But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom, 
And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way, is 
Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet 
Which with usurping steps do trample thee. 
Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies ; 

And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower, 
Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder 20 
Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch 
Throw death upon thy sovereign’s enemies. 
Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords. 

This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones 
Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king 25 
Shall falter under foul rebellion’s arms. 

Car. Fear not, my lord; that Power that 
made you king 

Hath power to keep you king in spite of all. 
The means that heavens yield must be em¬ 
brac’d, 

And not neglected ; else, if heaven would 30 
And we will not, heaven’s offer we refuse, 

The proffer’d means of succour and redress. 
Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too 
remiss; 

Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security, 
Grows strong and great in substance and in 
power. 86 

K. Rich. Discomfortable cousin! know’stthou 
not 

That when the searching eye of heaven is hid 
Behind the globe, that lights the lower world, 
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen 
In murders and in outrage, boldly here ; 40 

But when from under this terrestrial ball 
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines 
And darts his light through every guilty hole, 
Then murders, treasons, and detested sins, 

The cloak of night being pluck’d from off their 
backs, 46 


Stand bare and naked, trembling at them* 
selves ? 

So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke, 
Who all this while hath revell’d in the night, 
Whilst we were wand’ring with the antipodes, 
Shall see us rising in our throne, the east, eo 
His treasons will sit blushing in his face, 

Not able to endure the sight of day, 

But, self-affrighted, tremble at his sin. 

Not all the water in the rough rude sea 
Can wash the balm off from an anointed king ; 
The breath of worldly men cannot depose 66 
The deputy elected by the Lord. 

For every man that Bolingbroke hath press’d 
To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown, 
God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay eo 
A glorious angel; then, if angels fight, 

Weak men must fall, for Heaven still guards 
the right. 

Enter Salisbury. 

Welcome, my lord. How far off lies your 
power ? 

Sal. Nor near nor farther off, my gracious 
lord, 

Than this weak arm. Discomfort guides my 
tongue ee 

And bids me speak of nothing but despair. 

One day too late, I fear me, noble lord, 

Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth. 

O, call back yesterday, bid time return, 

And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting 
men! 70 

To-day, to-day, unhappy day, too late, 
O’erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy 
state ; 

For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead, 
Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispers’d, and fled. 
Aum. Comfort, my liege; why looks your 
Grace so pale ? 75 

K. Rich. But now the blood of twenty thou¬ 
sand men 

Did triumph in my face, and they are fled ; 

And, till so much blood thither come again, 

Have I not reason to look pale and dead ? 

All souls that will be safe fly from my side, so 
For time hath set a blot upon my priae. 

Aum. Comfort, my liege; remember who 
you are. 

K. Rich. I had forgot myself; am I not v ' 
King? 

Awake, thou coward majesty ! thou sleepest. 

Is not the King’s name twenty thousand 
names ? se 

Arm, arm, my name ! a puny subject strikes 
At thy great glory. Look not to the ground. 

Ye favourites of a king ; are we not high ? 

High be our thoughts. I know my uncle York 
Hath power enough to serve our turn. But 
who comes here ? 90 

Enter Scroop. 

Scroop. More health and happiness betide my 
liege 

Than can my care-tun’d tongue deliver him I 
K. Rich. Mine ear is open and my heart 
prepar’d. 





522 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


hi. it 


The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold. 
Say, is my kingdom lost? Why, ’twas my 
care; # 96 

And what loss is it to be rid of care ? 

Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we ? 
Greater he shall not be ; if he serve God, 

We ’ll serve Him too and be his fellow so. 
Revolt our subjects ? That we cannot mend ; 
They break their faith to God as well as us. 
Cry woe, destruction, ruin, and decay; 

The worst is death, and death will have his day. 

Scroop. Glad am I that your Highness is so 
arm’d 

To bear the tidings of calamity. 

Like an unseasonable stormy day, 

Which makes the silver rivers drown their 
shores, 

As if the world were all dissolv’d to tears, 

So high above his limits swells the rage 
Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land no 
With hard bright steel and hearts harder than 
steel. 

White-beards have arm’d their thin and hair¬ 
less scalps 

Against thy majesty ; boys, with women’s 
voices, 

Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints 
In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown ; no 
Thy very beadsmen learn to bend then* bows 
Of double-fatal yew against thy state ; 

Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills 
Against thy seat: both young and old rebel, 
And all goes worse than I have power to tell. 

K. Rich. Too well, too well thou tell’st a tale 
so ill. 121 

Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? Where is 
Bagot ? 

What is become of Bushy ? Where is Green ? 
That they have let the dangerous enemy 
Measure our confines with such peaceful steps ? 
If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it. 126 
I warrant they have made peace with Boling¬ 
broke. 

Scroop. Peace have they made with him 
indeed, my lord. 

K. Rich. 0 villains, vipers, damn’d without 
redemption! 

Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man ! 130 

Snakes, in my heart-blood warm’d, that sting 
my heart! 

Three Judases, each one thrice worse than 
Judas ! 

Would they make peace ? Terrible hell make 
war 

Upon their spotted souls for this offence ! 

Scroop. Sweet love, I see, changing his pro¬ 
perty, 136 

Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate. 
Again uncurse their souls ; their peace is made 
With heads, and not with hands. Those whom 
you curse 

Have felt the worst of death’s destroying wound 
And lie full low, grav’d in the hollow ground. 

Aum. Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of 
Wiltshire dead ? i« 

Scroop. Ay, all of them at Bristol lost their 
heads. 


Aum. Where is the Duke my father with 
his power ? 

K. Rich. No matter where ; of comfort no 
man speak. 

Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs ; 
Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes i *6 
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. 

Let’s choose executors and talk of wills ; 

And yet not so; for what can we bequeath 
Save our deposed bodies to the ground ? ico 
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke’s, 
And nothing can we call our own but death, 
And that small model of the barren earth 
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. 
For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground uss 
And tell sad stories of the death of kings : 

How some have been depos’d; some slain in 
war; 

Some haunted by the ghosts they have de¬ 
pos’d ; 

Some poison’d by their wives ; some sleeping 

All murder’d : for within the hollow crown 160 
That rounds the mortal temples of a king 
Keeps Death his court, and there the antic 
sits, 

Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp, 
Allowing him a breath, a little scene, 

To monarchize, be fear’d, and kill with looks, 
Infusing him with self and vain conceit, im 
A s if this flesh which walls about our life 
Were brass impregnable ; and humour’d thus 
Comes at the last and with a little pin 
Bores through his castle wall, and — farewell 
king! 170 

Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood 
With solemn reverence. Throw away respect, 
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty; 

For you have but mistook me all this while. 

I live with bread like you, feel want, iT 5 

Taste grief, need friends : subjected thus, 

How can you say to me I am a king ? 

Car. My lord, wise men ne’er sit and wail 
their woes, 

But presently prevent the ways to wail. 

To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, 
Gives in your weakness strength unto your 
foe, i$i 

And so your follies fight against yourself. 

Fear, and be slain ; no worse can come to fight; 
And fight and die is death destroying death, 
Where fearing dying pays death servile breath. 
Aum. My father hath a power ; inquire of 
him, i 83 

And learn to make a body of a limb. 

K. Rich. Thou chid’st me well. Proud Bo¬ 
lingbroke, I come 

To change blows with thee for our day of doom. 
This ague fit of fear is over-blown; 190 

An easy task it is to win our own. 

Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his 
power ? 

Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be 
sour. 

Scroop. Men judge by the complexion of the 
sky 

The state and inclination of the day; n* 





in. iii. 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


5 2 3 


So may you by my dull and heavy eye, 

My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say. 

I play the torturer by small and small 
To lengthen out the worst that must be 
spoken. 

Your uncle York is join’d with Bolingbroke, 
And all your northern castles yielded up, 201 
And all your southern gentlemen in arms 
Upon his party. 

Rich. Thou hast said enough. 

[To Aumerle .] Beshrew thee, cousin, which 
didst lead me forth 

Of that sweet way I was in to despair ! 205 

What say you now ? What comfort have we 
now ? 

By heaven, I ’ll hate him everlastingly 
That bids me be of comfort any more. 

Go to Flint castle ; there I ’ll pine away ; 

A king, woe’s slave, shall kingly woe obey. 210 
That power I have, discharge ; and let them 
go 

To ear the land that hath some hope to grow, 
For I have none. Let no man speak again 
To alter this, for counsel is but vain. 

Aum. My liege, one word. 

K. Rich. He does me double wrong 

That wounds me with the flatteries of his 
tongue. 216 

Discharge my followers ; let them hence away, 
From Richard’s night to Bolingbroke’s fair 
day. [Exeunt.] 

Scene III. [Wales. Before Flint Castle.] 

Enter , with drum and colours , Bolingbroke, 

York, Northumberland, Attendants [and 

forces]. 

Boling. So that bv this intelligence we learn 
The Welshmen are dispers’d, and Salisbury 
Is gone to meet the King, who lately landed 
With some few private friends upon this coast. 

North. The news is very fair and good, my 
lord. 5 

Richard not far from hence hath hid his head. 

York. It would beseem the Lord Northum¬ 
berland 

To say King Richard. Alack the heavy day 
When such a sacred king should hide his 
head ! 

North. Your Grace mistakes; only to be 
brief 10 

Left I his title out. 

York. The time hath been, 

Would you have been so brief with him, he 
would 

Have been so brief with you, to shorten you, 
For taking so the head, your whole head’s 
length. 

Boling. Mistake not, uncle, further than you 
should. 16 

York. Take not, good cousin, further than 
you should, 

Lest you mistake the heavens are o’er our 
heads. 

Boling. I know it, uncle, and oppose not my¬ 
self 

Against their will. But who comes here ? 


Enter Percy. 

Welcome, Harry. What, will not this castle 
yield ? 2* 

Percy. The castle royally is mann’d, my 
lord, 

Against thy entrance. 

Boling. Royally ! 

Why, it contains no king ? 

Percy. Yes ? my good lord, 

It doth contain a king. King Richard lies 25 
Within the limits of yon lime and stone ; 

And with him are the Lord Aumerle, Lord 
Salisbury, 

Sir Stephen Scroop, besides a clergyman 
Of holy reverence ; who, I cannot learn. 

North. O, belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle. 
Boling. Noble lords, 31 

Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle ; 
Through brazen trumpet send the breath of 
parley 

Into his ruin’d ears, and thus deliver : 

Henry Bolingbroke ss 

On both his knees doth kiss King Richard’s 

hand 

And sends allegiance and true faith of heart 
To his most royal person, hither come 
Even at his feet to lay my arms and power, 
Provided that my banishment repeal’d 40 

And lands restor’d again be freely granted. 

If not, I ’ll use the advantage of my power 
And lay the summer’s dust with showers of 
blood 

Rain’d from the wounds of slaughter’d English¬ 
men ; 

The which, how far off from the mind of Bo¬ 
lingbroke 45 

It is, such crimson tempest should bedrench 
The fresh green lap of fair King Richard’s land, 
My stooping duty tenderly shall show. 

Go, signify as much, while here we march 
Upon the grassy carpet of this plain. «• 

Let’s march without the noise of threat’ning 
drum, 

That from this castle’s tatter’d battlements 
Our fair appointments may be well perus’d. 
Methinks King Richard and myself should 
meet 

With no less terror than the elements ss 

Of fire and water, when their thund’ring shock 
At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven. 
Be he the fire, I ’ll be the yielding water ; 

The rage be his, whilst on the earth I rain 
My waters ; on the earth, and not on him. eo 
March on, and mark King Richard how he 
looks. 

Parle without, and answer within : then a flour¬ 
ish. Enter on the walls, King Richard, the 
Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, Scroop, 
and Salisbury. 

See, see, King Richard doth himself appear, 

As doth the blushing discontented sun 
From out the fiery portal of the east, 

When he perceives the envious clouds are bent 
To dim his glory and to stain the track 00 
Of his bright passage to the Occident. 





5 2 4 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


nr. iii. 


York. Yet looks he like a king ! Behold, his 
.eye, 

As bright as is the eagle’s, lightens forth 
Controlling majesty. Alack, alack, for woe, 70 
That any harm should stain so fair a show ! 

K. Rich. We are amaz’d; and thus long 
have we stood [To North.] 

To watch the fearful bending of thy knee, 
Because we thought ourself thy lawful king ; 
And if we be, how dare thy joints forget 75 
To pay their awful duty to our presence ? 

If we be not, show us the hand of God 
That hath dismiss’d us from our stewardship ; 
For well we know, no hand of blood and 
bone 

Can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre, 80 
Unless he do profane, steal, or usurp. 

And though you think that all, as you have 
done, 

Have torn their souls by turning them from 
us, 

And we are barren and bereft of friends, 

Yet know, my master, God omnipotent, 86 
Is mustering in his clouds on our behalf 
Armies of pestilence ; and they shall strike 
Your children yet unborn and unbegot, 

That lift your vassal hands against my head 
And threat the glory of my precious crown. ao 
Tell Bolingbroke — for yon methinks he 
stands — 

That every stride he makes upon my land 
Is dangerous treason. He is come to open 
The purple testament of bleeding war ; 

But ere the crown he looks for live in peace, 96 
Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers’ sons 
Shall ill become the flower of England’s face, 
Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace 
To scarlet indignation, and bedew 
Her pastures’ grass with faithful English blood. 
North. The King of heaven forbid our lord 
the King 101 

Should so with civil and uncivil arms 
Be rush’d upon ! Thy thrice noble cousin 
Harry Bolingbroke doth humbly kiss thy 
hand; 

And by the honourable tomb he swears, 105 

That stands upon your royal grandsire’s bones, 
And by the royalties of both your bloods, 
Currents that spring from one most gracious 
head, 

And by the buried hand of warlike Gaunt, 

And by the worth and honour of himself, no 
Comprising all that may be sworn or said, 

His coming hither hath no further scope 
Than for his lineal royalties, and to beg 
Enfranchisement immediate on his knees ; 
Which on thy royal party granted once, lie 
His glittering arms he will commend to rust, 
His barbed steeds to stables, and his heart 
To faithful service of your Majesty. 

This swears he, as he is a prince, is just; 

And, as I am a gentleman, I credit him. 120 
K. Rich. Northumberland, say thus the King 
returns: 

His noble cousin is right welcome hither ; 

And all the number of his fair demands 
Shall be accomplish’d without contradiction. 


With all the gracious utterance thou hast 126 
Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends. 

[Northumberland withdraws to Bo¬ 
lingbroke.] 

[To Aumerle.] We do debase ourselves, cousin, 
do we not, 

To look so poorly and to speak so fair ? 

Shall we call back Northumberland, and send 
Defiance to the traitor, and so die ? iso 

Aum. No, good my lord; let’s fight with 
gentle words 

Till time lend friends, and friends their helpful 
swords. 

K. Rich. 0 God, 0 God ! that e’er this 
tongue of mine, 

That laid the sentence of dread banishment 
On yon proud man, should take it off again 136 
With words of sooth ! O that I were as great 
As is my grief, or lesser than my name l 
Or that I could forget what I have been, 

Or not remember what I must be now ! 

Swell’st thou, proud heart ? I ’ll give thee scope 
to beat, 140 

Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me. 
Aum. Northumberland comes back from Bo¬ 
lingbroke. 

K. Rich. What must the King do now? 
Must he submit ? 

The King shall do it. Must he be depos’d ? 

The King shall be contented. Must he lose 145 
The name of king ? O’ God’s name, let it go. 

I ’ll give my jewels for a set of beads, 

My gorgeous palace for a hermitage, 

My gay apparel for an almsman’s gown, 

My figur’d goblets for a dish of wood, ieo 

My sceptre for a palmer’s walking-staff, 

My subjects for a pair of carved saints, 

And my large kingdom for a little grave, 

A little little grave, an obscure grave ; 

Or I ’ll be buried in the King’s highway, ice 
Some way of common trade, where subjects’ 
feet 

May hourly trample on their sovereign’s head ; 
For on my heart they tread now whilst I live, 
And buried once, why not upon my head ? 
Aumerle, thou weep’st, my tender-hearted 
cousin l ieo 

We ’ll make foul weather with despised tears. 
Our sighs and they shall lodge the summer 
corn, 

And make a dearth in this revolting land. 

Or shall we play the wantons with our woes, 
And make some pretty match with shedding 
tears ? iso 

As thus, to drop them still upon one place, 

Till they have fretted us a pair of graves 
Within the earth; and, therein laid,—there 
lies 

Two kinsmen digg’d their graves with weeping 
eyes. 

Would not this ill do well ? Well, well, I see 170 
I talk but idly, and you laugh at me. 

Most mighty prince, my Lord Northumberland, 
What says King Bolingbroke ? Will his Maj¬ 
esty 

Give Richard leave to live till Richard die ? 
You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says ay. ira 




III. IV. 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


525 


North. My lord, in the base court he doth 
attend 

To speak with you, may it please you to come 
down. 

K. Rich. Down, down I come ; like glist’ring 
Phaethon, 

Wanting the manage of unruly jades. 

In the base court ? Base court, where kings 
grow base, iso 

To come at traitors’ calls and do them grace. 
In the base court ? Come down ? Down, 
court 1 down, king ! 

For night-owls shriek where mounting larks 
should sing. [Exeunt from above.] 

Boling. What says his Majesty ? 

North. Sorrow and grief of heart 

Makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man ; 
Yet he is come. iso 

[Enter King Richard and his Attendants 
below.] 

Boling. Stand all apart. 

And show fair duty to his Majesty. 

[He kneels down. 

My gracious lord, — 

K. Rich. Fair cousin, you debase your 
princely knee i»o 

To make the base earth proud with kissing it. 
Me rather had my heart might feel your love 
Than my unpleas’d eye see your courtesy. 

Up, cousin, up ; your heart is up, I know. 

Thus high at least [touching his own head ], 
although your knee be low. 100 

Boling. My gracious lord, I come but for 
mine own. 

K. Rich. Your own is yours, and I am yours, 
and all. 

Boling. So far be mine, my most redoubted 
lord, 

As my true service shall deserve your love. 

K. Rich. Well you deserve ; they well deserve 
to have, 20 ® 

That know the strong’st and surest way to get. 
Uncle, give me your hands: nay, dry your 
eyes; 

Tears show their love, but want their remedies. 
Cousin, I am too young to be your father, 
Though you are old enough to be my heir. 205 
What you will have, I ’ll give, and willing too ; 
For do we must what force will have us do. 

Set on towards London, cousin, is it so ? 

Boling. Yea, my good lord. 

K. Rich. Then I must not say no. 

[Flourish. Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [Langley. The Duke of York's 
garden.] 

Enter the Queen and two Ladies. 

Queen. What sport shall we devise here in 
this garden 

To drive away the heavy thought of care ? 

Lady. Madam, we ’ll play at bowls. 

Queen. ’T will make me think the world is 
full of rubs, 

And that my fortune runs against the bias. b 

Lady. Madam, we ’ll dance. 


Queen. My legs can keep no measure in de¬ 
light, 

When my poor heart no measure keeps in 
grief; 

Therefore, no dancing, girl; some other sport. 
Lady. Madam, we ’ll tell tales. u 

Queen. Of sorrow or of joy ? 

Lady. Of either, madam. 

Queen. Of neither, girl ; 

For if of joy, being altogether wanting, 

It doth remember me the more of sorrow ; 

Or if of grief, being altogether had, is 

It adds more sorrow to my want of joy ; 

For what I have I need not to repeat, 

And what I want it boots not to complain. 
Lady. Madam, I ’ll sing. 

Queen. ’T is well that thou hast cause ; 
But thou shouldst please me better, wouldst 
thou weep. 20 

Lady. I could weep, madam, would it do 
you good. 

Queen. And I could sing, would weeping do 
me good. 

And never borrow any tear of thee. 

Enter a Gardener and two Servants. 

But stay, here come the gardeners. 

Let’s step into the shadow of these trees. 2s 
My wretchedness unto a row of pins, 

They ’ll talk of state ; for every one doth so 
Against a change ; woe is forerun with woe. 

[Queen and Ladies retire.] 
Gard. Go, bind thou up yon dangling apri- 
cocks, 

Which, like unruly childreu 2 make their sire 31 
Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight ; 
Give some supportance to the bending twigs. 
Go thou, and like an executioner, 

Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays, 
That look too lofty in our commonwealth; 

All must be even in our government. 

You thus employ’d, I will go root away 
The noisome weeds, which without profit suck 
The soil’s fertility from wholesome flowers. 
Serv. Why should we in the compass of a 
pale « 

Keep law and form and due proportion, 
Showing, as in a model, our firm estate, 

When our sea-walled garden, the whole land, 

Is full of weeds, her fairest flowers chok’d up, 
Her fruit-trees all unprun’d, her hedges 
ruin’d, « 

Her knots disorder’d and her wholesome herbs 
Swarming with caterpillars ? 

Gard. Hold thy peace. 

He that hath suffer’d this disorder’d spring 
Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf. 
The weeds which his broad-spreading leaves 
did shelter, 6 c 

That seem’d in eating him to hold him up, 

Are pluck’d up root and all by Bolingbroke, 

I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green. 
Serv. What, are they dead ? 

Gard. They are ; and Bolingbroke 

Hath seiz’d the wasteful King. 0 , what pity 
is it bb 

That he had not so trimm’d and dress’d his land 





526 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


iv. i 


As we this garden ! We at time of year 
Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees, 
Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood, 

With too much riches it confound itself; «o 
Had he done so to great and growing men, 
They might have liv’d to bear and he to taste 
Their fruits of duty. Superfluous branches 
We lop away, that bearing boughs may live ; 
Had he done so, himself had borne the 
crown, 65 

Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown 
down. 

Serv. What, think you the King shall be de¬ 
pos’d ? 

Gara. Depress’d he is already, and depos’d 
’T is doubt he will be. Letters came last night 
To a dear friend of the good Duke of York’s, to 
T hat tell black tidings. 

Queen. 0, I am press’d to death through 
want of speaking! [Coming forward .] 
Thou, old Adam’s likeness, set to dress this 

f ar den, 

ares thy harsh rude tongue sound this 
unpleasing news ? 

What Eve, what serpent, hath suggested 
thee 75 

To make a second fall of cursed man ? 

Why dost thou say King Richard is depos’d ? 
Dar’st thou, thou little better thing than earth. 
Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and 
how, 

Cam’st thou by this ill tidings ? Speak, thou 
wretch. > # »o 

Gard. Pardon me, madam ; little joy have I 
To breathe this news ; yet what I say is true. 
King Richard, he is in the mighty hold 
Of Bolingbroke. Their fortunes both are 
weigh’d. 

In your lord’s scale is nothing but himself, «b 
A nd some few vanities that make him light; 
But in the balance of great Bolingbroke, 
Besides himself, are all the English peers, 

And with that odds he weighs King Richard 
down. 

Post you to London, and you ’ll find it so ; f>o 
I speak no more than every one doth know. 
Queen. Nimble Mischance, that art so light 
of foot, 

Doth not thy embassage belong to me, 

And am I last that knows it ? 0, thou think’st 
To serve me last, that I may longest keep »s 
Thy sorrow in my breast. Come, ladies, go, 

To meet at London London’s king in woe. 
What, was I born to this, that my sad look 
Should grace the triumph of great Boling¬ 
broke ? 

Gardener, for telling me these news of woe, 100 
Pray God the plants thou graft’st may never 
grow. [Exeunt [Queen and Ladies ]. 

Gard. Poor queen 1 so that thy state might 
be no worse, 

I would my skill were subject to thy curse. 
Here did she fall a tear; here in this place 
I ’ll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace. iob 
R ue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen, 
In the remembrance of a weeping queen. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT IV 

Scene I. [London. Westminster Hall.] 

Enter as to the Parliament Bolingbroke, # 
Aumerle, Northumberland, Percy, 
Fitzwater, Surrey, the Bishop of Car¬ 
lisle, the Abbot of Westminster [and 
another Lord], Herald, and Officers. 

Boling. Call forth Bagot. 

Enter Bagot. 

Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind ; 

What thou dost know of noble Gloucester’s 
death. 

Who wrought it with the King, and who per¬ 
form’d 

The bloody office of his timeless end. b 

Bagot. Then set before my face the Lord 
Aumerle. 

Boling. Cousin, stand forth, and look upon 
that man. 

Bagot. My Lord Aumerle, I know your dar¬ 
ing tongue 

Scorns to unsay what once it hath deliver’d. 

In that dead time when Gloucester’s death was 
plotted, 10 

I heard you say, “ Is not my arm of length, 

That reacheth from the restful English court 
As far as Calais, to mine uncle’s head ? ” 
Amongst much other talk, that very time, 

I heard you say that you had rather refuse 16 
The offer of an hundred thousand crowns 
Than Bolingbroke’s return to England ; 

Adding withal, how blest this land would be 
In this your cousin’s death. 

Aum. Princes and noble lords, 

What answer shall I make to this base man ? 
Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars, 21 
On equal terms to give him chastisement ? 

Either I must, or have mine honour soil’d 
With the attainder of his sland’rous lips. 

There is my gage, the manual seal of death, 25 
That marks thee out for hell. I say, thou 
liest, 

And will maintain what thou hast said is false 
In thy heart-blood, though being all too base 
To stain the temper of my knightly sword. 
Boling. Bagot, forbear ; thou shalt not take 

it tip. 30 

Aum. Excepting one, I would he were the 
best 

In all this presence that hath mov’d me so. 

Fitz. If that thy valour stand on sympathy, 
There is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine. 

By that fair sun which shows me where thou 
stand’st, 38 

I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spak’st it, 
That thou wert cause of noble Gloucester’s 
death. 

If thou deny’st it twenty times, thou liest; 

And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart, 
Where it was forged, with my rapier’s point. *• 
Aum. Thou dar’st not, coward, live to see 
that day. 

Fitz. Now, by my soul, I would it were this 
hour. 




IV. 1. 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


5 2 7 


Aum. Fitzwater, thou art damn’d to hell for 
this. 

Percy. Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as 
true 

In this appeal as thou art all unjust; 45 

And that thou art so, there I throw my gage, 
To prove it on thee to the extremest point 
Of mortal breathing. Seize it, if thou dar’st. 

Aum. An if I do not, may my hands rot off 
And never brandish more revengeful steel bo 
Over the glittering helmet of my foe ! 

Another Lord. I task the earth to the like, 
forsworn Aumerle ; 

And spur thee on with full as many lies 
As may be holloa’d in thy treacherous ear 
From sun to sun. There is my honour’s pawn; 
Engage it to the trial, if thou dar’st. bo 

Aum. Who sets me else? By heaven, I’ll 
throw at all! 

I have a thousand spirits in one breast, 

To answer twenty thousand such as you. 
Surrey. My Lord Fitzwater, I do remember 
well so 

The very time Aumerle and you did talk. 

Fitz. ’T is very true ; you were in presence 
then, 

And you can witness with me this is true. 
Surrey. As false, by heaven, as heaven itself 
is true. 

Fitz. Surrey, thou liest. 

Surrey. Dishonourable boy! 

That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword, «6 
That it shall render vengeance and revenge 
Till thou the lie-giver and that lie do lie 
In earth as quiet as thy father’s skull; 

In proof whereof, there is my honour’s pawn ; 
Engage it to the trial, if thou dar’st. 71 

Fitz. How fondly dost thou spur a forward 
horse! 

If I dare eat, or drink, or breathe, or live, 

I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness, 

And spit upon him, whilst I say he lies, « 
And lies, and lies. There is my bond of faith, 
To tie thee to my strong correction. 

As I intend to thrive in this new world, 
Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal; 

Besides, I heard the banish’d Norfolk say so 
That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men 
To execute the noble Duke at Calais. 

Aum. Some honest Christian trust me with a 
gage, 

That Norfolk lies. Here do I throw down this, 
If he may be repeal’d, to try his honour. »b 
Boling. These differences shall all rest under 
gage 

Till Norfolk be repeal’d. Repeal’d he shall be, 
And, though mine enemy, restor’d again 
To all his lands and signories. When he’s re¬ 
turn’d, 

Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial. oo 
Car. That honourable day shall ne’er be 
seen. 

Many a time hath banish’d Norfolk fought 
For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field, 
Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross 
Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens ; 
And, toil’d with works of war, retir’d himself 


To Italy; and there at Venice gave 
His body to that pleasant country’s earth, 

And his pure soul unto his captain Christ, 
Under whose colours he had fought so long, iso 
Boling. Why, Bishop, is Norfolk dead ? 

Car. As surely as I live, my lord. 

Boling. Sweet Peace conduct his sweet soul 
to the bosom 

Of good old Abraham ! Lords appellants, 

Your differences shall all rest under gage iob 
T ill we assign you to your days of trial. 

Enter York [attended]. 

York. Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to 
thee 

From plume-pluek’d Richard ; who with will¬ 
ing soul 

Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields 
To the possession of thy royal hand. no 

Ascend his throne, descending new from him ; 
And long live Henry, fourth of that name ! 
Boling. In God’s name, I ’ll ascend the regal 
throne. 

Car. Marry, God forbid 1 
Worst in this royal presence may I speak, ns 
Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth. 
Would God that any in this noble presence 
Were enough noble to be upright judge 
Of noble Richard ! Then true noblesse would 
Learn him forbearance from so foul a 
wrong. no 

What subject can give sentence on his king? 
And who sits here that is not Richard’s sub¬ 
ject? 

Thieves are not judg’d but they are by to 
hear, 

Although apparent guilt be seen in them ; 

And shall the figure of God’s majesty, ns 
His captain, steward, deputy elect, 

Anointed, crowned, planted many years, 

Be iudg’d by subject and inferior breath, 

And he himself not present? 0 , forfend it, 
God, 

That in a Christian climate souls refin’d is* 
Should show so heinous, black, obscene a 
deed! 

I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks, 
Stirr’d up by God, thus boldly for his king. 

My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call 
king, 

Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford’s king; 13 s 
And if you crown him, let me prophesy, 

The blood of English shall manure the ground, 
And future ages groan for this foul act. 

Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels, 
And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars no 
Shall kin with kin and kind with kind con¬ 
found. 

Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny 
Shall here inhabit, and this land be call’d 
The field of Golgotha and dead men’s skulls. 

O, if you raise this house against this house, mb 
I t will the woefullest. division prove 
That ever fell upon this cursed earth. 

Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so, 

Lest child, child’s children, cry against you 
“woe!” 





528 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


iv. I 


North. Well have you argued, sir; and, for 
your pains, ieo 

Of capital treason we arrest you here. 

My Lord of W estminster, he it your charge 
To keep him safely till his day of trial. 

May it please you, lords, to grant the commons’ 
suit ? 

Boling. Fetch hither Richard, that in com¬ 
mon view we 

He may surrender; so we shall proceed 
Without suspicion. 

York. I will be his conduct. 

[Exit. 

Boling. Lords, you that here are under our 
arrest, 

Procure your sureties for your days of answer. 
Little are we beholding to your love, ieo 

And little look’d for at your helping hands. 

Re-enter York, with Richard [ and Officers 
bearing the crown and sceptre ]. 

K. Rich. Alack, why am I sent for to a king, 
Before I have shook off the regal thoughts 
Wherewith I reign’d ? I hardly yet have 
learn’d 

To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee. 
Give sorrow leave a while to tutor me i 66 

To this submission. Yet I well remember 
The favours of these men. Were they not mine ? 
Did they not sometime cry, “All hail 1 ” to 
me ? 

So Judas did to Christ; but He, in twelve, no 
Found truth in all but one ; I, in twelve thou¬ 
sand. none. 

God save the King ! — Will no man say amen ? 
Am I both priest and clerk ? Well then, amen. 
God save the King ! although I be not he ; 

And yet, amen, if heaven do think him me. — 
To do what service am I sent for hither ? i 76 

York. To do that office of thine own good 
will 

Which tired majesty did make thee offer, 

The resignation of thy state and crown 
To Henry Bolingbroke. iso 

K. Rich. Give me the crown. — Here, cousin, 
seize the crown ; 

Here, cousin, 

On this side my hand, and on that side thine. 
Now is this golden crown like a deep well 
That owes two buckets, filling one another, isb 
T he emptier ever dancing in the air, 

The other down, unseen, and full of water. 
That bucket down and full of tears am I, 
Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on 
high. 

Boling.. I thought you had been willing to 
resign. ioo 

K. Rich. My crown I am ; but still my griefs 
are mine. 

You may my glories and my state depose, 

But not my griefs; still am I king of those. 
Boling. Part of your cares you give me with 
your crown. 

K. Rich. Your cares set up do not pluck my 
cares down. 195 

My care is loss of care, by old care done ; 

Your care is gain of care, by new care won. 


The cares I give I have, though given away ; 
They ’tend the crown, yet still with me they 
stay. . 

Boling. Are you contented to resign the 
crown ? 201 

K. Rich. Ay, no ; no, ay ; for I must nothing 
be; 

Therefore no no, for I resign to thee. 

Now mark me, how I will undo myself. 

I give this heavy weight from off my head 
And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand, 205 
The pride of kingly sway from out my heart. 
With mine own tears I wash away my balm, 
With mine own hands I give away my crown, 
With mine own tongue deny my sacred state, 
With mine own breath release all duteous oaths. 
All pomp and majesty I do forswear ; an 

My manors, rents, revenues I forgo ; 

My acts, decrees, and statutes I deny. 

God pardon all oaths that are broke to me ! 

God keep all vows unbroke are made to thee ! 
Make me, that nothing have, with nothing 
griev’d, *ic 

And thou with all pleas’d, that hast all 
achiev’d ! 

Long mayst thou live in Richard’s seat to sit, 
And soon lie Richard in an earthy pit! 219 

God save King Henry, unking’d Richard says, 
And send him many years of sunshine days ! 

— What more remains ? 

North. No more, but that you read 

[Presenting a paper.] 

These accusations and these grievous crimes 
Committed by your person and your follow¬ 
ers 

Against the state and profit of this land ; 225 

That, by confessing them, the souls of men 
May deem that you are worthily depos’d. 

K. Rich. Must I do so ? and must I ravel 
out 

My weav’d-up follies ? Gentle Northumber¬ 
land, 

If thy offences were upon record, 230 

Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop 
To read a lecture of them ? If thou wouldst, 
There sliouldst thou find one heinous article, 
Containing the deposing of a king 
And cracking the strong warrant of an oath, 235 
Mark’d with a blot, damn’d in the book of 
heaven. 

Nay, all of you that stand and look upon me 
Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself, 
Though some of you with Pilate wash your 
hands 

Showing an outward pity; yet you Pilates 24* 
Have here deliver’d me to my sour cross, 

And water cannot wash away your sin. 

North. My lord, dispatch; read o’er these 
articles. 

K. Rich. Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot 

see; 

And yet salt water blinds them not so much 245 
But they can see a sort of traitors here. 

Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself, 

I find myself a traitor with the rest; 

For I have given here my soul’s consent 
To undeck the pompous body of a king ; 2c* 






RICHARD THE SECOND 


529 


v. i. 


Made glory base, a sovereignty a slave, 

Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant. 
North. Mv lord, — 

K. Rich. No lord of thine, thou haught in¬ 
sulting man, 254 

Nor no man’s lord. I have no name, no title ; 
No, not that name was given me at the font, 
But’t is usurp’d. Alack the heavy day, 

That I have worn so many winters out, 

And know not now what name to call myself ! 
O that I were a mockery king of snow, 200 
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke, 

To melt myself away in water-drops ! 

Good king, great king, and yet not greatly good, 
An if my word be sterling yet in England, 

Let it command a mirror hither straight, 265 
That it may show me what a face I have, 

Since it is bankrupt of his majesty. 

Boling. Go some of you and fetch a looking- 
glass. [Exit an attendant .] 

North. Read o’er this paper while the glass 
^ doth come. 

K. Rich. Fiend, thou torments me e’er I 
come to hell! 270 

Boling. Urge it no more, my Lord Northum¬ 
berland. 

North. The commons will not then be sat- 
isfi’d. 

K. Rich. They shall be satisfi’d. I ’ll read 
enough, 

When I do see the very book indeed 
Where all my sins are writ, and that’s my¬ 
self. 276 

Re-enter Attendant, with a glass. 

Give me that glass, and therein will I read. 

No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck 
So many blows upon this face of mine, 

And made no deeper wounds ? O flatt’rjng 
glass, 

Like to my followers in prosperity, 220 

Thou dost beguile me ! Was this face the face 
That every day under his household roof 
Did keep ten thousand men ? Was this the face 
That, like the sun, did make beholders wink ? 
Is this the face which fac’d so many follies, 285 
That was at last out-fac’d by Bolingbroke ? 

A brittle glory shineth in this face ; 

As brittle as tne glory is the face, 

[Dashes the glass against the around.'] 
For there it is, crack’d in an hundred snivers. 
Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport, 290 
How soon my sorrow hath destroy’d my face. 
Boling. The shadow of your sorrow hath 
destroy’d 

The shadow of your face. 

K. Rich. Say that again. 

The shadow of my sorrow ! Ha ! let’s see. 

’T is very true, my grief lies all within ; 

And these external manners of laments 295 
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief 
That swells with silence in the tortur’d soul. 
There lies the substance; and I thank thee, 
King, 

For thy great bounty, that not only giv’st aoo 
Me cause to wail but teachest me the way 
How to lament the cause. I ’ll beg one boon, 


And then be gone and trouble you no more. 
Shall I obtain it ? 

Boling. Name it, fair cousin. 

K. Rich. “ Fair cousin ” ? I am greater than 
a king ; 306 

For when I was a king, my flatterers 
Were then but subjects ; being now a subject, 

I have a king here to my flatterer. 

Being so great, I have no need to beg. 

Boling. Yet ask. sio 

K. Rich. And shall I have ? 

Boling. You shall. 

K. Rich. Then give me leave to go. 

Boling. Whither ? 

K. Rich. Whither you will, so I were from 
your sights. sis 

Boling. Go, some of you convey him to the 
Tower. 

K. Rich. O, good! convey! Conveyers are 
you all, 

That rise thus nimbly by a true king’s fall. 

[Exeunt King Richard , some Lords , 
and a Guard.] 

Boling. On Wednesday next we solemnly set 
down 

Our coronation. Lords, prepare yourselves. 320 

[Exeunt all but the Bishop of Car¬ 
lisle,, the Abbot of Westminster , 
and Aumerle. 

Abbot. A woeful pageant have we here be¬ 
held. 

Car. The woe’s to come; the children yet 
unborn 

Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn. 

Aum. You holy clergymen, is there no plot 
To rid the realm of this pernicious blot ? 32s 

Abbot. My lord, 

Before I freely speak my mind herein, 

You shall not only take the sacrament 
To bury mine intents, but also to effect 
Whatever I shall happen to devise. sao 

I see your brows are full of discontent, 

Your hearts of sorrow and your eyes of tears. 
Come home with me to supper ; and I ‘11 lay 
A plot shall show us all a merry day. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT V 

Scene I. [London. A street leading to the 
Tower.] 

Enter Queen and Ladies. 

Queen. This way the King will come; this is 
the way 

To Julius Caesar’s ill-erected tower, 

To whose flint bosom my condemned lord 
Is doom’d a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke. 
Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth b 

Have any resting for her true king’s queen. 

Enter Richard and Guard. 

But soft, but see, or rather do not see, 

My fair rose wither ; yet look up, behold, 

That you in pity may dissolve to dew, « 

And wash him fresh again with true-love tears. 
Ah, thou, the model where old Troy did stand, 




S 3 o 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


v. 11 . 


Thou map of honour, thou King Richard’s tomb, 
And not King Richard; thou most beauteous 
inn, 

Why should hard-favour’d Grief be lodg’d in 
thee, 

When Triumph is become an alehouse guest ? is 
K. Rich. Join not with grief, fair woman, do 
not so, 

To make my end too sudden. Learn, good soul, 
To think our former state a happy aream ; 
From which awak’d, the truth of what we are 
Shows us but this. I am sworn brother, sweet, 
To grim Necessity ; and he and I 21 

Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to 
France 

And cloister thee in some religious house. 

Our holy lives must win a new world’s crown, 
Which our profane hours here have thrown 
down. 25 

Queen. What, is my Richard both in shape 
and mind 

Transform’d and weak’ned ? Hath Bolingbroke 
depos’d 

Thine intellect ? Hath he been in thy heart ? 
The lion dying thrusteth forth his paw, 

And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with 
rage 30 

To be o’erpower’d ; and wilt thou, pupil-like, 
Take the correction, mildly kiss the rod, 

And fawn on rage with base humility, 

Which art a lion and the king of beasts ? 

K. Rich. A king of beasts, indeed; if aught 
but beasts, 35 

I had been still a happy king of men. 

Good sometimes queen, prepare thee hence for 
France. 

Think I am dead, and that even here thou tak’st, 
As from my death-bed. thy last living leave. 

In winter’s tedious nignts sit by the fire <0 

With good old folks and let them tell thee tales 
Of woeful ages long ago betid ; 

And ere thou bid good night, to quit their 
griefs 

Tell thou the lamentable tale of me 
And send the hearers weeping to their beds. 46 
For why, the senseless brands will sympathize 
The heavy accent of thy moving tongue, 

And in compassion weep the fire out; 

And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black, 
For the deposing of a rightful king. so 

Enter Northumberland [and others]. 

North. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is 
chang’d ; 

You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower. 
And, madam, there is order ta’en for you; 
With all swift speed you must away to France. 
K. Rich. Northumberland, thou ladder 
wherewithal ss 

The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne, 
The time shall not be many hours of age 
More than it is, ere foul sin gathering head 
Shall break into corruption. Thou shalt think, 
Though he divide the realm and give thee half, 
It is too little, helping him to all; ei 

And he shall think that thou, which know’st 
the way 


To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again, 
Being ne’er so little urg’d, another way 
To pluck him headlong from the usurped 
throne. 

The love of wicked men converts to fear; 

That fear to hate, and hate turns one or both 
To worthy danger and deserved death. 

North. My guilt be on my head, and there 
an end. 

Take leave and part; for you must part forth¬ 
with. 70 

K. Rich. Doubly divorc’d! Bad men, you 
violate 

A twofold marriage, ’twixt my crown and me, 
And then betwixt me and my married wife. 

Let me unkiss the oath ’twixt thee and me; 
And yet not so, for with a kiss’t was made, is 
Partus, Northumberland ; I towards the north, 
Where shivering cold and sickness pines the 
clime: 

My wife to France ; from whence, set forth in 
pomp, 

She came adorned hither like sweet May, 

Sent back like Hallowmas or short’st of day. so 
Queen. And must we be divided ? Must we 
part? 

K. Rich. Ay, hand from hand, my love, and 
heart from heart. 

Queen. Banish us both, and send the King 
with me. 

North. That were some love but little policy. 
Queen. Then whither he goes, thither let me 

S O. 85 

'ich. So two, together weeping, make 
one woe. 

Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here ; 
Better far off than near, be ne’er the near. 

Go, count thy way with sighs; I mine with 
groans. 

Queen. So longest way shall have the longest 
moans. so 

K. Rich. Twice for one step I ’ll groan, the 
way being short, 

And piece the way out with a heavy heart. 
Come, come, in wooing sorrow let’s be brief, 
Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief. 
One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly 
part ; 95 

Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart. 
Queen. Give me mine own again ; ’t were no 
good part 

To take on me to keep and kill thy heart. — 
So, now I have mine own again, be gone, 

That I may strive to kill it with a groan. 100 

K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this 

fond delay. 

Once more, adieu ; the rest let sorrow say. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [London. The Duke of York's 
palace.] 

Enter York and his Duchess. 

Duch. My lord, you told me you would tell 
the rest, 

When weeping made you break the story off, 
Of our two cousins coming into London. 




V. ll. 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


53i 


York. Where did I leave ? 

Duch. At that sad stop, my lord, 

Where rude misgovern’d hands from windows’ 
tops 5 

Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard’s 
head. 

York. Then, as I said, the Duke, great 
Bolingbroke, 

Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed 
Which his aspiring rider seem’d to know, 

With slow but stately pace kept on his course, 
Whilst all tongues cried, “God save thee, Bo¬ 
lingbroke ! ” 11 

You would have thought the very windows 

spake, 

So many greedy looks of young and old 
Through casements darted their desiring eyes 
Upon his visage, and that all the walls is 

With painted imagery had said at once, 

“ Jesu preserve thee! Welcome, Bolingbroke ! ” 
Whilst he, from the one side to the other turn¬ 
ing 

Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed’s neck, 
Bespake them thus: “I thank you, country¬ 
men.” 20 

And thus still doing, thus he pass’d along. 
Duch. Alack, poor Richard ! where rode he 
the whilst r 

York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men, 
After a well-grac’d actor leaves the stage, 

Are idly bent on him that enters next, 25 

Thinking his prattle to be tedious ; 

Even so, or with much more contempt, men’s 
eyes 

Did scowl on gentle Richard. No man cried, 

“ God save him ! ” 

No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home ; 
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head, 30 
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off, 
His face still combating with tears and smiles, 
The badges of his grief and patience, 

That had not God, for some strong purpose, 
steel’d 

The hearts of men, they must perforce have 
melted, ss 

And barbarism itself have pitied him. 

But Heaven hath a hand in these events, 

To whose high will we bow our calm contents. 
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now, 
Whose state and honour I for aye allow. *0 

Enter Aumerle. 

Duch. Here comes my son Aumerle. 

York. Aumerle that was ; 

But that is lost for being Richard’s friend, 

And, madam, you nrnst call him Rutland now. 
I am in parliament pledge for his truth 
And lasting fealty to the new made king. « 
Duch. Welcome, my son ! Who are the vio¬ 
lets now 

That strew the green lap of the new come 
spring ? 

Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly 
care not. 

God knows I had as lief be none as one. 

York. Well, bear you well in this new spring 
of time, 60 


Lest you be cropp’d before you come to prime. 
What news from Oxford ? Do these jousts and 
triumphs hold ? 

Aum. For aught. I know, my lord, they do. 
York. You will be there, I know. 

Aum. If God prevent not, I purpose so. 55 
York. What seal is that, that hangs without 
thv bosom ? 

Yea, look’st thou pale? Let me see the writ- 
ing. 

Aum. My lord,’t is nothing. 

York. No matter, then, who see it. 

I will be satisfied ; let me see the writing. 

Aum. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me. 
It is a matter of small consequence, «t 

Which for some reasons I would not have seen. 
York. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean 
to see. 

I fear, I fear, — 

Duch. What should you fear ? 

’T is nothing but some band, that he is ent’red 
into 60 

For gay apparel ’gainst the triumph day. 

York. Bound to himself! What doth he 
with a bond 

That he is bound to ? Wife, thou art a fool. 
Boy, let me see the writing. 

Aum. I do beseech you, pardon me. I may 
not show it. 7* 

York. I will be satisfied ; let me see it, I say. 

[He plucks it out of his bosom and 
reads it. 

Treason! foul treason ! Villain! traitor! slave ! 
Duch. What is the matter, my lord ? 

York. Ho ! who is within there ? 

[Enter a Servant.] 

Saddle my horse. 
God for his mercy, what treachery is here ! 7s 
Duch. Why, what is it, my lord ? 

York. Give me my boots, I say ; saddle my 
horse. _ [Exit Servant.] 

Now, by mine honour, by my life, by my troth, 
I will appeach the villain. 

Duch. What is the matter ? 

York. Peace, foolish woman. so 

Duch. I will not peace. What is the matter, 
Aumerle ? 

Aum. Good mother, be content; it is no more 
Than my poor life must answer. 

Duch. Thy life answer ! 

York. Bring me my boots ; I will unto the 
King. 

Re-enter Servant with boots. 

Duch. Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou 
art amaz’d. ss 

— Hence, villain ! never more come in my sight. 
York. Give me my boots, I say. 

Duch. Why, York, what wilt thou do ? 

Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own ? 
Have we more sons ? or are we like to have ? 

Is not my teeming date drunk up with time ? 91 
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine 
age, 

And rob me of a happy mother’s name ? 

Is he not like thee ? Is he not thine own ? 





532 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


V. iii. 


York. Thou fond mad woman, 95 

Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy ? 

A dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament, 
And interchangeably set down their hands, 

To kill the King at Oxford. 

Duch. He shall be none ; 

We ’ll keep him here; then what is that to him? 
York. Away, fond woman ! were he twenty 
times my son, 101 

I would appeach him. 

Duch. Hadst thou groan’d for him 

As I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful. 
But now I know thy mind ; thou dost suspect 
That I have been disloyal to thy bed, 105 

And that he is a bastard, not thy son. 

Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind. 
He is as like thee as a man may be, 

Not like to me, or any of my kin, 

^.nd yet I love him. 

Yoi’k. Make way, unruly woman ! 

[Exit. 

Duch. After, Aumerle 1 mount thee upon his 
horse; in 

Spur post, and get before him to the King, 

And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee. 

I ’ll not be long behind ; though I be old, 

I doubt not but to ride as fast as York. ns 
And never will I rise up from the ground 
Till Bolingbroke have pardon’d thee. Away, 
be gone! [Exeunt. 

Scene III. [Windsor Castle .] 

Enter Bolingbroke, Percy, and other Lords. 

Boling. Can no man tell me of my unthrifty 
son ? 

’T is full three months since I did see him last. 
If any plague hang over us, ’t is he. 

I would to God, my lords, he might be found. 
Inquire at London, ’mongst the taverns there, 
For there, they say, he daily doth frequent, « 
With unrestrained loose companions, 

Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes, 
And beat our watch, and rob our passengers ; 
Which he, young wanton and effeminate boy, 
Takes on the point of honour to support 11 
So dissolute a crew. 

Percy. My lord, some two days since I saw 
the Prince, 

And told him of those triumphs held at Oxford. 
Boling. And what said the gallant ? is 

Percy. His answer was, he would unto the 
stews, 

And from the common’st creature pluck a glove, 
And wear it as a favour ; and with that 
He would unhorse the lustiest challenger. 
Boling. As dissolute as desperate; yet 
through both 20 

I see some sparks of better hope, which elder 
years 

May happily bring forth. But who comes here ? 
Enter Aumerle, amazed. 

Aum. Where is the King ? 

Boling. What means our cousin, that he 
stares and looks 

So wildly ? »e 


Aum. God save your Grace! I do beseech 
your Majesty, 

To have some conference with your Grace 
alone. 

Boling. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us 
here alone. [Exeunt Percy and Lords.] 
What is the matter with our cousin now ? 

Aum. For ever may my knees grow to the 
earth, [Kneeling.] 3 » 

My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth, 
Unless a pardon ere I rise or speak. 

Boling. Intended or committed was this 
fault ? 

If on the first, how heinous e’er it be, 

To win thy after-love I pardon thee. so 

Aum. Then give me leave that I may turn 
the key, 

That no man enter till my tale be done. 

Boling. Have thy desire. 

[Aumerle locks the door.] York 
knocks at the door and crieth. 
York. (Within.) My liege, beware I Look 
to thyself ; 

Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there. <0 
Boling. Villain, I’ll make thee safe. 

[Drawing.] 

Aum. Stay thy revengeful hand ; thou hast 
no cause to fear. 

York. [Within.] Open the door, secure, fool¬ 
hardy King! 

Shall I for love speak treason to thy face ? 

Open the door, or I will break it open. « 

Enter York. 

Boling. What is the matter, uncle ? Speak; 
Recover breath ; tell us how near is danger, 
That we may arm us to encounter it. 

York. Peruse this writing here, and thou 
shalt know 

The treason that my haste forbids me show, so 
Aum. Remember, as thou read’st, thy pro¬ 
mise pass’d. 

I do repent me ; read not my name there. 

My heart is not confederate with my hand. 
York. It was, villain, ere thy hand did set 
it down. 

I tore it from the traitor’s bosom, King ; sc 
Fear, and not love, begets his penitence. 

Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove 
A serpent that will sting thee to the heart. 
Boling. 0 heinous, strong, and bold conspir¬ 
acy ! 

O loyal father of a treacherous son ! eo 

Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain, 
From whence this stream through muddy pas¬ 
sages 

Hath held his current and defil’d himself ! 

Thy overflow of good converts to bad, 

And thy abundant goodness shall excuse 66 
This deadly blot in thy digressing son. 

York. So shall my virtue be his vice’s bawd ; 
And he shall spend mine honour with his shame, 
As thriftless sons their scraping fathers’ gold. 
Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies, ™ 
Or my sham’d life in his dishonour lies. 

Thou kill’st me in his life ; giving him breath, 
The traitor lives, the true man’s put to death. 




V. V. 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


533 


Duch. (Within.) What ho, my liege! for 
God’s sake, let me in. 

Boling. What shrill-voiced suppliant makes 
this eager cry ? 75 

Duch. A woman, and thy aunt, great King; 
’t is I. 

Speak with me, pity me, open the door ! 

A beggar begs that never begg’d before. 

Boling. Our scene is alt’red from a serious 
thing, 

And now chang’d to “ The Beggar and the 
King.” so 

My dangerous cousin, let your mother in : 

I know she’s come to pray for your foul sin. 

York. If thou do pardon, whosoever pray, 
More sins for this forgiveness prosper may. 
This fest’red joint cut off, the rest rest sound ; 
This let alone will all the rest confound. so 

Enter Duchess. 

Duch. 0 King, believe not this hard-hearted 
man ! 

Love loving not itself none other can. 

Y ork. Thou frantic woman, what dost thou 
make here ? 

Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear ? 90 
Duch. Sweet York, be patient. Hear me, 
gentle liege. [Kneels.] 

Boling. Rise up, good aunt. 

Duch. Not yet, I thee beseech. 

For ever will I walk upon my knees. 

And never see day that the happy sees, 

Till thou give joy ; until thou bid me joy, 95 

By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy. 
Aum. Unto my mother’s prayers I bend my 
knee. [Kneels.] 

York. Against them both my true joints 
bended be. [Kneels. j 

Ill mayst thou thrive, if thou grant any grace I 
Duch. Pleads he in earnest ? Look upon his 
face; 100 

His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in 

jest; 

His words come from his mouth, ours from our 
breast. 

He prays but faintly and would be deni’d ; 

We pray with heart and soul and all beside. 

His weary joints would gladly rise, I know ; 105 
Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they 
grow. 

His prayers are full of false hypocrisy ; 

Ours of true zeal and deep integrity. 

Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them 
have 

That mercy which true prayer ought to have, no 
Boling. Good aunt, stand up. 

Duch. Nay, do not say, “Stand up 

Say “Pardon” first, and afterwards “Stand 
up.” 

An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach, 
“Pardon” should be the first word of thy 
speech. 

I never long’d to hear a word till now. us 

Say “ pardon,” King ; let pity teach thee how. 
The word is short, but not so short as sweet ; 
No word like “pardon” for kings’ mouths so 
meet. 


York. Speak it in French, King ; say, “Par- 
donne moi .” 

Duch. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to 
destroy ? 120 

Ah, my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord. 

That set’st the word itself against the word ! 

Speak “ pardon ” as ’tis current in our land ; 

The chopping French we do not understand. 

Thine eye begins to speak ; set thy tongue 
there; 12s 

Or in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear ; 

That hearing how our plaints and prayers do 
pierce, 

Pity may move thee “ pardon ” to rehearse. 

B oling. Good aunt, stand up. 

Duch. I do not sue to stand ; 

Pardon is all the suit I have in hand. 130 

Boling. I pardon him, as God shall pardon me. 
Duch. 0 happy vantage of a kneeling knee ! 

Yet am I sick for fear: speak it again. 

Twice saying “pardon” doth not pardon 

twain, 

But makes one pardon strong. 

Boling. I pardon him with all my heart. i 3 e 
Duch. A god on earth thou art. 

Boling. But for our trusty brother-in-law 
and the abbot, 

With all the rest of that consorted crew, 

Destruction straight shall dog them at the 
heels. 

Good uncle, help to order several powers ho 

To Oxford, or where’er these traitors are. 

They shall not live within this world, I swear, 

But I will have them, if I once know where. 

Uncle, farewell; and, cousin, adieu ! 

Your mother well hath pray’d, and prove you 

true. 145 

Duch. Come, my old son ; I pray God make 
thee new. [Exeunt. 


[Scene IV. Another room in the same.] 
Enter Exton and Servant. 

Exton. Didst thou not mark the King, what 
words he spake, 

“Have I no friend will rid me of this living 
fear?” 

Was it not so ? 

Serv. These were his very words. 

Exton. “ Have I no friend ?” quoth he. He 
spake it twice, 

And urg’d it twice together, did he not ? 5 

Serv. He did. 

Exton. And speaking it, he wistly look’d 
on me. 

As who should say, “ I would thou wert the man 
That would divorce this terror from my heart; ” 
Meaning the King at Pomfret. Come, let’s go. 
I am the King’s friend, and will rid his foe. 11 

[Exeunt. 

Scene [V. Pomfret Castle. A ward room.] 
Enter King Richard. 

K. Rich. I have been studying how I may 
compare 

This prison where I live unto the world ; 






534 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


V. V. 


And for because the world is populous 
And here is not a creature but myself, 

I cannot do it; yet I ’ll hammer it out. s 

My brain I ’ll prove the female to my soul, 

My soul the father ; and these two beget 
A generation of still-breeding thoughts. 

And these same thoughts people this little 
world, 

In humours like the people of this world. 10 
For no thought is contented. The better sort, 
As thoughts of things divine, are intermix’d 
With scruples and do set the word itself 
Against the word: 

As thus, “ Come, little ones,” and then again, 

“ It is as hard to come as for a camel ie 

To thread the postern of a small needle’s eye.” 
Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot 
Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails 
May tear a passage through the flinty ribs 20 
Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls, 
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride. 
Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves 
That they are not the first of fortune’s slaves, 
Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars 25 
Who sitting in the stocks refuge their shame, 
That many have and others must sit there ; 
And in this thought they find a kind of ease, 
Bearing their own misfortunes on the back 
Of such as have before endur’d the like. 30 
Thus play I in one person many people, 

And none contented. Sometimes am I king ; 
Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar; 
And so I am. Then crushing penury 
Persuades me I was better when a king ; 36 

Then am I king’d again : and by and by 
Think that I am unking’d by Bolingbroke, 
And straight am nothing. But whate’er I be, 
Nor I nor any man that but man is 
With nothing shall be pleas’d, till he be 
eas’d 40 

With being nothing. Music do I hear ? [Music. 
Ha, ha ! keep time ! How sour sweet music is, 
When time is broke and no proportion kept! 

So is it in the music of men’s lives. 

And here have I the daintiness of ear 45 

To check time broke in a disorder’d string; 
But for the concord of my state and time 
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke. 

I wasted time, and now doth Time waste me ; 
For now hath Time made me his numb’ring 

clock. 50 

My thoughts are minutes ; and with sighs they 
jar 

Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward 
watch, 

Whereto my finger, like a dial’s point, 

Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. 
Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is 65 
Are clamorous groans, which strike upon my 
heart, 

Which is the bell. So sighs and tears and 
groans 

Show minutes, times, and hours ; but my time 
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke’s proud joy, 
While I stand fooling here, his Jack o’ the 
clock. 60 

This music mads me ; let it sound no more ; 


For though it have holp madmen to their wits, 
In me it seems it will make wise men mad. 

Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me! 

For’t is a sign of love ; and love to Richard 66 
Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world. 

Enter a Groom of the Stable. 

Groom. Hail, royal prince! 

K. Rich. Thanks, noble peer! 

The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear. 

What art thou ? and how com’st thou hither, 
Where no man never comes but that sad 
dog . 7 * 

That brings me food to make misfortune live ? 

Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, 
King, 

When thou wert king; who, travelling towards 
York, 

With much ado at length have gotten leave 
To look upon my sometimes royal master’s 
face. 75 

O, how it yearn’d my heart when I beheld 
In London streets, that coronation-day, 

When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary, 

That horse that thou so often hast bestnd. 

That horse that I so carefully have dress’d 1 so 

K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, 
gentle friend, 

How went he under him ? 

Groom. So proudly as if he disdain’d the 
ground. 

K. Rich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on 
his back! 

That jade hath eat bread from my royal 
hand; 85 

This hand hath made him proud with clapping 
him. 

Would he not stumble? Would he not fall 
down, 

Since pride must have a fall, and break the 
neck 

Of that proud man that did usurp his back ? 
Forgiveness, horse ! why do I rail on thee, so 
Since thou, created to be aw’d by man, 

Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse ; 
And yet I bear a burden like an ass, 

Spurr’d, gall’d, and tir’d by jauncing Boling¬ 
broke. 

Enter Keeper, with a dish. 

Keep. Fellow, give place ; here is no longer 
stay. #5 

K. Rich. If thou love me, ’tis time thou 
wert away. 

Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my 
heart shall say. [Exit. 

Keep. My lord, will’t please you to fall 
to? 

K. Rich. Taste of it first, as thou art wont 
to do. 99 

Keep. My lord, I dare not. Sir Pierce of 

Exton, who lately came from the King, com¬ 
mands the contrary. 

K. Rich. The devil take Henry of Lancaster 
and thee! 

Patience is stale, and I am weary of it. 

Keep. Help, help, help ! n* 






y. vi. 


RICHARD THE SECOND 


535 


Enter Exton and Servants [armed]. 

K. Rich. How now! what means death in 
this rude assault ? 

Villain, thy own hand yields thy death’s instru¬ 
ment. 

[Snatching an axe from a Servant 
and killing him.] 

Go thou, and fill another room in hell. 

[He kills another.] Here Exton 
strikes him down. 

That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire 
That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy 
fierce hand no 

Hath with the King’s blood stained the King’s 
own land. 

Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high ; 
Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to 
die. [Dies.] 

Exton. As full of valour as of royal blood ! 
Both have I spill’d; 0 would the deed were 
good! no 

For now the devil, that told me I did well, 
Says that this deed is chronicled in hell. 

This dead king to the living king I ’ll bear: 
Take hence the rest, and give them burial 
here. [Exeunt. 

Scene [VI. Windsor Castle.] 

Flourish. Enter Bolingbroke, York, with 
other Lords, and Attendants. 

Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we 
hear 

Is that the rebels hath consum’d with fire 
Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire ; 

But whether they be ta’en or slain we hear not. 

Enter Northumberland. 

Welcome, my lord, what is the news? « 

North. First, to thy sacred state wish I all 
happiness. 

The next news is, I have to London sent 
The heads of Oxford, Salisbury, Blunt, and 
Kent. 

The manner of their taking may appear 
At lar^e discoursed in this paper here. io 

Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy 
pains; 

And to thy worth will add right worthy gains. 

Enter Fitzwater. 

Fitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to 
London 

The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely, 


Two of the dangerous consorted traitors ie 
That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow. 
Boling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be 
forgot; 

Right noble is thy merit, well I wot. 


Enter Percy, and the Bishop of Carlisle. 

Percy. The grand conspirator, Abbot of 
Westminster, 

With clog of conscience and sour melancholy 
Hath yielded up his body to the grave ; 21 

But here is Carlisle living, to abide 
Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride. 

Boling. Carlisle, this is your doom : 

Choose out some secret place, some reverend 
room, 26 

More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life. 
So as thou liv’st in peace, die free from 
strife; 

For though mine enemy thou hast ever been, 
High sparks of honour in thee have I seen. 

Enter Exton, with [Attendants bearing] a 
cojffin. 


Exton. Great King, within this coffin I pre¬ 
sent _ 30 

Thy buried fear. Herein all breathless lies 
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies, 

Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought. 

Boling. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou 
hast wrought 

A deed of slander with thy fatal hand 36 

Upon my head and all this famous land. 

Exton. From your own mouth, my lord, did 
I this deed. 

Boling. They love not poison that do poison 
need, 

Nor do I thee. Though I did wish him dead, 

I hate the murderer, love him murdered. <o 
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy la¬ 


bour, 

But neither my good word nor princely fa¬ 
vour. 

With Cain go wander through the shades of 
night. 

And never show thy head by day nor light. 
Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe 
That blood should sprinkle me to make me 


grow. 

Come, mourn with me for what I do lament, 
And put on sullen black incontinent. 

I ’ll make a voyage to the Holy Land, 

To wash this blood off from my guilty hand, eo 
March sadly after ; grace my mournings here 
In weeping after this untimely bier. [ Exeunt. 




THE HISTORY OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


The Historye of Henry IV was entered in the Stationers’ Register in February, 1598 , and the 
First Quarto of Part I was printed in the same year. Meres names the play, but does not indicate 
whether he refers to one part or both. Part II was entered and printed in 1600 , but is referred 
to by Jonson in Every Man out of his Humour in 1599 . These facts, taken along with the 
marks of maturity in style and metre, point to 1597 and 1598 as the respective dates of the two 
parts. 

Quartos of Part I were issued in 1598 , 1599 , 1604 , 1608 , 1618 , and 1622 , the version in the 
First Folio being taken from the Fifth Quarto. Of Part II only one quarto is known to have 
been issued ; and the First Folio text was printed from a copy of this, revised with care but prob¬ 
ably without authority. The basis for the present text is, for both parts, the First Quarto. 

The political action of the two plays is founded on Holinshed’s Chronicles. Great freedom is 
used in converting historical into dramatic time, and the speeches, as usually in the English his¬ 
torical plays, are elaborated from the merest hints. The most marked creation in the serious 
plot of Part I, aside from the Prince, is the opposing figure of Hotspur, whom Shakespeare 
clearly conceived for the purpose of psychological contrast. There is no corresponding foil for 
Prince Hal in Part II; the political action is still more overshadowed by the comic than in the 
earlier part; and the serious interest centres in the relation of father and son, and the pathetic 
depression of Henry IV’s closing years. For most of this, e. g., the plans for a crusade, and the 
famous “crown scene,” Holinshed affords a basis; but the rich emotional quality is all Shake¬ 
speare’s. 

For the comic scenes Shakespeare gathered some names and incidents from The Famous Vic¬ 
tories of Henry V, a very crude history-comedy printed in 1598 , but licensed in 1594 , and acted 
certainly as early as 1588 . The robbery at Gadshill, the tavern in Eastcheap, Hal’s relation to 
his boon companions and to the Lord Chief Justice, his reconciliation to his father, the episode of 
the crown, and the final banishing of his tavern friends, are all presented in a rude form in The 
Famous Victories. But the method of treatment is such as to offer hardly more suggestion than 
the bald narrative of Holinshed. The character of Falstaff, especially, owes little to any prede¬ 
cessor. In Henry IV as first written, Falstaff’s name was Oldcastle, as it is in The Famous Vic¬ 
tories. Sir John Oldcastle was a well-known peer of the time of Henry Y, who was burned as 
a Lollard. But it is supposed that out of deference to Oldcastle’s descendants Shakespeare 
changed the name to Falstaff before the play was printed, and added in the Epilogue to Part II 
the statement that “ Oldcastle died a martyr, and this is not the man.” The new name seems to 
have been suggestedby that of the historical Sir John Fastolfe, who, in 1 Henry VI , is represented 
(unjustly, as it seems) as a coward. But the creation is independent of any real or supposed 
historical prototype. 

In the development of the Chronicle History as a distinct type of drama, the most notable 
feature of Henry IT is the importance in it of the element of comedy. For, although the con¬ 
tinuation of the exposition of the character of the Bolingbroke of Richard II is of great psycho¬ 
logical interest, yet the story of Henry’s reign did not in itself afford material nearly so intense 
in interest or so appropriate for dramatic treatment as the author had found in the histories of 
Richard III and Richard II. So far as 1 Henry IV has a culmination at all, it is in the emer¬ 
gence of Prince Henry from his low surroundings as a brilliant warrior who slays Hotspur at 
Shrewsbury, rather than in his father’s suppression of a rebellion. In Part II, the death of 
Henry IV is presented in the fourth act, and the real culmination of the play is in the new King’s 
final throwing off of his old life and companions, and assuming worthily the dignities and duties 
of his royal office. Viewing the Prince, then, as the most important factor in the structure of 
the plays as a whole, we can regard the comic scenes, in which the lighter side of his character is 
displayed, as more organically related to the main scheme than they have usually been con¬ 
ceived. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


[DRAMATIS PERSONAS 


Kino Henry IV. 

Henry, Prince of Walks, 1 „„„„ . .. v . _ 

John of Lancaster, J son8 to the Kln «- 

Earl of Westmoreland. 

Sir Walter Blunt. 

Thomas Percy, earl of Worcester. 

Henry Percy, earl of Northumberland. 

Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, his son. 
Edmund Mortimer, earl of March. 

Richard Scroop, archbishop of York. 
Archibald, earl of Douglas. 

Owen Glendower. 


Sir Richard Vernon. 

Sir John Falstaff. 

Sir Michael, a friend to the archbishop of York. 
PoiNS. 

Gadshill. 

Peto. 

Bardolph. 


Lady Percy, wife to Hotspur, and sister to Mortimer. 
Lady Mortimer, daughter to Glendower, and wife to 
Mortimer. 

Mistress Quickly, hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap. 


Lords, Officers, Sheriff, VintDer, Chamberlain, Drawers, two Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants. 

Scene : England and Wales.] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [ London . The palace .] 

Enter King Henry, Lord John of Lancas¬ 
ter, the Earl of Westmoreland, [Sir 
Walter Blunt] with others. 

King. So shaken as we are, so wan with care, 
Find we a time for frighted Peace to pant, 

And breathe short-winded accents of new 
broils 

To be commenc’d in strands afar remote. 

No more the thirsty entrance of this soil e 
Shall daub her lips with her own children’s 
blood; 

No more shall trenching war channel her fields, 
Nor bruise her flowerets with the armed hoofs 
Of hostile paces. Those opposed eyes. 

Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven, 
All of one nature, of one substance bred, u 
Did lately meet in the intestine shock 
And furious close of civil butchery, 

Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks, 
March all one way and be no more oppos’d is 
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies. 

The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife, 

No more shall cut his master. Therefore, 
friends. 

As far as to the sepulchre of Christ, 

Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross 
We are impressed and engag’d to fight, 21 
Forthwith a power of English shall we levy ; 
Whose arms were moulded in their mothers’ 
womb 

To chase these pagans in those holy fields 
Over whose acres walk’d those blessed feet 25 
Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail’d 
For our advantage on the bitter cross. 

But this our purpose now is twelve month old, 
And bootless’t is to tell you we will go ; 
Therefore we meet not now. Then let me 
hear a# 


Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland, 

What yesternight our council did decree 
In forwarding this dear expedience. 

West. My liege, this haste was hot in ques¬ 
tion, 

And many limits of the charge set down ss 
But yesternight; when all athwart there came 
A post from Wales loaden with heavy news; 
Whose worst was that the noble Mortimer, 
Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight 
Against the irregular and wild Glendower, 40 
Was by the rude hands of that Welshman 
taken, 

A thousand of his people butchered ; 

Upon whose dead corpse there was such mis¬ 
use, 

Such beastly shameless transformation, 

By those Welshwomen done as may not be 46 
Without much shame retold or spoken of. 
King. It seems then that the tidings of this 
broil 

Brake off our business for the Holy Land. 
West. This match’d with other did, my 
gracious lord; 

For more uneven and unwelcome news eo 

Came from the north, and thus it did import: 
On Holy-rood day, the gallant Hotspur there, 
Young Harry Percy and brave Archibald, 

That ever-valiant, and approved Soot, 

At Holmedon met, 66 

Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour, 
As by discharge of their artillery, 

And shape of likelihood, the news was told ; 
For he that brought them, in the very heat 
And pride of their contention did take horse, 
Uncertain of the issue any way. oi 

King. Here is a dear, a true industrious 
friend, 

Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse, 
Stain’d with the variation of each soil 
Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of 
ours; w 





53 » 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


I. II. 


And he hath brought us smooth and welcome 
news. 

The Earl of Douglas is discomfited. 

Ten thousand bold Scots, two and twenty 
knights, 

Balk’d in their own blood did Sir Walter see 
On Holmedon’s plains. Of prisoners, Hotspur 
took to 

Murdoch Earl of Fife, and eldest son 
To beaten Douglas ; and the Earl of Athole, 

Of Moray, Angus, and Menteith: 

And is not this an honourable spoil ? 

A gallant prize, ha, cousin, is it not ? 75 

West. In faith, 

It is a conquest for a prince to boast of. 

King. Yea, there thou mak’st me sad, and 
mak’st me sin 

In envy that my Lord Northumberland 
Should be the father to so blest a son, so 

A son who is the theme of Honour’s tongue, 
Amongst a grove the very straightest plant, 
Who is sweet Fortune’s minion and her pride ; 
Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him, 

See riot and dishonour stain the brow ss 

Of my young Harry. O that it could be prov’d 
That some night-tripping fairy had exchang’d 
In cradle-clothes our children where they lay, 
And call’d mine Percy, his Plantagenet! 

Then would I have his Harry, and he mine, no 
But let him from my thoughts. What think 
you, coz, 

Of this young Percy’s pride ? The prisoners, 
Which he in this adventure hath surpris’d. 

To his own use he keeps ; and sends me word, 

I shall have none but Murdoch Earl of Fife. 05 
West. This is his uncle’s teaching; this is 
Worcester, 

Malevolent to you in all aspects ; 

Which makes him prune himself, and bristle 
U P 

The crest of youth against your dignity. 

King. But I have sent for him to answer 
this; 100 

And for this cause awhile we must neglect 
Our holy purpose to Jerusalem. 

Cousin, on Wednesday next our council we 
Will hold at Windsor. So inform the lords ; 
But come yourself with speed to us again, ios 
For more is to be said and to be done 
Than out of anger can be uttered. 

West. I will, my liege. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. [London. An apartment of the 
Prince's .] 

Enter the Prince of Wales and Falstaff. 

Fal. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad ? 
Prince. Thou art so fat-witted, with drink¬ 
ing of old sack and unbuttoning thee after sup¬ 
per and sleeping upon benches after noon, that 
thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which 
thou wouldest truly know. What a devil hast 
thou to do with the time of the day ? Unless [6 
hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, 
and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the 
signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun him¬ 
self a fair hot wench in flame-coloured taffeta, 


I see no reason why thou shouldest be so super¬ 
fluous to demand the time of the day. 13 

Fal. Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; 
for we that take purses go by the moon and the 
seven stars, and not by Phoebus, he, “ that wan- 
d’ring knight so fair.” And, I prithee, sweet 
wag, when thou art a king, as, God save thy 
Grace, — Majesty I should say, for grace thou 
wilt have none, — 2® 

Prince. What, none ? 

Fal. No, by my troth, not so much as will 
serve to be prologue to an egg and butter. 

Prince. Well, how then? Come, roundly, 

roundly. 25 

Fal. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art 
king, let not us that are squires of the night’s 
body be called thieves of the day’s beauty. Let 
us be Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the shade, 
minions of the moon; and let men say we be 
men of good government, being governed, as 
the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the 
moon, under whose countenance we steal. 33 

Prince. Thou say’st well, and it holds well 
too ; for the fortune of us that are the moon’s 
men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being gov¬ 
erned, as the sea is, by the moon. As, for proof, 
now : a purse of gold most resolutely snatch’d [38 
on Monday night and most dissolutely spent on 
Tuesday morning; got with swearing “Lay 
by ” and spent with crying “ Bring in ; ” now 
in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder, and 
by and by in as high a flow as the ridge of the 
gallows. 43 

Fal. By the Lord, thou say’st true, lad. 
And is not my hostess of the tavern a most 
sweet wench ? 

Prince. As the honey of Hybla, my old lad 
of the castle. And is not a buff jerkin a most 
sweet robe of durance ? 49 

Fal. How now, how now, mad wag! What, 
in thy quips and thy quiddities, what a plague 
have I to do with a buff jerkin ? 

Prince. Why, what a pox have I to do with 
my hostess of the tavern ? b 4 

Fal. Well, thou hast call’d her to a reckon- 
ingmany a time and oft. 

Prince. Did I ever call for thee to pay thy 
part ? 

Fal. No ; I ’ll give thee thy due, thou hast 
paid all there. eo 

Prince. Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my 
coin would stretch ; and where it would not, I 
have us’d my credit. ea 

Fal. Yea, and so us’d it that, were it not 
here apparent that thou art heir apparent — 
But, I prithee, sweet wag, shall there be gal¬ 
lows standing in England when thou art king ? 
and resolution thus f obb’d as it is with the rusty 
curb of old father antic the law ? Do not thou, 
when thou art king, hang a thief. 70 

Prince. No ; thou shalt. 

Fal. Shall I ? 0 rare ! By the Lord, I ’ll be 
a brave judge. 

Prince. Thou judgest false already. I mean, 
thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves and 
so become a rare hangman. 76 

Fal. W 7 ell, Hal, well; and in some sort it 





1 . 11 . 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


539 


jumps with my humour as well as waiting in 
the court, I can tell you. 

Prince. For obtaining of suits ? so 

Pal. Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof 
the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. ’Sblood, 
I am as melancholy as a gib cat or a lugg’d 
bear. 

Prince. Or an old lion, or a lover’s lute. w 
Fal. Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bag¬ 
pipe. 

Prince. What sayest thou to a hare, or the 
melancholy of Moor-ditch ? ss 

Fal. Thou hast the most unsavoury similes 
and art indeed the most comparative, rascal- 
liest. sweet young prince. But, Hal, I prithee, 
trouble me no more with vanity. I would to 
God thou and I knew where a commodity of 
good names were to be bought. An old lord 
of the council rated me the other day in the [94 
street about you, sir, but I mark’d him not; 
and yet he talk’a very wisely, but I regarded 
him not; and yet he talk’d wisely, and in the 
street too. 

Prince. Thou didst well; for wisdom cries 
out in the streets, and no man regards it. 100 
Fal. O, thou hast damnable iteration and 
art indeed able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast 
done much harm upon me, Hal; God forgive 
thee for it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew 
nothing ; and now am I, if a man should speak 
truly, little better than one of the wicked. I [io« 
must give over this life, and I will give it 
over. By the Lord, an I do not, I am a villain. 
I ’ll be damn’d for never a king’s son in Chris¬ 
tendom. 

Prince. Where shall we take a purse to¬ 
morrow, Jack ? 111 

Fal. ’Zounds, where thou wilt, lad; I ’ll 
make one. An I do not, call me villain and 
baffle me. 

Prince. I see a good amendment of life in 
thee ; from praying to purse-taking. 

Fal. Why, Hal, ’t is my vocation, Hal. ’T is 
no sin for a man to labour in his vocation. [117 

Enter Poins. 

Poins ! Now shall we know if Gadshill have set 
a match. 0 , if men were to be saved by merit, 
what hole in hell were hot enough for him ? 
This is the most omnipotent villain that ever 
cried “ Stand J ” to a true man. 

Prince. Good morrow, Ned. 123 

Poins. Good morrow, sweet Hal. What says 
Monsieur Remorse ? What says Sir John Sack 
and Sugar? Jack! how agrees the devil and 
thee about thy soul, that thou soldest him on 
Good Friday last for a cup of Madeira and a 
cold capon’s leg ? 129 

Prince. Sir John stands to his word, the 
devil shall have his bargain ; for he was never 
a breaker of proverbs. He will give the devil 
his due. 

Poins. Then art thou damn’d for keeping 
thy word with the devil. 188 

Prince. Else he had been damn’d for cozen¬ 
ing the devil. 

Poins. But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow 


morning, by four o’clock, early at Gadshill! 
There are pilgrims going to Canterbury with 
rich offerings, and traders riding to London [140 
with fat purses. I have vizards for you all; 
you have horses for yourselves. Gadshill lies 
to-night in Rochester. I have bespoke supper 
to-morrow night in Eastcheap. We may do it 
as secure as sleep. If you will go, I will stuff [wo 
your purses full of crowns ; if you will not, 
tarry at home and be hang’d. 

Fal. Hear ye, Yedward ; if I tarry at home 
and go not, I ’ll hang you for going. 100 

Poins. You will, chops ? 

Fal. Hal, wilt thou make one ? 

Prince. Who, I rob ? I a thief ? Not I, by 
my faith. 104 

Fal. There’s neither honesty, manhood, nor 
good fellowship in thee, nor thou cam’st not of 
the blood royal, if thou dar’st not stand for ten 
shillings. 

Prince. Well, then, once in my days I ’ll be 
a madcap. iso 

Fal. Why, that’s well said. 

Prince. Well, come what will, I ’ll tarry at 
home. 

Fal. By the lord, I ’ll be a traitor then, when 
thou art king. ies 

Prince. I care not. 

Poins. Sir John, I prithee, leave the Prince 
and me alone. I will lay him down such rea¬ 
sons for this adventure that he shall go. 100 

Fal. Well, God give thee the spirit of per¬ 
suasion and him the ears of profiting, that what 
thou speakest may move and what he hears 
may be believed, that the true prince may, for 
recreation sake, prove a false thief ; for the 
poor abuses of the time want countenance. Fare¬ 
well ; you shall find me in Eastcheap. its 

Prince. Farewell, thou latter spring! Fare¬ 
well, All-hallown summer! [Exit Falstaff 1 ] 

Poins. Now, my good sweet honey lord, 
ride with us to-morrow ; I have a jest to exe¬ 
cute that I cannot manage alone. Falstaff 
[Bardolph, Peto] and Gadshill shall rob those 
men that we have already waylaid; yourself [m 
and I will not be there; and when they have 
the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut 
this head off from my shoulders. 

Prince. How shall we part with them in 
setting forth ? iss 

Poins. Why, we will set forth before or 
after them, and appoint them a place of meet¬ 
ing, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail, 
and then will they adventure upon the exploit 
themselves; which they shall have no sooner 
achieved, but we ’ll set upon them. 194 

Prince. Yea, but ’tis like that they will 
know us by our horses, by our habits, and by 
every other appointment, to be ourselves. 

Poins. Tut! our horses they shall not see ; 
I ’ll tie them in the wood ; our vizards we will 
change after we leave them ; and, sirrah, I 
have cases of buckram for the nonee, to im- 
mask our noted outward garments. 202 

Prince. Yea, but I doubt they will be too 
hard for us. 

Poins. Well, for two of them, I know thenr 





540 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


I. iii. 


to be as true-bred cowards as ever turn’d back ; 
and for the third, if he fight longer than he 
sees reason, I ’ll forswear arras. The virtue [207 
of this jest will be the incomprehensible lies 
that this same fat rogue will tell us when we 
meet at supper ; how thirty, at least, he fought 
with ; what wards, what blows, what extremi¬ 
ties he endured ; and in the reproof of this lies 
the jest. 213 

Prince. Well, I’ll go with thee. Provide us 
all things necessary and meet me to-morrow 
night in Eastcheap ; there I ’ll sup. Farewell. 
Poins. Farewell, ray lord. [Exit. 

Prince. I know you all, and will a while up¬ 
hold 

The unyok’d humour of your idleness ; 

Yet herein will I imitate the sun, 220 

Who doth permit the base contagious clouds 
To smother up his beauty from the world, 

That when he please again to be himself 
Being wanted, he may be more wond’red at 
By breaking through the foul and ugly mists 
Of vapours that did seem to strangle him. 226 
If all the year were playing holidays, 

To sport would be as tedious as to work ; 

But when they seldom come, they wish’d for 
come, 

And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. 230 
So, when this loose behaviour I throw off 
And pay the debt I never promised, 

By how much better than my word I am, 

By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes ; 

And like bright metal on a sullen ground, 235 
My reformation, glitt’ring o’er my fault, 

Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes 
Than that which hath no foil to set it off. 

I ’ll so offend, to make offence a skill, 239 

Redeeming time when men think least I will. 

[Exit. 

Scene III. [London. The palace.] 

Enter the King, Northumberland, Worces¬ 
ter, Hotspur, Sir Walter Blunt, with 
others. 

King. My blood hath been too cold and tem¬ 
perate, 

Unapt to stir at these indignities, 

And you have found me ; for accordingly 
You tread upon my patience. But be sure 
I will from henceforth rather be myself, 6 
Mighty and to be fear’d, than my condition ; 
Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young 
down, 

And therefore lost that title of respect 
Which the proud soul ne’er pays but to the 
proud. 

Wor. Our house, my sovereign liege, little 
deserves 10 

The scourge of greatness to be us’d on it; 

And that same greatness too which our own 
hands 

Have holp to make so portly. 

North. My lord, — 

King. Worcester, get thee gone ; for I do 
see is 

Danger and disobedience in thine eye. 


O, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory, 
And majesty might never yet endure 
The moody frontier of a servant brow. 

You have good leave to leave us. When we 
need 20 

Your use and counsel, we shall send for you. 

[Exit Worcester. 

You were about to speak. 

North. Yea, my good lord. 

Those prisoners in your Highness’ name de¬ 
manded. 

Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took, 
Were, as he says, not with such strength de¬ 
nied 25 

As is delivered to your Majesty. 

Either envy, therefore, or misprision 
Is guilty of this fault, and not my son. 

Hot. My liege, I did deny no prisoners. 

But I remember, when the fight was done, so 
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, 
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, 
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress’d, 
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new 
reap’d 

Show’d like a stubble-land at harvest-home. 35 
He was perfumed like a milliner; 

And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held 
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon 
He gave his nose and took ’t away again ; 39 

Who therewith angry, when it next came there, 
Took it in snuff ; and still he smil’d and talk’d, 
And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, 

He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly, 
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse 
Betwixt the wind and his nobility. 

With many holiday and lady terms 
He question’d me ; amongst the rest, demanded 
My prisoners in your Majesty’s behalf. 

I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold, 
Out of my grief, and my impatience 50 

To be so pest’red with a popinjay, 

Answer’d neglectingly — I know not what, 

He should, or he should not; for he made me 
mad 

To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet 
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman 55 
Of guns and drums and wounds, — God save 
the mark! — 

And telling me the sovereign’st thing on earth 
Was parmaeeti for an inward bruise ; 

And that it was great pity, so it was, 

This villanous salt-petre should be digg’d «• 
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, 

Which many a good tall fellow had destroy’d 
So cowardly ; and but for these vile guns, 

He would himself have been a soldier. 

This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, es 
I answered indirectly, as I said ; 

And I beseech you, let not his report 
Come current for an accusation 
Betwixt my love and your high Majesty. 

Blunt. The circumstance considered, good 
my lord, t« 

Whate’er Lord Harry Percy then had said 
To such a person and in such a place, 

At such a time, with all the rest retold, 

May reasonably die and never rise 




I. iii. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


54i 


To do him wrong or any way impeach 75 

What then he said, so he unsay it now. 

King. Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners 
But with proviso and exception 
That we at our own charge shall ransom 
straight 

His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer ; so 
Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray’d 
The lives of those that he did lead to fight 
Against that great magician, damn’d Glen- 
dower, 

Whose daughter, as we hear, the Karl of March 
Hath lately married. Shall our coffers, then, ss 
Be emptied to redeem a traitor home ? 

Shall we buy treason, and indent with fears, 
When they have lost and forfeited themselves ? 
No, on the barren mountains let him starve ; 
For I shall never hold that man my friend 00 
Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost 
To ransom home revolted Mortimer. 

Hot. Revolted Mortimer! 

He never did fall off, my sovereign liege, 

But by the chance of war. To prove that 
true os 

Needs no more but one tongue for all those 
wounds, 

Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he 
took, 

When on the gentle Severn’s sedgy bank, 

In single opposition, hand to hand, 

He did confound the best part of an hour 100 
In changing hardiment with great Glendower. 
Three times they breath’d and three times did 
they drink, 

Upon agreement, of swift Severn’s flood ; 

Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks, 
Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds, 10s 
And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank 
Bloodstained with these valiant combatants. 
Never did base and rotten policy 
Colour her working with such deadly wounds; 
Nor never could the noble Mortimer no 

Receive so many, and all willingly. 

Then let not him be sland’red with revolt. 
King. Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost 
belie him; 

He never did encounter with Glendower. 

I tell thee, «« 

He durst as well have met the devil alone 
As Owen Glendower for an enemy. 

Art thou not asham’d ? But, sirrah, hence¬ 
forth 

Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer. 

Send me your prisoners with the speediest 
means, _ . no 

Or you shall hear in such a kind from me 
As will displease you. My Lord Northumber¬ 
land, 

We license your departure with your son. 

Send us your prisoners, or you ’ll hear of it. 

[.Exeunt King Henry [Blunt, and 
train 1 . 

Hot. An if the devil come and roar for 
them, 126 

I will not send them. I will after straight 
And tell him so ; for I will ease my heart, 
Albeit I make a hazard of my head. 


North. What, drunk with choler ? Stay and 
pause a while. 12* 

Here comes your uncle. 

Re-enter Worcester. 

Hot. Speak of Mortimer! 

’Zounds, I will speak of him ; and let my soul 
Want mercy, if I do not join with him. 

Yea, on his part I ’ll empty all these veins, 

And shed my dear blood drop by drop in the 
dust, 

But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer 138 
As high in the air as this unthankful king, 

As this ingrate and cank’red Bolingbroke. 
North. Brother, the King hath made your 
nephew mad. 

Wor. Who struck this heat up after I was 

gone ? 

Hot. He will, forsooth, have all my pris¬ 
oners; MO 

And when I urg’d the ransom once again 
Of my wife’s brother, then his cheek look’d 
pale, 

And on my face he turn’d an eye of death, 
Trembling even at the name of Mortimer. 

Wor. I cannot blame him. Was not he pro¬ 
claim’d 145 

By Richard, that dead is, the next of blood ? 

North. He was ; I heard the proclamation. 
And then it was when the unhappy king, — 
Whose wrongs in us God pardon \ — did set 
forth 

Upon his Irish expedition ; iso 

From whence he intercepted did return 
To be depos’d and shortly murdered. 

Wor. And for whose death we in the world’s 
wide mouth 

Live scandaliz’d and foully spoken of. 

Hot. But, soft, I pray you; did King Rich¬ 
ard then 166 

Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer 
Heir to the erown ? 

North. He did ; myself did hear it. 

Hot. Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin 
king, 

That wish’d him on the barren mountains 
starve. 

But shall it be, that you, that set the crown ie» 
Upon the head of this forgetful man 
And for his sake wear the detested blot 
Of murderous subornation, shall it be, 

That you a world of curses undergo, 

Being the agents, or base second means, ies 
The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather ? 
0 , pardon me that I descend so low, 

To show the line and the predicament 
Wherein you range under this subtle king! 
Shall it for shame be spoken in these days, no 
Or fill up chronicles in time to come, 

That men of your nobility and power 
Did gage them both in an unjust behalf, 

As both of you — God pardon it! — have done, 
To put down Richard, that sweet lovely 
rose, 176 

And plant this thorn, this canker, Boling¬ 
broke ? 

And shall it in more shame be further spoken, 




542 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


I. iii. 


That you are fool’d, discarded, and shook off 
By him for whom these shames ye underwent ? 
No; yet time serves wherein you may re¬ 
deem 180 

Your banish’d honours and restore yourselves 
Into the good thoughts of the world again, 
Revenge the jeering and disdain’d contempt 
Of this proud king, who studies day and night 
To answer all the debt he owes to you iss 

Even with the bloody payment of your deaths. 
Therefore, I say, — 

Wor. Peace, cousin, say no more ; 

And now I will unclasp a secret book, 

And to your quick-conceiving discontents 
I ’ll read you matter deep and dangerous, iso 
As full of peril and adventurous spirit 
As to o’er-walk a current roaring loud 
On the unsteadfast footing of a spear. 

Hot. If he fall in, good night! or sink or 
swim. 

Send Danger from the east unto the west, 195 
So Honour cross it from the north to south, 
And let them grapple. 0 , the blood more stirs 
To rouse a lion than to start a hare 1 
North. Imagination of some great exploit 
Drives him beyond the bounds of patience. 200 
Hot. By heaven, methinks it were an easy 
leap, 

To pluck bright Honour from the pale-fac’d 
moon, 

Or dive into the bottom of the deep, 

Where fathom-line could never touch the 
ground, 

And pluck up drowned Honour by the locks; 205 
So he that doth redeem her thence might wear 
Without corrival all her dignities. 

But out upon this half-fac’d fellowship ! 

Wor. lie apprehends a world of figures here, 
But not the form of what he should attend. 210 
Good cousin, give me audience for a while. 

Hot. I cry you mercy. 

Wor. Those same noble Scots 

That are your prisoners, — 

Hot. I ’ll keep them all! 

By God, he shall not have a Scot of them ; 214 

No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not! 
I ’ll keep them, by this hand. 

Wor. You start away 

And lend no ear unto my purposes. 

Those prisoners you shall keep. 

Hot. Nay, I will; that’s flat. 

He said he would not ransom Mortimer; 
Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer ; 220 

But I will find him when he lies asleep, 

And in his ear I ’ll holla “ Mortimer! ” 

Nay, 

I ’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak 
Nothing but “ Mortimer,” and give it him, 225 
To keep his anger still in motion. 

Wor. Hear you, cousin ; a word. 

Hot. All studies here I solemnly defy, 

Save how to gall and pinch this Boling-broke ; 
And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of 
Wales, 230 

But that I think his father loves him not 
And would be glad he met with some mischance, 
I would have him poison’d with a pot of ale. 


Wor. Farewell, kinsman ! I ’ll talk to you 
When you are better temper’d to attend. 23c 
North. Why, what a wasp-stung and impa¬ 
tient fool 

Art thou to break into this woman’s mood, 
Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own ! 
Hot. Why, look you, I am whipp’d and 
scourg’d with rods, 

Nettled and stung with pismires, when I hear 
Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke. 241 

In Richard’s time, — what do you call the 
place ? — 

A plague upon it, it is in Gloucestershire; 

’T was where the madcap duke his uncle kept, 
His uncle York; where I first bow’d my 
knee 245 

Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke, — 
’Sblood! - 

When you and he came back from Ravens- 
purgh. 

North. At Berkley castle. 

Hot. You say true. seo 

Why, what a candy deal of courtesy 
This fawning greyhound then did proffer me ! 
Look, “when his infant fortune came to age,” 
And “ gentle Harry Percy,” and “ kind 
cousin; ” 

0 , the devil take such cozeners! — God forgive 
me! 265 

Good uncle, tell your tale ; for I have done. 

Wor. Nay, if you have not, to’t again ; 

We ’ll stay your leisure. 

Hot. I have done, i’ faith. 

Wor. Then once more to your Scottish pris¬ 
oners. 

Deliver them upwithout their ransom straight, 
And make the Douglas’ son your only mean 261 
For powers in Scotland ; which, for divers 
reasons 

Which I shall send you written, be assur’d, 
Will easily be granted. You, my lord, 

[To Northumberland. 
Your son in Scotland being thus employ’d, 26« 
Shall secretly into the bosom creep 
Of that same noble prelate, well belov’d, 

The Archbishop. 

Hot. Of York, is it not ? 

Wor. True ; who bears hard 270 

His brother’s death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop. 
I speak not this in estimation, 

As what I think might be, but what I know 
Is ruminated, plotted, and set down, 

And only stays but to behold the face 220 

Of that occasion that shall bring it on. 

Hot. I smell it. Upon my life, it will do well. 
North. Before the game’s afoot, thou still 
let’st slip. 

Hot. Why, it cannot choose but be a noble 

plot. 279 

And then the power of Scotland and of York, 
To join with Mortimer, ha ? 

Wor. And so they shall. 

Hot. In faith, it is exceedingly well aim’d. 
Wor. And’t is no little reason bids us speed, 
To save our heads by raising of a head ; 

For, bear ourselves as even as we can, 28* 

The King will always think him in our debt, 




THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


543 


II. i. 


And think we think ourselves unsatisfied, 

Till he hath found a time to pay us home. 

And see already how he doth begin 

To make us strangers to his looks of love. 290 

Hot. He does, he does. We ’ll be reveng’d 
on him. 

Wor. Cousin, farewell! No further go in this 
Than I by letters shall direct your course. 
When time is ripe, which will be suddenly, 

I ’ll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer ; 205 
Where you and Douglas and our powers at once, 
As I will fashion it, shall happily meet, 

To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms, 
Which now we hold at much uncertainty. 

North. Farewell, good brother! We shall 
thrive, I trust. 300 

Hot. Uncle, adieu ! O, let the hours be short 
Till fields and blows and groans applaud our 
sport! [Exeunt. 

ACT II 

Scene I. [Rochester. An inn yard.] 

Enter a Carrier with a lantern in his hand. 

1 . Car. Heigh-ho ! an it be not four by the 

day, I ’ll be hang’d. Charles’ wain is over the 
new chimney, and yet our horse not pack’d. 
What, ostler ! * 

Ost. [Within. ] Anon, anon. 

7 . Car. I prithee, Tom, beat Cut’s saddle, 
put a few flocks in the point. The poor jade 
is wrung in the withers out of all cess. s 

Enter another Carrier. 

2 . Car. Peas and beans are as dank here as 
a dog, and that is the next way to give poor 
jades the bots. This house is turned upside 
down since Robin Ostler died. 

1 . Car. Poor fellow, never joy’d since the 
price of oats rose ; it was the death of him. 14 

2 . Car. I think this be the most villanous 
house in all London road for fleas. I am stung 
like a tench. 

1 . Car. Like a tench ! by the mass, there is 

ne’er a king christen could be better bit than 
I have been since the first cock. 20 

2 . Car. Why, they will allow us ne’er a jor- 
dan, and then we leak in your chimney ; and 
your chamber-lye breeds fleas like a loach. 

1 . Car. What, ostler! come away and be 

hang’d ! Come away. 2® 

2 . Car. I have a gammon of bacon and two 

razes of ginger, to be delivered as far as Char- 
ing-cross. 28 

1 . Car. God’s body ! the turkeys in my pan¬ 
nier are quite starved. What, ostler ! A plague 
on thee ! hast thou never an eye in thy head ? 
Canst not hear ? An’t were not as good deed 
as drink, to break the pate on thee, lam a very 
villain. Come, and be hang’d! Hast no faith 
in thee ? 35 

Enter Gadshill. 

Gads. Good morrow, carriers. What’s 

o’clock ? 

[ 7 .] Car. I think it be two o’clock. 


Gads. I prithee, lend me thy lantern, to see 
my gelding in the stable. 

1 . Car. Nay, by God, soft; I know a trick 

worth two of that, i’ faith. 41 

Gads. I pray thee, lend me thine. 

2 . Car. Ay, when ? canst tell ? Lend me thy 
lantern, quoth he ? Marry, 1 'll see thee hang’d 
first. 

Gads. Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean 
to come to London ? 48 

2 . Car. Time enough to go to bed with a 
candle, I warrant thee. Come, neighbour Mugs, 
we ’ll call up the gentlemen. They will along 
with company, for they have great charge. ®i 

[Exeunt Carriers. 

Enter Chamberlain. 

Gads. What, ho 1 chamberlain ! 

Cham. At hand, quoth pick-purse. 

Gads. That’s even as fair as — at hand, 
quoth the chamberlain ; for thou variest no 
more from picking of purses than giving direc¬ 
tion doth from labouring ; thou lay’st the plot 
how. 

Cham. Good morrow, Master Gadshill. It 
holds current that I told you yesternight: 
there’s a franklin in the wild of Kent hath 
brought three hundred marks with him in 
gold. 1 heard him tell it to one of his com¬ 
pany last night at supper ; a kind of auditor; 
one that hath abundance of charge too, God 
knows what. They are up already, and call for 
eggs and butter. They will away presently, oa 

Gads. Sirrah, if they meet not with Saint 
Nicholas’ clerks, I ’ll give thee this neck. 

Cham. No, I ’ll none of it. I pray thee, keep 
that for the hangman ; for I know thou wor- 
shipp’st Saint Nicholas as truly as a man of 
falsehood may. 72 

Gads. What talkest thou to me of the hang¬ 
man ? If I hang, I ’ll make a fat pair of 
gallows; for if I hang, old Sir John hangs 
with me, and thou know’st he is no starve¬ 
ling. Tut ! there are other Troians that thou 
dream’st not of, the which for sport sake are 
content to do the profession some grace, [ts 
that would, if matters should be look’d into, 
for their own credit sake, make all whole. 1 
am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long- 
staff sixpenny strikers, none of these mad mus- 
tachio purple-hued malt-worms; but with no¬ 
bility and tranquillity, burgomasters and great 
onevers ; such as can hold in, such as will 
strike sooner than speak, and speak sooner [»« 
than drink, and drink sooner than pray; and 
yet, ’zounds, I lie ; for they pray continually 
to their saint, the commonwealth ; or rather, 
not pray to her, but prey on her, for they 
ride up and down on her and make her their 
boots. at 

Cham. What, the commonwealth their boots ? 
Will she hold out water in foul way ? 

Gads. She will, she will; justice hath liquor’d 
her. We steal as in a castle, cock-sure ; we 
have the receipt of fern-seed, we walk invisi¬ 
ble. <*! 

Cham. Nay, by my faith, I think you are 






544 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


ii. n. 


more beholding to the night than to fern-seed 
for your walking invisible. 

Gads. Give me thy hand. Thou shalt have 
a share in our purchase, as I am a true man. 101 
Chain. Nay, rather let me have it as you 
are a false thief. 

Gads. Go to ; homo is a common name to all 
men. Bid the ostler bring my gelding out of 
the stable. Farewell, you muddy knave. w >6 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [The highway , near Gadshill .] 
Enter Prince Henry and Poins. 

Poins. Come, shelter, shelter! I have re¬ 
mov’d Falstaff’s horse, and he frets like a 
gumm’d velvet. [They step back.] 

Prince. Stand close. 

Enter Falstaff. 

Fal. Poins ! Poins, and be hang’d ! Poins ! 4 
Prince. [Comingforward.] Peace, ye fat-kid- 
ney’d rascal! what a brawling dost thou keep ! 
Fal. Where’s Poins, Hal ? 

Prince. He is walk’d up to the top of the 
hill; I’ll go seek him. [Withdraws.] 9 

Fal. I am accurs’d to rob in that thief’s 
company. The rascal hath removed my horse, 
and tied him I know not where. If I travel 
but four foot by the squire further afoot, I 
shall break my wind. Well, I doubt not but to 
die a fair death for all this, if I scape hanging 
for killing that rogue. I have forsworn his [is 
company hourly any time this two and twenty 
years, and yet I am bewitch’d with the rogue’s 
company. If the rascal have not given me 
medicines to make me love him, I ’ll be hang’d. 
It could not be else ; I have drunk medi- [20 
cines. Poins! Hal! a plague upon you both! 
Bardolph ! Peto ! I ’ll starve ere I ’ll rob a foot 
further. An ’twere not as good a deed as 
drink, to turn true man and to leave these 
rogues, I am the veriest varlet that ever [26 
chewed with a tooth. Eight yards of uneven 
ground is threescore and ten miles afoot with 
me ; and the stony-hearted villains know it 
well enough. A plague upon it when thieves 
cannot be true one to another ! (They whistle.) 
Whew 1 A plague upon you all! Give me [30 
my horse, you rogues ; give me my horse, and 
be hang’d ! 

Prince. [Comingforward.] Peace, ye fat-guts ! 
lie down. Lay thine ear close to the ground 
and list if thou canst hear the tread of trav¬ 
ellers. 38 

Fal. Have you any levers to lift me up again, 
being down? ’Sblood, I’ll not bear mine own 
flesh so far afoot again for all the coin in thy 
father’s exchequer. What a plague mean ye to 
colt me thus ? 40 

Prince. Thou liest; thou art not colted, 
thou art uncolted. 

Fal. I prithee, good Prince Hal, help me to 
my horse, good king’s son. 

Prince. Out, ye rogue 1 shall I be your ost¬ 
ler ? 45 

Fal. Hang thyself in thine own heir-appar¬ 


ent garters ! If I be ta’en, I ’ll peach for this. 
An I have not ballads made on you all and 
sung to filthy tunes, let a cup of sack be my 
poison. When a jest is so forward, and afoot 
too! I hate it. 

Enter Gadshill [Bardolph, and Peto with 
him]. 

Gads. Stand. 

Fal. So I do, against my will. 

Poins. [Coming forward.] 0 , ’t is our setter ; 
I know his voice. Bardolph, what news ? 64 

Bard. Case ye, case ye ; on with your vizards. 
There’s money of the King’s coming down the 
hill; ’tis going to the King’s exchequer. 

Fal. You lie, ye rogue; ’tis going to the 
King’s tavern. 

Gads. There’s enough to make us all. «e 
Fal. To be hang’d. 

Prince. Sirs, you four shall front them in the 
narrow lane ; Ned Poins and I will walk lower. 
If they scape from your encounter, then they 
light on us. 06 

Peto. How many be there of them ? 

Gads. Some eight or ten. 

Fal. ‘’Zounds, will they not rob us ? 

Prince. What, a coward, Sir John Paunch ? 
Fal. Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your 
grandfather ; but yet no coward, Hal. n 

Prince. Well, we leave that to the proof. 
Poins. Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind 
the hedge ; when thou need’st him, there thou 
shalt find him. Farewell, and stand fast. 75 
Fal. Now cannot I strike him, if I should be 
hang’d. 

Prince. [Aside.] Ned, where are our dis¬ 
guises. 

Poins. [Aside.] Here, hard by. Stand close. 

[Exeunt Prince and Poins.] 
Fal. Now, my masters, happy man be his 
dole, say I. Every man to his business. si 

Enter the Travellers. 

[i.] Trav. Come, neighbour; the boy shall 
lead our horses down the hill. We ’ll walk 
afoot a while, and ease our legs. 

Thieves. Stand! 

Travellers. Jesus bless us ! 86 

Fal. Strike ; down with them ! Cut the vil¬ 
lains’ throats! Ah ! whoreson caterpillars J 
bacon-fed knaves ! they hate us youth. Down 
with them ! Fleece them ! 

Travellers. O, we are undone, both we and 
ours for ever ! 92 

Fal. Hang ye, gorbellied knaves, are ye un¬ 
done ? No, ye fat chuffs ; I would your store 
were here ! On, bacons, on ! What, ye knaves ! 
young men must live. You are grand jurors, 
are ye ? We ’ll jure ye, faith. 97 

[Here they rob them and bind them. 

Exeunt. 

Re-enter Prince Henry and Poins [in buck¬ 
ram]. 

Prince. The thieves have bound the true 
men. Now, could thou and I rob the thieves 
and go merrily to London, it would be argu- 





THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


54S 


II. iii. 


ment for a week, laughter for a month, and a 
good jest for ever. 102 

Poms. Stand close; I hear them coming. 

Enter the Thieves again. 

Fal. Come, my masters, let us share, and 
then to horse before day. An the Prince and 
Poins be not two arrant cowards, there’s no 
equity stirring. There’s no more valour in that 
Poins than in a wild-duck. 108 

Prince. Your money! 

Poins. Villains! 

they are sharing y the Prince and 
Poins set upon them; they all 
run away; and Falstaff\ after 
a blow or two , runs away too , 
leaving the booty behind them. 

Prince. Got with much ease. Now merrily 
to horse. 

The thieves are all scatt’red and possess’d with 
fear 

So strongly that they dare not meet each other ; 
Each takes his fellow for an officer. 

Away, good Ned. Falstaff sweats to death, m 
And lards the lean earth as he walks along. 
Were’t not for laughing, I should pity him. 

Poins. How the [fat] rogue roar’d ! [Exeunt. 

Scene III. [ Warkworth Castle .] 

Enter Hotspur, solus , reading a letter. 

Hot. “ But, for mine own part, my lord, I 
could be well contented to be there, in respect 
of the love I bear your house.” He could be 
contented : why is he' not, then ? In respect of 
the love he bears our house : he shows in this, 
he loves his own barn better than he loves [5 
our house. Let me see some more. “ The pur¬ 
pose you undertake is dangerous;” — why, 
that’s certain. ’T is dangerous to take a cold, 
to sleep, to drink ; but I tell you, my lord fool, 
out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this [10 
flower, safety. “The purpose you undertake 
is dangerous ; the friends you have named un¬ 
certain ; the time itself unsorted; and your 
whole plot too light for the counterpoise of so 
eat an opposition.” Say you so, say you so? 
say unto you again, you are a shallow, [is 
cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lack-brain 
is this ! By the Lord, our plot is a good plot as 
ever was laid; our friends true and constant: 
a good plot, good friends, and full of expecta¬ 
tion ; an excellent plot, very good friends. [20 
What a frosty-spirited rogue is this ! Why, my 
Lord of York commends the plot and the gen¬ 
eral course of the action. ’Zounds, I were 
now by this rascal, I could brain him with his 
lady’s fan. Is there not my father, my uncle, [25 
and myself ? Lord Edmund Mortimer, my Lord 
of York, and Owen Glendower? Is there not 
besides the Douglas ? Have I not all their let¬ 
ters to meet me in arms by the ninth of the 
next month ? and are they not some of them 
set forward already ? What a pagan rascal [30 
is this! an infidel! Ha! you shall see now in 
very sincerity of fear and cold heart, will he to 
the King and lay open all our proceedings. O, 


I could divide myself and go to buffets, for 
moving such a dish of skim-milk with so [m 
honourable an action ! Hang him ! let him tell 
the King ; we are prepared. I will set forward 
to-night. 

Enter Lady Percy. 

How now, Kate ! I must leave you within these 
two hours. 

Lady. 0 , my good lord, why are you thus 
alone ? 40 

For what offence have I this fortnight been 
A banish’d woman from my Harry’s bed ? 

Tell me, sweet lord, what is’t that takes from 
thee 

Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep ? 
Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth, 
And start so often when thou sit’st alone ? 46 

Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy 
cheeks, 

And given my treasures and my rights of thee 
To thick-^y’d musing and curst melancholy ? 

In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watch’d, 
And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars ; 6i 
Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed ; 
Cry “ Courage ! to the field ! ” And thou hast 
talk’d 

Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents, 

Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets, gs 

Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin, 

Of prisoners’ ransom, and of soldiers slain, 

And all the currents of a heady fight. 

Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war 
And thus hath so bestirr’d thee in thy sleep, eo 
That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow, 
Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream ; 

And in thy face strange motions have appear’d, 
Such as we see when men restrain their breath 
On some great sudden hest. 0 , w r hat portents 
are these ? es 

Some heavy business hath my lord in hand, 

And I must know it, else he loves me not. 

Hot. What, ho! 

[Enter Servant.] 

Is Gilliams with the packet gone ? 
Serv. He is, my lord, an hour ago. 

Hot. Hath Butler brought those horses from 
the sheriff ? 70 

Serv. One horse, my lord, he brought even 
now. 

Hot. What horse ? Roan, a crop-ear, is it 
not? 

Serv. It is, my lord. 

Hot. That roan shall be my throne. 

Well, I will back him straight. O Esperance ! 
Bid Butler lead him forth into the park. 75 

[Exit Servant .1 

Lady. But hear you, my lord. 

Hot. What say’st thou, my lady ? 

Lady. What is it carries you away ? 

Hot. Why, my horse, my love, my horse. 
Lady. Out, you mad-headed ape ! •< 

A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen 
As you are toss’d with. In faith, 

I ’ll know your business, Harry, that I will. 

I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir 







546 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


IT. iv. 


About his title, and hath sent for you *5 

To line his enterprise ; but if you go, — 

Hot. So far afoot, I shall be weary, love. 
Lady. Come, come, you paraquito, answer 
me 

Directly unto this question that I ask. 

In faith, I ’ll break thy little finger, Harry, oo 
An if thou wilt not tell me all things true. 

Hot. Away, 

Away, you trifler! Love ! I love thee not, 

I care not for thee, Kate. This is no world 
To play with mammets and to tilt with lips, os 
We must have bloody noses and crack’d crowns, 
And pass them current too. God’s me, my 
horse ! 

What say’st thou, Kate ? What would’st thou 
have with me ? 

Lady. Do you not love me ? Do you not, 
indeed ? 99 

Well, do not then ; for since you love me not, 

I will not love myself. Do you not love me ? 
Nay, tell me if you speak in jest or no. 

Hot. Come, wilt thou see me ride ? 

And when I am o’ horseback, I will swear 
I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate ; 105 
I must not have you henceforth question me 
Whither I go, nor reason whereabout. 

Whither I must, I must; and, to conclude, 
This evening must I leave you, gentle Kate. 

I know you wise ; but yet no farther wise 
Than Harry Percy’s wife. Constant you are, 
But yet a woman ; and for secrecy, 

No lady closer ; for I well believe 
Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know ; 
And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate. ns 
Lady. How ! so far ? 

Hot. Not an inch further. But hark you, 
Kate: 

Whither I go, thither shall you go too ; 

To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you. 

Will this content you, Kate ? 

Lady. It must of force. 120 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [The Boar's-Head Tavern , East- 
cheap.] 

Enter the Prince and Poins. 

Prince. Ned, prithee, come out of that fat 
room, and lend me thy hand to laugh a little. 
Poins. Where hast been, Hal ? 

Prince. With three or four loggerheads 
amongst three or four score hogsheads. I 
have sounded the very base-string of humility. [« 
Sirrah, I am sworn brother to a leash of draw¬ 
ers ; and can call them all by their christen 
names, as Tom, Dick, and Francis. They take 
it already upon their salvation, that though I 
be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the king [10 
of courtesy; and tell me flatly I am no proud 
Jack, like Falstaff, but a Corinthian, a lad of 
mettle, a good boy, (by the Lord, so they call 
me,) and when I am King of England, I shall 
command all the good lads in Eastcheap. [is 
They call drinking deep, dyeing scarlet; and 
when you breathe in your watering, they cry 
“ hem ! ” and bid you play it off. To conclude, 


I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an 
hour, that I can drink with any tinker in his [20 
own language during my lif«. I tell thee, Ned, 
thou hast lost much honour, that thou wert not 
with me in this action. But, sweet Ned, — to 
sweeten which name of Ned, I give thee this 
pennyworth of sugar, clapp’d even now into 
my hand by an unaer-skinker, one that never [25 
spake other English in his life than “Eight 
shillings and sixpence,” and “ You are wel¬ 
come,” with this shrill addition, “Anon, anon, 
sir ! Score a pint of bastard in the Half-moon,” 
or so. But, Ned, to drive away the time [ 3 ® 
till Falstaff come, I prithee, do thou stand in 
some by-room, while I question my puny drawer 
to what end he gave me the sugar ; and do thou 
never leave calling “ Francis,” that his tale to 
me may be nothing but “Anon.” Step [35 
aside, and I ’ll show thee a precedent. 

Poins. Francis! 

Prince. Thou art perfect. 

Poins. Francis ! [Exit Poins.] *0 

Enter drawer [Francis]. 

Fran. Anon, anon, sir. Look down into the 
Pomgarnet, Ralph. 

Prince. Come hither, Francis. 

Fran. My lord? 

Prince. How long hast thou to serve, Fran¬ 
cis ? 4 n 

Fran. Forsooth, five years, and as much as 
to — 

Poins. [ Within.] Francis! 

Fran. Anon, anon, sir. «» 

Prince. Five year! by ’r lady, a long lease 
for the clinking of pewter. But, Francis, darest 
thou be so valiant as to play the coward with 
thy indenture and show it a fair pair of heels 
and run from it ? 64 

Fran. 0 Lord, sir, I ’ll be sworn upon all the 
books in England, I could find in my heart — 
Poins. [Within.] Francis! 

Fran. Anon, sir. 

Prince. How old art thou, Francis ? 

Fran. Let me see — about Michaelmas next 
I shall be — si 

Poins. [Within.] Francis! 

Fran. Anon, sir. Pray you, stay a little, my 
lord. 

Prince. Nay, but hark you, Francis: for the 
sugar thou gavest me, ’t was a pennyworth, 
was’t not ? 6 s 

Fran. 0 Lord, I would it had been two ! 
Prince. I will give thee for it a thousand 
pound. Ask me when thou wilt, and thou shalt 
have it. . 70 

Poins. [Within.] Francis! 

Fran. Anon, anon. 

Prince. Anon, Francis? No, Francis; but 
to-morrow, Francis; or Francis, o’ Thursday; 
or indeed, Francis, when thou wilt. But, Fran¬ 
cis ! 

Fran. My lord ? w 

Prince. Wilt thou rob this leathern jerkin, 
crystal-button, not-pated, agate-ring, puke- 
stocking, caddis-garter, smooth-tongue, Span- 
ish-pouch, — so 





II. IV. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


547 


Fran. 0 Lord, sir, who do you mean ? 
Prince. Why, then, your brown bastard is 
your only drink ; for look you, Francis, your 
white canvas doublet will sully. In Barbary, 
sir, it cannot come to so much. ee 

Fran. What, sir ? 

Poins. [ Within .] Francis! 

Prince. Away, you rogue ! dost thou not 
hear them call ? so 

[Here they both call him ; the drawer 
stands amazed , not knowing 
which way to go. 

Enter Vintner. 

Vint. What, stand’st thou still, and hear’st 
such a calling ? Look to the guests within. 
[Exit Francis.] My lord, old Sir John with 
half-a-dozen more are at the door ; shall I let 
them in ? 94 

Prince. Let them alone a while, and then 
open the door. [ Exit Vintner.] Poins ! 

Poins. [ Within.] Anon, anon, sir. 

Re-enter Poins. 

Prince. Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the 
thieves are at the door ; shall we be merry ? so 
Poins. As merry as crickets, my lad. But 
hark ye ; what cunning match have you made 
with this jest of the drawer ? Come, what’s the 
issue ? 103 

Prince. I am now of all humours that have 
showed themselves humours since the old days 
of goodman Adam to the pupil age of this pre¬ 
sent twelve o’clock at midnight. 

[Re-enter Francis.] 

What’s o’clock, Francis ? 

Fran. Anon, anon, sir. [Exit.] 109 

Prince. That ever this fellow should have 
fewer words than a parrot, and yet the son of 
a woman ! His industry is upstairs and down¬ 
stairs ; his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. 
I am not yet of Percy’s mind, the Hotspur of 
the north ; he that kills me some six or seven [n« 
dozen of Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands, 
and says to his wife, “ Fie upon this quiet life ! 
I want work.” “ O my sweet Harry,” says she, 
“ how many hast thou kill’d to-day ? ” “ Give 
my roan horse a drench,” says he ; and an¬ 
swers, “ Some fourteen,” an hour after ; “ a [120 
trifle, a trifle.” I prithee, call in Falstaff. I ’ll 

E lay Percy, and that damn’d brawn shall play 
lame Mortimer his wife. “ Rivo ! ” says the 
drunkard. Call in ribs, call in tallow. 12s 

Enter Falstaff [Gadshill, Bardolph, and 
Peto ; Francis following with wine]. 

Poins. Welcome, Jack! Where hast thou 
been ? 

Fal. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a 
vengeance too ! marry, and amen ! Give me a 
cup of sack, hoy. Ere I lead this life long, I ’ll 
sew nether stocks, and mend them and foot 
them too. A plague of all cowards ! Give me a 
cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant ? 132 

[He drinkelh. 

Prince. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a 


dish of butter, pitiful-hearted Titan, that 
melted at the sweet tale of the sun ? If thou 
didst, then behold that compound. 133 

Fal. You rogue, here ’slime in this sack too. 
There is nothing but roguery to be found in 
villanous man ; yet a coward is worse than a cup 
of sack with lime in it. A villanous coward ! 
Go thy ways, old Jack ; die when thou wilt, [uo 
if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon 
the face of the earth, then am I a shotten her¬ 
ring. There lives not three good men unhang’d 
in England ; and one of them is fat and grows 
old. God help the while ! a bad world, I say. [145 
I would I were a weaver ; I could sing psalms 
or anything. A plague of all cowards, I say 
still. 

Prince. How now, wool-sack ! what mutter 

you ? i 4 e 

Fal. A king’s son ! If I do not beat thee out 
of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive 
all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild- 
geese, I’ll never wear hair on my face more. 
You Prince of Wales! 154 

Prince. Why, you whoreson round man, 

what’s the matter ? 

Fal. Are not you a coward ? Answer me to 
that ; and Poins there ? 

Poins. ’Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me 
coward, by the Lord, I ’ll stab thee. 

Fal. I call thee coward! I ’ll see thee 
damn’d ere I call thee coward; but I would 
give a thousand pound I could run as fast as 
thou canst. You are straight enough in the 
shoulders ; you care not who sees your back. 
Call you that backing of your friends ? A 
plague upon such backing! give me them that 
will face me. Give me a cup of sack. I am a 
rogue, if I drunk to-day. i «9 

Prince. O villain ! thy lips are scarce wip’d 
since thou drunk’st last. 

Fal. All’s one for that. (He drinketh.) A 
plague of all cowards, still say I. 

Prince. What’s the matter ? it* 

Fal. What’s the matter ! There be four of 
us here have ta’en a thousand pound this day 
morning. 

Prince. Where is it, Jack ? where is it ? 
Fal. Where is it! Taken from us it is ; a 
hundred upon poor four of us. 

Prince. What, a hundred, man ? 

Fal. I am a rogue, if I were not at half¬ 
sword with a dozen of them two hours together. 
I have scaped by miracle. I am eight times 
thrust through the doublet, four through the 
hose ; my buckler cut through and through ; [i«s 
my sword hack’d like a hand-saw— ecce sig- 
num ! I never dealt better since I was a man ; 
all would not do. A plague of all cowards ! 
Let them speak; if they speak more or less 
than truth, they are villains and the sons of 
darkness. i»i 

Prince. Speak, sirs ; how was it ? 

Gads. We four set upon some dozen — 

Fal. Sixteen at least, my lord. 

Gads. And bound them. wc 

Peto. No, no, they were not bound. 

Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every 







548 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


ii. iv. 


man of them, or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew 
Jew. 

Gads. As we were sharing, some six or seven 
fresh men set upon us — 200 

Fal. And unbound the rest, and then come 
in the other. 

Prince. What, fought you with them all ? 203 
Fal. All! I know not what you call all; but 
if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch 
of radish. If there were not two or three and 
fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two- 
legg’d creature. 

Prince. Pray God you have not murd’red 
some of them. 210 

Fal. Nay, that’s past praying for; I have 
pepper’d two of them. Two I am sure I have 
paid, two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee 
what, Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, 
call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward : 
here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four 
rogues in buckram let drive at me — 217 

Prince. What, four ? Thou saidst but two 
even now. 

Fal. Four, Hal; I told thee four. 

Poins. Ay, ay, he said four. 221 

Fal. These four came all a-front, and mainly 
thrust at me. I made me no more ado but took 
all their seven points in my target, thus. 

Prince. Seven ? why, there were but four 
even now. 220 

Fal. In buckram ? 

Poins. Ay, four, in buckram suits. 

Fal. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain 
else. 230 

Prince. Prithee, let him alone ; we shall have 
more anon. 

Fal. Dost thou hear me, Hal ? 

Prince. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack. 234 
Fal. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. 
These nine in buckram that I told thee of — 
Prince. So, two more already. 

Fal. Their points being broken, — 

Poins. Down fell their hose. 239 

Fal. Began to give me ground ; but I fol¬ 
lowed me close, came in foot and hand, and 
with a thought seven of the eleven I paid. 

Prince. 0 monstrous ! eleven buckram men 
grown out of two ! 244 

Fal. But, as the devil would have it, three 
misbegotten knaves in Kendal green came at 
my back and let drive at me; for it was 
so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy 
hand. 248 

Prince. These lies are like their father that 
begets them ; gross as a mountain, open, palpa¬ 
ble. Why thou clay-brain’d guts, thou knotty- 
pated fool, thou whoreson, obscene, greasy 
tallow-catch, — 203 

Fal. What, art thou mad? art thou mad? 
Is not the truth the truth ? 

Prince. Why, how couldst thou know these 
men in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou 
couldst not see thy hand ? Come, tell us your 
reason ; what say’st thou to this ? 259 

Poins. Come, your reason, Jack, your rea¬ 
son. 

Fal. What, upon compulsion? ’Zounds, an 


I were at the strappado, or all the racks in the 
world, I would not tell you on compulsion. 
Give you a reason on compulsion! If reasons 
were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no 
man a reason upon compulsion, I. ' 266 

Prince. I ’ll be no longer guilty of this sin. 
This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this 
horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh, — 200 
Fal. ’Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, 
you dried neat’s tongue, you bull’s pizzle, you 
stockfish! O for breath to utter what is like 
thee ! you tailor’s-yard, you sheath, you bow- 
case, you vile standing-tuck, — 274 

Prince. Well, breathe a while, and then to 
it again ; and when thou hast tired thyself in 
base comparisons, hear me speak but this: — 
Poins. Mark, Jack. * 7 ® 

Prince. We two saw you four set on four 
and bound them, and were masters of their 
wealth. Mark now, how a plain tale shall put 
you down. Then did we two set on you four; 
and, with a word, out-fac’d you from your 
prize, and have it, yea, and can show it you 
here in the house; and, Falstaff, you carried 
your guts away as nimbly, with as quick [2M 
dexterity, and roar’d for mercy, and still run 
and roar’d, as ever I heard bull-calf. What 
a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as.thou 
hast done, and then say it was in fight! What 
trick, what device, what starting-hole, canst 
thou now find out to hide thee from this open 
and apparent shame ? 292 

Poms. Come, let’s hear, Jack ; what trick 
hast thou now ? 

Fal. By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he 
that made ye. Why, hear you, my masters. 
Was it for me to kill the heir-apparent ? Should 
I turn upon the true prince ? Why, thou know¬ 
est I am as valiant as Hercules ; but beware in¬ 
stinct ; the lion will not touch the true prince. 
Instinct is a great matter; I was now a [300 
coward on instinct. I shall think the better 
of myself and thee during my life ; I for a val¬ 
iant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by 
the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money. 
Hostess, clap to the doors ! Watch to-night, [300 
pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts 
of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come 
to you ! What, shall we be merry ? Shall we 
have a play extempore ? 

Prince. Content; and the argument shall be 
thy running away. sn 

Fal. Ah, no more of that, Hal, an thou lowest 
me ! 

Enter Hostess. 

Host. 0 Jesu, my lord the Prince I 
Prince. How now, my lady the hostess i 
what say’st thou to me ? 310 

Host. Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman 
of the court at door would speak with you. He 
says he comes from your father. 

Prince. Give him as much as will make him 
a royal man, and send him back again to my 
mother. 321 

Fal. What manner of man is he ? 

Host. An old man. 




II. IV. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


549 


Fal. What doth Gravity out of his bed at 
midnight ? Shall I give him his answer ? 326 

Prince. Prithee, do, Jack. 

Fal. Faith, and I’ll send him packing. [Exit. 
Prince. Now, sirs, by ’r lady, you fought 
fair; so did you, Peto ; so did you, Bardolph. 
You are lions too, you ran away upon instinct, 
you will not touch the true prince ; no, fie ! 332 

Bard. Faith, I ran when I saw others run. 
Prince. Faith, tell me now in earnest, how 
came Falstaff’s sword so hack’d ? 

Peto. Why, he hack’d it with his dagger, and 
said he would swear truth out of England but 
he would make you believe it was done in fight, 
and persuaded us to do the like. 339 

Bard. Yea, and to tickle our noses with 
spear-grass to make them bleed, and then to be- 
slubber our garments with it and swear it was 
the blood of true men. I did that I did not this 
seven year before, I blush’d to hear his mon¬ 
strous devices. . 344 

Prince. O villain, thou stolest a cup of sack 
eighteen years ago, and wert taken with the 
manner, and ever since thou ha§t blush’d ex¬ 
tempore. Thou hadst fire and sword on thy 
side, and yet thou ran’st away; what instinct 
hadst thou for it ? 350 

Bard. My lord, do you see these meteors ? 
Do you behold these exhalations ? 

[Pointing to his own face.] 

Prince. I do. 

Bard. What think you they portend ? 
Prince. Hot livers and cold purses. 3 C 5 

Bard. Choler, my lord, if rightly taken. 

Re-enter Falstaff. 

Prince. No, if rightly taken, halter. Here 
comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone. How 
now, my sweet creature of bombast! How long 
is’t ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine own 
knee ? set 

Fal. My own knee ? When I was about thy 
years, Hal, I was not an eagle’s talon in the 
waist; I could have crept into any alderman’s 
thumb-ring. A plague of sighing and grief ! it 
blows a man up like a bladder. There’s 
villanous news abroad. Here was Sir John [366 
Bracy from your father ; you must to the court 
in the morning. That same mad fellow of the 
north, Percy, and he of Wales that gave Ama- 
mon the bastinado and made Lucifer cuckold 
and swore the devil his true liegeman upon the 
cross of a Welsh hook — what a plague call 
you him ? 

Poins. 0 , Glendower. 

Fal. Owen, Owen, the same ; and his son-in- 
law Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and 
that sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that runs 
o’ horseback up a hill perpendicular, — 

Prince. He that rides at high speed and with 
his pistol kills a sparrow flying. sso 

Fal. You have hit it. 

Prince. So did he never the sparrow. 

Fal. Well, that rascal hath good mettle in 
him ; he will not run. 384 

Prince. Why, what a rascal art thou then, to 
praise him so for running ! 


Fal. 0 ’ horseback, ye cuckoo ; but afoot he 
will not budge a foot. 

Prince. Yes, Jack, upon instinct. 

Fal. I grant ye, upon instinct. Well, he is 
there too, and one Murdoch, and a thousand 
blue-cam more. Worcester is stolen away to¬ 
night. Thy father’s beard is turn’d white with 
the news. You may buy land now as cheap as 
stinking mackerel. 39* 

Prince. Why, then, it is like, if there come a 
hot June and this civil buffeting hold, we shall 
buy maidenheads as they buy hob-nails, by the 
hundreds. 399 

Fal. By the mass, lad, thou say’st true ; it is 
like we shall have good trading that way. But 
tell me, Hal, art not thou horrible af eard ? Thou 
being heir-apparent, could the world pick thee 
out three such enemies again as that fiend Doug¬ 
las, that spirit Pei*cy, and that devil Glendower ? 
Art thou not horribly afraid ? Doth not thy 
blood thrill at it ? 407 

Prince. Not a whit, i’ faith ; I lack some of 
thy instinct. 

Fal. Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to¬ 
morrow when thou comest to thy father. If 
thou love me, practise an answer. 412 

Prince. Do thou stand for my father, and 
examine me upon the particulars of my life. 

Fal. Shall 1 ? Content. This chair shall be 
my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this 

cushion my crown. 417 

Prince. Thy state is taken for a join’d-stool, 
thy golden sceptre for a leaden dagger, and thy 
precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown ! 420 
Fal. Well, an the fire of grace be not quite 
out of thee, now shalt thou be moved. Give me 
a cup of sack to make my eyes look red, that 
it may be thought I have wept; for I must 
speak in passion, and I will do it in King Cam- 
byses’ vein. 42a 

Prince. Well, here is my leg. 

Fal. And here is my speech. Stand aside, 
nobility. 

Host. 0 Jesu, this is excellent sport, i’ faith 1 
Fal. Weep not, sweet queen; for trickling 
tears are vain. 431 

Host. 0 , the father, how he holds his coun¬ 
tenance ! 

Fal. For God’s sake, lords, convey my trist¬ 
ful queen; 

For tears do stop the flood-gates of her eyes. 4se 
Host. 0 Jesu, he doth it as like one of these 
harlotry players as ever I see ! 

Fal. Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle- 
brain. Harry, I do not only marvel where thou 
spendest thy time, but also how thou art [mo 
accompanied; for though the camomile, the 
more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet 
youth, the more it is wasted the sooner it wears. 
That thou art my son, I have partly thy mo¬ 
ther’s word, partly my own opinion, but chiefly 
a villanous trick of thine eye and a foolish [445 
hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant 
me. If then thou be son to me, here lies the 
point; why, being son to me, art thou so 
pointed at? Shall the blessed sun of heaven 
prove a micher and eat blackberries? a [460 





55o 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


II. iv. 


question not to be ask’d. Shall the son of Eng¬ 
land prove a thief and take purses ? a question 
to be ask’d. There is a thing, Harry, which 
thou hast often heard of and it is known to 
many in our land by the name of pitch. This 
pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth [«5 
defile ; so doth the company thou keepest: for, 
Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink but 
in tears ; not in pleasure but in passion, not in 
words only, but in woes also ; and yet there is 
a virtuous man whom I have often noted in thy 
company, but I know not his name. «i 

Prince. What manner of man, an it like 
your Majesty ? 

Fal. A goodly portly man, i’ faith, and a 
corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, 
and a most noble carriage ; and, as I think, pes 
his age some fifty, or, by ’r lady, inclining to 
threescore ; and now I remember me, his name 
is Falstaff. If that man should be lewdly given, 
he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in 
his looks. If then the tree may be known [470 
by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then, per¬ 
emptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that 
Falstaff ; him keep with, the rest banish. And 
tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell me, 
where hast thou been this month ? 475 

Prince. Dost thou speak like a king? Do 
thou stand for me, and I ’ll play my father. 

Fal. Depose me? If thou dost it half so 
gravely, so majestically, both in word and 
matter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbit- 
sucker or a poulter’s hare. 481 

Prince. Well, here I am set. 

Fal. And here I stand. Judge, my masters. 
Prince. Now, Harry, whence come you ? 
Fal. My noble lord, from Eastcheap. 485 
Prince. The complaints I hear of thee are 
grievous. 

Fal. ’Sblood, my lord, they are false. — Nay, 
I ’ll tickle ye for a young prince, i’ faith. 489 
Prince. Swearest thou, ungracious boy ? 
Henceforth ne’er look on me. Thou art vio¬ 
lently carried away from grace. There is a 
devil haunts thee in the likeness of an old fat 
man ; a tun of man is thy companion. Why dost 
thou converse with that trunk of humours, that 
bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swollen [495 
parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, 
that stuff’d cloak-bag of guts, that roasted 
Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, 
that reverend vice, that grey iniquity, that 
father ruffian, that vanity in years ? [coo 
Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink 
it? wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a 
capon and eat it? wherein cunning, but in 
craft ? wherein crafty, but in villainy ? wherein 
villanous, but in all things? wherein worthy, 
but in nothing ? cos 

Fal. I would your Grace would take me 
with you. Whom means your Grace ? 

Prince. That villanous abominable misleader 
of youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded 
Satan. 

Fal. My lord, the man I know. cio 

Prince. I know thou dost. 

Fal. But to say I know more harm in him 


than in myself, were to say more than I know. 
That he is old, the more the pity, his white 
hairs do witness it; but that he is, saving 
your reverence, a whoremaster, that I utterly [cis 
deny. If sack and sugar be a fault, God help 
the wicked ! If to be old and merry be a sin, 
then many an old host that I know is damn’d. 
If to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh’s lean 
kine are to be loved. No, my good lord; [5* 
banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; 
but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, 
true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and 
therefore more valiant, being, as he is, old Jack 
Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry’s company, 
banish not him thy Harry’s company. Banish [62« 
plump Jack, and banish all the world. 

Prince. I do, I will. 

[A knocking heard. Exeunt Host¬ 
ess , Francis , and Bardolph.] 

Re-enter Bardolph, running. 

Bard. O, my lord, my lord ! the sheriff with 
a most monstrous watch is at the door. cao 

Fal. Out, ye rogue I Play out the play ; I 
have much to say in the behalf of that Fal¬ 
staff. 

Re-enter the Hostess. 

Host. 0 Jesu. my lord, my lord ! 

Prince. Heign, heigh ! the devil rides upon a 
fiddlestick. What’s the matter ? 635 

Host. The sheriff and all the watch are at 
the door ; they are come to search the house. 
Shall I let them in ? 

Fal. Dost thou hear, Hal? Never call a 
true piece of gold a counterfeit. Thou art 
essentially mad, without seeming so. mi 

Prince. And thou a natural coward, without 
instinct. 

Fal. I deny your major. If you will deny 
the sheriff, so; if not, let him enter. If I be¬ 
come not a cart as well as another man, a plague 
on my bringing up ! I hope I shall as soon be 
strangled with a halter as another. r >48 

Prince. Go, hide thee behind the arras ; the 
rest walk up above. Now, my masters, for a 
true face and good conscience. 

Fal. Both which I have had ; but their date 
is out, and therefore I ’ll hide me. [Exit. 553 

Prince. Call in the sheriff. 

[Exeunt all except the Prince and 
Peto.] 

Enter Sheriff and the Carrier. 

Now, master sheriff, what is your will with 
me ? 

Sher. First, pardon me, my lord. A hue and 
cry 

Hath followed certain men unto this house. 

Prince. What men ? 

Sher. One of them is well known, my gracious 
lord, 

A gross fat man. 

Car. As fat as butter. ees 

Prince. The man, I do assure you, is not 
here, 

For I myself at this time have employ’d him. 





III. 1. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


And, sheriff, I will engage my word to thee 
That I will, by to-morrow dinner-time, 

Send him to answer thee or any man 665 

For anything he shall be charg’d withal. 

And so let me entreat you leave the house. 
Sher. I will, my lord. There are two gentle¬ 
men 

Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks. 
Prince. It may be so. If he have robb’d 
these men, 670 

He shall be answerable ; and so farowell. 

Sher. Good night, my noble lord. 

Prince. I think it is good morrow, is it not ? 
Sher. Indeed, my lord. I think it be two 
o’clock. [Exeunt [Sheriff and Carrier ]. 
Prince. This oily rascal is known as well as 
Paul’s. Go, call him forth. 676 

Peto. Falstaff! — Fast asleep behind the 
arras, and snorting like a horse. 

Prince. Hark, how hard he fetches breath. 
Search his pockets. (He searcheth his pockets , 
and findeth certain papers.) What hast thou 


found ? 682 

Peto. Nothing but papers, my lord. 

Prince. Let ’ssee what they be. Read them. 
Peto. [Reads.] 

Item, A capon. 2 s. 2 d. 

Item, Sauce. 4 d. 

Item, Sack, two gallons . . . 5 s. 8 d. 

Item, Anchovies and sack after supper 2 s. 6 d. 
Item, Bread. ob. 


Prince. O monstrous ! but one half-penny- [501 
worth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack ! 
What there is else, keep close ; we ’ll read it at 
more advantage. There let him sleep till day. 
I ’ll to the court in the morning. We must all to 
the wars, and thy place shall be honourable. [596 
I ’ll procure this fat rogue a charge of foot; 
and I know his death will be a march of twelve- 
score. The money shall be paid back again 
with advantage. Be with me betimes in the 
morning ; and so, good morrow, Peto. eoi 

Peto. Good morrow, good my lord. [Exeunt. 


ACT III 

Scene I. [Bangor. The Archdeacon 1 s house.] 

Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Mortimer, and 
Glendower. 

Mart. These promises are fair, the parties 
sure, 

And our induction full of prosperous hope. 

Hot. Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glendower, 
Will you sit down ? 

And uncle Worcester, — a plague upon it! « 

I have forgot the map. 

Glend. No, here it is. 

Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur, 
For by that name as oft as Lancaster 
Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale and 
with 

A rising sigh he wisheth you in heaven. 10 
Hot. And you in hell, as oft as he hears 
Owen Glendower spoke of. 


55* 


Glend. I cannot blame him. At my nativity 
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, 

Of burning cressets ; and at my birth u 

The frame and huge foundation of the earth 
Shak’d like a coward. 

Hot. Why, so it would have done at the same 
season, if your mother’s cat had but kitten’d, 
though yourself had never been born. 2c 

Glend. I say the earth did shake when I was 
born. 

Hot. And I say the earth was not of my mind, 
If you suppose as fearing you it shook. 

Glend. The heavens were all on fire, the 
earth did tremble. 

Hot. O, then the earth shook to see the hea¬ 
vens cii fire, 26 

And not in fear of your nativity. 

Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth 
In strange eruptions ; oft the teeming earth 
Is with a kind of colic pinch’d and vex’d 
Bv the imprisoning of unruly wind 30 

Within her womb; which, for enlargement 
striving, 

Shakes the old beldam earth, and topples down 
Steeples and moss-grown towers. At your birth 
Our grandam earth, having this distemperature, 
In passion shook. 

Glend. Cousin, of many men » 

I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave 
To tell you once again that at my birth 
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, 
The goats ran from the mountains, and the 
herds 

Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields. 
These signs have mark’d me extraordinary ; « 
And all the courses of my life do show 
I am not in the roll of common men. 

Where is he living, clipp’d in with the sea 
That chides the banks of England. Scotland, 
Wales, « 

Which calls me pupil, or hath read to me ? 

And bring him out that is but woman’s son 
Can trace me in the tedious ways of art 
And hold me pace in deep experiments. 

Hot. I think there’s no man speaks better 
Welsh. I ’ll to dinner. bi 

Mort. Peace, cousin Percy ; you will make 
him mad. 

Glend. I can call spirits from the vasty deep. 
Hot. Why, so can 1 , or so can any man ; 

But will they come when you ao call for 
them ? 66 

Glend. Why, I can teach you, cousin, to 
command 
The devil. 

Hot. And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the 
devil 

By telling truth. “Tell truth and shame the 
devil.” 

If thou have power to raise him, bring him 
hither, « 

And I ’ll be sworn I have power to shame him 
hence. 

0 , while you live, tell truth and shame the 
devil! 

Mort. Come, come, no more of this unprofifr 
able chat. 




THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


III. L 


35 2 


Glend. Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke 
made head 

Against my power; thrice from the banks of 
Wye _ ss 

And sandy-bottom’d Severn have I sent him 
Bootless home and weather-beaten back. 

Hot. Home without boots, and in foul wea¬ 
ther too ! 

How scapes he agues, in the devil’s name V 
Glend. Come, here’s the map. Shall we 
divide our right to 

According to our threefold order ta’en ? 

Mort. The Archdeacon hath divided it 
Into three limits very equally. 

England, from Trent and Severn hitherto, 

By south and east is to my part assign’d ; T5 
All westward, Wales beyond the Severn shore, 
And all the fertile land within that bound, 

To Owen Glendower ; and, dear coz, to you 
The remnant northward, lying off from Trent. 
And our indentures tripartite are drawn; so 
Which being sealed interchangeably, 

A business that this night may execute, 
To-morrow, cousin Percy, you and I 
And my good Lord of Worcester will set forth 
To meet your father and the Scottish power, 86 
As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury. 

My father Glendower is not ready yet, 

Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days. 
Within that space you may have drawn to¬ 
gether 

Your tenants, friends, and neighbouring gen¬ 
tlemen. 90 

Glend. A shorter time shall send me to you, 
lords ; 

And in my conduct shall your ladies come, 
From whom you now must steal and take no 
leave, 

For there will be a world of water shed 
Upon the parting of your wives and you. 96 
Hot. Methinks my moiety, north from Bur¬ 
ton here, 

In quantity equals not one of yours. 

See how this river comes me cranking in, 

And cuts me from the best of all my land 
A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out. ioo 
I ’ll have the current in this place damm’d 
up; 

And here the smug and silver Trent shall run 
In a new channel, fair and evenly. 

It shall not wind with such a deep indent, 

To rob me of so rich a bottom here. 105 

Glend. Not wind ? It shall, it must; you see 
it doth. 

Mort. Yea, but 

Mark how he bears his course, and runs me up 
With like advantage on the other side ; 

Gelding the opposed continent as much no 
As on the other side it takes from you. 

Wor. Yea, but a little charge will trench 
him here 

And on this north side win this cape of land ; 
And then he runs straight and even. 

Hot. I ’ll have it so ; a little charge will do 
it. lie 

Glend. I ’ll not have it alt’red. 

Hot. Will not you ? 


Glend. No, nor you shall not. 

Hot. Who shall say me nay ? 

Glend. Why, that will I. 

Hot. Let me not understand you, then; 
speak it in Welsh. 120 

Glend. I can speak English, lord, as well as 
you; 

For I was train’d up in the English court; 
Where, being but young, I framed to the harp 
Many an English ditty lovely well 
And gave the tongue a helpful ornament, ws 
A virtue that was never seen in you. 

Hot. Marry, 

And I am glad of it with all my heart. 

I had rather be a kitten and cry mew 
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers. 
I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn’d, i 3 t 
Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree ; 

And that would set my teeth nothing on edge, 
Nothing so much as mincing poetry. 

’T is like the forc’d gait of a shuffling nag. i 36 
Glend. Come, you shall have Trent turn’d. 
Hot. I do not care. I ’ll give thrice so much 
land 

To any well-deserving friend ; 

But in the way of bargain, mark ye me, 

I ’ll cavil on the ninth part of a hair. wo 

Are the indentures drawn ? Shall we be gone ? 
Glend. The moon shines fair ; you may away 
by night. 

I ’ll haste the writer, and withal 
Break with your wives of your departure 
hence. 

I am afraid my daughter will run mad, ue 
So much she doteth on her Mortimer. [Exit. 
Mort. Fie, cousin Percy ! how you cross my 
father ! 

Hot. I cannot choose. Sometime he angers 

me 

With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant, 
Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies, too 
And of a dragon and a Unless fish, 

A clip-wing’d griffin and a moulten raven, 

A couching lion and a ramping cat, 

And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff 
As puts me from my faith. I tell you what: iee 
He held me last nignt at least nine hours 
In reckoning up the several devils’ names 
That were his lackeys. I cried “hum,” and 
“well, goto,” 

But mark’d him not a word. O, he is as tedious 
As a tired horse, a railing wife ; is* 

Worse than a smoky house. I had rather live 
With cheese and garlic in a windmill, far, 

Than feed on cates and have him talk to me 
In any summer-house in Christendom. 

Mort.' In faith, he is a worthy gentleman, iee 
Exceedingly well read, and profited 
In strange concealments, valiant as a lion 
And wondrous affable, and as bountiful 
As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin ? 

He holds your temper in a high respect ito 
A nd curbs himself even of his natural scope 
When you come ’cross his humour. Faith, he 
does. 

I warrant you, that man is not alive 
Might so have tempted him as you have done, 





III. 11. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


553 


Without the taste of danger and reproof. i 76 

But do not use it oft, let me entreat you. 

Wor. In faith, my lord, you are too wilful- 
blame ; 

And since your coming hither have done enough 
To put him quite besides his patience. 

You must needs learn, lord, to amend this 
fault. iso 

Though sometimes it show greatness, courage, 
blood,— 

And that’s the dearest grace it renders you, — 
Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage, 
Defect of manners, want of government, 

Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain ; i« 
The least of which haunting a nobleman 
Loseth men’s hearts and leaves behind a stain 
Upon the beauty of all parts besides, 

Beguiling them of commendation. 

Hot. Well, I am school’d. Good manners be 
your speed! wo 

Here come our wives, and let us take our leave. 

Re-enter Glendower with the ladies. 

Mort. This is the deadly spite that angers 
me; 

My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh. 
Glend. My daughter weeps ; she will not part 
with you. 

She ’ll be a soldier too, she ’ll to the wars. ws 
Mort. Good father, tell her that she and my 
aunt Percy 

Shall follow in your conduct speedily. 

I Glendower speaks to her in Welsh , 
and she answers him in the same. 
Glend. She is desperate here ; a peevish self- 
will’d harlotry, one that no persuasion can do 
good upon. [ The lady speaks in Welsh. 200 

Mort. I understand thy looks. That pretty 
Welsh 

Which thou pourest down from these swelling 
heavens 

I am too perfect in ; and, but for shame, 

In such a parley should I answer thee. 

[The lady speaks again in Welsh. 
I understand thy kisses and thou mine, 206 
And that’s a feeling disputation. 

But I will never be a truant, love, 

Till I have learn’d thy language ; for thy tongue 
Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn’d, 
Sung by a fair queen in a summer’s bower, 210 
With ravishing division, to her lute. 

Glend. Nay, if you melt, then will she run 
mad. [ The lady speaks again in Welsh. 

Mort. O, I am ignorance itself in this ! 

Glend. She bids you on the wanton rushes 
lay you down 

And rest your gentle head upon her lap, 216 
And she will sing the song that pleaseth you 
And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep, 
Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness, 
Making such difference ’twixt wake and sleep 
As is the difference ’twixt day and night 220 
The hour before the heavenly-harness’d team 
Begins his golden progress in the east. 

Mort. With all my heart I ’ll sit and hear her 
sing. 

By that time will our book, I think be drawn. 


Glend. Do so ; 226 

And those musicians that shall play to you 
Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence, 
And straight they shall be here. Sit, and attend. 

Hot. Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying 
down. Come, quick, quick, that I may lay my 
head in thy lap. 231 

Lady P. Go, ye giddy goose. 

[ The music plays. 
Hot. Now I perceive the devil understands 
Welsh ; 

And’t is no marvel he is so humorous. 

By ’r lady, he is a good musician. 235 

Lady P. Then should you be nothing but 
musical, for you are altogether governed by 
humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear the lady 
sing in Welsh. 

Hot. I had rather hear Lady, my brach, 
howl in Irish. 241 

Lady P. Wouldst thou have thy head bro¬ 
ken ? 

Hot. No. 

Lady P. Then be still. 

Hot. Neither; ’tis a woman’s fault. mb 
Lady P. Now God help thee ! 

Hot. To the Welsh lady’s bed. 

Lady P. What’s that r 
Hot. Peace ! she sings. 

[Here the lady sings a Welsh song. 
Hot. Come, Kate, I ’ll have your song too. 
Lady P. Not mine, in good sooth. 251 

Hot. Not yours, in good sooth! Heart, you 
swear like a comfit-maker’s wife. “Not you, in 
good sooth,” and “ as true as I live,” and “ as 
God shall mend me,” and “ as sure as day; ” 266 
And givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths 
As if thou never walk’st further than Fins¬ 
bury. 

Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art, 

A good mouth-filling oath, and leave “in 
sooth,” 

And such protest of pepper-gingerbread, 200 
To velvet-guards and Sunday-citizens. 

Come, sing. 

Lady P. I will not sing. 

Hot. ’T is the next way to turn tailor, or 
be red-breast teacher. An the indentures be 
drawn, I ’ll away within these two hours; 
and so, come in when ye will. [Exit. 237 

Glend. Come, come, Lord Mortimer ; you are 
as slow 

As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go. 

By this our book is drawn. We ’ll but seal, 
And then to horse immediately. 

Mort. With all my heart. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [London. The palace.} 

Enter the King, Prince of Wales, and others. 

King. Lords, give us leave; the Prince of 
Wales and I 

Must have some private conference; but be 
near at hand, 

For we shall presently have need of you. 

[Exeunt Lords. 

I know not whether God will have it so, 





554 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


III. 1L 


For some displeasing service I have done, s 
That, in his secret doom, out of my blood 
He ’ll breed revengement and a scourge for 
me; 

But thou dost in thy passages of life 
Make me believe that thou art only mark’d 
For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven 10 
To punish my mistreadings. Tell me else, 
Could such inordinate and low desires, 

Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean 
attempts, 

Such barren pleasures, rude society, 

As thou art match’d withal and grafted to, is 
Accompany the greatness of thy blood 
And hold their level with thy princely heart ? 
Prince. So please your Majesty, I would I 
could 

Quit all offences with as clear excuse 

As well as I am doubtless I can purge 20 

Myself of many I am charg’d withal. 

Yet such extenuation let me beg, 

As, in reproof of many tales devis’d, 

Which oft the ear of greatness needs must 
hear, 

By smiling pick-thanks and base newsmon¬ 
gers, 25 

I may, for some things true, wherein my youth 
Hath faulty wand’red and irregular, 

Find pardon on my true submission. 

King. God pardon thee 1 yet let me wonder, 
Harry, 

At thy affections, which do hold a wing 30 
uite from the flight of all thy ancestors, 
hy place in council thou hast rudely lost, 
Which by thy younger brother is suppli’d, 

And art almost an alien to the hearts 
Of all the court and princes of my blood. 35 
The hope and expectation of thy time 
Is ruin’d, and the soul of every man 
Prophetically do forethink thy fall. 

Had I so lavish of my presence been, 

So common-hackney’d in the eyes of men, <0 
So stale and cheap to vulgar company, 

Opinion, that did help me to the crown, 

Had still kept loyal to possession 
And left me in reputeless banishment, 

A fellow of no mark nor likelihood. « 

By being seldom seen, I could not stir 
But like a comet I was wond’red at; 

That men would tell their children, “ This is 
he ; ” 

Others would say, “ Where, which is Boling- 
broke ? ” 

And then I stole all courtesy from heaven, co 
And dress’d myself in such humility 
That I did pluck allegiance from men’s hearts, 
Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths, 
Even in the presence of the crowned King. 
Thus did I keep my person fresh and new, es 
My presence, like a robe pontifical, 

Ne’er seen but wond’red at; and so my state, 
Seldom but sumptuous, show’d like a feast 
And won by rareness such solemnity. 

The skipping King, he ambled up and down eo 
With shallow jesters and rash bavin wits, 

Soon kindled and soon burnt; carded his state, 
Mingled his royalty with cap’ring fools, 


PIad his great name profaned with their scorns, 
And gave his countenance, against his name, « 
To laugh at gibing boys and stand the push 
Of every beardless vain comparative; 

Grew a companion to the common streets, 
Enfeoff’d himself to popularity ; 

That, being daily swallowed by men’s eyes, ra 
They surfeited with honey and began 
To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a 
little 

More than a little is by much too much. 

So when he had occasion to be seen, 

He was but as the cuckoo is in June, 75 

Heard, not regarded; seen, but with such eyes 
As, sick and blunted with community, 

Afford no extraordinary gaze, 

Such as is bent on sun-like majesty 
When it shines seldom in admiring eyes ; so 
Butrather drows’d and hung their eyelids down, 
Slept in his face and rend’red such aspect 
As cloudy men use to their adversaries, 

Being with his presence glutted, gorg’d and 
full. 

And in that very line, Harry, standest thou; 8 « 
For thou hast lost thy princely privilege 
With vile participation. Not an eye 
But is a-weary of thy common sight, 

Save mine, which hath desir’d to see thee 
more ; 

Which now doth that I would not have it do, »o 
Make blind itself with foolish tenderness. 
Prince. I shall hereafter, my thrice gracious 
lord, 

Be more myself. 

King. For all the world 

As thou art to this hour was Richard then 
When I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh, 95 
And even as I was then is Percy now. 

Now, by my sceptre and my soul to boot, 

He hath more worthy interest to the state 
Than thou, the shadow of succession. 

For of no right, nor colour like to right, 100 
He doth fill fields with harness in the realm, 
Turns head against the lion’s armed jaws, 

And, being no more in debt to years than thou, 
Leads ancient lords and reverend bishops on 
To bloody battles and to bruising arms. iob 
What never-dying honour hath he got 
Against renowned Douglas ! whose high deeds, 
Whose hot incursions and great name in arms 
Holds from all soldiers chief majority 
And military title capital 110 

Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge 
Christ. 

Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathling 
clothes, 

This infant warrior, in his enterprises 
Discomfited great Douglas, ta’en him once, 
Enlarged him and made a friend of him, 116 
To fill the mouth of deep defiance up 
And shake the peace and safety of our throne. 
And what say you to this ? Percy, Northum¬ 
berland, 

The Archbishop’s grace of York, Douglas, 
Mortimer, 

Capitulate against us and are up. 121 

But wherefore do I tell these news to thee ? 




THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


5SS 


III. iii. 


Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes, 

Which art my near’st and dearest enemy ? 
Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear, 
Base inclination, and the start of spleen, 125 
To fight against me under Percy’s pay, 

To dog his heels and curtsy at his frowns, 

To show how much thou art degenerate. 
Prince. Do not think so ; you shall not find 
it so: 

And God forgive them that so much have 
sway’d 130 

Your Majesty’s good thoughts away from me ! 
I will redeem all this on Percy’s head, 

And in the closing of some glorious day 
Be bold to tell you that I am your son ; 

When I will wear a garment all of blood 135 
And stain my favour in a bloody mask, 

Which, wash’d away, shall scour my shame 
with it. 

And that shall be the day, whene’er it lights, 
That this same child of honour and renown, 
This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight, 140 
And your unthought-of Harry chance to meet. 
For every honour sitting on his helm, 

Would they were multitudes, and on ray head 
My shames redoubled ! For the time will come, 
That I shall make this northern youth ex¬ 
change 145 

His glorious deeds for my indignities. 

Percy is but my factor, good my lord, 

To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf; 
And I wiH call him to so strict account 
That he shall render every glory up, iso 

Yea, even the slightest worship of nis time, 

Or 1 will tear the reckoning from his heart. 
This, in the name of God, I promise here ; 

The which if He be pleas’d I shall perform, 

I do beseech your Majesty may salve iss 

The long-grown wounds of my intemperance. 

If not, the end of life cancels all bands ; 

And I will die a hundred thousand deaths 
Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow. 

King. A hundred thousand rebels die in this. 
Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust 
herein. isi 

Enter Blunt. 

How now, good Blunt? Thy looks are full of 
speed. 

Blunt. So hath the business that I come to 
speak of. 

Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word 
That Douglas and the English rebels met 166 
The eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury. 

A mighty and a fearful head they are, 

If promises be kept on every hand, 

As ever off’red foul play in a state. 

King. The Earl of Westmoreland set forth 
to-day, 

With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster, 

For this advertisement is five days old. 

On Wednesday next, Harry, you shall set for¬ 
ward ; 

On Thursday we ourselves will march. Our 
meeting 

Is Bridgenorth : and, Harry, you shall march its 
T hrough Gloucestershire ; by which account, 


Our business valued, some twelve days hence 
Our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet. 
Our hands are full of business ; let’s away. 
Advantage feeds him fat, while men delay. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. [ Eastcheap. The Boar's-Head 
Tavern .] 

Enter Falstaff and Bardolph. 

Fal. Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely 
since this last action ? Do I not bate ? Do I not 
dwindle ? Why, my skin hangs about me like 
an old lady’s loose gown; I am withered like 
an old apple-john. Well, 1 ’ll repent, and that 
suddenly, while I am in some liking. I shall [s 
be out of heart shortly, and then 1 shall have 
no strength to repent. An I have not forgotten 
what the inside of a church is made of, I am a 
peppercorn, a brewer’s horse. The inside of a 
church ! Company, villanous company, hath [10 
been the spoil of me. 

Bard. Sir John, you are so fretful, you can¬ 
not live long. u 

Fal. Why, there is it. Come sing me a bawdy 
song; make me merry. I was as virtuously 
given as a gentleman need to be; virtuous 
enough, swore little, dic’d not above seven 
times a week, went to a bawdy-house not above 
once in a quarter — of an hour, paid money that 
I borrowed three or four times, lived well [21 
and in good compass ; and now I live out of all 
order, out of all compass. 

Bard. Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that 
you must needs be out of all compass, out of all 
reasonable compass, Sir John. 26 

Fal. Do thou amend thy face, and I ’ll 
amend my life. Thou art our admiral; thou 
bearest the lantern in the poop, but’t is in the 
nose of thee. Thou art the Knight of the Burn¬ 
ing Lamp. 30 

Bard. Why, Sir John, my face does you no 
harm. 

Fal. No, I ’ll be sworn ; I make as good use 
of it as many a man doth of a Death’s-head or 
a memento mori; I never see thy face but I 
think upon hell-fire and Dives that lived in [35 
purple; for there he is in his robes, burning, 
burning. If thou wert any way given to virtue, 
I would swear by thy face ; my oath should be, 
“ By this fire, that’s God’s angel;” but thou 
art altogether given over, and wert indeed, [40 
but for the light in thy face, the son of utter 
darkness. When thou ran’st up Gadshill in the 
night to catch my horse, if I did not think 
thou hadst been an ignis fatuus or a ball of 
wildfire, there’s no purchase in money. O, [45 
thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting 
bonfire-light! Thou hast saved me a thousand 
marks in links and torches, walking with thee 
in the night betwixt tavern and tavern ; but 
the sack that thou hast drunk me would [so 
have bought me lights as good cheap at the 
dearest chandler’s in Europe. I have main¬ 
tain’d that salamander of yours with fire any 
time this two and thirty years; God reward 
me for it I 66 





556 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


hi. iii. 


Bard. ’Sblood, I would my face were in your 
belly! 

Fal. God-a-mercy! so should I be sure to 
be heart-burn’d. 

Enter Hostess. 

How now, Dame Partlet the hen ! have you in¬ 
quir’d yet who pick’d my pocket ? si 

Host. Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir 
John ? Do you think I keep thieves in my 
house ? I have search’d, I have inquired, so 
has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, [ee 
servant by servant. The tithe of a hair was 
never lost in my house before. 

Fal. Ye lie, hostess. Bardolph was shav’d 
and lost many a hair ; and I ’ll be sworn my 
pocket was pick’d. Go to, you are a woman, 
go. 70 

Host. Who? I? No; I defy thee. God’s 
light, I was never call’d so in mine own house 
before. 

Fal. Go to, I know you well enough. 

Host. No, Sir John ; you do not know me, 
Sir John. I know you, Sir John ; you owe me [75 
money, Sir John ; and now you pick a quarrel 
to beguile me of it. I bought you a dozen of 
shirts to your back. 

Fal. Dowlas, filthy dowlas. I have given 
them away to bakers’ wives ; they have made 
bolters of them. ei 

Host. Now, as I am a true woman, holland 
of eight shillings an ell. You owe money here 
besides, Sir John, for your diet and by-drink- 
ings, and money lent you, four and twenty 
pound. 86 

Fal. He had his part of it; let him pay. 
Host. He ? Alas, he is poor ; he hath no¬ 
thing. 

Fal. How ! poor ? Look upon his face ; what 
call you rich ? Let them coin his nose, let [so 
them coin his cheeks. I ’ll not pay a denier. 
What, will you make a younker of me ? Shall 
I not take mine ease in mine inn but I shall 
have my pocket pick’d ? I have lost a seal-ring 
of my grandfather’s worth forty mark. 00 

Host. 0 Jesu, I have heard the Prince tell 
him, I know not how oft, that that ring was 
copper! 

Fal. How ! the Prince is a Jack, a sneak- 
cup. ’Sblood, an he were here, I would cudgel 
him like a dog, if he would say so. 101 

Enter the Prince [and Peto], marching , and 
Falstaff meets them playing on his truncheon 
like a fife. 

How now, lad ! is the wind in that door, i’ 
faith ? Must we all march ? 

Bard. Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion. 
Host. My lord, I pray you, hear me. 10s 
Prince. What say’st thou, Mistress Quickly ? 
How doth thy husband ? I love him well; he 
is an honest man. 

Host. Good my lord, hear me. 

Fal. Prithee, let her alone, and list to me. no 
Prince. What say’st thou, Jack ? 

Fal. The other night I fell asleep here be¬ 
hind the arras and had my pocket pick’d. 


This house is turn’d bawdy-house; they pick 
pockets. 

Prince. What didst thou lose, Jack ? no 
Fal. Wilt thou believe me, Hal ? Three or 
four bonds of forty pound a-piece, and a seal¬ 
ring of my grandfather’s. 

Prince. A trifle, some eight-penny matter. 
Host. So I told him, my lord, and I said I [120 
heard your Grace say so ; and, my lord, he 
speaks most vilely of you, like a foul-mouth’d 
man as he is, and said he would cudgel you. 
Prince. What 1 he did not ? 

Host. There’s neither faith, truth, nor wo¬ 
manhood in me else. 126 

Fal. There’s no more faith in thee than in a 
stew’d prune ; nor no more truth in thee than 
in a drawn fox ; and for womanhood, Maid 
Marian may be the deputy’s wife of the ward 
to thee. Go, you thing, go. m 

Host. Say, what thing ? what thing ? 

Fal. What thing ? Why, a thing to thank 
God on. 

Host. I am no thing to thank God on, I [iss 
would thou shouldst know it. I am an honest 
man’s wife ; and, setting thy knighthood aside, 
thou art a knave to call me so. 

Fal. Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art 
a beast to say otherwise. 140 

Host. Say, what beast, thou knave, thou ? 
Fal. What beast ? Why, an otter. 

Prince. An otter, Sir John ! Why an otter ? 
Fal. Why, she’s neither fish nor flesh ; a 
man knows not where to have her. 1« 

Host. Thou art an unjust man in saying so. 
Thou or any man knows where to have me, 
thou knave, thou ! 

Prince. Thou say’st true, hostess ; and he 
slanders thee most grossly. iso 

Host. So he doth you, my lord; and said 
this other day you ought him a thousand pound. 

Prince. Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand 
pound ? is* 

Fal. A thousand pound, Hal! A million. 
Thy love is worth a million ; thou ow’st me thy 
love. 

Host. Nay, my lord, he called you Jack, and 
said he would cudgel you. 

Fal. Did I, Bardolph ? ico 

Bard. Indeed, Sir John, you said so. 

Fal. Yea, if he said my ring^was copper. 
Prince. I say ’tis copper. Dar’st thou be as 
good as thy word now ? m 

Fal. Why, Hal, thou know’st, as thou art 
but man, I dare ; but as thou art Prince, I fear 
thee as I fear the roaring of the lion’s whelp. 
Prince. And why not as the lion ? 

Fal. The King himself is to be feared as 
the lion. Dost thou think I ’ll fear thee as I 
fear thy father ? Nay, an I do, I pray God my 
girdle break. m 

Prince. 0 , if it should, how would thy guts 
fall about thy knees! But, sirrah, there’s no 
room for faith, truth, nor honesty in this bosom 
of thine ; it is all filled up with guts and mid¬ 
riff. Charge an honest woman with picking [its 
thy pocket! Why, thou whoreson, impudent, 
emboss’d rascal, if there were anything in thy 




IV. l. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


557 


pocket but tavern-reckonings, memorandums 
of bawdy-houses, and one poor penny-worth of 
sugar-candy to make thee long-winded, if [iso 
thy pocket were enrich’d with any other inju¬ 
ries but these, I am a villain. And yet you will 
stand to it; you will not pocket up wrong. Art 
thou not asham’d ? m 

Fal. Dost thou hear, Hal ? Thou know’st 
in the state of innocency Adam fell; and what 
should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of 
villainy ? Thou seest I have more flesh than 
another man, and therefore more frailty. You 
confess then, you pick’d my pocket ? iao 

Prince. It appears so by the story. 

Fal. Hostess, I forgive thee. Go, make 
ready breakfast; love thy husband, look to thy 
servants, cherish thy guests. Thou shalt find 
me tractable to any honest reason ; thou seest 
I am pacified still. Nay, prithee, be gone. isa 

[Exit Hostess. 

Now, Hal, to the news at court. For the rob¬ 
bery, lad, how is that answered ? 

Prince. 0 , my sweet beef, I must still be 
good angel to thee. The money is paid back 
again. 200 

Fal. O, I do not like that paying back ; ’t is 
a double labour. 

Prince. I am good friends with my father 
and may do anything. 204 

Fal. Rob me the exchequer the first thing 
thou doest, and do it with unwash’d hands too. 

Bard. Do, my lord. 

Prince. I have procured thee, Jack, a charge 

of foot. 209 

Fal. I would it had been of horse. Where 
shall I find one that can steal well ? 0 for a fine 
thief, of the age of two and twenty or there¬ 
abouts ! Iam heinously unprovided. Well, God 
be thanked for these rebels, they offend none 
but the virtuous. I laud them, I praise them. 

Prince. Bardolph ! 216 

Bard. My lord? 

Prince. Go bear this letter to Lord John of 
Lancaster, to my brother John; this to my 
Lord of Westmoreland. [Exit Bardolph .] Go, 
Peto, to horse, to horse; for thou and I have 
thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner time. [Exit 
Peto.] Jack, meet me to-morrow in the Tem¬ 
ple hall at two o’clock in the afternoon. 224 
There shalt thou know thy charge, and there 
receive 

Money and order for their furniture. 

The land is burning ; Percy stands on high ; . 
And either we or they must lower lie. [Exit.] 

Fal. Rare words! brave world! Hostess, 
my breakfast, come! 

0 , I could wish this tavern were my drum ! 230 

[Exit. 


ACT IV 

Scene I. [The rebel camp near Shrewsbury.] 
Enter Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas. 

Hot. Well said, my noble Scot! If speaking 
truth 

In this fine age were not thought flattery, 


Such attribution should the Douglas have 
As not a soldier of this season’s stamp 
Should go so general current through the 
world. b 

By God, I cannot flatter ; I do defy 
The tongues of soothers ; but a braver place 
In my heart’s love hath no man than yourself. 
Nay, task me to my word ; approve me, lord. 

Doug. Thou art the king of honour. 10 

No man so potent breathes upon the ground 
But I will beard him. 

Enter a Messenger with letters. 

Hot. Do so, and’t is well. — 

What letters hast thou there ? — I can but 
thank you. 

Mess. These letters come from your father. 
Hot. Letters from him ! Why comes he not 
himself ? is 

Mess. He cannot come, my lord ; he is griev¬ 
ous sick. 

Hot. ’Zounds ! how has' he the leisure to be 
sick 

In such a justling time ? Who leads his power ? 
Under whose government come they along ? 
Mess. His letters bears his mind, not I, my 
lord. 20 

IVor. I prithee, tell me, doth he keep his 
bed ? 

Mess. He did, my lord, four days ere I set 
forth; 

And at the time of my departure thence 
He was much fear’d by his physicians. 

Wor. I would the state of time had first been 
whole 26 

Ere he by sickness had been visited. 

His health was never better worth than now. 
Hot. Sick now ! droop now ! This sickness 
doth infect 

The very life-blood of our enterprise ; 

’T is catching hither, even to our camp. 30 
He writes me here, that inward sickness — 
And that his friends by deputation could not 
So soon be drawn, nor did he think it meet 
To lay so dangerous and dear a trust 
On any soul remov’d but on his own. ae 

Yet doth he give us bold advertisement 
That with our small conjunction we should on 
To see how fortune is dispos’d to us ; 

For, as he writes, there is no quailing now, 
Because the King is certainly possess’d «o 

Of all our purposes. What say you to it? 

Wor. Your father’s sickness is a maim to us. 
Hot. A perilous gash, a very limb lopp’d off. 
And yet, in faith, ’tis not; his present want 
Seems more than we shall find it. Were it 
good « 

To set the exact wealth of all our states 
All at one cast ? to set so rich a main 
On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour ? 

It were not good ; for therein should we read 
The very bottom and the soul of hope, 

The very list, the very utmost bound 
Of all our fortunes. 

Doug. Faith, and so we should ,* 

Where now remains a sweet reversion, 

We may boldly spend upon the hope of what 




THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


iv. il 


558 


Is to come in. es 

A comfort of retirement lives in this. 

Hot. A rendezvous, a home to fly unto, 

If that the devil and mischance look big 
Upon the maidenhead of our affairs. 

Wor. But yet I would your father had been 
here. eo 

The quality and hair of our attempt 
Brooks no division. It will be thought 
By some that know not why he is away, 

That wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike 
Of our proceedings kept the earl from hence ; 
And think how such an apprehension 66 

May turn the tide of fearful faction 
And breed a kind of question in our cause. 

For well you know we of the off’ring side 
Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement, to 

And stop all sight-holes, every loop from whence 
The eye of reason may pry in upon us. 

This absence of your father’s draws a curtain, 
That shows the ignorant a kind of fear 
Before not dreamt of. 

Hot. You strain too far. jb 

I rather of his absence make this use : 

It lends a lustre and more great opinion, 

A larger dare to our great enterprise, 

Than if the earl were here; for men must 
think, 

If we without his help can make a head so 
To push against a kingdom, with his help 
We shall o’erturn it topsy-turvy down. 

Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole. 
Doug. As heart can think. There is not such 
a word 

Spoke of in Scotland as this term of fear. sc 

Enter Sir Richard Vernon. 

Hot. My cousin Vernon ! welcome, by my 
soul. 

Ver. Pray God my news be worth a welcome, 
lord. 

The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand 
strong, 

Is marching hitherwards ; with him Prince 
John. 

Hot. No harm. What more ? 

Ver. And further, I have learn’d, 

The King himself in person is set forth, 91 
Or hitherwards intended speedily, 

With strong and mighty preparation. 

Hot. He shall be welcome too. Where is his 
son, 

The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales, sc 
And his comrades, that daff’d the world aside, 
And bid it pass ? 

Ver. All furnish’d, all in arms ; 

All plum’d like estridges that with the wind 
Bated, like eagles having lately bath’d ; 
Glittering in golden coats, like images ; 100 

As full of spirit as the month of May, 

And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer ; 
Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls. 
I saw young Harry, with his beaver on, 

His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm’d, ioc 
Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury, 
And vaulted with such ease into his seat, 

As if an angel dropp’d down from the clouds 


To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus 
And witch the world with noble horseman¬ 
ship. 

Hot. No more, no more ! Worse than the 
sun in March, 

This praise doth nourish agues. Let them 
come ! 

They come like sacrifices in their trim, 

And to the fire-ey’d maid of smoky war 
All hot and bleeding will we offer them. 

The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit 
Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire 
To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh 
And yet not ours. Come, let me taste my 
horse, 

Who is to bear me like a thunderbolt rn 

Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales. 
Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse, 

Meet and ne’er part till one drop down a corse. 
0 that Glendower were come ! 

Ver. There is more newe. 

I learn’d in Worcester, as I rode along, i?« 
He cannot draw his power this fourteen days. 
Doug. That’s the worst tidings that I hear 
of yet. 

Wor. Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty 
sound. 

Hot. What may the King’s whole battle 
reach unto ? 

Ver. To thirty thousand. 

Hot. Forty let it be ! iv 

My father and Glendower being both away, 
The powers of us may serve so great a day. 
Come, let us take a muster speedily. 

Doomsdav is near ; die all, die merrily. 

Doug. Talk not of dying ; I am out of fear 
Of death or death’s hand for this one-half 
year. [ Exeunt . iaf 

Scene II. [A public road near Coventry .] 
Enter Falstaff and Bardolph. 

Fal. Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry r 
fill me a bottle of sack. Our soldiers shall 
march through ; we ’ll to Sutton Cop-hill to¬ 
night. 

Bard. Will you give me money, captain ? 
Fal. Lay out, lay out. b 

Bard. This bottle makes an angel. 

Fal. An if it do, take it for thy labour: 
and if it make twenty, take them all; I ’ll 
answer the coinage. Bid my lieutenant Peto 
meet me at town’s end. i« 

Bard. I will, captain ; farewell. [Exit. 
Fal. If I be not asham’d of my soldiers, I 
am a sous’d gurnet. I have misus’d the King’s 
press damnably. I have got, in exchange of a 
hundred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and 
odd pounds. I press me none but good [is 
householders, yeoman’s sons; inquire me out 
contracted bachelors, such as had been ask’d 
twice on the banns ; such a commodity of warm 
slaves, as had as lieve hear the devil as a drum ; 
such as fear the report of a caliver worse [«« 
than a struck fowl or a hurt wild-duck. I 
press’d me none but such toasts-and-butter, 
with hearts in their bellies no bigger than pins' 




IV. iii. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


559 


heads; and they have bought out their ser¬ 
vices ; and now my whole charge consists of [2s 
ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of 
companies, slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the 
ainted cloth, where the glutton’s dogs licked 
is sores ; and such as, indeed, were never sol¬ 
diers, butdiscarded unjustserving-men, younger 
sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters [30 
and ostlers trade-fallen, the cankers of a calm 
world and a long peace, ten times more dishon¬ 
ourable ragged than an old feaz’d ancient: 
and such have I, to fill up the rooms of them 
as have bought out their services, that you [35 
w’ould think that I had a hundred and fifty tat¬ 
ter’d prodigals lately come from swine-keeping, 
from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met 
me on the way and told me I had unloaded all 
the gibbets and press’d the dead bodies. No [40 
eye hath seen such scarecrows. I ’ll not march 
through Coventry with them, that’s flat. Nay, 
and the villains march wide betwixt the legs, 
as if they had gyves on; for indeed I had the 
most of them out of prison. There’s but a [46 
shirt and a half in all my company ; and the 
half shirt is two napkins tack’d together and 
thrown over the shoulders like an herald’s coat 
without sleeves; and the shirt, to say the 
truth, stolen from my host at Saint Alban’s, 
or the red-nose inn-keeper of Daventry. [so 
But that’s all one; they ’ll find linen enough 
on every hedge. 

Enter the Prince and Westmoreland. 

Prince. How now, blown Jack! how now, 
quilt! 64 

Fal. What, Hal! how now, mad wag ! what 
a devil dost thou in Warwickshire ? My good 
Lord of Westmoreland, I cry you mercy! I 
thought your honour had already been at 
Shrewsbury. so 

West. Faith, Sir John, ’t is more than time 
that I were there, and you too ; but my powers 
are there already. The King, I can tell you, 
looks for us all. We must away all night. 

Fal. Tut, never fear me. I am as vigilant 
as a cat to steal cream. es 

Prince. I think, to steal cream indeed, for 
thy theft hath already made thee butter. But 
tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that 
come after ? 

Fal. Mine, Hal, mine. so 

Prince. I did never see such pitiful rascals. 
Fal. Tut, tut; good enough to toss; food 
for powder, food for powder ; they ’ll fill a pit 
as well as better. Tush, man, mortal men, mor¬ 
tal men. 

West. Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are 
exceeding poor and bare, too beggarly. 75 

Fal. Faith, for their poverty, I know not 
where they had that; and for their bareness, I 
am sure they never learn’d that of me. 

Prince. No, I ’ll be sworn; unless yoii call 
three fingers on the ribs bare. But, sirrah, 
make haste. Percy is already in the field. si 
Fal. What, is the King encamp’d ? 

West. He is, Sir John. I fear we shall stay 
too long. 


Fal. Well, 

To the latter end of a fray and the beginning 
of a feast ss 

Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest. [ Exeunt. 

Scene III. [The rebel camp near Shrewsbury .] 

Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Douglas, and 
Vernon. 

Hot. We ’ll fight with him to-night. 

Wor. It may not be. 

Doug. You give him then advantage. 

Ver. Not a whit. 

Hot. Why say you so ? Looks he not for 
supply ? 

Ver. So do we. 

Hot. His is certain, ours is doubtful. 

Wor. Good cousin, be advis’d ; stir not to¬ 
night. s 

Ver. Do not, my lord. 

Doug. You do not counsel well. 

You speak it out of fear and cold heart. 

Ver. Do me no slander, Douglas. By my 
life, 

And I dare well maintain it with my life, 

If well-respected honour bid me on, 10 

I hold as little counsel with weak fear 
As you, my lord, or any Scot that this day 
lives. 

Let it be seen to-morrow in the battle 
Which of us fears. 

Doug. Yea, or to-night. 

Ver. Content. 

Hot. To-night, say I. is 

Ver. Come, come, it may not be. I wonder 
much, 

Being men of such great leading as you are, 
That you foresee not what impediments 
Drag back our expedition. Certain horse 
Of my cousin Vernon’s are not yet come up. 20 
Your uncle Worcester’s horse came but to-day ; 
And now their pride and mettle is asleep, 

Their courage with hard labour tame and dull, 
That not a horse is half the half of himself. 

Hot. So are the horses of the enemy 23 

In general, journey-bated and brought low. 

The better part of ours are full of rest. 

Wor. The number of the King exceedeth 
ours. 

For God’s sake, cousin, stay till all come in. 

[The trumpet sounds a parley. 

Enter Sir Walter Blunt. 

Blunt. I come with gracious offers from the 
King, 30 

If you vouchsafe me hearing and respect. 

Hot. Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt; and 
would to God 

You were of our determination! 

Some of us love you well; and even those 
some 

Envy your great deservings and good name, 35 
Because you are not of our quality, 

But stand against us like an enemy. 

Blunt. And God defend but still I should 
stand so, 

So long as out of limit and true rule 





5 6 ° 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


iv. iv. 


You stand against anointed majesty. 40 

But to my charge. The King hath sent to 
know 

The nature of your griefs, and whereupon 
You conjure from the breast of civil peace 
Such bold hostility, teaching his duteous land 
Audacious cruelty. If that the King « 

Have any way your good deserts forgot, 

Which he confesseth to be manifold, 

He bids you name your griefs; and with all 
speed 

You shall have your desires with interest 
And pardon absolute for yourself and these eo 
Herein misled by your suggestion. 

Hot. The King is kind ; and well we know 
the King 

Knows at what time to promise, when to pay. 
My father and my uncle and myself 
Did give him that same royalty he wears ; bb 
And when he was not six and twenty strong, 
Sick in the world’s regard, wretched and low, 
A poor unminded outlaw sneaking home, 

My father gave him welcome to the shore ; 

And when he heard him swear and vow to God 
He came but to be Duke of Lancaster, 61 

To sue his livery and beg his peace, 

With tears of innocence and terms of zeal, 

My father, in kind heart and pity mov’d, 

Swore him assistance and perform’d it too. os 
Now when the lords and barons of the realm 
Perceiv’d Northumberland did lean to him, 

The more and less came in with cap and knee ; 
Met him in boroughs, cities, villages, 

Attended him on bridges, stood in lanes, to 
L aid gifts before him, proffer’d him their 
oaths, 

Gave him their heirs as pages, followed him 
Even at the heels in golden multitudes. 

He presently, as greatness knows itself, 

Steps me a little higher than his vow 75 

Made to my father, while his blood was poor, 
Upon the naked shore at Ravenspurgh ; 

And now, forsooth, takes on him to reform 
Some certain edicts and some strait decrees 
That lie too heavy on the commonwealth, so 
Cries out upon abuses, seems to weep 
Over his country’s wrongs ; and by this face, 
This seeming brow of justice, did he win 
The hearts of all that he did angle for ; 
Proceeded further ; cut me off the heads so 
Of all the favourites that the absent king 
In deputation left behind him here, 

When he was personal in the Irish war. 

Blunt. Tut, I came not to hear this. 

Hot. Then to the point. 

In short time after, he depos’d the King ; 90 

Soon after that, depriv’d him of his life ; 

And in the neck of that, task’d the whole state. 
To make that worse, suffer’d his kinsman 
March, 

Who is, if every owner were well plac’d, 

Indeed his king, to be engag’d in Wales, 95 
There without ransom tolie forfeited ; 

Disgrac’d me in my happy victories, 

Sought to entrap me by intelligence ; 

Rated mine uncle from the council-board ; 

In rage dismiss’d my father from the court; 100 


Broke oath on oath, committed wrong on 
wrong, 

And in conclusion drove us to seek out 
This head of safety ; and withal to pry 
Into his title, the which we find 
Too indirect for long continuance. ioo 

Blunt. Shall I return this answer to the 
King ? 

Hot. Not so, Sir Walter; we ’ll withdraw 
a while. 

Go to the King ; and let there be impawn’d 
Some surety for a safe return again, 

And in the morning early shall mine uncle no 
Bring him our purposes : and so farewell. 
Blunt. I would you would accept of grace 
and love. 

Hot. And may be so we shall. 

Blunt. Pray God you do. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [York. The Archbishop ' 1 s palace.] 

Enter the Archbishop of York and Sir 
Michael. 

Arch. Hie, good Sir Michael; bear this 
sealed brief 

With winged haste to the Lord Marshal, 

This to my cousin Scroop, and all the rest 
To whom they are directed. If you knew 
How much they do import, you would make 
haste. 5 

Sir M. My good lord, 

I guess their tenour. 

Arch. Like enough you do. 

To-morrow, good Sir Michael, is a day 
Wherein the fortune of ten thousand men 
Must bide the touch ; for, sir, at Shrewsbury, 10 
As I am truly given to understand, 

The King with mighty and quick-raised power 
Meets with Lord Harry; and, I fear, Sir 
Michael, 

What with the sickness of Northumberland, 
Whose power was in the first proportion, is 
And what with Owen Glendower’s absence 
thence, 

Who with them was a rated sinew too 
And comes not in, o’er-rul’d by prophecies, 

I fear the power of Percy is too weak 
To wage an instant trial with the King. 20 
Sir M. Why, my good lord, you need not 
fear; 

There is Douglas and Lord Mortimer. 

Arch. No, Mortimer is not there. 

Sir M. But there is Murdoch, Vernon, Lord 
Harry Percy, 

And there is my Lord of Worcester, and a head 
Of gallant warriors, noble gentlemen. 2« 

Arch. And so there is; but yet the King 
hath drawn 

The special head of all the land together: 

The Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster, 
The noble Westmoreland, and warlike Blunt; 30 
And many moe corrivals and dear men 
Of estimation and command in arms. 

Sir M. Doubt not, my lord, they shall be 
well oppos’d. 

Arch. I hope no less, yet needful’t is to fear; 




THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


v. i. 


And, to prevent the worst, Sir Michael, speed ; 
For if Lord Percy thrive not, ere the King se 
Dismiss his power he means to visit us, 

For he hath heard of our confederacy, 

And ’t is but wisdom to make strong against 
him. 

Therefore make haste. I must go write again 40 
To other friends ; and so farewell, Sir Michael. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT V 

Scene I. [ The King's camp near Shrewsbury .] 

Enter the King, Prince of Wales, Lord 
John of Lancaster, Sir Walter Blunt, 
and Falstaff. 

King. How bloodily the sun begins to peer 
Above yon husky hill! The day looks pale 
At his distemperature. 

Prince. The southern wind 

Doth play the trumpet to his purposes, 

And by his hollow whistling in the leaves 6 
Foretells a tempest and a blust’ring day. 

King. Then with the losers let it sympathize, 
For nothing can seem foul to those that win. 

[The trumpet sounds. 

Enter Worcester [and Vernon]. 

How now, my Lord of Worcester I ’tis not well 
That you and I should meet upon such terms 10 
As now we meet. You have deceiv’d our trust, 
And made us doff our easy robes of peace, 

To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel. 

This is not well, my lord, this is not well. 

What say you to it ? Will you again unknit 15 
This churlish knot of all-abhorred war ? 

And move in that obedient orb again 
Where you did give a fair and natural light, 
And be no more an exhal’d meteor, 

A prodigy of fear and a portent 20 

Of broached mischief to the unborn times ? 

Wor. Hear me, my liege. 

For mine own part, I could be well content 
To entertain the lag-end of my life 
With quiet hours ; for I do protest, 25 

I have not sought the day or this dislike. 

King. You have not sought it 1 How comes 
it, then ? 

Fal. Rebellion lay in his way, and he found 
it. 

Prince. Peace, chewet, peace ! 

Wor. It pleas’d your Majesty to turn your 
looks 30 

Of favour from myself and all our house ; 

And yet I must remember you, my lord, 

We were the first and dearest of your friends. 
For you my staff of office did I break 
I11 Richard’s time ; and posted day and night 35 
To meet you on the way, and kiss your hand, 
When yet you were in place and in account 
Nothing so strong and fortunate as I. 

It was myself, my brother, and his son, 

That brought you home and boldly did outdare 
The dangers of the time. You swore to us, «i 
And you did swear that oath at Doncaster, 

That you did nothing purpose ’gainst the state ; 


5 6 * 


Nor claim no further than your new-fallen 
right, 

The seat of Gaunt, dukedom of Lancaster. 45 
To this we swore our aid. But in short space 
It rain’d down fortune show’ring on your head ; 
And such a flood of greatness fell on you, 

What with our help, what with the absent King, 
What with the injuries of a wanton time, sc 
The seeming sufferances that you had borne, 
And the contrarious winds that held the King 
So long in his unlucky Irish wars 
That all in England aid repute him dead ; 

And from this swarm of fair advantages si> 

You took occasion to be quickly woo’d 
To gripe the general sway into your hand ; 
Forgot your oath to us at Doncaster ; 

And being fed by us you us’d us so 

As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo’s bird, so 

Useth the sparrow ; did oppress our nest; 

Grew by our feeding to so great a bulk 
That even our love durst not come near your 
sight 

For fear of swallowing ; but with nimble wing 
We were enforc’d, for safety sake, to fly es 
Out of your sight and raise this present head ; 
Whereby we stand opposed by such means 
As you yourself have forg’d against yourself 
By unkind usage, dangerous countenance, 

And violation of all faith and troth 70 

Sworn to us in your younger enterprise. 

King. These things indeed you have articu¬ 
late, 

Proclaim’d at market-crosses, read in churches, 
To face the garment of rebellion 
With some fine colour that may please the eye 
Of fickle changelings and poor discontents, 73 
Which gape and rub the elbow at the news 
Of hurly-burly innovation. 

And never yet did insurrection want 
Such water-colours to impaint his cause ; st 
Nor moody beggars, starving for a time 
Of pell-mell havoc and confusion. 

Prince. In both your armies there is many a 
soul 

Shall pay full dearly for this encounter, 

If once they join in trial. Tell your nephew, 8 s 
The Prince of Wales doth join with all the 
world 

In praise of Henry Percy. By my hopes, 

This present enterprise set off his head, 

I do not think a braver gentleman, 

More active-valiant or more valiant-young, &c 
More daring or more bold, is now alive 
To grace this latter age with noble deeds. 

For my part, I may speak it to my shame, 

I have a truant been to chivalry ; 

And so I hear he doth account me too ; as 

Yet this before my father’s majesty : 

I am content that he shall take the odds 
Of his great name and estimation, 

And will, to save the blood on either side, 

Try fortune with him in a single fight. 100 

King. And, Prince of Wales, so dare we 
venture thee, 

Albeit considerations infinite 

Do make against it. No, good Worcester, no, 

We love our people well; even those we love 






562 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


v. a 


That are misled upon your cousin’s part; 105 

And, will they take the offer of our grace, 

Both he and they and you, yea, every man 
Shall be my friend again and I ’ll be his. 

So tell your cousin, and bring me word 
What he will do. But if he will not yield, no 
Rebuke and dread correction wait on us 
And they shall do their office. So, be gone ; 
We will not now be troubled with reply. 

We offer fair ; take it advisedly. 

[.Exeunt Worcester [and Vernon ]. 
Prince. It will not be accepted, on my life. 
The Douglas and the Hotspur both together ns 
Are confident against the world in arms. 

King. Hence, therefore, every leader to his 
charge, 

For, on their answer, will we set on them ; 

And God befriend us, as our cause is just! 120 

[Exeunt all but the Prince of Wales 
and Falstaff. 

Fal. Hal, if thou see me down in the battle 
and bestride me, so ; ’t is a point of friendship. 

Prince. Nothing but a colossus can do thee 
that friendship. Say thy prayers, and farewell. 

Fal. I would’t were bed-time, Hal, and all 
well. 126 

Prince. Why, thou owest God a death. 

[Exit.] 

Fal. ’T is not due yet; I would be loath to 
pay him before his day. What need I be so 
forward with him that calls not on me ? 
Well, ’t is no matter ; honour pricks me on. [130 
Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I 
come on ? How then ? Can honour set to a leg ? 
No. Or an arm ? No. Or take away the grief 
of a wound ? No. Honour hath no skill in sur¬ 
gery, then ? No. What is honour ? A word. [135 
What is in that word honour ? What is that 
honour ? Air ; a trim reckoning ! Who hath 
it? He that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel 
it? No. Doth he hear it? No. ’T is insensible, 
then ? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live [i«> 
with the living? No. Why? Detraction will 
not suffer it. Therefore I ’ll none of it. Honour 
is a mere scutcheon : and so ends my catechism. 

[Exit. 

Scene II. [The rebel camp.] 

Enter Worcester and Vernon. 

Wor. O, no, my nephew must not know, Sir 
Richard, 

The liberal and kind offer of the King. 

Ver. ’T were best he did. 

Wor. Then are we all undone. 

It is not possible, it cannot be, 

The King should keep his word in loving us. b 
He will suspect us still, and find a time 
To punish this offence in other faults. 
Supposition all our lives shall be stuck full of 
eyes; . 

For treason is but trusted like the fox, 

Who, ne’er so tame, so cherish’d and lock’d up, 
Will have a wild trick of his ancestors. 11 
Look how we can, or sad or merrily, 
Interpretation will misquote our looks, 

And we shall feed like oxen at a stall, 


The better cherish’d, still the nearer death, in 
My nephew’s trespass may be well forgot; 

It hath the excuse of youth and heat of blood, 
And an adopted name of privilege, 

A hare-brain’d Hotspur, govern’d by a spleen. 
All his offences live upon my head 21 

And on his father’s. We did train him on, 
And, his corruption being ta’en from us, 

We, as the spring of all, shall pay for all. 
Therefore, good cousin, let not Harry know, 

In any case, the offer of the King. 26 

Ver. Deliver what you will; I ’ll say’t is so. 
Here comes your cousin. 

Enter Hotspur [and Douglas]. 

Hot. My uncle is return’d ; 

Deliver up my Lord of Westmoreland. 

Uncle, what news ? 30 

Wor. The King will bid you battle pre¬ 
sently. 

Doug. Defy him by the Lord of Westmore¬ 
land. 

Hot. Lord Douglas, go you and tell him so. 
Doug. Marry, and shall, and very willingly. 

[Exit. 

Wor. There is no seeming mercy in the 
King. 35 

Hot. Did you beg any ? God forbid! 

Wor. I told him gently of our grievances, 

Of his oath-breaking ; which he mended thus, 
By now forswearing that he is forsworn. 

He calls us rebels, traitors ; and will scourge « 
With haughty arms this hateful name in us. 

Re-enter Douglas. 

Doug. Arm, gentlemen ; to arms! for I have 
thrown 

A brave defiance in King Henry’s teeth, 

And Westmoreland, that was engag’d, did bear 

it; 

Which cannot choose but bring him quickly on. 
Wor. The Prince of Wales stepp’d forth 
before the King, 46 

And, nephew, challeng’d you to single fight. 
Hot. 0 , would the quarrel lay upon our 
heads, 

And that no man might draw short breath to¬ 
day 

But I and Harry Monmouth ! Tell me, tell me, 
How show’d his tasking? Seem’d it in con¬ 
tempt ? 51 

Ver. No, by my soul; I never in my life 
Did hear a challenge urg’d more modestly, 
Unless a brother should a brother dare 
To gentle exercise and proof of arms. bb 

He gave you all the duties of a man, 

Trimm’d up your praises with a princely tongue, 
Spoke your deservings like a chronicle, 

Making you ever better than his praise 
By still dispraising praise valued with you ; eo 
And, which became him like a prince indeed. 
He made a blushing cital of himself, 

And chid his truant youth with such a grace 
As if he mast’red there a double spirit 
Of teaching and of learning instantly. « 

There did he pause ; but let me tell the world. 
If he outlive the envy of this day, 




THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


563 


v. iii. 


England did never owe so sweet a hope, 

So much misconstrued in his wantonness. 

Hot. Cousin, I think thou art enamoured to 
O n his follies. Never did I hear 
Of any prince so wild a liberty. 

But be he as he will, yet once ere night 
I will embrace him with a soldier’s arm, 

That he shall shrink under my courtesy. 75 
Arm, arm with speed! and, fellows, soldiers, 
friends, 

Better consider what you have to do 
Than I, that have not well the gift of tongue, 
Can lift your blood up with persuasion. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. My lord, here are letters for you. so 
Hot. I cannot read them now. 

O gentlemen, the time of life is short! 

To spend that shortness basely were too long, 

If life did ride upon a dial’s point, 

Still ending at the arrival of an hour. sc 

An if we live, we live to tread on kings ; 

If die, brave death, when princes die with us! 
Now, for our consciences, the arms are fair, 
When the intent of bearing them is just. 

Enter another Messenger. 

[2.] Mess. My lord, prepare ; the King comes 
on apace. 90 

Hot. I thank him that he cuts me from my 
tale, 

For I profess not talking ; only this — 

Let each man do his best; and here draw I 
A sword, whose temper I intend to stain 
With the best blood that I can meet withal 95 
In the adventure of this perilous day. 

Now Esperance ! Percy ! and set on. 

Sound all the lofty instruments of war, 

And by that music let us all embrace ; 

For, heaven to earth, some of us never shall 100 
A second time do such a courtesy. 

[They embrace [and exeunt ]. 

[Scene III. Plain between the camps.] 

The trumpets sound. The King enters with his 
power and passes over. Alarum to the battle. 
Then enter Douglas and Sir Walter 
Blunt. 

Blunt. What is thy name, that in the battle 
thus 

Thou crossest me ? What honour dost thou seek 
Upon my head ? 

Doug. Know then, my name is Douglas ; 
And I do haunt thee in the battle thus 
Because some tell me that thou art a king. s 
Blunt. They tell thee true. 

Doug. The Lord of Stafford dear to-day 
hath bought 

Thy likeness, for instead of thee, King Harry, 
This sword hath ended him. So shall it thee, 
Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner. 10 

Blunt. I was not born a yielder, thou proud 
Scot; 

And thou shalt find a king that will revenge 
Lord Stafford’s death. 

[ They fight. Douglas kills Blunt, 1 

• 


Enter Hotspur. 

Hot. O Douglas, hadst thou fought at Holme- 
don thus, 

I never had triumph’d upon a Scot. 16 

Doug. All’s done, all’s won ; here breath¬ 
less lies the King. 

Hot. Where? 

Doug. Here. 

Hot. This, Douglas ? No. I know this face 
full well. 

A gallant knight he was, his name was 
Blunt; 20 

Semblably furnish’d like the King himself. 
Doug. Ah ! “ fool ” go with thy soul, whither 
it goes ! 

A borrowed title hast thou bought too dear. 
Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a king ? 
Hot. The King hath many marching in his 

coats. 25 

Doug. Now, by my sword, I will kill all his 
coats ; 

I ’ll murder all his wardrobe, piece by piece, 
Until I meet the King. 

Hot. Up, and away ! 

Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day. 29 

[Exeunt. 

Alarum. Enter Falstaff, solus. 

Fal. Though I could scape shot-free at Lon¬ 
don, I fear the shot here ; here’s no scoring 
but upon the pate. Soft! who are you ? Sir 
Walter Blunt. There’shonour for you ! Here’s 
no vanity ! I am as hot as molten lead, and as 
heavy too. God keep lead out of me ! I need 
no more weight than mine own bowels. I [35 
have led my ragamuffins where they are pep¬ 
per’d. There’s not three of my hundred and 
fifty left alive ; and they are for the town’s 
end, to beg during life. But who comes here ? 40 

Enter the Prince. 

Prince. What, stands thou idle here ? Lend 
me thy sword. 

Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff 
Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies, 

Whose deaths are yet unreveng’d. I prithee, 
lend me thy sword. 44 

Fal. 0 Hal, 1 prithee, give me leave to 
breathe a while. Turk Gregory never did such 
deeds in arms as I have done this day. I have 
paid Percy, I have made him sure. 

Prince. He is, indeed; and living to kill 
thee. I prithee, lend me thy sword. so 

Fal. Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be 
alive, thou gets not my sword ; but take my 
pistol, if thou wilt. 

Prince. Give it me. What, is it in the case ? 
Fal. Ay, Hal; ’t is hot, ’t is hot. There’s 
that will sack a city. s« 

[The Prince draws it out , and finds 
it to be a bottle of sack. 

Prince. What, is it a time to jest and dally 
now ? [He throws the bottle at him. Exit. 

Fal. Well, if Percy be alive, I ’ll pierce him. 
If he do come in mv way, so; if he do not, if 
I come in his willingly, let him make a car- [« 





5 <H 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


V. IV. 


bonado of me. I like not such grinning honour 
as Sir Walter hath. Give me life, which if 
I can save, so; if not, honour comes unlook’d 
for, and there’s an end. [Exit, es 

Scene [IY. Another part of the field,.} 

Alarum. Excursions. Enter the King, the Prince 
[wounded], Lord John of Lancaster, and 
Earl of Westmoreland. 

King. I prithee, 

Harry, withdraw thyself; thou bleedest too 
much. 

Lord John of Lancaster, go you with him. 

Lan. Not I, my lord, unless I did bleed too. 
Prince. I beseech your Majesty, make up, s 
Lest your retirement do amaze your friends. 
King. I will do so. 

My Lord of Westmoreland, lead him to his tent. 
West. Come, my lord, I ’ll lead you to your 
tent. 

Prince. Lead me, my lord ? I do not need 
your help : 10 

And God forbid a shallow scratch should drive 
The Prince of Wales from such a field as this, 
Where stain’d nobility lies trodden on, 

And rebels’ arms triumph in massacres! 

Lan. We breathe too long. Come, cousin 
Westmoreland, is 

Our duty this way lies ; for God’s sake, come. 

[Exeunt Prince John and Westmore¬ 
land.] 

Prince. By God, thou hast deceiv’d me, 

Lancaster ; 

I did not think thee lord of such a spirit. 
Before, I lov’d thee as a brother, John ; 

But now, I do respect thee as my soul. 20 

King. I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point 
With lustier maintenance than I did look for 
Of such an ungrown warrior. 

Prince. 0 , this boy 

Lends mettle to us all! [Exit. 

Enter Douglas. 

Doug. Another king ! they grow like Hy¬ 
dra’s heads. 25 

I am the Douglas, fatal to all those 
That wear those colours on them. What art 
thou, 

That counterfeit’st the person of a king ? 

King. The King himself; who, Douglas, 
grieves at heart 

So many of his shadows thou hast met 30 

And not the very King. I have two boys 
Seek Percy and thyself about the field ; 

But, seeing thou fall’st on me so luckily, 

I will assay thee ; so, defend thyself. 

Doug. I fear thou art another counterfeit; 35 
And yet, in faith, thou bear’st thee like a king. 
But mine I am sure thou art, whoe’er thou be, 
And thus I win thee. 

They fight; the King bei ng in danger , re-enter 
Prince of Wales. 

Prince. Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou 
art like 

Keyer to hold it up again ! The spirits 40 


Of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt, are in my 
arms. 

It is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee, 
Who never promiseth but he means to pay. 

[Theyfight: Douglasfiles. 
Cheerly, my lord, how fares your Grace ? 

Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succour sent, «« 
And so hath Clifton. I ’ll to Clifton straight. 

Kina. Stay, and breathe a while. 

Thou hast redeem’d thy lost opinion, 

And show’d thou mak’st some tender of my 
life, 

In this fair rescue thou hast brought to me. 00 
Prince. 0 God ! they did me too much in¬ 
jury 

That ever said I heark’ned for your death. 

If it were so, I might have let alone 
The insulting hand of Douglas over you, 

Which would have been as speedy in your end 
As all the poisonous potions in the world, 00 
And sav’d the treacherous labour of your son. 
King. Make up to Clifton. I ’ll to Sir Nicho¬ 
las Gawsey. [Exit. 

Enter Hotspur. 

Sot. If I mistake not, thou art Harry Mon¬ 
mouth. 

Prince. Thou speak’st as if I would deny my 
name. 00 

Hot. My name is Harry Percy. 

Prince. Why, then I see 

A very valiant rebel of the name. 

I am the Prince of Wales; and think not, 
Percy, 

To share with me in glory any more. 

Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere ; 
Nor can one England brook a double reign 6« 
Of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales. 

Hot. Nor shall it, Harry; for the hour is 
come 

To end the one of us; and would to God 
Thy name in arms were now as great as mine ! 
Prince. I ’ll make a greater ere I part from 
thee; 71 

And all the budding honours on thy crest 
I ’ll crop, to make a garland for my head. 

Hot. I can no longer brook thy vanities. 

[They fight. 

Enter Falstaff. 

Fal. Well said, Hal! to it, Hal! Nay, you 
shall find no boy’s play here, I can tell you. *76 

Re-enter Douglas ; he fights with Falstaff. who 
falls down as if he were dead [and exit Doug¬ 
las. Hotspur is wounded , ana falls}. 

Hot. 0 , Harry, thou hast robb’d me of my 
youth ! 

I better brook the loss of brittle life 
Than those proud titles thou hast won of me. 
They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword 
my flesh. so 

But thought’s the slave of life, and life time’s 
fool; 

And time, that takes survey of all the world, 
Must have a stop. 0 , I could prophesy, 

But that the earthy and cold hand of death 




V. V. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


Lies on my tongue. No, Percy, thou art dust, *s 
And food for— [Dies.] 

Prince. For worms, brave Percy. Fare thee 
well, great heart! 

Ill-weav’d ambition, how much art thou shrunk! 
When that this body did contain a spirit, 

A kingdom for it was too small a bound ; 90 

But now two paces of the vilest earth 
Is room enough. This earth that bears thee 
dead 

Bears not alive so stout a gentleman. 

If thou wert sensible of courtesy, 

I should not make so dear a show of zeal; 95 

But let my favours hide thy mangled face ; 
And, even in thy behalf, I ’ll thank myself 
For doing these fair rites of tenderness. 

Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven ! 
Thy ignomy sleep with thee in the grave, 100 
But not rememb’red in thy epitaph ! 

[He spieth Falstaff on the ground. 
What, old acquaintance ! could not all this flesh 
Keep in a little life ? Poor Jack, farewell! 

I could have better spar’d a better man. 

O, I should have a heavy miss of thee, too 

If I were much in love with vanity ! 

Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day, 
Though many dearer, in this bloody fray. 

Embowell’d will I see thee by and by ; wa 
Till then in blood by noble Percy lie. [Exit. 

Fal. (Rising up.) Embowell’d ! if thou em¬ 
bowel me to-day, I ’ll give you leave to powder 
me and eat me too to-morrow. ’Sblood, ’twas 
time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot 
had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit ? I 
lie, I am no counterfeit. To die is to be a [ns 
counterfeit, for he is but the counterfeit of a 
man who hath not the life of a man ; but to 
counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liveth, 
is to be no counterfeit, but the true and per¬ 
fect image of life indeed. The better part [120 
of valour is discretion ; in the which better 
part I have saved my life. ’Zounds, I am 
afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be 
dead. How, if he should counterfeit too and 
rise ? By my faith, I am afraid he would [125 
prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I ’ll 
make him sure ; yea, and I ’ll swear I kill’d 
him. Why may not he rise as well as I ? No¬ 
thing confutes me but eyes, a,nd nobody sees me. 
Therefore, sirrah [ stabbing him], with a new [130 
wound in your thigh, come you along with me. 

[Takes up Hotspur on his back. 

Re-enter the Prince of Wales and Lord John 
of Lancaster. 


Prince. Come, brother John ; full bravely 
hast thou flesh’d 
Thy maiden sword. 

Lan. But, soft! whom have we here ? 

Did you not tell me this fat man was dead ? 135 
Prince. I did ; I saw him dead, 

Breathless and bleeding on the ground. Art 
thou alive ? 

Or is it fantasy that plays upon our eyesight ? 

I prithee, speak ; we will not trust our eyes 
Without our ears. Thou art not what thou 
seera’st, 


S6S 


Fal. No, that’s certain ; I am not a double 
man ; but if I be not Jack Falstaff, then am I a 
Jack. There is Percy [throwing the body down J. 
If your father will do me any honour, so; if 
not, let him kill the next Percy himself. I look 
to be either earl or duke, I can assure you. no 
Prince. Why, Percy I kill’d myself, and saw 
thee dead.. 

Fal. Didst thou ? Lord, Lord, how thif 
world is given to lying ! 1 grant you I was 
down and out of breath, and so was he ; but 
we rose both at an instant and fought a [is* 
long hour by Shrewsbury clock. If I may be 
believed, so; if not, let them that should re¬ 
ward valour bear the sin upon their own heads. 
I ’ll take it upon my death, I gave him this 
wound in the thigh. If the man were alive [iss 
and would deny it, ’zounds, I would make him 
eat a piece of my sword. 

Lan. This is the strangest tale that ever I 
heard. 

Prince. This is the strangest fellow, brother 
John. 

Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back. i«o 
For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, 

I ’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have. 

[A retreat is sounded. 

The trumpet sounds retreat; the day is ours. 
Come, brother, let us to the highest of the 
field, 

To see what friends are living, who are dead. 10c 
[Exeunt [Prince of Wales and Lan¬ 
caster]. 

Fal. I’ll follow, as they say, for reward. 
He that rewards me, God reward him ! If I do 
grow great, I ’ll grow less ; for I ’ll purge, and 
leave sack, and live cleanly as a nobleman 
should do. [Exit. 

Scene [V. Another part of the field .] 

The trumpets sound. Enter the King, Prince 
of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster, 
Earl of Westmoreland, with Worcester 
and Vernon prisoners. 

King. Thus ever did rebellion find rebuke. 
Ill-spirited Worcester ! did not we send grace, 
Pardon, and terms of love to all of you ? 

And wouldst thou turn our offers contrary? 
Misuse the tenour of thy kinsman’s trust ? 5 

Three knights upon our party slain to-day, 

A noble earl, and many a creature else 
Had been alive this hour, 

If like a Christian thou hadst truly borne 
Betwixt our armies true intelligence. i* 

Wor. What I have done my safety urg’d me 
to; 

And I embrace this fortune patiently, 

Since not to be avoided it falls on me. 

King. Bear Worcester to the death and Ver¬ 
non too. 

Other offenders we will pause upon. i® 

[Exeunt Worcester and Vernon 
[guarded]. 

How goes the field ? 

Prince. The noble Scot, Lord Douglas, when 
he saw 




566 THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


Ind. 


The fortune of the day quite turn’d from 
him, 

The noble Percy slain, and all his men 
Upon the foot of fear, fled with the rest; 20 

And falling from a hill, he was so bruis’d 
That the pursuers took him. At my tent 
The Douglas is ; and I beseech your Grace 
I may dispose of him. 

King. With all my heart. 

Prince. Then, brother John of Lancaster, to 
you 25 

This honourable bounty shall belong. 

Go to the Douglas, ancl deliver him 
Up to his pleasure, ransomless and free. 

His valours shown upon our crests to-day 
Have taught us how to cherish such high 
deeds 

Even in the bosom of our adversaries. si 


Lan. I thank your Grace for this high cour¬ 
tesy, 

Which I shall give away immediately. 

King. Then this remains, that we divide our 
power. 

You, son John, and my cousin Westmoreland 35 

Towards York shall bend you with your dearest 
speed, 

To meet Northumberland and the prelate 
Scroop, 

Who, as we hear, are busily in arms. 

Myself and you, son Harry, will towards Wales, 

To fight with Glendower and the Earl of March. 

Rebellion in this land shall lose his sway, « 

Meeting the check of such another day ; 

And since this business so fair is done, 

Let us not leave till all our own be won. 

[Exeunt. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


[DRAMATIS PERSONS] 


Rumour, the Presenter. 

King Henry IV. 

Henry, Prince [of Wales], afterwards crowned King 
Henry V. 

Prince John of Lancaster, 

[Prince] Humphrey of Glouces¬ 
ter, 

Thomas [Duke] of Clarence, 

[Earl of] Northumberland, 

[Scroop,] archbishop of York, 

[Lord] Mowbray, 

[Lord] Hastings, 

Lord Bardolph, 

Travers, ) retainers of North- 
Morton, ) umberland, 

'Sir John] Colville, 

Earl of] Warwick, 

Earl of] Westmoreland, 

Earl of] Surrey, 

Gower, 

Harcourt, 

Lord Chief Justice, 


sons to Henry 
IV and breth¬ 
ren to Henry 
V. 


opposites against 
King Henry IV. 


of the King’s Party. 


[Sir John] Falstaff, 

His Page, 

Poins, 

Bardolph, 

Pistol, 

Peto, 

s^ceT’ 1 both countr y Justices - 

Davy, servant to Shallow. 

Fang and Snare, two Sergeants. 
Mouldy, 


irregular Humourists. 


Shadow, 

Wart, 

Feeble, 

Bullcalf, 


country soldiers. 


Lady Northumberland. 

Lady Percy. 

Quickly, hostess [of a tavern in Eastcheap]. 
Doll Tearsheet. 


[Lords and attendants; Porter] Drawers, Beadles, Grooms [Servants, etc. A Dancer as] Epilogue. 

[Scene : England. ] 


INDUCTION 

[Warkworth. Before the castle .] 

Enter Rumour, painted full of tongues. 

Rum. Open your ears ; for which of you will 
stop 

The vent of hearing when loud Rumour 

speaks ? 

I, from the orient to the drooping west, 

Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold 
The acts commenced on this ball of earth. b 
U pon my tongues continual slanders ride, 

The which in every language I pronounce, 
Stuffing the ears of men with false reports. 


I speak of peace, while covert enmity 
Under the smile of safety wounds the world; ic 
A nd who but Rumour, who but only I, 

Make fearful musters and prepar’d defence, 
Whiles the big year, swoln with some other 
grief, 

Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war, 
And no such matter ? Rumour is a pipe 1* 
Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures, 

And of so easy and so plain a stop 

That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, 

The still-discordant wav’ring multitude, 

Can play upon it. But what need I thus 20 

My well-known body to anatomize 

Among my household ? Why is Rumour here ? 











1 . 1 . 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 567 


I run before King Harry’s victory, 

Who in a bloody field by Shrewsbury 
Hath beaten down young Hotspur and his 
troops, 26 

Quenching the flame of bold rebellion 
Even with the rebel’s blood. But what mean I 
To speak so true at first ? My office is 
To noise abroad that Harry Monmouth fell 
Under the wrath of noble Hotspur’s sword, 30 
And that the King before the Douglas’ rage 
Stoop’d his anointed head as low as death. 

This have I rumour’d through the peasant 
towns 

Between that royal field of Shrewsbury 
And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone, 36 
Where Hotspur’s father, old Northumberland, 
Lies crafty-sick. The posts come tiring on, 
And not a man of them brings other news 
Than they have learn’d of me. From Ru¬ 
mour’s tongues 

They bring smooth comforts false, worse than 
true wrongs. [Exit. 40 


ACT I 

Scene [I. The same.] 

Enter Lord Bardolph at one door. 

L. Bard. Who keeps the gate here, ho ? 

[The Porter opens the gate.] 

Where is the Earl ? 
Port. What shall I say you are ? 

L. Bard. Tell thou the Earl 

That the Lord Bardolph doth attend him here. 
Port. His lordship is walk’d forth into the 
orchard. 

Please it your honour, knock but at the gate, s 
And he himself will answer. 

Enter Northumberland. 

L. Bard. Here comes the Earl. 

[Exit Porter .] 

North. What news, Lord Bardolph? Every 
minute now 

Should be the father of some stratagem. 

The times are wild ; contention, like a horse 
Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose 10 
And bears down all before him. 

L. Bard. Noble Earl, 

I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury. 
North. Good, an God will! 

L. Bard. As good as heart can wish. 

The King is almost wounded to the death ; 
And, in the fortune of my lord your son, is 
Prince Harry slain outright; and both the 
Blunts 

Kill’d by the hand of Douglas; young Prince 
John 

And Westmoreland and Stafford fled the field ; 
And Harry Monmouth’s brawn, the hulk Sir 
John, 

Is prisoner to your son. 0 , such a day, 20 

So fought, so follow’d, and so fairly won, 

Came not till now to dignify the times, 

Since Caesar’s fortunes ! 


North. How is this deriv’d ? 

Saw you the field ? Came you from Shrews¬ 
bury ? 

L. Bard. I spake with one, my lord, that 
came from thence, 26 

A gentleman well brea and of good name, 

That freely rend’red me these news for true. 
North. Here comes my servant Travers, who 
I sent 

On Tuesday last to listen after news. 

Enter Travers. 

L. Bard. My lord, I over-rode him on the 
way; s« 

And he is furnish’d with no certainties 
More than he haply may retail from me. 

North. Now, Travers, what good tidings 
comes with you ? 

Tra. My lord, Sir John Umfrevile turn’d me 
back 

With joyful tidings ; and, being better hors’d, 
Out-rode me. After him came spurring hard se 
A gentleman, almost forspent with speed, 

That stopp’d by me to breathe his bloodied 
horse. 

He ask’d the way to Chester ; and of him 
I did demand what news from Shrewsbury. 40 
He told me that rebellion had bad luck, 

And that young Harry Percv’s spur was cold. 
With that, he gave his able horse the head, 
And bending forward struck his armed heels 
Against the panting sides of his poor jade 46 
Up to the rowel-head, and starting so 
He seem’d in running to devour the way, 
Staying no longer question. 

North. Ha! Again. 

Said he young Harry Percy’s spur was cold ? 

Of Hotspur Coldspur ? That rebellion «o 

Had met ill luck ? 

L. Bard. My lord, I ’ll tell you what: 

If my young lord your son have not the day, 
Upon mine honour, for a silken point 
I ’ll give my barony. Never talk of it. 

North. Why should that gentleman that rode 
by Travers « 

Give then such instances of loss ? 

L. Bard. Who, he ? 

He was some hilding fellow that had stolen 
The horse he rode on, and, upon my life, 

Spoke at a venture. Look, here comes more 
news. 

Enter Morton. 

North. Yea, this man’s brow, like to a title- 
leaf, «o 

Foretells the nature of a tragic volume. 

So looks the strand whereon the imperious 
flood 

Hath left a witness’d usurpation. 

Say, Morton, didst thou come from Shrews¬ 
bury ? 

Mor. I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord, 
Where hateful Death put on his ugliest mask ec 
To fright our party. 

North. How doth my son and brother ? 

Thou tremblest; and the whiteness in thy 
cheek 





568 THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


1 . 1 . 


Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. 
Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless, 70 
So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone, 

Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night, 

And would have told him half his Troy was 
burnt; 

But Priam found the fire ere he his tongue, 
And I my Percy’s death ere thou report’st it. 75 
This thou wouldst say, “ Your son did thus 
and thus; 

Your brother thus ; so fought the noble Doug¬ 
las ; ” 

Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds ; 
But in the end, to stop my ear indeed, 

Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise, so 
Ending with “ Brother, son, and all are dead.” 
Mor. Douglas is living, and your brother 
yet; 

But, for my lord your son, — 

North. Why, he is dead. 

See what a ready tongue suspicion hath ! 

He that but fears the thing he would not 
know 8 s 

Hath by instinct knowledge from others’ eyes 
That what he fear’d is chanc’d. Yet speak, 
Morton ; 

Tell thou an earl his divination lies, 

And I will take it as a sweet disgrace 
And make thee rich for doing me such wrong. 
Mor. You are too great to be by me gain¬ 
said ; 91 

Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain. 
North. Yet, for all this, say not that Percy’s 
dead. 

I see a strange confession in thine eye. 

Thou shak’st thy head and hold’st it fear or 
sin 96 

To speak a truth. If he be slain, [say so;] 

The tongue offends not that reports his death ; 
And he doth sin that doth belie the dead, 

Not he which says the dead is not alive. 

Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news 100 

Hath but a losing office, and his tongue 
Sounds ever after as a sullen bell, 

Rememb’red tolling a departing friend. 

L. Bard. I cannot think, my lord, your son 
is dead. 

Mor. I am sorry I should force you to be¬ 
lieve 105 

That which I would to God I had not seen ; 
But these mine eyes saw him in bloody state, 
Rendering faint quittance, wearied and out- 
breath’d, 

To Harry Monmouth ; whose swift wrath beat 
down 

The never-daunted Percy to the earth, 110 

From whence with life he never more sprung 
up. 

In few, his death, whose spirit lent a fire 
Even to the dullest peasant in his camp, 

Being bruited once, took fire and heat away 
From the best-temper’d courage in his troops ; 
For from his metal was his party steel’d ; no 
Which once in him abated, all the rest 
Turn’d on themselves, like dull and heavy lead. 
And as the thing that’s heavy in itself, 

Upon enforcement flies with greatest speed, w 


So did our men, heavy in Hotspur’s loss, 

Lend to this weight such lightness with their 
fear 

That arrows fled not swifter toward their aim 
Than did our soldiers, aiming at their safety, 
Fly from the field. Then was that noble 
Worcester 126 

Too soon ta’en prisoner ; and that furious Scot, 
The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring 
sword 

Had three times slain the appearance of the 
King, 

Gan vail his stomach and did grace the shame 
Of those that turn’d their backs, and in his 
flight, iso 

Stumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all 
Is that the King hath won, and hath sent out 
A speedy power to encounter you, my lord, 
Under the conduct of young Lancaster 
And Westmoreland. This is the news at full. 

North. For this I shall have time enough to 
mourn. ise 

In poison there is physic ; and these news, 
Having been well, that would have made me 
sick, 

Being sick, have in some measure made me 
well. 

And as the wretch, whose fever-weak’ned 
joints, wo 

Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life, 
Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire 
Out of his keeper’s arms, even so my limbs, 
Weak’ned with grief, being now enrag’d with 
grief, 

Are thrice themselves. Hence, therefore, thou 
nice crutch ! 145 

A scaly gauntlet now with joints of steel 
Must glove this hand ; and hence, thou sickly 
quoif ! 

Thou art a guard too wanton for the head 
Which princes, flesh’d with conquest, aim to hit. 
Now bind my brows with iron ; and approach 
The ragged’st hour that time and spite dare 

bring isi 

To frown upon the enrag’d Northumberland ! 
Let heaven kiss earth ! Now let not Nature’s 
hand 

Keep the wild flood confin’d ! Let order die ! 
And let this world no longer be a stage im 

To feed contention in a ling’ring act; 

But let one spirit of the first-born Cain 
Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set 
On bloody courses, the rude scene may end, 
And darkness be the burier of the dead ! 100 

[ Tra.\ This strained passion doth you wrong, 
my lord. 

L. Bard. Sweet Earl, divorce not wisdom 
from your honour. 

Mor. The lives of all your loving complices 
Lean on your health ; the which, if you give 
o’er 

To stormy passion, must perforce decay. ic* 
[You cast the event of war, my noble lord, 

And summ’d the account of chance, before you 
said, 

“ Let us make head.” It was your presurmise, 
That, in the dole of blows, your son might drop. 




1 . 11 . 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 569 


You knew he walk’d o’er perils, on an edge, no 
More likely to fall in than to get o’er ; 

You were advis’d his flesh was capable 
Of wounds and scars, and that his forward spirit 
Would lift him where most trade of danger 
rang’d; 174 

Yet did you say, “ Go forth ! ” and none of this, 
Though strongly apprehended, could restrain 
The stiff-borne action. What hath then be¬ 
fallen, 

Or what hath this bold enterprise brought 
forth, 

More than that being which was like to be ?] 

L. Bard . We all that are engaged to this 
loss 180 

Knew that we ventur’d on such dangerous seas 
That if we wrought out life ’t was ten to one ; 
And yet we ventur’d, for the gain propos’d 
Chok’d the respect of likely peril fear’d ; 

And since we are o’erset, venture again, iss 

Come, we will all put forth, body and goods. 
Mor. ’T is more than time ; and, my most 
noble lord, 

I hear for certain, and do speak the truth, 

[The gentle Archbishop of York is up 
With well-appointed powers. He is a man 190 
Who with a double surety binds his followers. 
My lord your son had only but the corpse, 

But shadows and the shows of men, to fight; 
For that same word, rebellion, did divide 
The action of their bodies from their souls ; iss 
And they did fight with queasiness, constrain’d, 
As men drink potions, that their weapons only 
Seem’d on our side ; but, for their spirits and 
souls, 

This word, rebellion, it had froze them up, 

As fish are in a pond. But now the Bishop 200 
Turns insurrection to religion. 

Suppos’d sincere and holy in his thoughts. 

He’s follow’d both with body and with mind ; 
And doth enlarge his rising with the blood 
Of fair King Richard, scrap’d from Pomfret 
stones; 205 

Derives from heaven his quarrel and his cause ; 
Tells them he doth bestride a bleeding land, 
Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke ; 

And more and less do flock to follow him.] 
North. I knew of this before ; but, to speak 
truth, 210 

This present grief had wip’d it from my mind. 
Go in with me ; and counsel every man 
The aptest way for safety and revenge. 

Get posts and letters, and make friends with 
speed,— 

Never so few, and never yet more need. 216 

[Exeunt. 

Scene [II. London. A street .] 

Enter Falstaff, with his Page bearing his 
sword and buckler. 

Fal. Sirrah, you giant, what says the doctor 
to my water ? 

Page. He said, sir, the water itself was a 
good healthy water ; but, for the party that 
ow’d it, he might have moe diseases than he 
knew for. 6 


Fal. Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at 
me. The brain of this foolish-compounded clay, 
man, is not able to invent anything that intends 
to laughter, more than I invent or is invented 
on me. I am not only witty in myself, but [10 
the cause that wit is in other men. I do here 
walk before thee like a sow that hath over¬ 
whelm’d all her litter but one. If the Prince 
put thee into my service for any other reason 
than to set me off, why then I have no judge- 
ment. Thou whoreson mandrake, thou art 
fitter to be worn in my cap than to wait at my 
heels. I was never mann’d with an agate till 
now; but I will inset you neither in gold nor 
silver, but in vile apparel, and send you back [20 
again to your master, for a jewel, — the juvenal, 
the Prince your master, whose chin is not yet 
fledg’d. I will sooner have a beard grow in the 
palm of my hand than he shall get one off his 
cheek ; and yet he will not stick to say his [2s 
face is a face royal. God may finish it when he 
will, ’t is not a hair amiss yet. He may keep it 
still at a face royal, for a barber shall never 
earn sixpence out of it; and yet he ’ll be crow¬ 
ing as if he had writ man ever since his [30 
father was a bachelor. He may keep his own 
grace, but he’s almost out of mine, I can assure 
him. What said Master Dommelton about the 
satin for my short cloak and my slops ? 3 * 

Page. He said, sir, you should procure him 
better assurance than Bardolpli. He would not 
take his band and yours. He lik’d not the 
security. ss 

Fal. Let him be damn’d like the glutton 1 
Pray God his tongue be hotter! A whoreson 
Achitophel! a rascally yea-for-sooth knave ! 
to bear a gentleman in hand, and then stand 
upon security ! The whoreson smooth-pates do 
now wear nothing but high shoes, and bunches 
of keys at their girdles; and if a man is 
through with them in honest taking up, then [45 
they must stand upon security. I had as lief 
they would put ratsbane in my mouth as offer 
to stop it with security. I look’d ’a should have 
sent me two and twenty yards of satin, as I am 
a true knight,and he sends me security. Well, [so 
he may sleep in security ; for he hath the horn 
of abundance, and yet the lightness of his wife 
shines through it; and yet cannot he see, 
though he have his own lanthorn to light him. 
Where’s Bardolpli ? ss 

Page. He’s gone into Smithfield to buy your 
worship a horse. 

Fal. I bought him in Paul’s, and he ’ll buy 
me a horse in Smithfield. An I could get me 
but a wife in the stews, I were mann’d, hors’d, 
and wiv’d. . 

Enter the Lord Chief Justice and Servant. 

Page. Sir, here comes the nobleman that 
committed the Prince for striking him about 
Bardolph. 

Fal. Wait close ; I will not see him. « 
Ch. Just. What’s he that goes there ? 

Serv. Falstaff, an ’t please your lordship. 

Ch. Just. He that was in question for the 
robbery ? 





57o 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


i. a. 


Serv. He, my lord; but he hath since done 
good service at Shrewsbury, and, as I hear, is 
now going with some charge to the Lord John 

of Jj 3 ,l)C 3 iStGr. 

Ch. Just. What, to York? Call him back 
again. 75 

Serv. Sir John Falstaff! 

Fal. Boy, tell him I am deaf. 

Page. You must speak louder ; my master is 
deaf. ™ 

Ch. Just. I am sure he is, to the hearing of 
anything good. Go, pluck him by the elbow ; 
I must speak with him. 

Serv. Sir John! 83 

Fal. What! a young knave, and begging! 
Is there not wars ? Is there not employment ? 
Doth not the King lack subjects ? Do not the 
rebels need soldiers ? Though it be a shame to 
be on any side but one, it is worse shame to beg 
than to be on the worst side, were it worse than 
the name of rebellion can tell how to make 

it. 90 

Serv. You mistake me, sir. 

Fal. Why, sir, did I say you were an honest 
man ? Setting my knighthood and my soldier¬ 
ship aside, I had lied in my throat, if I had said 

so. # 94 

Serv. I pray you, sir, then set your knight¬ 
hood and your soldiership aside ; and give me 
leave to tell you you lie in your throat if you 
say I am any other than an honest man. 98 

Fal. I give thee leave to tell me so! I lay 
aside that which grows to me ! If thou get’st 
any leave of me, hang me ; if thou tak’st leave, 
thou wert better be hang’d. You hunt counter; 
hence ! avaunt! 103 

Serv. Sir, my lord would speak with you. 

Ch. Just. Sir John Falstaff, a word with you. 
Fal. My good lord ! God give your lordship 
good time of day. I am glad to see your lord- 
ship abroad. I heard say your lordship was 
sick ; I hope your lordship goes abroad by [108 
advice. Your lordship, though not clean past 
your youth, hath yet some smack of age in 
you, some relish of the saltness of time in you ; 
and I most humbly beseech your lordship to 
have a reverent care of your health. 114 

Ch. Just. Sir John, I sent for you before 
your expedition to Shrewsbury. 

Fal. An ’t please your lordship, I hear his 
Majesty is return’d with some discomfort from 
Wales. 119 

Ch. Just. I talk not of his Majesty. You 
would not come when I sent for you. 

Fa/. And I hear, moreover, his Highness is 
fallen into this same whoreson apoplexy. 

Ch. Just. Well, God memd him ! I pray you, 
let me speak with you. 126 

Fal. This apoplexy, as I take it, is a kind of 
lethargy, an ’t please your lordship, a kind of 
sleeping in the blood, a whoreson tingling. 

Ch. Just. What tell you me of it? Be it as 
it is. . < 130 

Fal. It hath it original from much grief, 
from study, and perturbation of the brain. I 
have read the cause of his effects in Galen. It 
is a kind of deafness. 134 


Ch. Just. I think you are fallen into the dis¬ 
ease ; for you hear not what I say to you. 

[Fal.] Very well, my lord, very well. 
Rather, an’t please you, it is the disease of not 
listening, the malady of not marking, that I am 
troubled withal. 140 

Ch. Just. To punish you by the heels would 
amend the attention of your ears; and I care 
not if I do become your physician. i*s 

Fal. I am as poor as Job, my lord, but not so 
patient. Your lordship may minister the potion 
of imprisonment to me in respect of poverty; 
but how I should be your patient to follow your 
prescriptions, the wise may make some dram of 
a scruple, or indeed a scruple itself. i« 

Ch. Just. I sent for you, when there were 
matters against you for your life, to come speak 
with me. 

Fal. As I was then advis’d by my learned 
counsel in the laws of this land-service, I did 
not come. 16B 

Ch. Just. Well, the truth is, Sir John, you 
live in great infamy. 

Fal. He that buckles himself in my belt 
cannot live in less. 

Ch. Just. Your means is very slender, and 
your waste is great. iei 

Fal. I would it were otherwise ; I would my 
means were greater, and my waist slenderer. 

Ch. Just. You have misled the youthful 
prince. 

Fal. The young prince hath misled me. I 
am the fellow with the great belly, and he my 
dog. 168 

Ch. Just. Well, I am loath to gall a new- 
heal’d wound. Your day’s service at Shrews¬ 
bury hath a little gilded over your night’s ex¬ 
ploit on Gadshill. You may thank the unquiet 
time for your quiet o’er-posting that action, m 
Fal. My lord ? 

Ch. Just. But since all is well, keep it so. 
Wake not a sleeping wolf. 

Fal. To wake a wolf is as bad as smell a 
foX. 176 

Ch. Just. What! you are as a candle, the 
better part burnt out. 

Fal. A wassail candle, my lord, all tallow. 
If I did say of wax, my growth would approve 
the truth. m 

Ch. Just. There is not a white hair in your 
face but should have his effect of gravity. 

Fal. His effect of gravy, gravy, gravy. 

Ch. Just. You follow the young prince up 

and down, like his ill angel,. m 

Fal. Not so, my lord. Your ill angel is light; 
but I hope he that looks upon me will take me 
without weighing ; and yet, in some respects, I 
grant, I cannot go. I cannot tell. Virtue is 
of so little regard in these costermongers’ [100 
times that true Valour is turned bear-herd; 
Pregnancy is made a tapster, and his quick wit 
wasted in giving reckonings ; all the other gifts 
appertinent to man, as the malice of this age 
shapes them, are not worth a gooseberry. |i»6 
You that are old consider not the capacities of 
us that are young ; you do measure the heat of 
our livers with the bitterness of your galls ; and 




THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


571 


I. iii. 


we that are in the vaward of our youth, I must 
confess, are wags too. 200 

Ch. Just. Do you set down your name in the 
scroll of youth, that are written down old with 
all the characters of age ? Have you not a 
moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white 
beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? 
Is not your voice broken, your wind short, [205 
your chin double, your wit single, and every 
part about you blasted with antiquity ? And 
will you yet call yourself young ? Fie, fie, fie, 
Sir John! 209 

Fal. My lord, I was born about three of the 
clock in the afternoon, with a white head and 
something a round belly. For my voice, I have 
lost it with hallooing and singing of anthems. 
To approve my youth further, I will not. The 
truth is, I am only old in judgement and lin- [210 
derstanaing; and he that will caper with me 
for a thousand marks, let him lend me the 
money, and have at him! For the box of the 
ear that the Prince gave you, he gave it like a 
rude prince, and you took it like a sensible 
lord. I have check’d him for it, and the young 
lion repents; marry, not in ashes and sack¬ 
cloth, but in new silk and old sack. 222 

Ch. Just. Well, God send the Prince a better 
companion ! 

Fal. God send the companion a better prince ! 
I cannot rid my hands of him. 226 

Ch. Just. Well, the King hath sever’d you 

^ .nd Prince Harry]. I hear you are going with 
ord John of Lancaster against the Archbishop 
and the Earl of Northumberland. 230 

Fal. Yea, I thank your pretty sweet wit for 
it. But look you pray, all you that kiss my 
lady Peace at home, that our armies join not in 
a hot day; for, by the Lord, I take but two 
shirts out with me, and I mean not to sweat 
extraordinarily. If it be a hot day, and [230 
I brandish anything but a bottle, I would I 
might never spit white again. There is not a 
dangerous action can peep out his head but I 
am thrust upon it. Well, I cannot last ever ; 
but it was alway yet the trick of our English [240 
nation, if they have a good thing, to make it 
too common. If ye will needs say I am an old 
man, you should give me rest. I would to God 
my name were not so terrible to the enemy as 
it is. I were better to be eaten to death with a 
rust than to be scoured to nothing with per¬ 
petual motion. 247 

Ch. Just. Well, be honest, be honest; and 
God bless your expedition ! 

Fal. Will your lordship lend me a thousand 
pound to furnish me forth ? 

Ch. Just. Not a penny, not a penny ; you are 
too impatient to bear crosses. Fare you well! 
Commend me to my cousin Westmoreland. 204 
[Exeunt Chief Justice and Servant .] 
Fal. If I do, fillip me with a three-man 
beetle. A man can no more separate age and 
covetousness than ’a can part young limbs and 
lechery; but the gout galls the one, and the 
pox pinches the other, and so both the degrees 
prevent my curses. Boy ! 200 

Page. Sir? 


Fal. What money is in my purse ? 

Page. Seven groats and two pence. 203 

Fa/. I can get no remedy against this con¬ 
sumption of the purse. Borrowing only lingers 
and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable. 
Go bear this letter to my Lord of Lancaster; 
this to the Prince; this to the Earl of West- 
moreland; and this to old Mistress Ursula, 
whom I have weekly sworn to marry since I 
perceiv’d the first white hair of my chin. [270 
About it. You know where to find me. [Exit 
Page.] A pox of this gout! or. a gout of this 
pox ! for the one or the other plays the rogue 
with my great toe. ’T is no matter if I do halt; 
I have the wars for my colour, and my pension 
shall seem the more reasonable. A good wit 
will make use of anything. I will turn dis¬ 
eases to commodity. [Exit. 27s 

Scene [III. York. The Archbishop's palace.] 

Enter the Archbishop, the Lords Hastings, 
Mowbray, and Bardoeph. 

Arch. Thus have you heard our cause and 
known our means; 

And, my most noble friends, I pray you all, 
Speak plainly your opinions of our hopes. 

And first, Lord Marshal, what say you to it ? 
Mowb. I well allow the occasion of our 
arms; 0 

But gladly would be better satisfied 
How in our means we should advance our¬ 
selves 

To look with forehead bold and big enough 
Upon the power and puissance of the King. 
Hast. Our present musters grow upon the 
file 10 

To five and twenty thousand men of choice; 
And our supplies live largely in the hope 
Of great Northumberland, whose bosom burns 
With an incensed fire of injuries. 

L. Bard. The question then, Lord Hast¬ 
ings, standeth thus: 10 

Whether our present five and twenty thousand 
May hold up head withouUNorthumberland ? 
Hast. With him, we may. 

L. Bard. Yea, marry, there’s the point! 
But if without him we be thought too feeble, 
My judgement is, we should not step too far 20 
[Till we had his assistance by the hand ; 

For, in a theme so bloody-fac’d as this, 
Conjecture, expectation, and surmise 
Of aids incertain should not be admitted]. 

Arch. ’T is very true, Lord Bardolph ; for 
indeed 20 

It was young Hotspur’s case at Shrewsbury. 

L. Bard. It was, my lord; who lin’d him¬ 
self with hope, 

Eating the air, and promise of supply, 
Flatt’ring himself in project of a power 
Much smaller than the smallest of his thoughts ; 
And so, with great imagination si 

Proper to madmen, led his powers to death. 
And winking leap’d into destruction. 

Hast. But, by your leave, it never yet did 
hurt 

To lay down likelihoods and forms of hope. sc 






572 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


II. L 


L. Bard. [Yes, if this present quality of war 
Needed the instant action. A cause on foot 
Lives so in hope as in an early spring 
We see the appearing buds, which to prove 
fruit 

Hope gives not so much warrant, as despair 40 
That frosts will bite them. When we mean to 
build, 

We first survey the plot, then draw the model; 
And when we see the figure of the house, 

Then must we rate the cost of the erection ; 
Which if we find outweighs ability, 45 

What do we then hut draw anew tne model 
In fewer offices, or at least desist 
To build at all ? Much more, in this great 
work, 

Which is almost to pluck a kingdom down 
And set another up, should we survey eo 

The plot of situation and the model, 

Consent upon a sure foundation, 

Question surveyors, know our own estate, 

How able such a work to undergo, 

To weigh against his opposite ; or else] 65 

We fortify in paper and in figures, 

Using the names of men instead of men ; 

Like one that draws the model of a house 
Beyond his power to build it; who, half 
through, 

Gives o’er and leaves his part-created cost 60 
A naked subject to the weeping clouds 
And waste for churlish winter’s tyranny. 

Hast. Grant that our hopes, yet likely of 
fair birth, 

Should be still-born, and that we now possess’d 
The utmost man of expectation, 65 

I think we are a body strong enough, 

Even as we are, to equal with the King. 

L. Bard. What, is the King but five and 
twenty thousand ? 

Hast. To us no more; nay, not so much, 
Lord Bardolph. 

For his divisions, as the times do brawl, to 
A re in three heads: one power against the 
French, 

And one against Glendower; perforce a third 
Must take up us. So is the unfirm King 
In three divided ; and his coffers sound 
With hollow poverty and emptiness. ts 

Arch. That he should draw his several 
strengths together 

And come against us in full puissance, 

Need not to be dreaded. 

Hast. If he should do so, 

To French and Welsh he leaves his back un¬ 
arm’d, 

They baying him at the heels. Never fear 
that. so 

L. Bard. Who is it like should lead his forces 
hither ? 

Hast. The Duke of Lancaster and Westmore¬ 
land ; 

Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Mon¬ 
mouth ; 

But who is substituted ’gainst the French, 

I have no certain notice. 

[Arch. Let us on, 85 

And publish the occasion of our arms. 


The commonwealth is sick of their own choice ; 
Their over-greedy love hath surfeited. 

An habitation giddy and unsure 
Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart, so 
O thou fond many, with what loud applause 
Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Boling- 
broke, 

Before he was what thou wouldst have him be ! 
And being now trimm’d in thine own desires, 
Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him, os 
That thou provok’st thyself to cast him up. 

So, so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge 
Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard; 

And now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up, 
And howl’st to find it. What trust is in these 
times ? 100 

They that, when Richard liv’d, would have him 
die, 

Are now become enamour’d on his grave. 

Thou, that threw’st dust upon his goodly head 
When through proud London he came sighing on 
After the admired heels of Bolingbroke, 10e 

Cri’st now, “ 0 earth, yield us that king again, 
And take thou this ! ” 0 thoughts of men ac- 
curs’d ! 

Past and to come seems best; things present 
worst.] 

Mowh. Shall we go draw our numbers and set 
on? 

Hast. We are Time’s subjects, and Time 
bids be gone. [ Exeunt. no 

ACT II 

Scene I. [London. A street.] 

Enter Hostess, Fang [and his Boy with her,] 
and Snare following. 

Host. Master Fang, have you ent’red the ac¬ 
tion ? 

Fang. It is ent’red. 

Host. Where’s your yeoman ? Is’t a lusty 
yeoman ? Will ’a stand to’t ? b 

Fang. Sirrah, where’s Snare ? 

Host. O Lord, ay ! good Master Snare. 

Snare. Here, here. 

Fang. Snare, we must arrest Sir John Fal- 
staff. 

Host. Yea, good Master Snare ; I have ent’red 
him and all. 11 

Snare. It may chance cost some of us our 
lives, for he will stab. 

Host. Alas the day ! take heed of him. He 
stabb’d me in mine own house, [and that] most 
beastly. In good faith, ’a cares not what mis¬ 
chief he does, if his weapon be out. He will 
foin like any devil; he will spare neither man, 
woman, nor child. 19 

Fang. If I can close with him, I care not for 
his thrust. 

Host. No, nor I neither. I ’ll be at your el¬ 
bow. 

Fang. An I but fist him once; an ’a come but 
within my vice, — 24 

Host. I am undone by his going ; I warrant 
you, he’s an infinitive thing upon my score. 
Good Master Fang, hold him sure. Good Master 





THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


573 


II. i. 


Snare, let him not scape. ’A comes continu- 
antly to Pie-corner — saving your manhoods — 
to buy a saddle; and he is indited to dinner 
to the Lubber’s-head in Lumbert street, to [30 
Master Smooth’s the silk-man. I pray you, 
since my exion is ent’red and my case so openly 
known to the world, let him be brought in to 
his answer. A hundred mark is a long one for a 
poor lone woman to bear ; and I have borne, [35 
and borne, and borne, and have been fubb’d 
off, and fubb’d off, and fubb’d off, from this 
day to that day, that it is a shame to be thought 
on. There is no honesty in such dealing; un¬ 
less a woman should be made an ass and a [40 
beast, to bear every knave’s wrong. Yonder he 
comes; and that arrant malmsey-nose knave, 
Bardolph, with him. Do your offices, do your 
offices, Master Fang and Master Snare ; do 
me, do me, do me your offices. 45 

Enter Falstaff, Bardolph, and Page. 

Fal. How now ! whose mare’s dead ? What’s 
the matter ? 

Fang. [Sir John,] I arrest you at the suit of 
Mistress Quickly. 

Fal. Away, varlets ! Draw, Bardolph; cut 
me off the villain’s head. Throw the quean in 
the channel. 62 

Host. Throw me in the channel! I ’ll throw 
thee in the channel. Wilt thou ? wilt thou ? 
thou bastardly rogue! Murder, murder! Ah, 
thou honey-suckle villain ! wilt thou kill God’s 
officers and the King’s ? Ah, thou honey-seed 
rogue! thou art a honey-seed, a man-queller, 
and a woman-queller. 09 

Fal. Keep them off, Bardolph. 

Fang. A rescue! a rescue ! 

Host. Good people, bring a rescue or two. 
Thou wo ’ t, wo ’t thou ? thou wo’t, wo’t ta ? 
Do, do, thou rogue ! do, thou hempseed ! 

Page. Away, you scullion ! you rampallian ! 
you fustilarian ! I ’ll tickle your catastrophe. 

Enter the Lord Chief Justice, and his men. 

Ch. Just. What is the matter? Keep the 
peace here, ho! 

Host. Good my lord, be good to me. I be¬ 
seech you, stand to me. to 

Ch. Just. How now, Sir John! what, are 
you brawling here ? 

Doth this become your place, your time and 
business ? 

You should have been well on your way to York. 
Stand from him, fellow ; wherefore hang’st 

thou upon him ? to 

Host. 0 my most worshipful lord, an ’t 
please your Grace, I am a poor widow of East- 
cheap, and he is arrested at my suit. 

Ch. Just. For what sum ? j» 

Host. It is more than for some, my lord ; it 
is for all I have. He hath eaten me out of 
house and home ; he hath put all my substance 
into that fat belly of his ; but I will have some 
of it out again, or I will ride thee o’ nights like 
the mare. “ 

Fal. I think I am as like to ride the mare, if 
I have any vantage of ground to get up. 


Ch. Just. How comes this, Sir John? Fie! 
what man of good temper would endure this 
tempest of exclamation ? Are you not asham’d 
to enforce a poor widow to so rough a course to 
come by her own ? 90 

Fal. What is the gross sum that I owe thee ? 
Host. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, 
thyself and the money too. Thou didst swear to 
me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my 
Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea- 
coal fire, upon Wednesday in Wheeson week, [9* 
when the Prince broke thy head for liking his 
father to a singing-man of Windsor, thou didst 
swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, 
to marry me and make me my lady thy wife. 
Canst thou deny it ? Did not good wife Keecli, [100 
the butcher’s wife, come in then and call me 
gossip Quickly ? coming in to borrow a mess 
of vinegar, telling us she had a good dish of 
prawns ; whereby thou didst desire to eat some ; 
whereby I told tliee they were ill for a green [106 
wound? And didst thou not, when she was 
gone downstairs, desire me to be no more so 
familiarity with such poor people, saying that 
ere long they should call me madam ? And 
didst thou not kiss me and bid me fetch thee 
thirty shillings ? I put thee now to thy book- 
oath. Deny it, if thou canst. 112 

Fal. My lord, this is a poor mad soul; and 
she says up and down the town that her eldest 
son is like you. She hath been in good case, and 
the truth is, poverty hath distracted her. But 
for these foolish officers, I beseech you I may 
have redress against them. ns 

Ch. Just. Sir John, Sir John, I am ■well ac¬ 
quainted with your manner of wrenching the 
true cause the false way. It is not a confident 
brow, nor the throng of words that come with 
such more than impudent saueiness f rom you, [123 
can thrust me from a level consideration. You 
have, as it appears to me, practis’d upon the 
easy-yielding spirit of this woman, and made 
her serve your uses both in purse and in person. 
Host. Yea, in truth, my lord. 12s 

Ch. Just. Pray thee, peace. Pay her the debt 
you owe her, and unpay the villainy you have 
done with her. The one you may do with ster¬ 
ling money, and the other with current repent¬ 
ance. 132 

Fal. My lord, I will not undergo this sneap 
without reply. You call honourable boldness 
impudent sauciness ; if a man will make curtsy 
and say nothing, he is virtuous. No, my lord, 
my humble duty rememb’red, I will not be 
your suitor. I say to you, I do desire deliver¬ 
ance from these officers, being upon hasty em¬ 
ployment in the King’s affairs. wo 

Ch. Just. You speak as having power to do 
wrong ; but answer in the effect of your repu¬ 
tation, and satisfy the poor woman. 

Fal. Come hither, hostess. 

Enter Gower. 

Ch. Just. Now, Master Gower, what news? 
Gow. The King, my lord, and Harry Prince 
of Wales 

Are near at hand. The rest the paper tells. 





574 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


ii. 11. 


Fal. As I am a gentleman. 

Host. Faith, you said so before. 149 

Fal. As I am a gentleman. Come, no more 
words of it. 

Host. By this heavenly ground I tread on, 
I must be fain to pawn both my plate and the 
tapestry of my dining-chambers. 154 

Fal. Glasses, glasses, is the only drinking; 
and for thy walls, a pretty slight drollery, or 
the story of the Prodigal, or the German hunt¬ 
ing in water-work, is worth a thousand of these 
bed-hangers and these fly-bitten tapestries. Let 
it be ten pound, if thou canst. Come, an ’t 
were not for thy humours, there’s not a bet- [ieo 
ter wench in England. Go, wash thy face, and 
draw the action. Come, thou must not be in 
this humour with me ; dost not know me ? 
Come, come, I know thou wast set on to this, ics 
Host. Pray thee, Sir John, let it be but 
twenty nobles. I’ faith, I am loath to pawn my 
plate, so God save me, la ! 

Fal. Let it alone ; I ’ll make other shift. 
You ’ll be a fool still. 170 

Host. Well, you shall have it, though I 
pawn my gown. I hope you ’ll come to supper. 
You ’ll pay me altogether ? 

Fal. Will I live? [To Bardolph.] Go, with 
herewith her ; hook on, hook on. ne 

Host. Will you have Doll Tearsheet meet 
you at supper ? 

Fal. No more words ; let’s have her. 

[Exeunt Hostess , Bardolph , Offi¬ 
cers, and Boy.] 

Ch. Just. I have heard better news. 

Fal. What’s the news, my lord ? iso 

Ch. Just. Where lay the King to-night? 
Gow. At [Basingstoke], my lord. 

Fal. I hope, my lord, all’s well. What is 
the news, my lord ? 

Ch. Just. Come all his forces back ? i«s 
Gow. No ; fifteen hundred foot, five hundred 
horse, 

Are march’d up to my Lord of Lancaster. 
Against Northumberland and the Archbishop. 
Fal. Comes the King back from Wales, my 
noble lord ? 

Ch. Just. You shall have letters of me pre¬ 
sently. 190 

Come, go along with me, good Master Gower. 
Fal. My lord ! 

Ch. Just. What’s the matter ? 

Fal. Master Gower, shall I entreat you with 
me to dinner ? ios 

Gow. I must wait upon my good lord here ; 
I thank you, good Sir John. 

Ch. Just. Sir John, you loiter here too long, 
being you are to take soldiers up in counties as 
you go. 200 

Fal. Will you sup with me, Master Gower ? 
Ch. Just. What foolish master taught you 
these manners, Sir John ? 

Fal. Master Gower, if they become me not, 
he was a fool that taught them me. This is the 
right fencing grace, my lord ; tap for tap, and 
so part fair. 207 

Ch. Just. Now the Lord lighten thee! thou 

art a great fool. [Exeunt. 


Scene II. [London. Another street .] 

Enter Prince Henry and Poins. 

Prince. Before God, I am exceeding weary. 
Poins. Is’t come to that? I had thought 
weariness durst not have attach’d one of so 
high blood. * 

Prince. Faith, it does me, though it discol¬ 
ours the complexion of mv greatness to ac¬ 
knowledge it. Doth it not show vilely in me to 
desire small beer ? 

Poins. Why, a prince should not be so 
loosely studied as to remember so weak a com¬ 
position. 10 

Prince. Belike then my appetite was not 
princely got, for, by my troth, I do now re¬ 
member the poor creature, small beer. But, 
indeed, these humble considerations make me 
out of love with my greatness. What a disgrace 
is it to me to remember thy name! or to [is 
know thy face to-morrow ! or to take note how 
many pair of silk stockings thou hast, viz., 
these, and those that were thy peach-colour’d 
ones ! or to bear the inventory of thy shirts, as, 
one for superfluity, and another for use ! [20 
But that the tennis-court-keeper knows better 
than I; for it is a low ebb of linen with thee 
when thou keepest not racket there ; as thou 
hast not done a great while, because the rest of 
the low countries have [made a shift to] eat [20 
up thy holland. And God knows, whether those 
that bawl out the ruins of thy linen shall in¬ 
herit his kingdom: but the midwives say the 
children are not in the fault; whereupon the 
world increases, and kindreds are mightily 
strengthened. 30 

Poins. How ill it follows, after you have la¬ 
bour’d so hard, you should talk so idlely ! Tell 
me, how many good young princes would do so, 
their fathers being so sick as yours at this time 
is ? 

Prince. Shall I tell thee one thing, Poins? 3 B 
Poins. Yes, faith ; and let it be an excellent 
good thing. 

Prince. It shall serve among wits of no 
higher breeding than thine. 

Poins. Go to; I stand the push of your one 
thing that you will tell. 41 

Prince. Marry, I tell thee, it is not meet that 
I should be sad, now my father is sick ; albeit 
I could tell to thee, as to one it pleases me, for 
fault of a better, to call my friend, I could be 
sad, and sad indeed too. 

Poins. Very hardly upon such a subject. 47 
Prince. By this hand, thou think’st me as far 
in the devil’s book as thou and Falstaff for ob¬ 
duracy and persistency. Let the end try the 
man. But I tell thee, my heart bleeds inwardly 
that my father is so sick ; and keeping such 
vile company as thou art hath in reason taken 
from me all ostentation of sorrow. 54 

Poins. The reason ? 

Prince. What wouldst thou think of me, if I 
should weep ? 

Poins. I would think thee a most princely 
hypocrite. 6 9 

Prince. It would be every man’s thought; 





II. II. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


575 


and thou art a blessed fellow to think as every 
man thinks. Never a man’s thought in the 
world keeps the road-way better than thine. 
Every man would think me an hypocrite in¬ 
deed. And what accites your most worshipful 
thought to think so ? 05 

Poins. Why, because you have been so lewd 
and so much engrafted to Falstaff. 

Prince. And to thee. es 

Poins. By this light, I am well snoke on ; 
I can hear it with mine own ears. The worst 
that they can say of me is that I am a second 
brother and that I am a proper fellow of my 
hands ; and those two things, I confess, I cannot 
help. By the mass, here comes Bardolph. 74 

Enter Bardolph and Page. 

Prince. And the boy that I gave Falstaff. 
’A had him from me Christian ; and look, if 
the fat villain have not transform’d him ape. 
Bard. God save your Grace ! 

Prince. And yours, most noble Bardolph ! 79 
Poins. Come, you virtuous ass, you bashful 
fool, must you be blushing? Wherefore blush 
you now ? What a maidenly man-at-arms are 
you become ! Is ’t such a matter to get a 
pottle-pot’s maidenhead ? «4 

Page. ’A calls me e’en now, my lord, through 
a red lattice, and I could discern no part of his 
face from the window. At last I spied his eyes, 
and methought he had made two holes in 
the ale-wife’s [new] petticoat and so peep’d 
through. 

Prince. Has not the boy profited ? 90 

Bard. Away, you whoreson upright rabbit, 
away! 

Page. Away, you rascally Althaea’s dream, 
away! 94 

Prince. Instruct us, boy ; what dream, boy ? 
Page. Marry, my lord. Althaea dream’d she 
was delivered of a fire-brand ; and therefore I 
call him her dream. 

Prince. A crown’s worth of good interpreta¬ 
tion. There’t is, boy. 100 

Poins. O, that this [good] blossom could be 
kept from cankers ! Well, there is sixpence to 
preserve thee. 

Bard. An you do not make him hang’d 
among you, the gallows shall have wrong. 105 
Prince. And how doth thy master, Bar¬ 
dolph? 

Bard. Well, my lord. He heard of your 
Grace’s coming to town. There’s a letter for 
you. 

Poins. Deliver’d with good respect. And 
how doth the martlemas, your master ? no 
Bard. In bodily health, sir. 

Poins. Marry, the immortal part needs a 
physician ; but that moves not him. Though 
that be sick, it dies not. n* 

Prince. I do allow this wen to be as familiar 
with me as my dog, and he holds his place, 
for look you how he writes. 117 

Poins. [Reads.] “John Falstaff, knight,” — 
every man must know that, as oft as he has 
occasion to name himself ; even like those that 
are kin to the King, for they never prick their 


finger but they say, “There’s some of the 
King’s blood spilt.” “ How comes that?” [124 
says he, that takes upon him not to conceive. 
The answer is as ready as a borrower’s cap, 
“ I am the King’s poor cousin, sir.” 

Prince. Nay, they will be kin to us, or they 
will fetch it from Japhet. But the letter: 12* 

“Sir John Falstaff, knight, to the son of 
the King nearest his father, Harry Prince of 
Wales, greeting.” 

Poins. Why, this is a certificate. 

Prince. Peace ! 13* 

“ I will imitate the honourable Romans in 
brevity.” 

Poins. He sure means brevity in breath, 
short-winded. 

[Prince.] “ I commend me to thee, I com¬ 
mend thee, and I leave thee. Be not too famil¬ 
iar with Poins ; for he misuses thy favours so 
much, that he swears thou art to marry his 
sister Nell. Repent at idle times as thou may- 
est; and so, farewell. hi 

“ Thine, by yea and no, which is as much 
as to say, as thou usest him, Jack 
Falstaff with my familiars, John 
with my brothers and sisters, and 
Sir John with all Europe.” ne 

Poins. My lord, I ’ll steep this letter in sack 
and make him eat it. 

Prince. That’s to make him eat twenty of 
his words. But do you use me thus, Ned? 
Must I marry your sister ? isi 

Poins. God send the wench no worse for¬ 
tune ! But I never said so. 

Prince. Well, thus we play the fools with 
the time, and the spirits of the wise sit in the 
clouds and mock us. Is your master here in 
London ? m 

Bard. Yea, my lord. 

Prince. Where sups he ? Doth the old boar 
feed in the old frank ? 

Bard. At the old place, my lord, in East- 
cheap. 162 

Prince. What company ? 

Page. Ephesians, my lord, of the old church. 
Prince. Sup any women with him ? 

Page. None, my lord, but old Mistress 
Quickly and Mistress Doll Tearsheet. mt 

Prince. What pagan may that be ? 

Page. A proper gentlewoman, sir, and a 
kinswoman of my master’s. 

Prince. Even such kin as the parish heifers 
are to the town bull. Shall we steal upon them, 
Ned, at supper ? 173 

Poins. I am your shadow, my lord ; I ’ll fol¬ 
low you. 

Prince. Sirrah, you boy, and Bardolph, no 
word to your master that I am yet come to town. 
There’s for your silence. i 78 

Bard. I have no tongue, sir. 

Page. And for mine, sir, I will govern it. 
Prince. Fare you well; go. [Exeunt Bar¬ 
dolph and Page.] This Doll Tearsheet should 

be some road. hs 

Poins. I warrant you, as common as the way 
between Saint Alban’s and London. 

Prince. How might we see Falstaff bestow 




576 THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


II. IV. 


himself to-night in his true colours, and not 
ourselves he seen ? t i ® 8 

Poins. Put on two leathern jerkins and 
aprons, and wait upon him at his table as 
drawers. 191 

Prince. From a God to a bull ? a heavy de- 
scension ! It was Jove’s case. From a prince to 
a prentice ? a low transformation ! That shall 
he mine; for in everything the purpose must 
weigh with the folly. Follow me, Ned. 1 98 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. [ Warkworth. Before the castle.] 

Enter Northumberland, Lady Northum¬ 
berland, and Lady Percy. 

North. I pray thee, loving wife, and gentle 
daughter, 

Give even way unto my rough affairs ; 

Put not you on the visage of the times 
And be like them to Percy troublesome. 

Lady N. I have given over, I will speak no 
more. 6 

Do what you will; your wisdom he your guide. 
North. Alas, sweet wife, my honour is at 
pawn ; 

And, but my going, nothing can redeem it. 
Lady P. 0 yet, for God’s sake, go not to 
these wars! 

The time was, father, that you broke your 
word, _ io 

When you were more endear’d to it than now ; 
When your own Percy, when my heart’s dear 
Harry, 

Threw many a northward look to see his father 
Bring up his powers ; but he did long in vain. 
Who then persuaded you to stay at home ? ib 
T here were two honours lost, yours and your 
son’s. 

For yours, the God of heaven brighten it! 

For his, it stuck upon him as the sun 
In the grey vault of heaven, and by his light 
Did all the chivalry of England move 20 

To do brave acts. He was indeed the glass 
Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves. 
[He had no legs, that practis’d not his gait; 
And speaking thick, which nature made his 
blemish, 

Became the accents of the valiant; 25 

For those that could speak low and tardily 
Would turn their own perfection to abuse, 

To seem like him ; so that in speech, in gait, 

In diet, in affections of delight, 

In military rules, humours of blood, 30 

He was the mark and glass, copy and book, 
That fashion’d others. And him, 0 wondrous 
him ! 

O miracle of men ! him did you leave, 

Second to none, unseconded by you, 

To look upon the hideous god of war 35 

In disadvantage ; to abide a field 
Where nothing but the sound of Hotspur’s 
name 

Did seem defensible : so you left him. 

Never, O never, do his ghost the wrong 
To hold your honour more precise and nice 40 
With others than with him 1 Let them alone. 


The Marshal and the Archbishop are strong. 
Had my sweet Harry had but half their num¬ 
bers, 

To-day might I, hanging on Hotspur’s neck, 
Have talk’d of Monmouth’s grave.] 

North. Beshrew your heart, 

Fair daughter, you do draw my spirits from 
me 46 

With new lamenting ancient oversights. 

But I must go and meet with danger there, 

Or it will seek me in another place 
And find me worse provided. 

Lady N. 0 , fly to Scotland, 

Till that the nobles and the armed commons bi 
H ave of their puissance made a little taste. 
Lady P. If they get ground and vantage of 
the King, 

Then join you with them, like a rib of steel, 

To make strength stronger ; but, for all our 
loves, 66 

First let them try themselves. So did your son ; 
He was so suff’red ; so came I a widow ; 

And never shall have length of life enough 
To rain upon remembrance with mine eyes, 
That it may grow and sprout as high as heaven, 
For recordation to my noble husband. 

North. Come, come, go in with me. ’Tis 
with my mind 

As with the tide swell’d up unto his height, 
That makes a still stand, running neither way. 
Fain would I go to meet the Archbishop, os 
But many thousand reasons hold me back. 

I will resolve for Scotland. There am I, 

Till time and vantage crave my company. 

[ Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [ London. The Boar's-Head Tavern 
in Eastcheap .] 

Enter two Drawers. 

1 . Draw. What the devil hast thou brought 

there? Apple-johns? Thou know’st Sir John 
cannot endure an apple-john. s 

2 . Draw. Mass, thou say’st true. The Prince 

once set a dish of apple-johns before him, and 
told him there were five more Sir Johns, and, 
putting off his hat, said, “ I will now take my 
leave of these six dry, round, old, wither’d 
knights.” It ang’red him to the heart; but he 
hath forgot that. 10 

1 . Draw. Why, then, cover, and set them 

down ; and see if thou canst find out Sneak’s 
noise. Mistress Tearsheet would fain hear some 
music. Dispatch ! The room where they supped 
is too hot; they ’ll come in straight. is 

2 . Draw. Sirrah, here will be the Prince and 
Master Poins anon ; and they will put on two 
of our jerkins and aprons ; and Sir John must 
not know of it. Bardolph hath brought word. 20 

1 • Draw. By the mass, here will be old utis ; 
it will be an excellent stratagem. 

2 . Draw. I ’ll see if I can find out Sneak. 

[Exit. 

Enter Hostess and Doll Tearsheet. 

Host. V faith, sweetheart, methinks now you 
are in an excellent good temperality. Your [2* 





II. IV. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


577 


pulsidge beats as extraordinarily as heart would 
desire; and your colour, I warrant you, is as 
red as any rose, in good truth, la! But, i’ 
faith, you have drunk too much canaries; and 
that’s a marvellous searching wine, and it 
perfumes the blood ere one can say, “ What’s 
this ? ” How do you now ? 32 

Dol. Better than I was. Hem ! 

Host. Why, that’s well said ; a good heart’s 
worth gold. Lo, here comes Sir John. 35 

Enter Falstaff. 

Fal. [/Singa'ngr.] “ W T hen Arthur first in 
court ” —Empty the jordan. [Exit 1 . Drawer.] 
— [Singing.] “ And was a worthy king.” How 
now, Mistress Doll! 

Host. Sick of a calm ; yea, good faith. 40 
Fal. So is all her sect; an they be once in a 
calm, they are sick. 

Dol. A pox damn you, you muddy rascal, is 
that all the comfort you give me ? 

Fal. You make fat rascals, Mistress Doll. 45 
Dol. I make them ? Gluttony and diseases 
make them ; I make them not. 

Fal. If the cook help to make the gluttony, 
you help to make the diseases, Doll. We catch 
of you, Doll, we catch of you. Grant that, my 
poor virtue, grant that. 51 

Dol. Yea, joy, our chains and our jewels. 
Fal. Your brooches, pearls, and ouches. 
For to serve bravely is to come halting off, you 
know ; to come off the breach with his pike 
bent bravely, and to surgery bravely ; to ven¬ 
ture upon the charg’d chambers bravely, — 57 

Dol. Hang yourself, you muddy conger, hang 
yourself! 

Host. By my troth, this is the old fashion ; 
you two never meet but you fall to some dis¬ 
cord. You are both, i’ good truth, as rheumatic 
as two dry toasts ; you cannot one bear with [02 
another’s confirmities. What the good-year! 
one must bear, and that must be you ; you are 
the weaker vessel, as they say, the emptier 
vessel. 68 

Dol. Can a weak empty vessel bear such a 
huge full hogshead ? There’s a whole mer¬ 
chant’s venture of Bourdeaux stuff in him ; 
you have not seen a hulk better stuff’d in 
the hold. Come, I ’ll be friends with thee, 
Jack. Thou art going to the wars; and whether 
I shall ever see thee again or no, there is nobody 
cares. 73 

Re-enter [First] Drawer. 

[ 7.1 Draw. Sir, Ancient Pistol’s below, and 
would speak with you. 

Dol. Hang him, swaggering rascal! let him 
not come hither. It is the foul-mouth’d’st 
rogue in England. 78 

Host. If he swagger, let him not come here ; 
no, by my faith. I must live among my neigh¬ 
bours ; I ’ll no swaggerers. I am in good name 
and fame with the very best. Shut the door; 
there comes no swaggerers here. I have not 
liv’d all this while, to have swaggering now. 
Shut the door, I pray you. 88 

Fal. Dost thou hear, hostess ? 


Host. Pray ye, pacify yourself, Sir John. 
There comes no swaggerers here. 

Fal. Dost thou hear ? It is mine ancient. 88 
Host. Tilly-fally, Sir John, ne’er tell me ; 
and your ancient swaggerer comes not in my 
doors. I was before Master Tisick, the debuty, 
t’ other day ; and, as he said to me, ’t was no 
longer ago than Wednesday last, “ I’ good faith, 
neighbour Quickly,” says he ; Master Dumbe, 
our minister, was by then; “ neighbour [«s 
Quickly,” says he, “receive those that are 
civil; for,” said he, “you are in an ill name.” 
Now ’a said so, I can tell whereupon ; “for,” 
says he, “you are an honest woman, and well 
thought on ; therefore take heed what guests [100 
you receive. Receive,” says he, “no swagger¬ 
ing companions.” There comes none here. You 
would bless you to hear what he said. No, I ’ll 
no swaggerers. 1*4 

Fal. He’s no swaggerer, hostess ; a tame 
cheater, i’ faith ; you may stroke him as gently 
as a puppy greyhound. He ’ll not swagger with 
a Barbary hen, if her feathers turn back in any 
show of resistance. Call him up, drawer. 109 

[Exit 1 . Drawer.] 
Host. Cheater, call you him ? I will bar no 
honest man my house, nor no cheater ; but I do 
not love swaggering, by my troth. I am the 
worse, when one says swagger. Feel, masters, 
how I shake ; look you, I warrant you. 114 
Dol. So you do, hostess. 

Host. Do I ? yea, in very truth, do I, an ’t 
were an aspen leaf. I cannot abide swaggerers. 

Enter Pistol, Bardolph, and Page. 

Pist. God save you, Sir John ! n# 

Fal. Welcome, Ancient Pistol. Here, Pistol, 
I charge you with a cup of sack ; do you dis¬ 
charge upon mine hostess. 

Pist. 1 will discharge upon her, Sir John, 
with two bullets. 124 

Fal. She is pistol-proof, sir ; you shall hardly 
offend her. 

Host. Come, I ’ll drink no proofs nor no bul¬ 
lets. I ’ll drink no more than will do me good, 
for no man’s pleasure, I. 129 

Pist. Then to you, Mistress Dorothy ; I will 
charge you. 

Dol. Charge me! I scorn you, scurvy com¬ 
panion. What! you poor, base, rascally, cheat¬ 
ing, lack-linen mate ! Away, you mouldy rogue, 
away ! I am meat for your master. 

Pist. I know you, Mistress Dorothy. m 
Dol. Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy 
bung, away ! By this wine, I ’ll thrust my knife 
in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy 
cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! 
ou basket-hilt stale juggler, you ! Since when, 
pray you, sir ? God’s light, with two points on 
your shoulder ? Much ! i« 

Pist. God let me not live, but I will murder 
your ruff for this. 

Fal. No more, Pistol; I would not have you 
go off here. Discharge yourself of our com¬ 
pany, Pistol. 

Host. No, good Captain Pistol; not here, 
sweet captain. iso 




578 THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


II. iv. 


Dol. Captain! thou abominable damn’d 
cheater, art thou not asham’d to be call’d cap¬ 
tain ? An captains were of my mind, they 
would truncheon you out, for taking- their names 
upon you before you have earn’d them. You 
a captain ! you slave, for what ? For tearing [les 
a poor whore’s ruff in a bawdy-house ? He a 
captain ! Hang him, rogue! he lives upon 
mouldy stew’d prunes and dried cakes. A cap¬ 
tain ! God’s light, these villains will make the 
word aS odious as the word “occupy”; [iso 
which was an excellent good word before it was 
ill sorted ; therefore captains had need look 
to’t. 

Bard. Pray thee, go down, good ancient. 

Fal. Hark thee hither, Mistress Doll. i «5 

Pist. Not I. I tell thee what, Corporal Bar- 
dolph, I could tear her. I ’ll be reveng’d of her. 

Page. Pray thee, go down. 

Pist. I ’ll see her damn’d first; to Pluto’s 
damn’d lake, by this hand, to the infernal 
deep, with Erebus and tortures vile also. Hold 
hook and line, say I. Down, down, dogs! 
down, faitors ! Have we not Hiren here ? m 

Host. Good Captain Peesel, be quiet; ’t is 
very late, i’ faith. I beseek you now, aggravate 
your choler. 

Pist. These be good humours, indeed ! Shall 
pack-horses 

And hollow pamper’d jades of Asia, 

Which cannot go but thirty mile a-day, 179 
Compare with Caesars and with Cannibals 
And Troian Greeks ? Nay, rather damn them 
with 

King Cerberus, and let the welkin roar. 

Shall we fall foul for toys ? 

Host. By my troth, captain, these are very 
bitter words. iss 

Bard. Be gone, good ancient. This will 
grow to a brawl anon. 

Pist. [Die] men like dogs ! Give crowns like 
pins ! Have we not Hiren here ? 189 

Host. O’ my word, captain, there’s none 
such here. What the good-year ! do you think 
I would deny her ? For God’s sake, be quiet. 

Pist. Then feed, and be fat, my fair Calipolis. 
Come, give’s some sack. 194 

“ Si fortune me tormente , sperato me contento.” 
Fear we broadsides? No, let the fiend give 
fire. 

Give me some sack ; and, sweetheart, lie thou 
there. [ Laying down his sword.} 

Come we to full points here ; and are etceteras 
nothing ? 

Fal. Pistol, I would be quiet. 199 

Pist. Sweet knight, I kiss thy neaf. What! 
we have seen the seven stars. 

Dol. For God’s sake, thrust him downstairs. 
I cannot endure such a fustian rascal. 

Pist. Thrust him downstairs ! Know we not 
Galloway nags ? 205 

Fal. Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a 
shove-groat shilling. Nay, an ’a do nothing but 
speak nothing, ’a shall be nothing here. 

Bard. Come, get you downstairs. 

Pist. What! shall we have incision ? Shall 
we imbrue ? [ Snatching up his sword.] 210 


Then death rock me asleep, abridge my dole¬ 
ful days! 

Why, then, let grievous, ghastly, gaping 
wounds 

Untwine the Sisters Three I Come, Atropos, I 
say! 

Host. Here ’s goodly stuff toward ! 214 

Fal. Give me my rapier, boy. 

Dol. I pray thee, Jack, I pray thee, do not 
draw. 

Fal. Get you downstairs. 218 

[. Drawing , and driving Pistol out.} 
Host. Here’s a goodly tumult! I’ll forswear 
keeping house, afore I ’ll be in these tirrits and 
frights. So; murder, I warrant now. Alas, 
alas ! put up your naked weapons, put up your 
naked weapons. 223 

[Exeunt Pistol and Bardolph.] 
Dol. I pray thee, Jack, be quiet; the ras¬ 
cal ’s gone. Ah, you whoreson little valiant 
villain, you! 

Host. Are you not hurt i’ the groin? Me- 
thought ’a made a shrewd thrust at your 
belly. 22* 

[Re-enter Bardolph.] 

Fal. Have you turn’d him out o’ doors ? 
Bard. Yea, sir; the rascal’s drunk. You 
have hurt him, sir, i’ the shoulder. 

Fal. A rascal! to brave me ! 232 

Dol . Ah, you sweet little rogue, you ! Alas, 
poor ape, how thou sweat’st! Come, let me 
wipe thy face. Come on, you whoreson chops. 
Ah, rogue! i’ faith, I love thee. Thou art as 
valorous as Hector of Troy, worth five of Aga¬ 
memnon, and ten times better than the Nine 
Worthies. Ah, villain ! 239 

Fal. A rascally slave ! I will toss the rogue 
in a blanket. 

Dol. Do, an thou dar’st for thy heart. An 
thou dost, I ’ll canvass thee between a pair of 
sheets. 244 

Enter Music. 

Pace. The music is come, sir. 

Fal. Let them play. Play, sirs. Sit on my 
knee, Doll. A rascal bragging slave ! The rogue 
fled from me like quicksilver. 248 

Dol. I’ faith, and thou follow’dst him like a 
church. Thou whoreson little tidy Bartholo¬ 
mew boar-pig, when wilt thou leave fighting o’ 
days and foining o’ nights, and begin to patch 
up thine old body for heaven ? 253 

Enter [behind,] Prince Henry and Poins, 
disguised. 

Fal. Peace, good Doll! do not speak like a 
death’s-head. Do not bid me remember mine 
end. 

Dol. Sirrah, what humour’s the Prince 
of? 

Fal. A good shallow young fellow. ’A would 
have made a good pantler; ’a would ha’ chipp’d 
bread well. 239 

Dol. They say Poins has a good wit. 

Fal. He a good wit? Hang him, baboon! 
His wit’s as thick as Tewksbury mustard; 




II. IV. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


579 


there’s no more conceit in him than is in a 
mallet. 263 

Dol. Why does the Prince love him so, 
then? 

Fal. Because their legs are both of a big¬ 
ness, and he plays at quoits well, and eats con¬ 
ger and fennel, and drinks off candles’ ends for 
flap-dragons, and rides the wild-mare with the 
boys, and jumps upon join’d stools, and swears 
with a good grace, and wears his boots very 
smooth, like unto the sign of The Leg, and [270 
breeds no bate with telling of discreet stories ; 
and such other gambol faculties ’a has, that 
show a weak mind and an able body, for the 
which the Prince admits him. For the Prince 
himself is such another; the weight of a hair 
will turn the scales between their avoirdu¬ 
pois. 277 

Prince. Would not this nave of a wheel have 
his ears cut off ? 

Poins. Let’s beat him before his whore. 
Prince. Look, wlie’er the wither’d elder 
hath not his poll claw’d like a parrot. 282 

Poins. Is it not strange that desire should so 
many years outlive performance ? 

Fal. Kiss me, Doll. 

Prince. Saturn and Venus this year in con¬ 
junction ! What says the almanac to that ? 287 
Poins. And, look, whether the fiery Trigon, 
his manj be not lisping to his master’s old 
tables, his note-book, his counsel-keeper. 

Fal. Thou dost give me flattering busses. 
Dol. By my troth, I kiss thee with a most 
constant heart. 293 

Fal. I am old, I am old. 

Dol. I love thee better than I love e’er a 
scurvy young boy of them all. 29s 

Fal. What stuff wilt have a kirtle of? I 
shall receive money o’ Thursday. Shalt have a 
cap to-morrow. A merry song, come ! It grows 
late; we ’ll to bed. Thou’t forget me when 
I am gone. 300 

Dol. By my troth, thou’t set me a-weeping, 
an thou say’st so. Prove that ever I dress my¬ 
self handsome till thy return. Well, hearken at 
the end. 

Fal. Some sack, Francis. sob 

iW‘ j Anon, anon, sir. 

[Coming forward .] 
Fal. Ha ! a bastard son of the King’s ? And 
art not thou Poins his brother ? 

Prince. Why, thou globe of sinful continents, 
what a life dost thou lead ! 310 

Fal. A better than thou. I am a gentleman ; 
thou art a drawer. 

Prince. Very true, sir ; and I come to draw 
you out by the ears. 314 

Host. 0 , the Lord preserve thy Grace ! By 
my troth, welcome to London. Now, the Lord 
bless that sweet face of thine! 0 Jesu, are you 
come from Wales ? 

Fal. Thou whoreson mad compound of maj¬ 
esty, by this light flesh and corrupt blood, thou 
art welcome. 321 

Dol. How, you fat fool! I scorn you. 

Poins. My lord, he will drive you out of your 


revenge and turn all to a merriment, if you 
take not the heat. 325 

Prince. You whoreson candle-mine, you, 
how vilely did you speak of me even now be¬ 
fore this honest, virtuous, civil gentlewoman ! 

Host. God’s blessing of your good heart! 
and so she is, by my troth. 330 

Fal. Didst thou hear me ? 

Prince. Yea, and you knew me, as you did 
when you ran away by Gadshill. You knew I 
was at your back, and spoke it on purpose to try 
my patience. 335 

Fal. No, no, no ; not so ; I did not think thou 
wast within hearing. 

Prince. I shall drive you then to confess the 
wilful abuse, and then I know how to handle 
you. 

Fal. No abuse, Hal, o’ mine honour; no 
abuse. 340 

Prince. Not to dispraise me, and call me pant- 
ler and bread-chipper and I know not what ? 
Fal. No abuse, Hal. 

Poins. No abuse ? 344 

Fal. No abuse, Ned, i’ the world; honest 
Ned, none. I disprais’d him before the wicked, 
that the wicked might not fall in love with 
him ; in which doing, I have done the part of a 
careful friend and a true subject, and thy father 
is to give me thanks for it. No abuse, Hal; 
none, Ned, none ; no, faith, boys, none. 351 

Prince. See now, whether pure fear and en¬ 
tire cowax*dice doth not make thee wrong this 
virtuous gentlewoman to close with us ? Is she 
of the wicked ? Is thine hostess here of the 
wicked ? Or is thy boy of the wicked ? Or 
honest Bardolph, whose zeal burns in his nose, 
of the wicked ? 357 

Poins. Answer, thou dead elm, answer. 

Fal. The fiend hath prick’d down Bardolph 
irrecoverable ; and his face is Lucifer’s privy- 
kitchen, where he doth nothing but roast malt- 
worms. For the boy, there is a good angel about 
him ; but the devil blinds him too. 303 

Prince. For the women ? 

Fal. For one of them, she is in hell already, 
and burns poor souls. For the other, I owe her 
money ; and whether she be damn’d for that, 
I know not. 

Host. No, I warrant you. 30 » 

Fal. No, I think thou art not ; I think thou 
art quit for that. Marry, there is another in¬ 
dictment upon thee, for suffering flesh to be 
eaten in thy house, contrary to the law; for 
the which I think thou wilt howl. 374 

Host. All victuallers do so. What’s a joint of 
mutton or two in a whole Lent ? 

Prince. You, gentlewoman, — 

Dol. Wliat says your Grace ? 

Fal. His grace says that which his flesh re¬ 
bels against. [Peto knocks at door. 3so 

Host. Who knocks so loud at door? Look 
to the door there, Francis. 

Enter Peto. 

Prince. Peto, how now ! what news ? 

Peto. The King your father is at Westmin¬ 
ster ; s u 




5 So 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


hi. i. 


And there are twenty weak and wearied posts 
Gome from the north ; and, as I came along, 

I met and overtook a dozen captains, 
Bare-headed, sweating, knocking at the tav¬ 
erns, 

And asking every one for Sir John Falstaff. 
Prince. By heaven, Poins, I feel me much to 
blame, 390 

So idly to profane the precious time, 

When tempest of commotion, like the south 
Borne with black vapour, doth begin to melt 
And drop upon our bare unarmed heads. 

Give me my sword and cloak. Falstaff, good 
night. 395 

[Exeunt Prince Henry , Poins , 
[ Peto , and Bardolph]. 

Fal. Now comes in the sweetest morsel of 
the night, and we must hence and leave it 
unpick’d. [ Knocking within .] More knocking 
at the door ! • 

[Re-enter Bardolph.] 

How now ! what’s the matter ? 400 

Bard. You must away to court, sir, pre¬ 
sently ; 

A dozen captains stay at door for you. 

Fal. [To the Page.] Pay the musicians, sir¬ 
rah. Farewell, hostess; farewell, Doll. You 
see, my good wenches, how men of merit are 
sought after. The undeserver may sleep, when 
the man of action is call’d on. Farewell, good 
wenches ; if I be not sent away post, I will see 
you again ere I go. 4os 

Dol. I cannot speak. If my heart be not 
ready to burst, —well, sweet Jack, have a care 
of thyself. 

Fal. Farewell, farewell. 

[Exeunt Falstaff [and Bardolph ]. 
Host. Well, fare thee well. I have known 
thee these twenty-nine years, come peascod- 
time ; but an honester and truer-hearted man, 
— well, fare thee well. 415 

Bara. [Within.] Mistress Tearsheet! 

Host. What’s the matter ? 

Bard. [ Within.] Bid Mistress Tearsheet 
come to my master. 

Host. O, run, Doll, run; run, good Doll. 
Come. ( She comes blubbered.) Yea, will you 
come, Doll ? [Exeunt. 421 

ACT III 

Scene I. [ Westminster. The palace.] 

Enter the King in his nightgown, with a Page. 

King. Go call the Earls of Surrey and of 
Warwick; 

But, ere they come, bid them o’er-read these 
letters, 

And well consider of them. Make good speed. 

[Exit Page. 

How many thousand of my poorest subjects 
Are at this hour asleep! O Sleep, 0 gentle 
Sleep, s 

Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, 
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down 
And steep my senses in forgetfulness ? 


Why rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, 
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, 10 

And hush’d with buzzing night-flies to thy 
slumber, 

Than in the perfum’d chambers of the great, 
Under the canopies of costly state, 

And lull’d with sound of sweetest melody? 

O thou dull god, why li’st thou with the vile is 
In loathsome beds, and leav’st the kingly 
couch 

A watch-case or a common ’larum-bell ? 

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast 
Seal up the ship-hoy’s eyes, and rock his brains 
In cradle of the rude imperious surge 20 

And in the visitation of the winds, 

Who take the ruffian billows by the top, 
Curling their monstrous heads and hanging 
them 

With deafening clamour in the slippery clouds, 
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ? 2s 
Canst thou, 0 partial Sleep, give thy repose 
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude, 

And in the calmest and most stillest night, 
With all appliances and means to boot, 

Deny it to a king ? Then happy low, lie 
down! 30 

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 

Enter Warwick and Surrey. 

War. Many good morrows to your Majesty ! 
King. Is it good morrow, lords ? 

War. ’T is one o’clock, and past. 

King. Why, then, good morrow' to you all, 
my lords. 35 

Have you read o’er the letters that I sent you ? 
War. We have, my liege. 

King.. Then you perceive the body of our 
kingdom 

How foul it is ; what rank diseases grow, 

And with what danger, near the heart of it. 4 « 
War. It is but as a body yet distemper’d ; 
Which to his former strength may be restor d 
With good advice and little medicine. 

My Lord Northumberland will soon be cool’d. 
King. O God! that one might read the book 
of fate, 46 

And see the revolution of the times 
Make mountains level, and the continent, 
Weary of solid firmness, melt itself 
Into the sea ! and, other times, to see 
The beachy girdle of the ocean 60 

Too wide for Neptune’s hips; how chances 
mock, 

And changes fill the cup of alteration 
With divers liquors ! 0 , if this were seen, 

The happiest youth, viewing his progress 
through, 

What perils past, what crosses to ensue, 66 
Would shut the book, and sit him down and 
die. 

’T is not ten years gone 

Since Richard and Northumberland, great 
friends, 

Did feast together, and in two years after 
Were they at wars. It is but eight years 
since k 

This Percy was the man nearest my soul, 




III. 11. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 581 


Who like a brother toil’d in my affairs 
And laid his love and life under my foot; 

Yea, for my sake, even to the eyes of Richard 
Gave him defiance. But which of you was 
by — 65 

You, cousin Nevil, as I may remember — 

[To Warwick.] 

When Richard, with his eye brimful of tears, 
Then check’d and rated by Northumberland, 
Did speak these words, now prov’d a prophecy ? 
“ Northumberland, thou ladder by the which 70 
My cousin Bolingbroke ascends my throne, — ” 
Though then, God knows, I had no such intent, 
But that necessity so bow’d the state 
That I and greatness were eompell’d to kiss ; — 
“ The time shall come,” thus did he follow it, 76 
“ The time will come, that foul sin, gathering 
head, 

Shall break into corruption : ” so went on, 
Foretelling this same time’s condition 
And the division of our amity. 

War. There is a history in all men’s lives, so 
Figuring the nature of the times deceas’d ; 

The which observ’d, a man may prophesy, 
With a near aim, of the main chance of things 
As yet not come to life, who in their seeds 
And weak beginnings lie intreasured. ss 

Such things become the hatch and brood of 
time; 

And by the necessary form of this 
King Richard might create a perfect guess 
That great Northumberland, then false to him, 
Would of that seed grow to a greater false¬ 
ness ; 90 

Which should not find a ground to root upon, 
Unless on you. 

King. Are these things then necessities ? 
Then let us meet them like necessities. 

And that same word even now cries out on us. 
They say the Bishop and Northumberland 95 
Are fifty thousand strong. 

War. It cannot be, my lord. 

Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, 
The numbers of the feared. Please it your 
Grace 

To go to bed. Upon my soul, my lord, 

The powers that you already have sent forth 100 
Shall bring this prize in very easily. 

To comfort you the more, I have receiv’d 
A certain instance that Glendower is dead. 
Your Majesty hath been this fortnight ill, 

And these unseason’d hours perforce must 
add 106 

Unto your sickness. 

King. I will take your counsel: 

And were these inward wars once out of hand, 
We would, dear lords, unto the Holy Land. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [Gloucestershire. Before Justice Shal¬ 
low's house.] 

Enter Shallow and Silence [ meeting ]; 
Mouldy, Shadow, Wart, Feeble, Bull- 
calf [a Servant or two with them]. 

Shal. Come on, come on, come on, sir; give 
me your hand, sir, give me your hand, sir. An 


early stirrer, by the rood ! And how doth my 
good cousin Silence ? 

Sil. Good morrow, good cousin Shallow. s 
Shal. And how doth my cousin, your bed¬ 
fellow ? and your fairest daughter and mine, 
my god-daughter Ellen ? 

Sil. Alas, a black ousel, cousin Shallow ! 9 
Shal. By yea and no, sir, I dare say my 
cousin William is become a good scholar. He is 
at Oxford still, is he not ? 

Sil. Indeed, sir, to my cost. 1* 

Shal. ’A must, then, to the Inns o’ Court 
shortly. I was once of Clement’s Inn, where I 
think they will talk of mad Shallow yet. 

Sil. You were call’d lusty Shallow then, 
cousin. is 

Shal. By the mass, I was call’d anything; 
and I would have done anything indeed too, 
and roundly too. There was I, and little John 
Doit of Staffordshire, and black George Barnes, 
and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele, a 
Cots’ol’ man. You had not four such swinge- 
bucklers in all the Inns o’ Court again ; and I 
may say to you, we knew where the bona- [26 
robas were and had the best of them all at 
commandment. Then was Jack Falstaff, now 
Sir John, a boy, and page to Thomas Mowbray, 
Duke of Norfolk. 

Sil. Cousin, this Sir John that comes hither 
anon about soldiers ? 31 

Shal. The same Sir John, the very same. I 
see him break Skogan’s head at the court- 
gate, when ’a was a crack not thus high ; and 
the very same day did I fight with one Samp¬ 
son Stockfish, a fruiterer, behind Gray’s Inn. 
Jesu, Jesu, the mad days that I have spent! 
And to see how many of my old acquaintance 
are dead ! 38 

Sil. We shall all follow, cousin. 

Shal. Certain, ’tis certain; very sure, very 
sure. Death, as the Psalmist saith, is certain 
to all; all shall die. How a good yoke of bul¬ 
locks at Stamford fair ? 43 

Sil. By my troth, I was not there. 

Shal. Death is certain. Is old Double of your 
town living yet ? 

Sil. Dead, sir. 47 

Shal. Jesu, Jesu, dead! ’A drew a good 

bow ; and dead ! ’A shot a fine shoot. John o’ 
Gaunt loved him well, and betted much money 
on his head. Dead ! ’a would have clapp’d i’ 
the clout at twelve score ; and carried you a 
forehand shaft at fourteen and fourteen and a 
half, that it would have done a man’s heart 
good to see. How a score of ewes now ? 65 

Sil. Thereafter as they be, a score of good 
ewes may be worth ten pounds. 

Shal. And is old Double dead ? 

Sil. Here come two of Sir John Falstaff’s 
men, as I think. e® 

Enter Bardolph and one with kim. 

Good morrow, honest gentlemen. 

Bard. I beseech you, which is Justice 
Shallow ? 

Shal. I am Robert Shallow, sir; a poor es¬ 
quire of this county, and one of the King’s jus- 





THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


III. 1L 




tices of the peace. What is your good pleasure 
\rith me ? . 65 

Bard. My captain, sir, commends him to 
you ; my captain, Sir John Falstaff, a tall gen¬ 
tleman, by heaven, and a most gallant leader. 

Shal. He greets me well, sir. I knew him 
a good backsword man. How doth the good 
knight? May I ask how my lady his wife 
doth ? 71 

Bard. Sir, pardon; a soldier is better ac¬ 
commodated than with a wife. 

Shal. It is well said, in faith, sir; and it is 
well said indeed too. Better accommodated ! 
it is good ; yea, indeed, is it. Good phrases are 
surely, and ever were, very commendable. Ac¬ 
commodated ! it comes of accommodo. Very 
good ; a good phrase. 79 

Bard. Pardon, sir; I have heard the word. 
Phrase call you it ? By this day, I know not 
the phrase ; but I will maintain the word with 
my sword to be a soldier-like word, and a word 
of exceeding good command, by heaven. [84 
Accommodated ; that is, when a man is, as they 
say, accommodated; or when a man is, being, 
whereby ’a may be thought to be accommo¬ 
dated ; which is an excellent thing. 

Enter Falstaff. 

Shal. It is very just. Look, here comes [89 
good Sir John. Give me your good hand, give 
me your worship’s good hand. By my troth, 
you like well and bear your years very well. 
Welcome, good Sir John. 

Fal. I am glad to see you well, good Master 
Robert Shallow. Master Surecard, as I think ? 95 
Shal. No, Sir John; it is my cousin Silence, 
in commission with me. 

Fal. Good Master Silence, it well befits you 
should be of the peace. 

Sil. Your good worship is welcome. 100 

Fal. Fie! this is hot weather, gentlemen. 
Have you provided me here half a dozen suffi¬ 
cient men ? 

Shal. Marry, have we, sir. Will you sit ? 
Fal. Let me see them, I beseech you. 105 
Shal. Where’s the roll ? where’s the roll ? 
where’s the roll ? Let me see, let me see, let 
me see. So, so, so, so, so, so, so; yea, marry, 
sir. Ralph Mouldy ! Let them appear as I call; 
let them do so, let them do so. Let me see; 
where is Mouldy ? m 

Moul. Here, an it please you. 

Shal. What think you, Sir John ? A good- 
limb’d fellow; young, strong, and of good 
friends. 

Fal. Is thy name Mouldy ? 115 

Moul. Yea, an’t please you. 

Fal. ’T is the more time thou wert us’d. 
Shal. Ha, ha, ha ! most excellent, i’ faith ! 
Things that are mouldy lack use. Very singu¬ 
lar good ! In faith, well said, Sir John, very 
well said. 

Fal. Prick him. 121 

Moul. I was prick’d well enough before, an 
you could have let me alone. My old dame will 
be undone now for one to do her husbandry 
and her drudgery. You need not to have 


prick’d me; there are other men fitter to go 
out than I. 126 

Fal. Go to; peace, Mouldy; you shall go. 
Mouldy, it is time you were spent. 

Moul. Spent! 

Shal. Peace, fellow, peace; stand aside; 
know you where you are? For the other, Sir 
John, let me see. Simon Shadow ! 132 

Fal. Yea, marry, let me have him to sit 
under ; he’s like to be a cold soldier. 

Shal. Where’s Shadow ? 

Shad. Here, sir. 

Fal. Shadow, whose son art thou ? 137 

Shad. My mother’s son, sir. 

Fal. Thy mother’s son! like enough, and 
thy father’s shadow. So the son of the female 
is the shadow of the male. It is often so, indeed ; 
but much of the father’s substance ! 142 

Shal. Do you like him, Sir John ? 

Fal. Shadow will serve for summer. Prick 
him, for we have a number of shadows to fill 
up the muster-book. we 

Shal. Thomas Wart 1 
Fal. Where’s he ? 

Wart. Here, sir. 

Fal. Is thy name Wart ? iso 

Wart. Yea, sir. 

Fal. Thou art a very ragged wart. 

Shal. Shall I prick him, Sir John ? 

Fal. It were superfluous ; for his apparel is 
built upon his back and the whole frame stands 
upon pins. Prick him no more. ise 

Shal. Ha, ha, ha! you can do itj sir ; you 
can do it; I commend you well. Francis Feeble ! 
Fee. Here, sir. 

[Fal.] What trade art thou, Feeble ? 

Fee. A woman’s tailor, sir. iei 

Shal. Shall I prick him, sir ? 

Fal. You may ; but if he had been a man’s 
tailor, he’d ha’ prick’d you. Wilt thou make 
as many holes in an enemy’s battle as thou hast 
done in a woman’s petticoat ? ice 

Fee. I will do my good will, sir; you can 
have no more. 

Fal. Well said, good woman’s tailor ! well 
said, courageous Feeble ! Thou wilt be as val¬ 
iant as the wrathful dove or most magnanimous 
mouse. Prick the woman’s tailor. Well, Master 
Shallow ; deep. Master Shallow. 173 

Fee. I would Wart might have gone, sir. 

Fal. I would thou wert a man’s tailor, that 
thoumightst mend him and make him fit to go. 
I cannot put him to a private soldier that is the 
leader of so many thousands. Let that suffice, 
most forcible Feeble. 

Fee. It shall suffice, sir. iso 

Fal. I am bound to thee, reverend Feeble. 

Who is next ? 

Shal. Peter Bullcalf o’ the green ! 

Fal. Yea, marry, let’s see Bullcalf. 

Bull. Here, sir. 185 

Fal. ’Fore God, a likely fellow ! Come, prick 
me Bullcalf till he roar again. 

Bull. O Lord ! good my lord captain, — 

Fal. What, dost thou roar before thou art 

prick’d ? 190 

Bull. 0 Lord, sir! I am a diseased man. 




III. 11. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 583 


Fal. What disease hast thou ? 

Bull. A whoreson cold, sir, a cough, sir, 
which I caught with ringing in the King’s 
affairs upon his coronation-day, sir. ms 

Fal. Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a 
gown. We will have away thy cold ; and I will 
take such order that thy friends shall ring for 
thee. Is here all ? 109 

Shal. Here is two more call’d than your 
number; you must have but four here, sir. 
And so, I pray you, go in with me to din¬ 
ner. 

Fal. Come, I will go drink with you, but I 
cannot tarry dinner. I am glad to see you, by 
my troth, Master Shallow. 205 

Shal. O, Sir John, do you remember since we 
lay all night in the windmill in Saint George’s 
field? 

Fal. No more of that, [good] Master Shallow 
[no more of that]. 

Shal. Ha I ’t was a merry night. And is 
Jane Nightwork alive ? 211 

Fal. She lives, Master Shallow. 

Shal. She never could away with me. 

Fal. Never, never; she would always say 
she could not abide Master Shallow. 215 

Shal. By the mass, I could anger her to the 
heart. She was then a bona-roba. Doth she 
hold her own well ? 

Fal. Old, old, Master Shallow. jiw 

Shal. Nay, she must be old ; she cannot 
choose but be old ; certain she’s old ; and had 
Robin Nightwork by old Nightwork before I 
came to Clement’s Inn. 

Sil. That’s fifty-five year ago. 224 

Shal. Ha, cousin Silence, that thou hadst 
seen that that this knight and I have seen ! 
Ha, Sir John, said I well ? 

Fal. We have heard the chimes at midnight, 
Master Shallow. 229 

Shal. That we have, that we have, that we 
have ; in faith, Sir John, we have. Our watch¬ 
word was “ Hem, boys 1 ” Come, let’s to din¬ 
ner ; come, let’s to dinner. Jesu, the days that 
we have seen ! Come, come. 234 

[Exeunt [Falstaff and the Justices ]. 
Bull. Good Master Corporate Bardolph, stand 
my friend ; and here’s four Harry ten shillings 
in French crowns for you. In very truth, sir, I 
had as lief be hang’d, sir, as go ; and yet, for 
mine own part, sir, I do not care ; but rather, [239 
because I am unwilling, and, for mine own part, 
have a desire to stay with my friends ; else, sir, 
I did not care, for mine own part, so much. 
Bard. Go to ; stand aside. 243 

Moul. And, good master corporal captain, for 
my [old] dame’s sake, stand my friend. She has 
nobody to do anything about her when I am 
gone ; and she is old, and cannot help herself. 
You shall have forty, sir. 

Bard. Go to ; stand aside. «« 

Fee. By my troth, I care not; a man can die 
but once ; we owe God a death. I ’ll ne’er bear 
a base mind. An’t be my destiny, so ; an’t be 
not, so. No man’s too good to serve’s prince ; 
and Jet it go which way it will, he that dies 
this year is quit for the next. *“ 


Bard. Well said ; th’ art a good fellow. 

Fee. Faith, I ’ll bear no base mind. 

Re-enter Falstaff and the Justices. 

Fal. Come, sir, which men shall I have ? 
Shal. Four of which you please. 

Bard. [Aside to Fal.] Sir, a word with you, 
I have three pound to free Mouldy and Bull- 
calf. 261 

Fal. Go to ; well. 

Shal. Come, Sir John, which four will you 
have? 

Fal. Do you choose for me. 

Shal. Marry, then, Mouldy, Bullcalf, Fee¬ 
ble, and Shadow. 207 

Fal. Mouldy and Bullcalf ! for you, Mouldy, 
stay at home till you are past service ; and for 
our part, Bullcalf, grow till you come unto it. 
will none of you. 

Shal. Sir John, Sir John, do not yourself 
wrong. They are your likeliest men, and I 

would have you serv’d with the best. 274 

Fal. Will you tell me, Master Shallow, how 
to choose a man ? Care I for the limb, the 
thews, the stature, bulk, and big assemblance 
of a man ! Give me the spirit, Master Shallow. 
Here’s Wart; you see what a ragged appear¬ 
ance it is. ’A shall charge you and discharge 
you with the motion of a pewterer’s ham- [280 
mer, come off and on swifter than he that gib¬ 
bets on the brewer’s bucket. And this same 
half-fac’d fellow, Shadow; give me this man. 
He presents no mark to the enemy ; the foeman 
may with as great aim level at the edge of [2S5 
a penknife. And for a retreat; how swiftly 
will this Feeble the woman’s tailor run off ! 0 , 
give me the spare men, and spare me the great 
ones. Put me a caliver into Wart’s hand, Bar¬ 
dolph. 296 

Bard. Hold, Wart, traverse; thus, thus, 
thus. 

Fal. Come, manage me your caliver. So: 
very well; go to ; very good, exceeding good. 
0 , give me always a little, lean, old, chapt, 
bald shot. Well said, i’ faith, Wart; thou ’rt 
a good scab. Hold, there’s a tester for thee. 29a 
Shal. He is not his craft’s master; he doth 
not do it right. I remember at Mile-end Green, 
when I lay at Clement’s Inn, — I was then Sir 
Dagonet in Arthur’s show, — there was a little 
quiver fellow, and ’a would manage you his 
piece thus; and ’a would about and about, [301 
and come you in and come you in. “ Rah, tah, 
tali,” would ’a say; “bounce” would ’a say ; 
and away again would ’a go, and again would 
’a come. I shall ne’er see such a fellow. 3 o« 
Fal. These fellows will do well, Master 
Shallow. God keep you, Master Silence ; I will 
not use many words with you. Fare you well, 
gentlemen both ; I thank you. I must a dozen 
mile to-night. Bardolph, give the soldiers 
coats. 

Shal. Sir John, the Lord bless you! God 
prosper your affairs ! God send us peace ! At 
your return visit our house ; let our old ac¬ 
quaintance be renewed. Peradventure I will 
with ye to the court. an 




iv. i. 


584 THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


Fal. ’Fore God, would you would [Master 
Shallow]. 

Shal. Go to; I have spoke at a word. God 
keep you! 320 

Fal. Fare you well, gentle gentlemen. 
[Exeunt Justices.] On, Bardolph ; lead the men 
away. [Exeunt Bardolph , recruits , etc.] As I 
return, I will fetch off these justices. I do see 
the bottom of Justice Shallow. Lord, Lord, 
how subject we old men are to this vice of [325 
lying! This same starv’d justice hath done 
nothing but prate to me of the wildness of his 
youth, and the feats he hath done about Turn- 
bull Street; and every third word a lie, duer 
aid to the hearer than the Turk’s tribute. [330 

do remember him at Clement’s Inn like a 
man made after supper of a cheese-paring. 
When ’a was naked, he was, for all the world, 
like a forked radish, with a head fantastically 
carv’d upon it with a knife. ’A was so for- [335 
lorn, that his dimensions to any thick sight 
were invincible. ’A was the very genius of 
famine, yet lecherous as a monkey, and the 
whores called him mandrake. ’A came ever in 
the rearward of the fashion, and sung those 
tunes to the overscutch’d huswives that he [340 
heard the carmen whistle, and sware they were 
his fancies or his good-nights. And now is this 
Vice’s dagger become a squire, and talks as 
familiarly of John o’ Gaunt as if he had been 
sworn brother to him ; and I ’ll be sworn ’a [345 
ne’er saw him but once in the Tilt-yard ; and 
then he burst his head for crowding among the 
marshal’s men. I saw it, and told John o’ 
Gaunt he beat his own name ; for you might 
have thrust him and all his apparel into an [350 
eel-skin. The case of a treble hautboy was a 
mansion for him, a court; and now has he land 
and beeves. Well, I ’ll be acquainted with him, 
if I return ; and it shall go hard but I will 
make him a philosopher’s two stones to me. If 
the young dace be a bait for the old pike, I [35c 
see no reason in the law of nature but I may 
snap at him. Let time shape, and there an end. 

[Exit. 

ACT IV 

Scene I. [Yorkshire.] Within the Forest of 
Gaultree. 

Enter the Archbishop of York, Mowbray, 
Hastings [and others]. 

Arch. What is this forest call’d ? 

Hast. ’T is Gaultree Forest, an ’t shall please 
your Grace. 

Arch. Here stand, my lords ; and send dis¬ 
coverers forth 

To know the numbers of our enemies. 

Hast. We have sent forth already. 

Arch. ’T is well done. 

My friends and brethren in these great affairs, « 
I must acquaint you that I have receiv’d 
New-dated letters from Northumberland ; 
Their cold intent, tenour, and substance, thus : 
Here doth he wish his person, with such pow¬ 
ers 10 


As might hold sortance with his quality, 

The which he could not levy ; whereupon 
He is retir’d, to ripe his growing fortunes, 

-To Scotland ; and concludes in hearty prayers 
That your attempts may overlive the hazard 1® 
And fearful meeting of their opposite. 

Mowb. Thus do the hopes we have in him 
touch ground 

And dash themselves to pieces. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Hast. Now, what news ? 

Mess. West of this forest, scarcely off a mile, 
In goodly form comes on the enemy; 20 

And, by the ground they hide, I judge their 
number 

Upon or near the rate of thirty thousand. 
Mowb. The just proportion that we gave 
them out. 

Let us sway on and face them in the field. 
Arch. What well-appointed leader fronts us 
here ? 2® 

Enter Westmoreland. 

Mowb. I think it is my Lord of Westmore¬ 
land. 

West. Health and fair greeting from our 
general, 

The Prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster. 
Arch. Say on, my Lord of Westmoreland, in 
peace, 

What doth concern your coming. 

West. [Then, my lord,] 

Unto your Grace do I in chief address 31 

The substance of my speech. If that rebellion 
Came like itself, in base and abject routs, 

Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rags, 
And countenanc’d by boys and beggary, — 3 ® 

I say, if damn’d commotion so appear’d, 

In his true, native, and most proper shape. 
You, reverend father, and these noble lords 
Had not been here, to dress the ugly form 
Of base and bloody insurrection 40 

With your fair honours. You, Lord Arch¬ 
bishop, 

Whose see is by a civil peace maintain’d, 
Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath 
touch’d, 

Whose learning and good letters peace hath 
tutor’d, 

Whose white investments figure innocence, 46 
The dove, and very blessed spirit of peace, 
Wherefore do you so ill translate yourself 
Out of the speech of peace that bears such 
grace, 

Into the harsh and boist’rous tongue of war; 
Turning your books to graves, your ink to 
blood, 60 

Your pens to lances and your tongue divine 
To a loud trumpet and a point of war? 

Arch. Wherefore do I this? so the question 
stands. 

Briefly to this end : we are all diseas’d, 

[And with our surfeiting and wanton hours ®® 
Have brought ourselves into a burning fever, 
And we must bleed for it; of which disease 
Our late king, Richard, being infected, died. 





IV. 1. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 585 


But, my most noble Lord of Westmoreland, 

I take not on me here as a physician, «o 

Nor do I as an enemy to peace 
Troop in the throngs of military men ; 

But rather show awhile like fearful war 
To diet rank minds sick of happiness, 

And purge the obstructions which begin to 
Stop 66 

Our very veins of life. Hear me more plainly. 
I have in equal balance justly weigh’d 
What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs 
we suffer, 

And find our griefs heavier than our offences. 
We see which way the stream of time doth 
run, 70 

And are enforc’d from our most quiet there 
By the rough torrent of occasion ; • 

And have the summary of all our griefs, 

When time shall serve, to show in articles ; 
Which long ere this we offer’d to the King, 76 
And might by no suit gain our audience. 

When we are wrong’d and would unfold our 
griefs, 

We are deni’d access unto his person 
Even by those men that most have done us 
wrong.] 

The dangers of the days but newly gone, so 
Whose memory is written on the earth 
With yet appearing blood, and the examples 
Of every minute’s instance, present now, 

Hath put us in these iU-beseeming arms, 

Not to break peace or any branch of it, se 
But to establish here a peace indeed, 
Concurring both in name and quality. 

West. When ever yet was your appeal de¬ 
nied ? 

Wherein have you been galled by the King ? 89 
What peer hath been suborn’d to grate on you, 
That you should seal this lawless bloody book 
Of forg’d rebellion with a seal divine 
And consecrate commotion’s bitter edge ? 

Arch. My brother general, the common¬ 
wealth, 

To brother born an household cruelty. as 

I make niy quarrel in particular. 

West. There is no need of any such redress; 
Or if there were, it not belongs to you. 

Mowb. Why not to him in part, and to us all 
That feel the bruises of the days before, 100 
And suffer the condition of these times 
To lay a heavy and unequal hand 
Upon our honours ? 

West. [ 0 , my good Lord Mowbray, 

Construe the times to their necessities, 

And you shall say indeed, it is the time, n* 
And not the King, that doth you injuries. 

Yet for your part, it not appears to me 
Either from the King or in the present time 
That you should have an inch of any ground 
To build a grief on. Were you not restor’d no 
To all the Duke of Norfolk’s signories, 

Your noble and right well-rememb’red father’s? 
Mowb. What thing, in honour, had my father 
lost. 

That neea to be reviv’d and breath’d in me ? 
The King that lov’d him, as the state stood 
then, 116 


Was, force perforce, compell’d to banish him ; 
And then that Henry Bolingbroke and he, 
Being mounted and both roused in their seats, 
Their neighing coursers daring of the spur, 
Their armed staves in charge, their beavers 
down, 120 

Their eyes of fire sparkling through sights of 
steel, 

And the loud trumpet blowing them together, 
Then, then, when there was nothing could have 
stay’d 

My father from the breast of Bolingbroke, 124 
0 , when the King did throw his warder down — 
His own life hung upon the staff he threw, — 
Then threw he down himself and all their lives 
That by indictment and by dint of sword 
Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke. 
West. You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you 
know not what. iso 

The Earl of Hereford was reputed then 
In England the most valiant gentleman. 

Who knows on whom Fortune would then have 
smil’d ? 

But if your father had been victor there, 

He ne’er had borne it out of Coventry ; iss 
For all the country in a general voice 
Cried hate upon him ; and all their prayers and 
love 

Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on 
And bless’d and grac’d and did, more than the 
King, ] 

But this is mere digression from my purpose. 
Here come I from our princely general i« 
To know your griefs; to tell you from his 
Grace 

That he will give you audience ;. and wherein 
It shall appear that your demands are just, 

You shall enjoy them, everything set off 145 
That might so much as think you enemies. 
Mowb. But he hath forc’d us to compel this 
offer; 

And it proceeds from policy, not love. 

West. Mowbray, you overween to take it so ; 
This offer comes from mercy, not from fear. i 6 » 
For, lo ! within a ken our army lies, 

Upon mine honour, all too confident 
To give admittance to a thought of fear. 

Our battle is more full of names than yours, 
Our men more perfect in the use of arms, ice 
Our armour all as strong, our cause the best; 
Then reason will our hearts should be as good. 
Say you not then our offer is compell’d. 

Mowb. Well, by my will we shall admit no 
parley. 

West. That argues but the shame of your 
offence. 700 

A rotten case abides no handling. 

Hast. Hath the Prince John a full commis¬ 
sion, 

In very ample virtue of his father, 

To hear and absolutely to determine 
Of what conditions we shall stand upon ? i«c 

West. That is intended in the general’s name. 
I muse you make so slight a question. 

Arch. Then take, my Lord of Westmoreland, 
this schedule, 

For this contains our general grievances. 








586 THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


IV. II. 


Each several article herein redress’d, 170 

All members of our cause, both here and 
hence, 

That are insinewed to this action, 

Acquitted by a true substantial form 
And present execution of our wills 
To us and to our purposes confin’d, ns 

We come within our awful banks again 
And knit our powers to the arm of peace. 

West. This will I show the general. Please 
you, lords, 

In sight of both our battles we may meet; 

And either end in peace, which God so frame ! 
Or to the place of difference call the swords isi 
Which must decide it. [Exit West. 

Arch. My lord, we will do so. 

Mowb. There is a thing within my bosom 
tells me 

That no conditions of our peace can stand. 
Hast. Fear you not that. If we can make 
our peace iss 

Upon such large terms and so absolute 
As our conditions shall consist upon, 

Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky moun¬ 
tains. 

Mowb. Yea, but our valuation shall be such 
That every slight and false-derived cause, wo 
Yea, every idle, nice, and wanton reason 
Shall to the King taste of this action ; 

That, were our royal faiths martyrs in love. 

We shall be winnow’d with so rough a wina 
That even our corn shall seem as light as 
chaff W 5 

And good from bad find no partition. 

Arch. No, no, my lord. Note this : the King 
is weary 

Of dainty and such picking grievances ; 

For he hath found to end one doubt by death 
Revives two greater in the heirs of life, 200 

And therefore will he wipe his tables clean 
And keep nc tell-tale to his memory 
That may repeat and history his loss 
To new remembrance ; for full well he knows 
He cannot so precisely weed this land 205 

As his misdoubts present occasion. 

His foes are so enrooted with his friends 
That, plucking to unfix an enemy, 

He doth unfasten so and shake a friend ; 

So that this land, like an offensive wife 210 
That hath enrag’d him on to offer strokes, 

As he is striking, holds his infant up 
And hangs resolv’d correction in the arm 
That whs uprear’d to execution. 

Hastl Besides, the King hath wasted all his 

£ods 215 

On late offenders, that he now doth lack 
Th t/very instruments of chastisement; 

Sd that his power, like to a fangless lion, 

-May offer, but not hold. 

Arch. ’T is very true ; 

And therefore be assured, my good Lord Mar¬ 
shal, 220 

If we do now make our atonement well, 

Our peace will, like a broken limb united, 
Grow stronger for the breaking. 

Mowb. Be it so. 

Here is return’d my Lord of Westmoreland. 


Re-enter Westmoreland. 

West. The Prince is here at hand. Pleaseth 
your lordship 22* 

To meet his Grace just distance ’tween our 
armies. 

Mowb. Your Grace of York, in God’s name, 
then, set forward. 

Arch. Before, and greet his Grace. My lord, 
we come. [Exeunt. 

[Scene II. Another part of the forest .] 

Enter [from one side , Mowbray, attended; 
afterwards the Archbishop, Hastings, and 
others: from the other side,] Prince John of 
Lancaster [and Westmoreland ; Officers, 
and others with them]. 

Lan. You are well encount’red here, my 
cousin Mowbray. 

Good day to you, gentle Lord Archbishop ; 

And so to you, Lord Hastings, and to all. 

My Lord of York, it better show’d with you 
When that your flock, assembled by the bell, 0 
Encircled you to hear with reverence 
Your exposition on the holy text 
Than now to see you here an iron man, 
Cheering a rout of rebels with your drum, 
Turning the word to sword and life to death. 10 
That man that sits within a monarch’s heart, 
And ripens in the sunshine of his favour. 

Would he abuse the countenance of the King, 
Alack, what mischiefs might he set abroach 
In shadow of such greatness ! With you, Lord 
Bishop, is 

It is even so. Who hath not heard it spoken 
How deep you were within the books of God ? 
To us the speaker in His parliament; 

To us the imagin’d voice of God himself; 

The very opener and intelligencer 20 

Between the grace, the sanctities, of Heaven 
And our dull workings. O, who shall believe 
But you misuse the reverence of your place, 
Employ the countenance and grace of Heaven, 
As a false favourite doth his prince’s name, 25 
In deeds dishonourable ? You have ta’en up, 
Under the counterfeited zeal of God, 

The subjects of His substitute, my father, 

And both against the peace of Heaven and 
him 

Have here upswarm’d them. 

Arch. Good my Lord of Lancaster, 

I am not here against your father’s peace ; 31 

But, as I told my Lord of Westmoreland, 

The time misord’red doth, in common sense, 
Crowd us and crush us to this monstrous form, 
To hold our safety up. I sent your Grace 35 
The parcels and particulars of our grief, 

The which hath been with scorn shov’d from 
the court. 

Whereon this Hydra son of war is born; 

Whose dangerous eyes may well be charm’d 
asleep 

With grant of our most just and right de¬ 
sires ; 40 

And true obedience, of this madness cur’d, 
Stoop tamely to the foot of majesty. 





THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 587 


iv. iii. 


Mowb. If not, we ready are to try our for¬ 
tunes 

To the last man. 

Hast. And though we here fall down, 

We have supplies to second our attempt. 45 
If they miscarry, theirs shall second them ; 
And so success of mischief shall be born, 

And heir from heir shall hold this quarrel up 
Whiles England shall have generation. 

Lan. You are too shallow, Hastings, much 
too shallow, 60 

To sound the bottom of the after-times. 

West. Pleaseth your Grace to answer them 
directly 

How far forth you do like their articles. 

Lan. I like them all, and do allow them 
well, 

And swear here, by the honour of my blood, 66 
My father’s purposes have been mistook, 

And some about him have too lavishly 
Wrested his meaning and authority. 

My lord, these griefs shall be with speed re¬ 
dress’d ; 

Upon my soul, they shall. If this may please 
you, 60 

Discharge your powers unto their several coun¬ 
ties, 

As we will ours ; and here between the armies 
Let’s drink together friendly and embrace, 
That all their eyes may bear those tokens 
home 

Of our restored love and amity. 6 s 

Arch. I take your princely word for these 
redresses. 

Lan. I give it you, and will maintain my 
word; 

And thereupon I drink unto your Grace. 

[Hast.] Go, captain, and deliver to the army 
This news of peace. Let them have pay, and 
part. to 

I know it will well please them. Hie thee, cap¬ 
tain. [Exit [Officer]. 

Arch. To you, my noble Lord of Westmore¬ 
land. 

West. I pledge your Grace; and, if you 
knew what pains 

I have bestow’d to breed this present peace. 
You would drink freely. But my love to ye 76 
Shall show itself more openly hereafter. 

Arch. I do not doubt you. 

West. I am glad of it. 

Health to my lord and gentle cousin, Mow¬ 
bray. 

Mowb. You wish me health in very happy 
season; 

For I am, on the sudden, something ill. «o 

Arch. Against ill chances men are ever 
merry; 

But heaviness foreruns the good event. 

West. Therefore be merry, coz; since sud¬ 
den sorrow 

Serves to say thus, some good thing comes to¬ 
morrow. 

Arch. Believe me, I am passing light in 
spirit. 85 

Mowb. So much the worse, if your own rule 
be true. [Shouts [within]. 


Lan. The word of peace is rend’red. Hark, 
how they shout! 

Mowb. This had been cheerful after victory. 
Arch. A peace is of the nature of a conquest; 
For then both parties nobly are subdu’d, »o 
And neither party loser. 

Lan. Go, my lord, 

And let our army be discharged too. 

And, good my lord, so please you, let your 
trains 

March by us, that we may peruse the men 

[Exit [Westmoreland]. 
We should have cop’d withal. 

Arch. Go, good Lord Hastings, 

And, ere they be dismiss’d, let them march 
by. [Exit [Hastings], »6 

Re-enter Westmoreland. 

Lan. I trust, lords, we shall lie to-night 
together. 

Now cousin, wherefore stands our army still ? 
West. The leaders, having charge from you 
to stand, 

Will not go off until they hear you speak. 100 
Lan. They know their duties. 

Re-enter Hastings. 

Hast. My lord, our army is dispers’d already. 
Like youthful steers unyok’d, they take their 
courses 

East, west, north, south ; or, like a school broke 
up, 

Each hurries toward his home and sporting- 
place. 105 

West. Good tidings, my Lord Hastings ; for 
the which 

I do arrest thee, traitor, of high treason ; 

And you, Lord Archbishop, and you, Lord 
Mowbray, 

Of capital treason I attach you both. 

Mowb. Is this proceeding just and honour¬ 
able ? no 

West. Is your assembly so ? 

Arch. Will you thus break your faith ? 

Lan. I pawn’d thee none. 

k 'omis’d you redress of these same grievances 
ereof you did complain; which, by mine 
honour, 

I will perform with a most Christian care, ns 
But for you, rebels, look to taste the due 
Meet for rebellion [and such acts as yours]. 
Most shallowly did you these arms commence, 
Fondly brought here and foolishly sent hence. 
Strike up our drums, pursue the scatt’red stray. 
God, and not we, hath safely fought to-day. 121 
Some guard these traitors to the block of death, 
Treason’s true bed and yielder up of breath. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III. Another part of the forest.] 

Alarums. Excursion. Enter < Falstaff and 
Colville [meeting], 

Fal. What’s your name, sir ? Of what con¬ 
dition are you, and of what place, [I pray] ? 

Col. I am a knight, sir ; and my name is 
Colville of the Dale. * 




588 THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH iv. Hi. 


Fal. Well, then, Colville is your name, a 
knight is your degree, and your place the Dale. 
Colville shall be still your name, a traitor your 
degree, and the dungeon your place, a place 
deep enough ; so shall you be still Colville of 
the Dale. 10 

Col. Are not you Sir John Falstaff ? 

Fal. As good a man as he, sir, whoe’er I am. 
Do ye yield, sir ? or shall I sweat for you ? If 
I do sweat, they are the drops of thy lovers, 
and they weep for thy death; therefore rouse 
up fear and trembling, and do observance to 
my mercy. n 

Col. I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and 
in that thought yield me. 

Fal. I have a whole school of tongues in this 
belly of mine, and not a tongue of them all 
speaks any other word but my name. An I had 
but a belly of any indiff erency, I were simply [23 
the most active fellow in Europe. My womb, 
my womb, my womb, undoes me. Here comes 
our general. 

Enter Prince John of Lancaster, West¬ 
moreland, [Blunt] and others. 

Lan. The heat is past; follow no further 
now. 27 

Call in the powers, good cousin Westmoreland. 

[Exit Westmoreland .] 
Now, Falstaff, where have you been all this 
while ? 

When everything is ended, then you come. 
These tardy tricks of yours will, on my life, 
One time or other break some gallows’ back. 32 
Fal. I would be sorry, my lord, but it should 
be thus. I never knew yet but rebuke and check 
was the reward of valour. Do you think me a 
swallow, an arrow, or a bullet ? Have I, in 
my poor and old motion, the expedition of 
thought? I have speeded hither with the [37 
very extremest inch of possibility; I have 
found’red ninescore and odd posts; and here, 
travel-tainted as I am, have, in my pure and 
immaculate valour, taken Sir John Colville of 
the Dale, a most furious knight and valor- [42 
ous enemy. But what of that? He saw me, 
and yielded ; that I may justly say, with the 
hook-nos’d fellow of Rome, “I came, saw, and 
overcame.” 

Lan. It was more of his courtesy than your 
deserving. 48 

Fal. I know not. Here he is, and here I 
yield him ; and I beseech your Grace, let it be 
book’d with the rest of this day’s deeds; or, 
by the Lord, I will have it in a particular ballad 
else, with mine own picture on the top on’t, Col¬ 
ville kissing my foot; to the which course if I 
be enforc’d, if you do not all show like gilt [as 
twopences to me, and I in the clear sky of fame 
o’ershine you as much as the full moon doth the 
cinders of the element, which show like pins’ 
heads to her, believe not the word of the noble. 
Therefore let me have right, and let desert 
mount. si 

Lan. Thine’s too heavy to mount. 

Fal. Let it shine, then. 

Lan. Thine’s too thick to shine. 


Fal. Let it do something, my good lord, that 
may do me good, and call it what you will. 66 

Lan. Is thy name Colville ? 

Col. It is, my lord. 

Lan. A famous rebel art thou, Colville. 

Fal. And a famous true subject took him. 20 

Col. I am, my lord, but as my betters are 
That led me hither. Had they been rul’d by 
me, 

You should have won them dearer than you 
have. 

Fal. I know not how they sold themselves ; 
but thou, like a kind fellow, gav’st thyself away 
gratis ; and I thank thee for thee. ?« 

Re-enter Westmoreland. 

Lan. Now, have you left pursuit ? 

West. Retreat is made and execution stay’d. 

Lan. Send Colville with his confederates 
To York, to present execution. so 

Blunt, lead him hence ; and see you guard him 
sure. 

[.Exeunt [Blunt and others ] with 
Colville. 

And now dispatch we toward the court, my 
lords; 

I hear the King my father is sore sick. 

Our news shall go before us to his Majesty, 
Which, cousin, you shall bear to comfort him, 
And we with sober speed will follow you. s« 

Fal. My lord, I beseech you, give me leave 
to go 

Through Gloucestershire ; and, when you come 
to court, 

Stand my good lord, [pray,] in your good report. 

Lan. Fare you well, Falstaff. I, in my con¬ 
dition, 90 

Shall better speak of you than you deserve. 

[Exeunt [all but Falstaff ]. 

Fal. I would you had [but] the wit;’t were 
better than your dukedom. Good faith, this 
same young sober-blooded boy doth not love 
me, nor a man cannot make him laugh ; but [»6 
that’s no marvel, he drinks no wine. There’s 
never none of these demure boys come to any 
proof; for thin drink doth so over-cool their 
blood, and making many fish-meals, that they 
fall into a kind of male green-sickness; and 
then, when they marry, they get wenches. [100 
They are generally fools and cowards; which 
some of us should be too, but for inflammation. 
A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold operation 
in it. It ascends me into the brain ; dries me 
there all the foolish and dull and crudy [10s 
vapours which environ it; makes it apprehen¬ 
sive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, 
and delectable shapes ; which, deliver’d o’er to 
the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, be¬ 
comes excellent wit. The second property [no 
of your excellent sherris is, the warming of the 
blood ; which, before cold and settled, left the 
liver white and pale, which is the badge of 
pusillanimity and cowardice; but the sherris 
warms it and makes it course from the inwards 
to the parts extremes. It illumineth the [no 
face, which as a beacon gives warning to all the 
rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm ; and 




IV. IV. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 589 


then the vital commoners and inland petty 
spirits muster me all to their captain, the heart, 
who, great and puff’d up with this retinue, [120 
doth any deed of courage ; and this valour comes 
of sherris. So that skill in the weapon is no¬ 
thing without sack, for that sets it a-work ; and 
learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, 
till sack commences it and sets it in act [125 
and use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is 
valiant; for the cold blood he did naturally in¬ 
herit of his father, he hath, like lean, sterile, 
and bare land, manured, husbanded, and till’d 
with excellent endeavour of drinking good [130 
and good store of fertile sherris, that he is be¬ 
come very hot and valiant. If I had a thousand 
sons, the first humane principle I would teach 
them should be, to forswear thin potations and 
to addict themselves to sack. 135 

Enter Bardolph. 

How now, Bardolph ? 

Bard. The army is discharged all and gone. 

Fal. Let them go. I ’ll through Gloucester¬ 
shire ; and there will I visit Master Robert 
Shallow, esquire. I have him already temper¬ 
ing between my finger and my thumb, and 
shortly will I seal with him. Come away. 142 

[Exeunt. 


Scene [IV. 


Westminster. The 
Chamber .] 


Jerusalem 


Enter the King, the Princes Thomas of 

Clarence and Humphrey of Glouces¬ 
ter, Warwick [and others ]. 

King. Now, lords, if God doth give success¬ 
ful end 

To this debate that bleedeth at our doors, 

We will our youth lead on to higher fields, 

And draw no swords but what are sanctifi’d. 
Our navy is address’d, our power collected, 5 
Our substitutes in absence well invested, 

And everything lies level to our wish. 

Only, we want a little personal strength ; 

And pause us, till these rebels, now afoot, 
Come underneath the yoke of government. 10 

War. Both which we doubt not but your 
Majesty 

Shall soon enjoy. 

King. Humphrey, my son of Gloucester, 
Where is the Prince your brother ? 

Glou. I think he’s gone to hunt, my lord, at 
Windsor. 

King. And how accompanied ? 

Glou. I do not know, my lord. 

King. Is not his brother, Thomas of Clar¬ 
ence, with him ? . 16 

Glou. No, my good lord; he is in presence 
here. 

Clar. What would my lord and father ? 

King. Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of 
Clarence. 

How chance thou art not with the Prince thy 
brother? # 30 

He loves thee, and thou dost neglect him, 
Thomas. 

Thou hast a better place in his afFection 


Than all thy brothers. Cherish it, my boy, 

And noble offices t.hou mayst efFect 
Of mediation, after I am dead, & 

Between his greatness and thy other breth¬ 
ren. 

Therefore omit him not; blunt not his love, 
Nor lose the good advantage of his grace 
By seeming cold or careless of his will. 

For he is gracious, if he be observ’d ; 30 

He hath a tear for pity, and a hand 
Open as day for melting charity ; 

Yet notwithstanding, being incens’d, he’s flint, 
As humorous as winter, and as sudden 
As flaws congealed in the spring of day. 35 
His temper, therefore, must be well observ’d. 
Chide him for faults, and do it reverently, 
When you perceive his blood inclin’d to mirth ; 
But, being moody, give him time and scope, 
Till that his passions, like a whale on ground, « 
Confound themselves with working. Learn 
this, Thomas, 

And thou shalt prove a shelter to thy friends, 

A hoop of gold to bind thy brothers in, 

That the united vessel of their blood, 

Mingled with venom of suggestion, 45 

As, force perforce, the age will pour it in. 

Shall never leak, though it do work as strong 
As aconitum or rash gunpowder. 

Clar. 1 shall observe him with all care and 
love. 

King. Why art thou not at Windsor with 
him, Thomas ? eo 

Clar. He is not there to-day; he dines in 
London. 

King. And how accompanied? [Canst thou 
tell that ?] 

Clar. With Poins, and other his continual 
followers. 

King. Most subject is the fattest soil to 
weeds, 

And he, the noble image of my youth, an 

Is overspread with them ; therefore my grief 
Stretches itself beyond the hour of death. 

The blood weeps from my heart when I do 
shape 

In forms imaginary the unguided days 

And rotten times that you shall look upon «o 

When I am sleeping with my ancestors. 

For when his headstrong riot hath no curb, 
When rage and hot blood are his counsellors, 
When means and lavish manners meet together, 
O, with what wings shall his affections fly es 
Towards fronting peril and oppos’d decay ! 
War. My gracious lord, you look beyond 
him quite. 

The Prince but studies his companions 
Like a strange tongue, wherein, to gain the 
language, 

’T is needful that the most immodest word 70 
Be look’d upon and learn’d; which once at¬ 
tain’d, 

Your Highness knows, comes to no further use 
But to be known and hated. So, like gross 
terms, 

The Prince will in the perfectness of time 
Cast off his followers ; and their memory ts 
S hall as a pattern or a measure live, 




59 ° 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


IV. T. 


By which his Grace must mete the lives of 
others, 

Turning past evils to advantages. 

King. ’T is seldom when the bee doth leave 
her comb 

In the dead carrion. 

Enter Westmoreland. 

Who’s here ? Westmoreland ? 

West. Health to my sovereign, and new 
happiness si 

Added to that that I am to deliver! 

Prince John your son doth kiss your Grace’s 
hand. 

Mowbray, the Bishop Scroop, Hastings and all 
Are brought to the correction of your law. 85 
There is not now a rebel’s sword unsheath’d, 
But Peace puts forth her olive everywhere. 

The manner how this action hath been borne 
Here at more leisure may your Highness read, 
With every course in his particular. »o 

King. O Westmoreland, thou art a summer 
bird, 

Which ever in the haunch of winter sings 
The lifting up of day. 

Enter Harcourt. 

Look, here’s more news. 

Ear. From enemies heaven keep your 
Majesty; 

And, when they stand against you, may they 
fall 95 

As those that I am come to tell you of ! 

The Earl Northumberland and the Lord Bar- 
dolph, 

With a great power of English and of Scots, 
Are by the sheriff of Yorkshire overthrown. 
The manner and true order of the fight 100 
This packet, please it you, contains at large. 

King. And wherefore should these good 
news make me sick ? 

Will Fortune never come with both hands full, 
But write her fair words still in foulest letters ? 
She either gives a stomach and no food ; ios 
Such are the poor, in health ; or else a feast 
And takes away the stomach; such are the 
rich, 

That have abundance and enjoy it not. 

I should rejoice now at this happy news ; 

And now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy. 
O me ! come near me ; now I am much ill. m 

Glou. Comfort, your Majesty! 

Clar. O my royal father ! 

West. My sovereign lord, cheer up yourself, 
look up. 

War. Be patient, Princes; you do know, 
these fits 

Are with his Highness very ordinary. ns 

Stand from him, give him air. He ’ll straight 
be well. 

Clar. No, no, he cannot long hold out these 
pangs. 

The incessant care and labour of his mind 
Hath wrought the mure that should confine 
it in 

So thin that life looks through [and will break 
out]. no 


Glou. The people fear me; for they do observe 
Unfather’d heirs and loathly births of nature. 
The seasons change their manners, as the year 
Had found some months asleep and leap’d them 
over. 

Clar. The river hath thrice flow’d, no ebb 
between; . . 125 

And the old folk, time’s doting chronicles, 

Say it did so a little time before 
That our great-grandsire, Edward, sick’d and 
died. 

Wor. Speak lower, Princes, for the King 
recovers. 

Glou. This apoplexy will certain be his end. 
King. I pray you, take me up, and bear me 
hence wi 

Into some other chamber. [Softly, pray.] 

[Exeunt. The King is borne out.] 

[Scene Y. Another chamber. 

The Kino lying on a bed: Clarence, 
Gloucester, Warwick, and others in atten¬ 
dance.] 

King. Let there be no noise made, my gentle 
friends; 

Unless some dull and favourable hand 
Will whisper music to my weary spirit. 

Wor. Call for the music in the other room. 
King. Set me the crown upon my pillow 
here. e 

Clar. His eye is hollow, and he changes 
much. 

War. Less noise, less noise ! 

Enter Prince Henry. 

Prince. Who saw the Duke of Clarence ? 
Clar. I am here, brother, full of heaviness. 
Prince. How now ! rain within doors, and 
none abroad ! 

How doth the King ? io 

Glou. Exceeding ill. 

Prince. Heard he the good news yet ? 

Tell it him. 

Glou. He alter’d much upon the hearing it. 
Prince. If he be sick with joy, he ’ll recover 
without physic. ie 

War. Not so much noise, my lords. Sweet 
Prince, speak low; 

The King, your father, is dispos’d to sleep. 
Clar. Let us withdraw into the other room. 
War. Will’t please your Grace to go along 
with us ? 

Prince. No ; I will sit and watch here by 
the King. [Exeunt all but the Prince.] 20 
Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow, 
Being so troublesome a bedfellow ? 

0 polish’d perturbation ! golden care I 
That keep’st the ports of slumber open wide 
To many a watchful night! Sleep with it now ! 
Yet not so sound and half so deeply sweet 26 
As he whose brow with homely biggen bound 
Snores out the watch of night. O majesty! 
When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit 
Like a rich armour worn in heat of day, 30 
That scald’st with safety. By his gates of 
breath 




IV. V. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


S9i 


There lies a downy feather which stirs not. 

Did he suspire, that light and weightless down 
Perforce must move. My gracious lord ! my 
father 1 

This sleep is sound indeed ; this is a sleep ss 
That from this golden rigol hath divorc’d 
So many English kings. Thy due from me 
Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood, 

Which nature, love, and filial tenderness 
Shall, O dear father, pay thee plenteously. *o 
My due from thee is this imperial crown, 
Which, as immediate from thy place and blood, 
Derives itself to me. [Puls on the crown.] Lo, 
where it sits, 

Which God shall guard ; and put the world’s 
whole strength 

Into one giant arm, it shall not force « 

This lineal honour from me. This from thee 
Will I to mine leave, as ’t is left to me. [Exit. 
King. Warwick! Gloucester! Clarence! 

Re-enter Warwick, Gloucester, Clarence 
[and the rest]. 

Clar. Doth the King call ? 

War. What would your Majesty? [How 
fares your Grace ?J bo 

King. Why did you leave me here alone, my 
lords ? 

Clar. We left the Prince my brother here, 
my liege. 

Who undertook to sit and watch by you. 

King. The Prince of Wales! Where is he ? 
Let me see him. 

He is not here. sb 

War. This door is open ; he is gone this way. 
Glou. He came not through the chamber 
where we stay’d. 

King. Where is the crown ? Who took it 
from my pillow ? 

War. When we withdrew, my liege, we left 
it here. 

King. The Prince hath ta’en it hence. Go, 
seek him out. eo 

Is he so hasty that he doth suppose 
My sleep my death ? 

Find him, my Lord of Warwick ; chide him 
hither. [Exit Warwick.] 

This part of his conjoins with my disease, 

And helps to end me. See, sons, what things 
you are ! <» 

How quickly nature falls into revolt 
When gold becomes her object! 

For this the foolish over-careful fathers 
Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their 
brains with care, 

Their bones with industry; . to 

For this they have engrossed and pil’d up 
The cank’red heaps of strange-achieved gold ; 
For this they have been thoughtful to invest 
Their sons with arts and martial exercises ; 
When, like the bee, tolling from every flower 
[The virtuous sweets], 78 

Our thighs pack’d with wax, our mouths with 
honey, 

We bring it to the hive, and, like the bees, 

Are murd’red for our pains. This bitter taste 
Yields his engrossments to the ending father, so 


Re-enter Warwick. 

Now, where is he that will not stay so long 
Till his friend sickness hath determin’d me ? 
War. My lord, 1 found the Prince in the 
next room. 

Washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks, 
With such a deep demeanour in great sorrow ss 
That Tyranny, which never quaff’d but blood, 
Would, by beholding him, have wash’d his 
knife 

With gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither. 
King. But wherefore did he take away the 
crown ? 

Re-enter Prince Henry. 

Lo, where he comes. Come hither to me, 
Harry. oo 

Depart the chamber, leave us here alone. 

[Exeunt [ Warwick and the rest\. 
Prince. I never thought to hear you speak 
again. 

King. Thy wish was father, Harry, to that 
thought. 

I stay too long by thee, I weary thee. 

Dost thou so hunger for mine empty chair ob 
That thou wilt needs invest thee with mine 
honours 

Before thy hour be ripe ? O foolish youth ! 
Thou seek’st the greatness that will overwhelm 
thee. 

Stay but a little ; for my cloud of dignity 
Is held from falling with so weak a wind ioo 
That it will quickly drop. My day is dim. 
Thou hast stolen that which after some few 
hours 

Were thine without offence ; and at my death 
Thou hast seal’d up my expectation. 

Thy life did manifest thou lov’dst me not, it« 
And thou wilt have me die assur’d of it. 

Thou hid’st a thousand daggers in thy 
thoughts, 

Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart, 
To stab at half an hour of my life. 

What! canst thou not forbear me half an 
hour ? no 

Then get thee gone and dig my grave thyself, 
And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear 
That thou art crowned, not that I am dead. 
Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse 
Be drops of balm to sanctify thy head ; u# 
Only compound me with forgotten dust; 

Give that which gave thee life unto the worms. 
Pluck down my officers, break my decrees; 

For now a time is come to mock at form. 

Harry the Fifth is crown’d J Up, vanity! no 
Down, royal state ! All you sage counsellors, 
hence ! 

And to the English court assemble now, 

From every region, apes of idleness ! 

Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your 
scum ! 

Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, 
dance, m 

Revel the night, rob, murder, and commit 
The oldest sins the newest kind of ways ? 

Be happy, he will trouble you no more. 







59 2 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


IV. V. 


England shall double gild his treble guilt, 
England shall give him office, honour, might; reo 
For the fifth Harry from curb’d license plucks 
The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog 
Shall flesh his tooth on every innocent. 

O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows ! 
When that my care could not withhold thy 
riots, _ _ 

What wilt thou do when riot is thy care ? 

O, thou wilt be a wilderness again, 

Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants ! 
Prince. O, pardon me, my liege ! but for my 
tears, 

The moist impediments unto my speech, 140 
I had forestall’d this dear and deep rebuke 
Ere you with grief had spoke and I had heard 
The course of it so far. There is your crown ; 
And He that wears the crown immortally 
Long guard it yours ! If I affect it more i« 
Than as your honour and as your renown, 

Let me no more from this obedience rise, 

[Kneels.] 

Which my most inward, true, and duteous 
spirit 

Teacheth, this prostrate and exterior bending. 
God witness with me, when I here came in, ico 
And found no course of breath within your 
Majesty, 

How cold it struck my heart ! If I do feign, 

O, let me in my present wildness die 
And never live to show the incredulous world 
The noble change that I have purposed ! ibs 
C oming to look on you, thinking you dead, 

And dead almost, my liege, to think you were, 

I spake unto this crown as having sense. 

And thus upbraided it: “ The care on thee de¬ 
pending 

Hath fed upon the body of my father ; igo 

Therefore, thou best of gold art worst of gold. 
Other, less fine in carat, is more precious, 
Preserving life in medicine potable ; 

But thou, most fine, most honour’d, most re- 
nown’d, 

Hast eat thy bearer up.” Thus, my most royal 
liege, iGfl 

Accusing it, I put it on my head, 

To try with it, as with an enemy 

That had before my face murd’red my father, 

The quarrel of a true inheritor. 

But if it did infect my blood with joy, no 

Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride ; 

If any rebel or vain spirit of mine 
Did with the least affection of a welcome 
Give entertainment to the might of it, 

Let God for ever keep At from my head ire 
And make me as the boorest vassal is 
That doth with awe and terror kneel to it! 
King. [Omy son,] 

God put it in thy mind to take it hence, 

That thou mightst win the more thy father’s 
love, iso 

Pleading so wisely in excuse of it S 
Come hither, Harry, sit thou by my bed ; 

And hear, I think, the very latest counsel 
That ever I shall breathe. God knows, my son, 
By what by-paths and indirect crook’d ways isb 
I met this crown ; and I myself know well 


How troublesome it sat upon my head. 

To thee it shall descend with better quiet, 
Better opinion, better confirmation ; 

For all the soil of the achievement goes i»« 
With me into the earth. It seem’d in me 
But as an honour snatch’d with boist’rous 
hand, 

And I had many living to upbraid 
Mv gain of it by their assistances ; 

Which daily grew to quarrel and to blood¬ 
shed, 195 

Wounding supposed peace. All these bold fears 
Thou see’st with peril I have answered ; 

For all my reign hath been but as a scene 
Acting that argument; and now my death 
Changes the mode; for what in me was pur¬ 
chas’d, 200 

Falls upon tnee in a more fairer sort; 

So thou the garland wear’st successively. 

Yet, though thou stand’st more sure than I 
could do, 

Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are 
green ; 

And all [my] friends, which thou must make 
thy friends, 206 

Have but their stings and teeth newly ta’en 
out; 

By whose fell working I was first advanc’d 
And by whose power I well might lodge a fear 
To be again displac’d; which to avoid, 

I cut them off ; and had a purpose now *10 

To lead out many to the Holy Land, 

Lest rest and lying still might make them look 
Too near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry, 
Be it thy course to busy giddy minds 
With foreign quarrels, that action, hence borne 

Out, 216 

May waste the memory of the former days. 
More would I, but my lungs are wasted so 
That strength of speech is utterly deni’d me. 
How I came by the crown, 0 God forgive; 

And grant it may with thee in true peace 
live! 220 

Prince. [My gracious liege,] 

You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me ; 

Then plain and right must my possession be, 
Which I with more than with a common pain 
’Gainst all the world will rightfully main¬ 
tain. 228 

Enter Lord John of Lancaster and War¬ 
wick. 

King. Look, look, here comes my John of 
Lancaster. 

Lan. Health, peace, and happiness to my 
royal father ! 

King. Thou bring’st me happiness and peace, 
son John; 

But health, alack, with youthful wings is 
flown 

From this bare wither’d trunk. Upon thy 

Sight 280 

My worldly business makes a period. 

Where is my Lord of Warwick ? 

Prince. My Lord of Warwick! 

King. Doth any name particular belong 
Unto the lodging where 1 first did swoon P 





THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


593 


v. ii. 


War. ’T is call’d Jerusalem, my noble lord. 
King. Laud be to God! even there my life 
must end. 236 

It hath been prophesi’d to me many years, 

I should not die but in Jerusalem ; 

Which vainly I suppos’d the Holy Land. 

But bear me to that chamber ; there I ’ll lie ; 
In that Jerusalem shall Harry die. [Exeunt. 241 


ACT V 

Scene I. [ Gloucestershire. Shallow's house.] 

Enter Shallow, Falstaff, Bardolph, and 
Page. 

Shal. By cock and pie, sir, you shall not 
away to-night. What, Davy, I say ! 

Fal. You must excuse me, Master Robert 
Shallow. 4 

Shal. I will not excuse you ; you shall not be 
excus’d ; excuses shall not be admitted ; there 
is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be ex¬ 
cus’d. Why, Davy! 

[Enter Davy.] 

Davy. Here, sir. 9 

Shal. Davy, Davy, Davy, Davy, let me see, 
Davy; let me see, Davy; let me see. Yea, 
marry, William cook, bid him come hither. 
Sir John, you shall not be excus’d. 

Davy. Marry, sir, thus ; those precepts can¬ 
not be serv’d ; and, again, sir, shall we sow the 
headland with wheat ? 16 

Shal. With red wheat, Davy. But for Wil¬ 
liam cook : are there no young pigeons ? 

Davy. Yes, sir. Here is now the smith’s 
note for shoeing and plough-irons. 20 

Shal. Let it be cast and paid. Sir John, you 
shall not be excus’d. 

Davy. Now, sir, a new link to the bucket 
must needs be had ; and, sir, do you mean to 
stop any of William’s wages, about the sack he 
lost [the other day] at Hinckley fair ? 26 

Shal. ’A shall answer it. Some pigeons, 
Davy, a couple of short-legg’d hens, a joint of 
mutton, and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, 
tell William cook. 30 

Davy. Doth the man of war stay all night, 
sir ? 

Shal. Yea, Davy; I will use him well. A 
friend i’ the court is better than a penny in 
purse. Use his men well, Davy; for they are 
arrant knaves, and will backbite. 36 

Davy. No worse than they are backbitten, 
sir ; for they have marvellous foul linen. 

Shal. Well conceited, Davy. About thy busi¬ 
ness, Davy. <0 

Davy. I beseech you, sir, to countenance 
William Visor of Woncot against Clement 
Perkes o’ the hill. 

Shal. There is many complaints, Davy, 
against that Visor. That Visor is an arrant 
knave, on my knowledge. > *c 

Davy. I grant your worship that he is a 
knave, sir; but yet, God forbid, sir, but a 
knave should have some countenance at his 


friend’s request. An honest man, sir, is able to 
speak for himself, when a knave is not. I have 
serv’d your worship truly, sir, this eight [ei 
years ; and if I cannot once or twice in a quar¬ 
ter bear out a knave against an honest man, I 
have [but a very] little credit with your wor¬ 
ship. The knave is mine honest friend, sir; 
therefore, I beseech you, let him be counte¬ 
nanc'd. 67 

Shal. Go to ; I say he shall have no wrong. 
Look about, Davy. [Exit Davy.] Where are 
you, Sir John? Come, come, come, off with 
your boots. Give me your hand, Master Bar¬ 
dolph. 62 

Bard. I am glad to see your worship. 

Shal. I thank thee with [all] my heart, kind 
Master Bardolph : and welcome, my tall fellow 
[to the Page]. Come, Sir John. 66 

Fal. I’ll follow you, good Master Robert 
Shallow. [Exit Shallow .] Bardolph, look to 
our horses. [Exeunt Bardolph and Page.] If 
I were saw’d into quantities, I should make 
four dozen of such bearded hermits’ staves as [to 
M aster Shallow. It is a wonderful thing to see 
the semblable coherence of his men’s spirits and 
his. They, by observing [of] him, do bear them¬ 
selves like foolish justices; he, by conversing 
with them, is turn’d into a justice-like serv- [75 
ing-man. Their spirits are so married in con¬ 
junction with the participation of society that 
they flock together in consent, like so many 
wild-geese. If I had a suit to Master Shallow, 
I would humour his men with the imputa- [so 
tion of being near their master ; if to his men, 
I would curry with Master Shallow that no man 
could better command his servants. It is cer¬ 
tain that either wise bearing or ignorant car¬ 
riage is caught, as men take diseases, one of [se 
another ; therefore let men take heed of their 
company. I will devise matter enough out of 
this Shallow to keep Prince Harry in continual 
laughter the wearing out of six fashions, which 
is four terms, or two actions, and ’a shall 
laugh without intervallums. O, it is much [no 
that a lie with a slight oath and a jest with a 
sad brow will do with a fellow that never had 
the ache in his shoulders ! 0 , you shall see him 
laugh till his face be like a wet cloak ill laid 
up. os 

Shal. [Within.] Sir John! 

Fal. I come, Master Shallow; I come, 
Master Shallow. [Exit. 

Scene II. [ Westminster. The palace.] 

Enter Warwick and the Lord Chief Justice 
[meeting]. 

War. How now, my Lord Chief Justice! 
whither away ? 

Ch. Just. How doth the King? 

War. Exceeding well; his cares are now all 
ended. 

Ch. Just. I hope, not dead. 

War. He’s walk’d the way of nature ; 

And to our purposes he lives no more. » 

Ch. Just. I would his Majesty had call’d me 
with him. 




594 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


v. ii. 


The service that I truly did his life 
Hath left me open to all injuries. 

War. Indeed I think the young King loves 
you not. 

Ch. Just. I know he doth not, and do arm 
myself 10 

To welcome the condition of the time, 

Which cannot look more hideously upon me 
Than I have drawn it in my fantasy. 

Enter Lancaster, Clarence, Gloucester 
[Westmoreland, and others ]. 

War. Here come the heavy issue of dead 
Harry: 

O that the living Harry had the temper is 
Of him, the worst of these three gentlemen ! 
How many nobles then should hold their places, 
That must strike sail to spirits of vile sort! 

Ch. Just. O God, I fear all will be over¬ 
turn’d ! 

Lan. Good morrow, cousin Warwick, good 
morrow. 20 

'Clar | ^ 00< ^ morrow, cousin. 

Lan. We meet like men that had forgot to 
speak. 

War. We do remember ; but our argument 
Is all too heavy to admit much talk. 

Lan. Well, peace be with him that hath 
made us heavy! 25 

Ch. Just. Peace be with us, lest we be 
heavier! 

Glou. O, good my lord, you have lost a friend 
indeed; 

And I dare swear you borrow not that face 
Of seeming sorrow ; it is sure your own. 

Lan. Though no man be assur’d what grace 
to find, 30 

You stand in coldest expectation. 

I am the sorrier ; would ’t were otherwise ! 
Clar. Well, you must now speak Sir John 
Falstaff fair; 

Which swims against your stream of quality. 
Ch. Just. Sweet princes, what I did, I did in 
honour, 35 

Led by the impartial conduct of my soul; 

And never shall you see that I will beg 
A ragged and forestall’d remission. 

If truth and upright innocency fail me, 

I ’ll to the King my master that is dead, *0 

And tell him who hath sent me after him. 

War. Here comes the Prince. 

Enter King Henry the Fifth [attended], 

Ch. Just. Good morrow ; and God save your 
Majesty! 

King. This new and gorgeous garment, 

majesty, 

Sits not so easy on me as you think. 45 

Brothers, you mix your sadness with some fear. 
This is the English, not the Turkish court; 

Not Amurath an Amurath succeeds, 

But Harry Harry. Yet be sad, good brothers, 
For, by my faith, it very well becomes you. 50 
Sorrow so royally in you appears 
That I will deeply put the fashion on 
And wear it in my heart. Why then, be sad ; 


But entertain no more of it, good brothers, 
Than a joint burden laid upon us all. 65 

For me, by heaven, I bid you be assur’d, 

I ’ll be your father and your brother too. 

Let me but bear your love, I ’ll bear your 
cares. 

Yet weep that Harry’s dead, and so will I; 
But Harry lives, that shall convert those tears 
By number into hours of happiness. «i 

Princes. We hope no other from your 
Majesty. 

King. You all look strangely on me, and you 
most. 

You are, I think, assur’d I love you not. 

Ch. Just. I am assur’d, if I be measur’d 
rightly, es 

Your Majesty hath no just cause to hate me. 
King. No ? 

How might a prince of my great hopes forget 
So great indignities you laid upon me ? 

What! rate, rebuke, and roughly send to 
prison 70 

The immediate heir of England! Was this 
easy ? 

May this be wash’d in Lethe, and forgotten ? 
Ch. Just. I then did use the person of your 
father; 

The image of his power lay then in me ; 

And, in the administration of his law, ts 

Whiles I was busy for the commonwealth, 

Your Highness pleased to forget my place, 

The majesty and power of law and justice, 

The image of the King whom I presented, 

And struck me in my very seat of judgement; 
Whereon, as an offender to your father, si 
I gave bold way to my authority 
And did commit you. If the deed were ill, 

Be you contented, wearing now the garland, 
To have a son set your decrees at nought ? ss 
To pluck down justice from your awful bench ? 
To trip the course of law and blunt the sword 
That guards the peace and safety of your per¬ 
son ? 

Nay, more, to spurn at your most royal image 
And mock your workings in a second body ? »o 
Question your royal thoughts, make the case 
yours: 

Be now the father and propose a son, 

Hear your own dignity so much profan’d, 

See your most dreadful laws so loosely slighted, 
Behold yourself so by a son disdained ; os 

And then imagine me taking your part 
And in your power soft silencing your son. 
After this cold considerance, sentence me ; 
And, as you are a king, speak in your state 
What I have done that misbecame my place, 101 
My person, or my liege’s sovereignty. 

King. You are right, Justice, and you weigh 
this well, 

Therefore still bear the balance and the sword; 
And I do wish your honours may increase, 

Till you do live to see a son of mine 10s 

Offend you and obey you, as I did. 

So shall I live to speak my father’s words: 

“ Happy am I, that have a man so bold, 

That dares do justice on my proper son; 

And not less happy, having such a son n» 




THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


595 


v. iii. 


That would deliver up his greatness so 
Into the hands of justice. You did commit 
me ; 

For which, I do commit into your hand 
The unstained sword that you have us’d to 
bear; 

With this remembrance, that you use the 
same hb 

With the like bold, justj and impartial spirit 
As you have done ’gainst me. There is my 
hand. 

You shall be as a father to my youth, 

My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear, 
And I will stoop and humble my intents 120 
To your well-practis’d wise directions. 

And, princes all, believe me, I beseech you, 

My father is gone wild into his grave, 

For in his tomb lie my affections ; 

And with his spirit sadly I survive, 125 

To mock the expectation of the world, 

To frustrate prophecies, and to raze out 
Rotten opinion, who hath writ me down 
After my seeming. The tide of blood in me 
Hath proudly flow’d in vanity till now : 130 

Now doth it turn and ebb back to the sea, 
Where it shall mingle with the state of floods . 
And flow henceforth in formal majesty. 

Now call we our high court of parliament; 

And let us choose such limbs of noble counsel, 
That the great body of our state may go 136 
In equal rank with the best govern’d nation ; 
That war, or peace, or both at once, may be 
As things acquainted and familiar to us ; 

In which you, father, shall have foremost hand. 
Our coronation done, we will accite, 

As I before rememb’red, all our state ; 

And, God consigning to my good intents, 

No prince nor peer shall have just cause to say, 
God shorten Harry’s happy life one day ! 145 

[Exeunt. 


Scene III. [ Gloucestershire. Shallow's orchard.] 

Enter Falstaff, Shallow, Silence, Davy, 
Bardolph, and the Page. 

Shal. Nay, you shall see my orchard, where, 
in an arbour, we will eat a last year’s pippin of 
mine own grafting, with a dish of caraways, 
and so forth, — come, cousin Silence, — and 
then to bed. 0 

Fal. ’Fore God, you have here a goodly 
dwelling and a rich. 

Shal. Barren, barren, barren ; beggars all, 
beggars all, Sir John: marry, good air. Spread, 
Davy ; spread, Davy. Well said, Davy. 10 

Fal. This Davy serves you for good uses ; he 
is your serving-man and your husband. 

Shal. A good varlet, a good varlet, a very 
good varlet, Sir John. By the mass, I have 
drunk too much sack at supper. A good var¬ 
let. Now sit down, now sit down. Come, 
cousin. 16 

Sil. Ah, sirrah ! quoth-a, we shall 

‘^Do nothing but eat, and make good cheer, 
And praise God for the merry year, 

When flesh is cheap and females dear, 20 


And lusty lads roam here and there 
So merrily, 

And ever among so merrily.” 

Fal. There’s a merry heart! Good Master 
Silence, I ’ll give you a health for that anon. 2s 
Shal. Give Master Bardolph some wine, 
Davy. 

Davy. Sweet sir, sit; I ’ll be with you anon ; 
most sweet sir, sit. Master page, good master 
page, sit. Proface ! What you want in meat, 
we ’ll have in drink ; but you must bear. The 
heart’s all. [Exit.] 32 

Shal. Be merry, Master Bardolph ; and, my 
little soldier there, be merry. 

Sil. [Singing.] “ Be merry, be merry, my 
wife has all; 

For women are shrews, both short and 
tall. 

’T is merry in hall when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry Shrove-tide. 

Be merry, be merry.” 39 

Fal. I did not think Master Silence had been 
a man of this mettle. 

Sil. Who ? I ? I have been merry twice and 
once ere now. 

Re-enter Davy. 

Davy. There’s a dish of leather-coats for 
you. [To Bardolph.] 

Shal. Davy! 45 

Davy. Your worship! I ’ll be with you 
straight. A cup of wine, sir ? 

Sil. [Singing.] “ A cup of wine that’s brisk 
and fine, 

And drink unto the leman mine ; 

And a merry heart lives long-a.” bo 
Fal. Well said, Master Silence. 

Sil. An we shall be merry, now comes in 
the sweet o’ the night. 

Fal. Health and. long life to you, Master 
Silence. 55 

Sil. [Singing.] “Fill the cup, and let it 
come ; 

I ’ll pledge you a mile to the bottom.” 
Shal. Honest Bardolph, welcome. If thou 
want’st anything, and wilt not call, beshrew 
thy heart. Welcome, my little tiny thief [to 
the Page], and welcome indeed too. I ’ll drink 
to Master Bardolph, and to all the cavaleros 
about London. 63 

Davy. I hope to see London once ere I 
die. 

Bard. An I might see you there, Davy, — 
Shal. By the mass, you ’ll crack a quart to¬ 
gether, ha ! will you not, Master Bardolph ? 
Bard. Yea, sir, in a pottle-pot. es 

Shal. By God’s liggens, I thank thee. The 
knave wili stick by thee, I can assure thee 
that. ’A will not out; he is true bred. 

Bard. And I ’ll stick by him, sir. 22 

[One knocks at door. 
Shal. Why, there spoke a king. Lack no¬ 
thing ; be merry ! Look who’s at door there. 
Ho ! who knocks ? [Exit Davy.] 

Fal. Why, now you have done me right. 28 
[To Silence , seeing him talce off a 
bumper.] 




596 THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH v. iv. 


Sil. [Singing.] “Dome right, 

And dub me knight: 
S’amingo.” 

Is’t not so ? so 

Fal. ’T is so. 

Sil. Is ’t so ? Why then, say an old man can 
do somewhat. 

[Re-enter Davy.] 

Davy. An’t please your worship, there’s 
one Pistol come from the court with news. 85 
Fal. From the court! Let him come in. 

Enter Pistol. 

How now, Pistol! 

Pist. Sir John, God save you ! 

Fal. What wind blew you hither, Pis¬ 
tol ? 89 

Pist. Not the ill wind which blows no man 
to good. Sweet knight, thou art now one of the 
greatest men in this realm. 

Sil. By ’r lady, I think ’a be, but goodman 
Puff of Barson. 

Pist. Puff ! 95 

Puff i’ thy teeth, most recreant coward base ! 
Sir John, I am thy Pistol and thy friend, 

And helter-skelter have I rode to thee, 

And tidings do I bring, and lucky joys 
And golden times and happy news of price. ioo 
Fal. I pray thee now, deliver them like a 
man of this world. 

Pist. A foutra for the world and worldlings 
base ! 

I speak of Africa and golden joys. 

Fal. 0 base Assyrian knight, what is thy 
news ? io 5 

Let King Coplietua know the truth thereof. 
Sil. [Singing. 1 “And Robin Hood, Scarlet, 
and John.” 

Pist. Shall dunghill curs confront the Heli¬ 
cons ? 

And shall good news be baffled ? 

Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies’ lap. no 
Sil. Honest gentleman, I know not your 
breeding. 

Pist. Why then, lament therefore. 

Shal. Give me pardon, sir. If* sir, you come 
with news from the court, I take it there’s but 
two ways, either to utter them, or to conceal 
them. I am, sir, under the King, in some au¬ 
thority. 118 

Pist. Under which king, Besonian ? Speak, 
or die. 

Shal. Under King Harry. 

Pist. Harry the Fourth or Fifth ? 

Shal. Harry the Fourth. 

Pist. A foutra for thine office ! 

Sir John, thy tender lambkin now is king ; 122 

Harry the Fifth’s the man. I speak the 
truth. 

When Pistol lies, do this, and fig me like 
The bragging Spaniard. 

Fal. What, is the old king dead ? 126 

Pist. As nail in door. The things I speak are 
just. 

Fal. Away, Bardolph! saddle my horse. 
Master Robert Shallow, choose what office thou 


wilt in the land, ’tis thine. Pistol, I will dou¬ 
ble-charge thee with dignities. isi 

Bard. O joyful day ! 

I would not take a knighthood for my for¬ 
tune. 

Pist. What! I do bring good news. 134 

Fal. Carry Master Silence to bed. Master 
Shallow, my Lord Shallow, — be what thou 
wilt; I am Fortune’s steward—get on thy boots. 
We ’ll ride all night. O sweet Pistol! Away, 
Bardolph ! [Exit Bard.] Come, Pistol, utter 
more to me ; and withal devise something to do 
thyself good. Boot, boot, Master Shallow ! I [no 
know the young king is sick for me. Let us 
take any man’s horses ; the laws of England are 
at my commandment. Blessed are they that 
have been my friends ; and woe to my Lord 
Chief Justice ! ns 

Pist. Let vultures vile seize on his lungs 
also! 

“ Where is the life that late I led ? ” say they. 
Why here it is ; welcome these pleasant days! 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [London. A street.] 

Enter Beadles, [dragging in] Hostess 
Quickly and Doll Tearsheet. 

Host. No, thou arrant knave: I would to 
God that I might die, that I might have thee 
hang’d. Thou hast drawn my shoulder out of 
joint. 

1 . Bead. The constables have deliver’d her 
over to me ; and she shall have whipping-cheer 
enough, I warrant her. There hath been a man 
or two lately kill’d about her. 7 

Dol. Nut-hook, nut-hook, you lie. Come on ! 
I ’ll tell thee what, thou damn’d tripe-visag’d 
rascal, an the child I now go with do miscarry, 
thou wert better thou hadst struck thy mother, 
thou paper-fac’d villain! 12 

Host. O the Lord, that Sir John were come ! 
He would make this a bloody day to somebody. 
But I pray God the fruit of her womb mis¬ 
carry. 

1 . Bead. If it do, you shall have a dozen of 
cushions again; you have but eleven now. 
Come, I charge you both go with me; for the 
man is dead that you and Pistol beat amongst 
you. 19 

Dol. I ’ll tell you what, you thin man in a 
censer, I will have you as soundly swinged for 
this,—you blue-bottle rogue, you filthy fam¬ 
ish’d correctioner, if you be not swinged, I ’ll 
forswear half-kirtles. 24 

1 . Bead. Come, come, you she knight-errant, 
come. 

Host. 0 God, that right should thus overcome 
might! Well, of sufferance comes ease. 

Dol. Come, you rogue, come ; bring me to a 
justice. so 

Host. Ay, come, you starv’d blood-hound. 
Dol. Goodman death, goodman bones ! 

Host. Thou atomy, thou ! 

Dol. Come, you thin thing ; come, you ras¬ 
cal. 

1 . Bead. Very well. [Exeunt. 35 




V. V. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


597 


Scene V . [ A public place near Westminster 
Abbey.] 

Enter two Grooms, strewing rushes. 

1 . Groom. More rushes, more rushes. 

2 . Groom. The trumpets have sounded twice. 
1 . Groom. ’T will be two o’clock ere they 

come from the coronation. Dispatch, dispatch. 4 

[Exeunt. 

Trumpets sound, and the King and his train 
pass over the stage. After them enter Falstaff, 
Shallow, Pistol, Bardolph, and Page. 

Fal. Stand here by me. Master Robert 
Shallow ; I will make the King- do you grace. 
I will leer upon him as he comes by ; and do 
but mark the countenance that he will give 
me- 

Pist. God bless thy lungs, good knight. 9 
Fal. Come here, Pistol; stand behind me. 
0 , if I had had time to have made new liv¬ 
eries, I would have bestowed the thousand 
pound I borrowed of you. But’t is no matter ; 
this poor show doth better ; this doth infer the 
zeal I had to see him. is 

bSAa/.] It doth so. 

Fal. It shows my earnestness of affection, — 
Shal. It doth so. 

Fal. My devotion, — 

Shal. It doth, it doth, it doth. 20 

Fal. As it were, to ride day and night; and 
not to deliberate, not to remember, not to have 
patience to shift me, — 

Shal. It is best, certain. 24 

[Fal.] But to stand stained with travel, and 
sweating with desire to see him; thinking of 
nothing else, putting all affairs else in oblivion, 
as if there were nothing else to be done but to 
see him. 29 

Pist. ’Tis “ semper idem,” for “ obsque hoc 
nihil est .” ’T is all in every part. 

Shal. ’T is so, indeed. 

Pist. My knight, I will inflame thy noble 
liver, 

And make thee rage. 

Thy Doll, and Helen of thy noble thoughts, 35 
Is in base durance and contagious prison; 

Hal’d thither 

By most mechanical and dirty hand. 

Rouse up revenge from ebon den with fell 
Alecto’s snake, 

For Doll is in. Pistol speaks nought but truth. 
Fal. I will deliver her. 41 

Pist. There roar’d the sea, and trumpet- 
clangor sounds. 

The trumpets sound. Enter the King and his 
train , the Lord Chief Justice among them. 

Fal. God save thy Grace, King Hal! my 
royal Hal! 44 

Pist. The heavens thee guard and keep, 
most royal imp of fame ! 

Fal. God save thee, my sweet boy ! 

King. My Lord Chief Justice, speak to that 
vain man. 

Ch. Just. Have you your wits ? Know you 
what ’tis you speak? 


Fal. My king ! my Jove ! I speak to thee, 
my heart! 60 

King. I know thee not, old man ; fall to thy 
prayers. 

How ill white hairs become a fool and jester! 

I have long dream’d of such a kind of man, 

So surfeit-swell’d, so old, and so profane ; 

But, being awak’d, I do despise my dream. 65 
Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace ; 
Leave gormandizing; know the grave doth 
gape 

For thee thrice wider than for other men. 
Reply not to me with a fool-born jest. 

Presume not that I am the thing 1 was ; 00 

For God doth know, so shall the world per¬ 
ceive, 

That I have turn’d away my former self ; 

So will I those that kept me company. 

When thou dost hear I am as I have been, 
Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast, 65 
The tutor and the feeder of my riots ; 

Till then, I banish thee, on pain of death, 

As I have done the rest of my misleaders, 

Not to come near our person by ten mile. 

For competence of life I will allow you, 70 
That lack of means enforce you not to evils; 
And, as we hear you do reform yourselves, 

We will, according to your strengths and qual¬ 
ities, 

Give you advancement. Be it your charge, my 
lord, 

To see perform’d the tenour of my word. 75 
Set on. [Exeunt King [etc.\. 

Fal. Master Shallow, I owe you a thousand 
pound. 

Shal. Yea, marry, Sir John; which I be¬ 
seech you to let me have home with me. so 
Fal. That can hardly be, Master Shallow. 
Do not you grieve at this; I shall be sent for 
in private to him. Look you, he must seem 
thus to the world. Fear not your advancements; 
I will be the man yet that shall make you 
great. *6 

Shal. I cannot well perceive how, unless you 
should give me your doublet and stuff me out 
with straw. I beseech you, good Sir John, let 
me have five hundred of my thousand. 

Fal. Sir, I will be as good as my word. This 
that you heard was but a colour. 91 

Shal. A colour that I fear you will die in, 
Sir John. 

Fal. Fear no colours ; go with me to dinner. 
Come, Lieutenant Pistol; come, Bardolph. I 
shall be sent for soon at night. 96 

Re-enter Prince John, the Lord Chief Jus¬ 
tice [Officers with them]. 

Ch. Just. Go, carry Sir John Falstaff to the 
Fleet. 

Take all his company along with him. 

Fal. My lord, my lord, — 

Ch. Just. I cannot now speak; I will hear 
you soon. 100 

Take them away. 

Pist. Si fortuna me tormenta, spera contenta . 

[Exeunt all but Prince John and 
the Chief Justice. 





598 THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH 


EpL 


Lan. I like this fair proceeding of the 
King’s. 

He hath intent his wonted followers 
Shall all be very well provided for ; _ nw 

But all are banish’d till their conversations 
Appear more wise and modest to the world. 

Ch. Just. And so they are. 

Lan. The King hath call’d his parliament, 
my lord. 

Ch. Just. He hath. no 

Lan. I will lay odds that, ere this year ex- 
pire, 

We bear our civil swords and native fire 
As far as France. I heard a bird so sing, 
Whose music, to my thinking, pleas’d the 
King. 

Come, will you hence ? [ Exeunt. us 


EPILOGUE 
[Spoken by a Dancer.] 

First my fear; then my curtsy; last my 
speech. My fear is, your displeasure ; my 
curtsy, my duty ; and my speech, to beg your 
pardons. If you look for a good speech now, 
you undo me ; for what I have to say is of mine 
own making ; and what indeed I should say [s 
will, I doubt, prove mine own marring. But 
to the purpose, and so to the venture. Be it 


known to you, as it is very well, I was lately 
here in the end of a displeasing play, to pray 
your patience for it and to promise you a bet- [10 
ter. I meant indeed to pay you with this ; which, 
if like an ill venture it come unluckily home, 
I break, and you, my gentle creditors, lose. 
Here I promis’d you I would be, and here I 
commit my body to your mercies. Bate me [is 
some and I will pay you some and, as most 
debtors do, promise you infinitely. 

If my tongue cannot entreat you to acquit 
me, will you command me to use my legs ? And 
yet that were but light payment, to dance out 
of your debt. But a good conscience will [20 
make any possible satisfaction, and so would I. 
All the gentlewomen here have forgiven me ; 
if the gentlemen will not, then the gentlemen 
do not agree with the gentlewomen, which was 
never seen before in such an assembly. 20 

One word more, I beseech you. If you be 
not too much cloy’d with fat meat, our humble 
author will continue the story, with Sir John 
in it, and make you merry with fair Katharine 
of France ; where, for anything I know, [so 
Falstaff shall die of a sweat, unless already ’a 
be kill’d with your hard opinions ; for Oldcastle 
died a martyr, and this is not the man. My 
tongue is weary • when my legs are too, I will 
bid you good night ; and so kneel down be- [*« 
fore you ; but, indeed, to pray for the Queen. 




THE LIFE OF HENRY THE FIFTH 


In the case of Henry V the date of composition can be fixed with more exactness and assur¬ 
ance than usual. The Chorus prefixed to Act v contains in lines 30-34 a clear allusion to the 
expedition led by the Earl of Essex, who left for Ireland on April 15 , 1599 , and returned on 
September 28 of the same year. The nature of the reference is such as to date the passage be¬ 
tween these limits. 

A quarto edition appeared in 1600 , and was reprinted in 1602 and 1608 . This is, however, 
not the source of the text of the First Folio, on which the present edition is based. The Quarto 
is less than half the length of the version in the Folio, and the text is so badly mangled and cor¬ 
rupted that it is to be concluded that it is a pirated edition printed from notes taken at a per¬ 
formance, and perhaps from other sources surreptitiously obtained. The theory that it repre¬ 
sents an earlier draft of the play, afterwards elaborated into the form found in the Folio, is 
negatived by a close comparison of the texts. 

The source of the serious plot of this history is, as usual, the Chronicles of Holinshed. Shake¬ 
speare follows the main thread of the actual events, altering the order only slightly, but con¬ 
densing the action from six years. The long speeches throughout are, but for a few hints, alto¬ 
gether his, with the exception of the genealogical argument of the Archbishop of Canterbury in 
I. ii., which follows Holinshed with remarkable closeness. The scenes in which Pistol and his 
fellows appear have, of course, no original; and the group of subordinate officers, Fluellen, 
Macmorris, and Captain Jamy, with Williams and Bates and the glove episode, are all purely 
Shakespearean. The pardoning of the man who had railed against the king is a skilful inven¬ 
tion to lead up to the unmasking and self-condemnation of the conspirators. Changes in the com¬ 
parative prominence of details are managed in such a way as to produce the characteristic patri¬ 
otic temper of the play. Thus, the tennis-ball message and reply are emphasized and elaborated ; 
and the happy personal relations existing among the English are brought out in Henry’s speeches 
to old Erpingham, in the description of the deaths of Suffolk and York, in the conversation 
between the king and the common soldiers, in the splendid eloquence of such speeches as those 
of Henry before Harfleur and on St. Crispin’s Day, all of which are absent from the chronicles; 
and, conversely, the vain boasting of the French lords before the battle is created out of a mere 
hint that they passed the night in merriment and were contemptuous of their opponents. Again, 
additional stress is laid by Shakespeare on Henry’s piety, his soliloquy and prayer before Agin- 
court being without historical basis. Yet the main lines of his character are those laid down by 
Holinshed and earlier writers. 

The French lesson of the Princess is original; but the wooing is foreshadowed in the crude 
play of The Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth, which had already supplied hints for Henry IV. 
This play also uses the Dauphin’s gift of tennis-balls, and contains dialect parts which may have 
suggested the Welsh, Scottish, and Irish parts here; and a scene in which a Frenchman tries to 
hold an Englishman for ransom bears a certain resemblance to Pistol’s treatment of his French 
captive. The stealing of the pyx and the fate, though not the character, of Bardolph are histori¬ 
cal. The Dauphin was not in fact present at the battle of Agincourt, and in this detail the 
Quarto follows history more accurately than the Folio. The simile of the bees in Canterbury’s 
speech (i. ii. 187 - 204 ) may have been suggested by a passage in Lyly’s Euphues and his England, 
which in turn is based on Pliny. 

The style of the sonnet Epilogue suggests some doubts as to its authorship, — a point of some 
importance in view of the stress laid on it in discussions on Henry VI- 

With the exception of the doubtful Henry VIII, this play was the last to be written of Shake¬ 
speare’s histories. The crises in English history before the Tudor period which gave good dra¬ 
matic opportunity were well-nigh exhausted, and the limitations of the form of the chronicle 
play must have been increasingly irksome to Shakespeare’s developed artistic sense. Henry V 
forms an appropriate close to the series, bringing, as it does, the patriotic fervor underlying 
them all to its highest expression, and embodying it in the heroic figure of the ideal English 
king. 


THE LIFE OF HENRY THE FIFTH 


[DRAMATIS PERSONAL 


King Henry V. 

Duke of Gloucester, ) brother8 to the Kin 
Duke of Bedford, J ° 

Duke of Exeter, uncle to the King. 

Duke of York, cousin to the King. 

Earls of Salisbury, Westmoreland, and Warwick. 
Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Bishop of Ely. 

Earl of Cambridge. 

Lord Scroop. 

Sir Thomas Grey. 

Sir Thomas Erpingham, 


Gower, 
Fluellen, 
Macmorris, 
Jamy, 
Bates, 
Court, 
Williams, 
Pistol. 
Nym. 


officers in 
army. 


soldiers in the same. 


King Henry’s 


Bardolph. 

Boy. 

A Herald. 

Charles VI, king of France. 

Lewis, the Dauphin. 

Dukes of Burgundy, Orleans, and Bourbon. 

The Constable of France. 

gL”: j **»■» ^ 

Governor of Harfleur. 

Montjoy, a French Herald. 

Ambassadors to the King of England. 

Isabel, queen of France. 

Katharine, daughter to .Charles and Isabel. 

Alice, a lady attending on her. 

Hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap, formerly Mistress 
Quickly, and now married to Pistol. 

Chorus. 


Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, and Attendants. 


Scene : England; afterwards France .] 


PROLOGUE 
Enter [Chorus]. 

[Chor .] 0 for a Muse of fire, that would 
ascend 

The brightest heaven of invention, 

A kingdom for a stage, princes to act, 

And monarchs to behold the swelling scene! 
Then should the warlike Harry, like himself, s 
Assume the port of Mars ; and at his heels, 
Leash’d in like hounds, should famine, sword, 
and fire 

Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles 
all, 

The flat unraised spirits that hath dar’d 
On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth 10 
So great an object. Can this cockpit hold 
The vasty fields of France ? Or may we cram 
Within this wooden 0 the very casques 
✓ That did affright the air at Agincourt ? 

O, pardon ! since a crooked figure may is 

Attest in little place a million ; 

And let us, ciphers to this great accompt, 

On your imaginary forces work. 

Suppose within the girdle of these walls 
Are now confin’d two mighty monarchies, 20 
Whose high upreared and abutting fronts 
The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder ; 

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts ; 
Into a thousand parts divide one man, 

And make imaginary puissance ; 25 

Think, when we talk of horses, that you see 
them 


Printing their proud hoofs i’ the receiving 
earth. 

For ’tis your thoughts that now must deck 
our kings, 

Carry them here and there, jumping o’er 
times, 

Turning the accomplishment of many years 30 

Into an hour-glass: for the which supply, 

Admit me Chorus to this history ; 

Who, prologue-like, your humble patience 
_ P ra y» 

Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play. 

[Exit. 

ACT I 

Scene I. [ London. An ante-chamber in the 
King's palace .] 

Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury and 
the. Bishop of Ely. 

Cant. My lord, I ’ll tell you : that self bill is 
urg’d, 

Which in the eleventh year of the last king’s 
reign 

Was like, and had indeed against us pass’d, 

But that the scambling and unquiet time 

Did push it out of farther question. a 

Ely. But how, my lord, shall we resist it 
now ? 

Cant. It must be thought on. If it pass 
against us, 

We lose the better half of our possession; 





HENRY THE FIFTH 


601 


I. ii. 


For all the temporal lands, which men de¬ 
vout 

By testament have given to the Church, 10 
Would they strip from us ; being valu’d thus: 
As much as would maintain, to the King’s 
honour, 

Full fifteen earls and fifteen hundred knights, 
Six thousand and two hundred good esquires ; 
And, to relief of lazars and weak age, is 

Of indigent faint souls past corporal toil, 

A hundred almshouses right well suppli’d ; 

And to the coffers of the King beside, 

A thousand pounds by the year. Thus runs 
the bill. 

Ely. This would drink deep. 

Cant. ’T would drink the cup and all. 

Ely. But what prevention ? 21 

Cant. The King is full of grace and fair re¬ 
gard. 

Ely. And a true lover of the holy Church. 
Cant. The courses of his youth promis’d it 
not. 

The breath no sooner left his father’s body, 25 
But that his wildness, mortifi’d in him, 

Seem’d to die too ; yea, at that very moment 
Consideration like an angel came 
And whipp’d the offending Adam out of him, 
Leaving his body as a paradise 30 

To envelope and contain celestial spirits. 

Never was such a sudden scholar made; 

Never came reformation in a flood 
With such a heady currance, scouring faults ; 
Nor never Hydra-headed wilfulness 35 

So soon did lose his seat, and all at once, 

As in this king. 

Ely. We are blessed in the change. 

Cant. Hear him but reason in divinity, 

And, all-admiring, with an inward wish 
You would desire the King were made a pre¬ 
late ; 

Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs, 

You would say it hath been all in all his study ; 
List his discourse of war, and you shall hear 
A fearful battle rend’red you m music ; 

Turn him to any cause of policy, « 

The Gordian knot of it he will unloose, 
Familiar as his garter ; that, when he speaks, 
The air, a charter’d libertine, is still, 

And the mute wonder lurketh in men’s ears, 
To steal his sweet and honey’d sentences ; so 
So that the art and practic part of life 
Must be the mistress to this theoric : 

Which is a wonder how his Grace should glean 

if, 

Since his addiction was to courses vain, 

His companies unletter’d, rude, and shallow, 55 
His hours fill’d up with riots, banquets, sports, 
And never noted in him any study, 

Any retirement, any sequestration 
From open haunts and popularity. 

Ely. The strawberry grows underneath the 
nettle, # # 60 

And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best 
Neighbour’d by fruit of baser quality; 

And so the Prince obscur’d his contempla¬ 
tion 

Under the veil of wildness; which, no doubt, 


Grew like the summer grass, fastest by night, 
Unseen, yet crescive in his faculty. oe 

Cant. It must be so ; for miracles are ceas’d, 
And therefore we must needs admit the means 
How things are perfected. 

Ely. But, my good lord, 

How now for mitigation of this bill re 

Urg’d by the commons ? Doth his Majesty 
Incline to it, or no ? 

Cant. He seems indifferent, 

Or rather swaying more upon our part 
Than cherishing the exhibiters against us ; 

For I have made an offer to his Majesty, re 

Upon our spiritual convocation 

And in regard of causes now in hand, 

Which I have open’d to his Grace at large, 

As touching France, to give a greater sum 
Than ever at one time the clergy yet »o 

Did to his predecessors part withal. 

Ely. How did this offer seem receiv’d, my 
lord? 

Cant. With good acceptance of his Majesty ; 
Save that there was not time enough to hear, 
As I perceiv’d his Grace would fain have done, 
The severals and unhidden passages ss 

Of his true titles to some certain dukedoms, 
And generally to the crown and seat of France 
Deriv’d from Edward, his great-grandfather. 
Ely. What was the impediment that broke 
this off ? »o 

Cant. The French ambassador upon that 
instant 

Crav’d audience; and the hour, I think, is 
come 

To give him hearing. Is it four o’clock ? 

Ely. It is. 

Cant. Then go we in, to know his embassy; 
Which I could with a ready guess declare, 
Before the Frenchman speak a word of it. 

Ely. I ’ll wait upon you, and I long to hear 
it. [Exeunt. 

[Scene II. The same. The presence chamber .] 

Enter King Henry, Gloucester, Bedford, 
Exeter, Warwick, Westmoreland [and 
Attendants]. 

K. Hen. Wliere is my gracious Lord of Can¬ 
terbury ? 

Exe. Not here in presence. 

K. Hen. Send for him, good uncle. 

West. Shall we call in the ambassador, my 
liege ? 

K. Hen. Not yet, my cousin. We would be 
resolv’d, 

Before we hear him, of some things of weight 5 
That task our thoughts, concerning us and 
France. 

Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury and 
the Bishop of Ely. 

Cant. God and his angels guard your sacred 
throne 

And make you long become it! 

K. Hen. Sure, we thank you. 

My learned lord, we pray yon to proceed 
And justly and religiously unfold W 




602 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


i. u. 


Why the law Salique that they have in France 
Or should, or should not, bar us in our claim ; 
And God forbid, my dear and faithful lord, 
That you should fashion, wrest, or how your 
reading, 

Or nicely charge your understanding soul is 
With opening titles miscreate, whose right 
Suits not in native colours with the truth ; 

For God doth know how many now in health 
Shall drop their blood in approbation 
Of what your reverence shall incite us to. 20 
Therefore take heed how you impawn our 
person, 

How you awake our sleeping sword of war. 

We charge you, in the name of God, take 
heed; 

For never two such kingdoms did contend 
Without much fall of blood, whose guiltless 
drops 25 

Are every one a woe, a sore complaint 
’Gainst him whose wrong gives edge unto the 
swords 

That makes such waste in brief mortality. 
Under this conjuration speak, my lord ; 

For we will hear, note, and believe in heart so 
That what you speak is in your conscience 
wash’d 

As pure as sin with baptism. 

Cant. Then hear me, gracious sovereign, and 
you peers, 

That owe yourselves, your lives, and services 
To this imperial throne. There is no bar ss 
To make against your Highness’ claim to France 
But this, which they produce from Pharamond: 
“ In terram Salicam mulieres ne succedant ,” 

“ No woman shall succeed in Salique land ; ” 
Which Salique land the French unjustly gloze 
To be the realm of France, and Pharamond 41 
The founder of this law and female bar. 

Yet their own authors faithfully affirm 
That the land Salique is in Germany, 

Between the floods of Sala and of Elbe ; 45 

Where Charles the Great, having subdu’d the 
Saxons, 

There left behind and settled certain French ; 
Who, holding in disdain the German women 
For some dishonest manners of their life, 
Establish’d then this law, to wit, no female bo 
Should be inheritrix in Salique land ; 

Which Salique, as I said, ’twixt Elbe and Sala, 
Is at this day in Germany call’d Meisen. 

Then doth it well appear the Salique law 
Was not devised for the realm of France ; 55 

Nor did the French possess the Salique land 
Until four hundred one and twenty years 
After defunction of King Pharamond, 

Idly suppos’d the founder of this law, 

Who died within the year of our redemption 60 
Four hundred twenty-six; and Charles the 
Great 

Subdu’d the Saxons, and did seat the French 
Beyond the river Sala, in the year 
Eight hundred five. Besides, their writers say, 
King Pepin, which deposed Child eric, es 

Did, as heir general, being descended 
Of Blithild, which was daughter to King Clo- 
thair, 


Make claim and title to the crown of France. 
Hugh Capet also, who usurp’d the crown 69 
Of Charles the Duke of Lorraine, sole heir 
male 

Of the true line and stock of Charles the Great, 
To find his title with some shows of truth, 
Though, in pure truth, it was corrupt and 
naught, 

Convey’d himself as the heir to the Lady Lin- 
gare. 

Daughter to Charlemain, who was the son « 
To Lewis the Emperor, and Lewis the son 
Of Charles the Great. Also, King Lewis the 
Tenth, 

Who was sole heir to the usurper Capet, 

Could not keep quiet in his conscience, 

Wearing the crown of France, till satisfied 80 
That fair Queen Isabel, his grandmother, 

Was lineal of the Lady Ermengare, 

Daughter to Charles, the foresaid Duke of 
Lorraine; 

By the which marriage the line of Charles the 
Great 

Was re-united to the crown of France. as 

So that, as clear as is the summer’s sun, 

King Pepin’s title and Hugh Capet’s claim, 
King Lewis his satisfaction, all appear 
To hold in right and title of the female. 

So do the kings of France unto this day, 90 
Howbeit they would hold up this Salique law 
To bar your Highness claiming from the female, 
And rather choose to hide them in a net 
Than amply to imbar their crooked titles 
Usurp’d from you and your progenitors. 95 
K. Hen. May I with right and conscience 
make this claim ? 

Cant. The sin upon my head, dread sover¬ 
eign ! 

For in the book of Numbers is it writ, 

When the man dies, let the inheritance 
Descend unto the daughter. Gracious lord, 100 
Stand for your own ! Unwind your bloody flag ! 
Look back into your mighty ancestors ! 

Go, my dread lord, to your great-grandsire’s 
tomb, 

From whom you claim; invoke his warlike 
spirit, 

And your great-uncle’s, Edward the Black 
Prince, ioc 

Who on the French ground play’d a tragedy, 
Making defeat on the full power of France, 
Whiles his most mighty father on a hill 
Stood smiling to behold his lion’s whelp 
Forage in blood of French nobility. n« 

O noble English, that could entertain 
With half their forces the full pride of France 
And let another half stand laughing by, 

All out of work and cold for action! 

Ely. Awake remembrance of these valiant 
dead, 115 

And with your puissant arm renew their feats. 
You are their heir ; you sit upon their throne ; 
The blood and courage that renowned them 
Runs in your veins; and my thrice-puissant 
liege 

Is in the very May-morn of his youth. 

Ripe for exploits and mighty enterprises. 


120 





1.11. 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


603 


Exe. Your brother kings and monarchs of 
the earth 

Do all expect that you should rouse yourself, 
As did the former lions of your blood. 

West. They know vour Grace hath cause 
and means and might; 125 

So hath your Highness. Never King of England 
Had nobles richer, and more loyal subjects, 
Whose hearts have left their bodies here in 
England 

And lie pavilion’d in the fields of France. 

Cant. O, let their bodies follow, my dear 
liege, 130 

With blood and sword and fire to win your 
right; 

In aid whereof we of the spiritualty 
Will raise your Highness such a mighty sum 
As never did the clergy at one time 
Bring in to any of your ancestors. tse 

K. Hen. We must not only arm to invade 
the French, 

But lay down our proportions to defend 
Against the Scot, who will make road upon us 
Yrith all advantages. 

Cant. They of those marches, gracious sov¬ 
ereign, uo 

Shall be a wall sufficient to defend 
Our inland from the pilfering borderers. 

K. Hen. We do not mean the coursing 
snatchers only, 

But fear the main intendment of the Scot, 

Who hath been still a giddy neighbour to us ; 145 
For you shall read that my great-grandfather 
Never went with his forces into France 
But that the Scot on his unfurnish’d kingdom 
Came pouring, like the tide into a breach, 
With ample and brim fullness of his force, 130 
Galling the gleaned land with hot assays, 
Girding with grievous siege castles and towns; 
That England, being empty of defence, 

Hath shook and trembled at the ill neighbour¬ 
hood. 

Cant. She hath been then more fear’d than 
harm’d, my liege ; ibs 

For hear her but exampl’d by herself: 

When all her chivalry hath been in France, 
And she a mourning widow of her nobles, 

She hath herself not only well defended 
But taken and impounded as a stray iso 

The King of Scots; whom she did send to 
France 

To fill King Edward’s fame with prisoner 

king -3 ? 

And make her chronicle as rich with praise 
As is the ooze and bottom of the sea 
With sunken wreck and sumless treasuries, iss 
West. But there’s a saying very old and 
true, 

“ If that you will France win, 

Then with Scotland first begin.” 

For once the eagle England being in prey, 

To her unguarded nest the weasel Scot no 
Comes sneaking and so sucks her princely eggs, 
Playing the mouse in absence of the cat, 

To tear and havoc more than she can eat. 

Exe. It follows then the cat must stay at 
home; 


Yet that is but a crush’d necessity, no 

Since we have locks to safeguard necessaries, 
And pretty traps to catch the petty thieves. 
W’hile that the armed hand doth fight abroad, 
The advised head defends itself at home ; 

For government, though high and low and 
lower, iso 

Put into parts, doth keep in one consent, 
Congreeing in a full and natural close, 

Like music. 

Cant. Therefore doth heaven divide 
The state of man in divers functions, 

Setting endeavour in continual motion, iss 

To which is fixed, as an aim or butt, 

Obedience ; for so work the honey-bees, 
Creatures that by a rule in nature teach 
The act of order to a peopled kingdom. 

They have a king and officers of sorts, 190 

Where some, like magistrates, correct at home, 
Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad, 
Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, 
Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds, 
Which pillage they with merry march bring 
home iso 

To the tent-royal of their emperor; 

Who, busied in his majesty, surveys 
The singing masons building roofs of gold, 

The civil citizens kneading up the honey, 

The poor mechanic porters crowding in 200 

Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate, 

The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum, 
Delivering o’er to executors pale 
The lazy yawning drone. I this infer, 

That many things, having full reference 205 

To one consent, may work cont.rariously. 

As many arrows, loosed several ways, 

Come to one mark ; as many ways meet in one 
town; 

As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea; 

As many lines close in the dial’s centre ; 210 

So may a thousand actions, once afoot, 

End in one purpose, and be all well borne 
Without defeat. Therefore to France, my liege! 
Divide your happy England into four, 

Whereof take you one quarter into France, 216 
And you withal shall make all Gallia shake. 

If we, with thrice such powers left at home, 
Cannot defend our own doors from the dog, 

Let us be worried and our nation lose 
The name of hardiness and policy. 220 

K. Hen. Call in the messengers sent from 
the Dauphin. [Exeunt some Attendants.] 
Now are we well resolv’d ; and, by God’s help, 
And yours, the noble sinews of our power, 
France being ours, we ’ll bend it to our awe, 

Or break it all to pieces. Or there we ’ll 

Sit, 226 

Ruling in large and ample empery 
O’er France and all her almost kingly duke¬ 
doms, 

Or lay these bones in an unworthy urn, 
Tombless, with no remembrance over them. 
Either our history shall with full mouth 23# 
Speak freely of our acts, or else our grave, 
Like Turkish mute, shall have a tongueless 
mouth, 

Not worshipp’d with a waxen epitaph. 





604 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


II. Pro. 


Enter Ambassadors of France. 

Now are we well prepar’d to know the pleasure 
Of our fair cousin Dauphin ; for we hear 235 
Your greeting is from him, not from the King. 
1. Amb. May’t please your Majesty to give 
us leave 

Freely to render what we have in charge, 

Or shall we sparingly show you far off 
The Dauphin’s meaning and our embassy ? 240 
K. Hen. We are no tyrant, but a Christian 
king, 

Unto whose grace our passion is as subject 
As is our wretches fett’red in our prisons ; 
Therefore with frank and with uncurbed plain¬ 
ness 

Tell us the Dauphin’s mind. 

1. Amb. Thus, then, in few. 

Your Highness, lately sending into France, 243 
Did claim some certain dukedoms, in the right 
Of your great predecessor, King Edward the 
Third. 

In answer of which claim, the prince our mas¬ 
ter 

Says that you savour too much of your 
youth, 250 

And bids you he advis’d there’s nought in 
France 

That can he with a nimble galliard won. 

You cannot revel into dukedoms there. 

He therefore sends you, meeter for your spirit. 
This tun of treasure ; and, in lieu or this, 255 
Desires you let the dukedoms that you claim 
Hear no more of you. This the Dauphin speaks. 
K. Hen. What treasure, uncle ? 

Exe. Tennis-balls, my liege. 

K. Hen. We are glad the Dauphin is so plea¬ 
sant with us. 

His present and your pains we thank you 
for. 260 

When we have match’d our rackets to these 
balls, 

We will, in France, by God’s grace, play a set 
Shall strike his father’s crown into the hazard. 
Tell him he hath made a match with such a 
wrangler 

That all the courts of France will be dis¬ 
turb’d 265 

With chaces. And we understand him well, 
How he comes o’er us with our wilder days, 
Not measuring what use we made of them. 

We never valu’d this poor seat of England ; 
And therefore, living hence, did give our¬ 
self 270 

To barbarous license ; as’t is ever common 
That men are merriest when they are from 
home. 

But tell the Dauphin I will keep my state, 

Be like a king, and show my sail of greatness 
When I do rouse me in my throne of France. 275 
For that I have laid by my majesty 
And plodded like a man for working-days, 

But I will rise there with so full a glory 
That I will dazzle all the eyes of France, 

Yea, strike the Dauphin blind to look on 

US. 280 

And tell the pleasant prince this mock of his 


Hath turn’d his balls to gun-stones, and his soul 
Shall stand sore charged for the wasteful ven¬ 
geance 

That shall fly with them ; for many a thousand 
widows 

Shall this his mock mock out of their dear hus¬ 
bands, 286 

Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles 
down; 

And some are yet ungotten and unborn 
That shall have cause to curse the Dauphin’s 
scorn. 

But this lies all within the will of God, 

To whom I do appeal; and in whose name 
Tell you the Dauphin I am coming on 
To venge me as I may, and to put forth 
My rightful hand in a well-hallow’d cause. 

So get you hence in peace ; and tell the Dauphin 
His jest will savour but of shallow wit, 2»e 
When thousands weep more than did laugh at 
it. — 

Convey them with safe conduct. — Fare you 
well. [ Exeunt Ambassadors. 

Exe. This was a merry message. 

K. Hen. We hope to make the sender blush 
at it. 

Therefore, my lords, omit no happy hour aoo 
That may give furtherance to our expedition ; 
For we have now no thought in us but France, 
Save those to God, that run before our busi¬ 
ness. 

Therefore, let our proportions for these wars 
Be soon collected, and all things thought 
upon • 306 

That may with reasonable swiftness add 
More feathers to our wings ; for, God before, 
We ’ll chide this Dauphin at his father’s door. 
Therefore let every man now task his thought, 309 
That this fair action may on foot be brought. 

[Exeunt. 

[ACT II] 

[prologue.] 

Flourish. Enter Chorus. 

[CAor.] Now all the youth of England are on 
fire, 

And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies. 

Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s 
thought 

Reigns solely in the breast of every man. 

They sell the pasture now to buy the horse, p 
F ollowing the mirror of all Christian kings, 
With winged heels, as English Mercuries. 

For now sits Expectation in the air, 

And hides a sword from hilts unto the point 
With crowns imperial, crowns, and coronets, 1# 
Promis’d to Harry and his followers. 

The French, advis’d by good intelligence 
Of this most dreadful preparation, 

Shake in their fear, and with pale policy 
Seek to divert the English purposes. 15 

O England ! model to thy inward greatness, 
Like little body with a mighty heart, 

What mightst thou do, that honour would thee 
do, 





IL L 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


Were all thy children kind and natural! 

But see thy fault! France hath in thee found 
out 20 

A nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills 
With treacherous crowns ; and three corrupted 
men, 

One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the 
second, 

Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third, 
Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland, 
Have, for the gilt of France, — O guilt in¬ 
deed ! 26 

Confirm’d conspiracy with fearful France ; 

And by their hands this grace of kings must die, 
If hell and treason hold their promises, 

Ere he take ship for France, and in South¬ 
ampton. 30 

Linger your patience on, and we ’ll digest 
The abuse of distance, force a play. 

The sum is paid ; the traitors are agreed ; 

The King is set from London ; and the scene 
Is now transported, gentles, to Southampton. 36 
There is the playhouse now, there must you sit; 
And thence to France shall we convey you safe, 
And bring you back, charming the narrow seas 
To give you gentle pass ; for, if we may, 

We ’ll not offend one stomach with our play. 40 
But, till the King come forth, and not till then, 
Unto Southampton do we shift our scene. 

[Exit. 

[Scene I. London. A street.] 

Enter Corporal Nym and Lieutenant Bar- 
dolph. 

Bard. Well met, Corporal Nym. 

Nym. Good morrow, Lieutenant Bardolph. 
Bard. What, are Ancient Pistol and you 
friends yet ? 4 

Nym. For my part, I care not. I say little ; 
but when time shall serve, there shall be 
smiles ; but that shall be as it may. I dare not 
fight, but I will wink and hold out mine iron. 
It is a simple one, but what though ? It will 
toast cheese, and it will endure cold as another 
man’s sword will; and there’s an end. n 

Bard. I will bestow a breakfast to make you 
friends ; and we ’ll be all three sworn brothers 
to France. Let it be so, good Corporal Nym. u 
Nym. Faith, I will live so long as I may, 
that’s the certain of it; and when I cannot 
live any longer, I will do as I may. That is my 
rest., that is the rendezvous of it. 

Bard. It is certain, corporal, that he is mar¬ 
ried to Nell Quickly ; and certainly she did you 
wrong, for you were troth-plight to her. « 

Nym. I cannot tell. Things must be as they 
may. Men may sleep, and they may have their 
throats about them at that time ; and some say 
knives have edges. It must be as it may. 
Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will 
plod. There must be conclusions. Well, I can¬ 
not tell. 27 

Enter Pistol and Hostess. 

Bard. Here come Ancient Pistol and his 
wife. Good corporal, be patient here. How 
now, mine host Pistol! *> 


605 


Pist. Base tike, call’st thou me host ? 

Now, by this hand, I swear, I scorn the term ; 
Nor shall my Nell keep lodgers. 33 

Host. No, by my troth, not long; for we 
cannot lodge and board a dozen or fourteen 
gentlewomen that live honestly by the prick of 
their needles, but it will be thought we keep a 
bawdy house straight. [Nym and Pistol draw. 1 
O well a day, Lady, if he be not drawn now 1 
We shall see wilful adultery and murder com¬ 
mitted. 40 

Bard. Good lieutenant! good corporal! offer 
nothing here. 

Nym. Pish! 

Pist. Pish for thee, Iceland dog ! thou prick- 
ear’d cur of Iceland ! 

Host. Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour, 
and put up your sword. 40 

Nym. Will you shog off ? I would have you 
solus. 

Pist. “ Solus,” egregious dog 1 0 viper 

vile! 

The “ solus ”in thy most mervailous face; bo 
T he “ solus ” in thy teeth, and in tliy throat, 
And in thy hateful lungs, yea, in thy maw, 
perdy, 

And, which is worse, within thy nasty mouth! 
I do retort the “ solus ” in thy bowels ; 

For I can take, and Pistol’s cock is up, 

And flashing fire will follow. bo 

Nym. I am not Barbason; you cannot con¬ 
jure me. I have an humour to knock you indif¬ 
ferently well. If you grow foul with me, Pistol, 
I will scour you with my rapier, as I may, in 
fair terms. If you would walk off, I would 
prick your guts a little, in good terms, as I 
may ; and that’s the humour of it. 63 

Pist. O braggart vile and damned furious 
wight! 

The grave doth gape, and doting death is 
near, 

Therefore exhale. 

Bard. Hear me, hear me what I say. He 
that strikes the first stroke, I ’ll run him up to 
the hilts, as I am a soldier. [Draws.] 

Pist. An oath of mickle might ; and fury 
shall abate. to 

Give me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give. 

Thy spirits are most tall. 

Nym. I will cut thy throat, one time or 
other, in fair terms : that is the humour of it. 

Pist. “ Couple a gorge! ” n 

That is the word. I thee defy again. 

0 hound of Crete, think ’st thou my spouse to 
get? 

No ! to the spital go, 

And from the powdering-tub of infamy 
Fetch forth the lazar kite of Cressid’s kind, «® 
Doll Tearsheet she by name, and her espouse. 

I have, and I will hold, the quondam Quickly 
For the only she ; and —jpauca, there ’s enough. 

GO tO. 84 

Enter the Boy. 

Boy. Mine host Pistol, you must come to my 
master, and you, hostess. He is very sick, and 
would to bed. Good Bardolph, put thy face 






6o6 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


II. u. 


between his sheets, and do the office of a warm¬ 
ing-pan. Faith, he ’s very ill. 

Bard. Away, you rogue ! so 

Host. By my ti’oth, he ’ll yield the crow a 
udding one of these days. The King has kill’d 
is heart. Good husband, come home presently. 

[.Exeunt [Hostess and Boy]. 
Bard. Come, shall I make you two friends ? 
We must to France together; why the devil 
should we keep knives to cut one another’s 
throats ? «« 

Pist. Let floods o’erswell, and fiends for food 
howl on! 

Nym. You’ll pay me the eight shillings I 
won of you at betting ? 

Pist. Base is the slave that pays. 100 

Nym. That now I will have: that’s the hu¬ 
mour of it. 

Pist. As manhood shall compound. Push 
home. [They draw. 

Bard. By this sword, he that makes the first 
thrust, I ’ll kill him ; by this sword, I will. 105 
Pist. Sword is an oath, and oaths must have 
their course. 

Bard. Corporal Nym, an thou wilt be 
friends, be friends; an thou wilt not, why, 
then, be enemies with me too. Prithee, put up. 

Nym. I shall have my eight shillings I won 
from you at betting ? 111 

Pist. A noble shalt thou have, and present 
pay; 

And liquor likewise will I give to thee, 

And friendship shall combine, and brother¬ 
hood. 

I ’ll live by Nym, and Nym shall live by me. us 
Is not this just ? For I shall sutler be 
Unto the camp, and profits will accrue. 

Give me thy hand. 

Nym. I shall have my noble ? 

Pist. In cash most justly paid. 120 

Nym. Well, then, that’s the humour of’t. 

Re-enter Hostess. 

Host. As ever you come of women, come in 
quickly to Sir John. Ah, poor heart! he is so 
shak’d of a burning quotidian tertian, that it is 
most lamentable to behold. Sweet men, come 
to him. 126 

Nym. The King hath run bad humours on 
the knight; that’s the even of it. 

Pist. Nym, thou hast spoke the right. 

His heart is fracted and corroborate. 130 

Nym. The king is a good King ; but it must 
be as it may; he passes some humours and 
careers. 

Pist. Let us condole the knight; for, lamb¬ 
kins, we will live. [Exeunt.] 

[Scene II. Southampton. A council-chamber.] 

Enter Exeter, Bedford, and Westmore¬ 
land. 

Bed. ’Fore God, his Grace is bold, to trust 
these traitors. 

Ext. They shall be apprehended by and by. 
West. How smooth and even they do bear 
themselves! 


As if allegiance in their bosoms sat 
Crowned with faith and constant loyalty. « 

Bed. The King hath note of all that they 
intend, 

By interception which they dream not of. 

Exe. Nay, but the man that was his bed¬ 
fellow, 

Whom he hath dull’d and cloy’d with gracious 
favours, 

That he should, for a foreign purse, so sell 10 
His sovereign’s life to death and treachery. 

Trumpets sound. Enter King Henry, Scroop, 
Cambridge, and Grey. 

K. Hen. Now sits the wind fair, and we will 
aboard. 

My Lord of Cambridge, and my kind Lord of 
Masham, 

And you, my gentle knight, give me your 
thoughts. 

Think you not that the powers we bear with us 
Will cut their passage through the force of 
France, is 

Doing the execution and the act 
For which we have in head assembled them ? 

Scroop. No doubt, my liege, if each man do 
his best. 

K. Hen. I doubt not that, since we are well 
persuaded 20 

We carry not a heart with us from hence 
That grows not in a fair consent with ours, 

Nor leave not one behind that doth not wish 
Success and conquest to attend on us. 

Cam. Never was monarch better fear’d and 
lov’d 2/» 

Than is your Majesty. There’s not, I think, a 
subject 

That sits in heart-grief and uneasiness 
Under the sweet shade of your government. 

Grey. True; those that were your father’s 
enemies 

Have steep’d their galls in honey, and do serve 
you 30 

With hearts create of duty and of zeal. 

E. Hen. We therefore have great cause of 
thankfulness, 

And shall forget the office of our hand 
Sooner than quittance of desert and merit 
According to the weight and worthiness. 35 

Scroop. So service shall with steeled sinews 
toil, 

And labour shall refresh itself with hope, 

To do your Grace incessant services. 

E. Hen. We judge no less. Uncle of Exeter, 
Enlarge the man committed yesterday, 40 
That rail’d against our person. We consider 
It was excess of wine that set him on, 

And on his more advice we pardon him. 

Scroop. That \s mercy, but, too much security. 
Let him be punish’d, sovereign, lest example 45 
Breed, by his sufferance, more of such a kind. 

E. Hen. 0, let us yet be merciful. 

Cam. So may your Highness, and yet punish 
too. 

Grey. Sir, 

You show great mercy if you give him life bo 
A fter the taste of much correction. 




II. ii. 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


607 


K. Hen. Alas, your too much love and care 
of me 

Are heavy orisons ’gainst this poor wretch ! 

If little faults, proceeding on distemper, 

Shall not be wink’d at, how shall we stretch 
our eye 55 

When capital crimes, chew’d, swallow’d and 
digested, 

Appear before us? We’ll yet enlarge that 
man, 

Though Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey, in their 
dear care 


And tender preservation of our person, 

Would have him punish’d. And now to our 
French causes. 60 

Who are the late commissioners ? 

Cam. I one, my lord. 

5 four Highness bade me ask for it to-day. 
Scroop. So did you me, my liege. 

Grey. And I, my royal sovereign. 65 

K. Hen. Then, Richard Earl of Cambridge, 
there is yours; 

There yours, Lord Scroop of Masham ; and, sir 
knight, 

Grey of Northumberland, this same is yours. 
Read them, and know I know your worthiness. 
My Lord of Westmoreland, and uncle Exeter, 
We will aboard to-night. — W r hy, how now, 
gentlemen! 71 

What see you in those papers that you lose 
So much complexion ? — Look ye, how they 
change! 

Their cheeks are paper. — Why, what read you 
there, 

That have so cowarded and chas’d your blood 
Out of appearance ? 

Cam. I do confess my fault., 76 

And do submit me to your Highness’ mercy. 

Scroop | w hich we a PP ea l- 
K. Hen. The mercy that was quick in us but 
late, 

By your own counsel is suppress’d and kill’d, so 
You must not dare, for shame, to talk of mercy, 
For your own reasons turn into your bosoms, 

As dogs upon their masters, worrying you. 

See you, my princes and my noble peers, 

These English monsters! My Lord of Cam¬ 
bridge here, sr 

You know how apt our love was to accord 


To furnish him with all appertinents 
Belonging to his honour ; and this man 
Hath, for a few light crowns, lightly conspir’d 
And sworn unto the practices of France so 
To kill us here in Hampton ; to the which 
This knight, no less for bounty bound to us 
Than Cambridge is, hath likewise sworn. 
But, 0 

What shall I say to thee, Lord Scroop ? thou 


cruel, 

Ingrateful, savage, and inhuman creature ! »s 
Thou that didst bear the key of all my counsels, 
That knew’st the very bottom of my soul, 

That almost mightst have coin’d me into gold, 
Wouldst, thou have practis’d on me for thy 
use, — 

May it be possible that foreign hire 100 


Could out of thee extract one spark of evil 
That might annoy my finger ? ’T is so strange, 
That, though the truth of it stands off as gross 
As black and white, my eye will scarcely see it. 
Treason and murder ever kept together, 105 
As two yoke-devils sworn to either’s purpose, 
Working so grossly in a natural cause 
That admiration did not whoop at them ; 

But thou, ’gainst all proportion, didst bring in 
Wonder to wait on treason and on murder; no 
And whatsoever cunning fiend it was 
That wrought upon thee so preposterously 
Hath got the voice in hell for excellence ; 

And other devils that suggest by treasons 
Do botch and bungle up damnation ns 

With patches, colours, and with forms being 
fetch’d 

From glist’ring semblances of piety. 

But he that temper’d thee bade thee stand up, 
Gave thee no instance why thou shouldst do 
treason, 

Unless to dub thee with the name of traitor, no 
If that same demon that hath gull’d thee thus 
Should with his lion gait walk the whole world, 
He might return to vasty Tartar back, 

And tell the legions, “ I can never win 
A soul so easy as that Englishman’s.” 125 

O, how hast thou with jealousy infected 
The sweetness of affiance ! Show men dutiful ? 
Why, so didst thou. Seem they grave and 
learned ? 

Why, so didst thou. Come they of noble fam¬ 
ily ? 

Why, so didst thou. Seem they religious ? 130 

Why, so didst thou. Or are they spare in diet, 
Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger, 
Constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood, 
Garnish’d and deck’d in modest complement, 
Not working with the eye without the ear, 135 
And but in purged judgement trusting nei¬ 
ther ? 

Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem. 

And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot 
To mark the full-fraught, man and best indued 
With some suspicion. I will weep for thee ; uo 
For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like 
Another fall of man. Their faults are open. 
Arrest them to the answer of the law ; 

And God acquit them of their practices! 

Exe. I arrest thee of high treason, by the 
name of Richard Earl of Cambridge. 146 

I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of 
[Henry] Lord Scroop of Masham. 

I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of 
Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland, iso 
Scroop. Our purposes God justly hath dis¬ 
cover’d, 

And I repent my fault more than my death, 
Which I beseech your Highness to forgive, 
Although my body pay the price of it. 

Cam. For me, the gold of France did not 
seduce, ibb 

Although I did admit it as a motive 
The sooner to effect what I intended. 

But God be thanked for prevention, 

Which 1 in sufferance heartily will rejoice, 
Beseeching God and you to pardon me. i«o 






6o8 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


ii. iv. 


Grey. Never did faithful subject more re¬ 
joice 

At the discovery of most dangerous treason 
Than I do at this hour joy o’er myself, 
Prevented from a damned enterprise. 

My fault, but not my body, pardon, sov¬ 
ereign. 166 

K. Hen. God quit you in his mercy! Hear 
your sentence. 

You have conspir’d against our royal person, 
Join’d with an enemy proclaim’d, and from his 
coffers 

Received the golden earnest of our death ; 
Wherein you would have sold your king to 
slaughter, no 

His princes and his peers to servitude, 

His stibjects to oppression and contempt, 

And his whole kingdom into desolation. 
Touching our person seek we no revenge ; 

But we our kingdom’s safety must so tender, its 
W hose ruin you have sought, that to her laws 
We do deliver you. Get you therefore hence, 
Poor miserable wretches, to your death, 

The taste whereof God of his mercy give 
You patience to endure, and true repent¬ 
ance 180 

Of all your dear offences ! Bear them hence. 

[Exeunt [Cambridge, Scroop , and 
Grey , guarded ]. 

Now, lords, for France ; the enterprise whereof 
Shall be to you, as us, like glorious. 

We doubt not of a fair and lucky war, 

Since God so graciously hath brought to 
light iss 

This dangerous treason lurking in our way 
To hinder our beginnings. We doubt not now 
But every rub is smoothed on our way. 

Then forth, dear countrymen ! Let us deliver 
Our puissance into the hand of God, 190 

Putting it straight in expedition. 

Cheerly to sea ! The signs of war advance ! 

No king of England, if not king of France ! 

[Flourish. 

[Scene III. London. Before a tavern .] 

Enter Pistol, Nym, Bardolph, Boy, and 
Hostess. 

Host. Prithee honey, sweet husband, let me 
bring thee to Staines. 

Pist. No ; for my manly heart doth yearn. 
Bardolph, be blithe ; Nym, rouse thy vaunting 
veins ; 

Boy, bristle thy courage up ; for Falstaff he is 
dead, 6 

And we must yearn therefore. 

Bard. Would I were with him, wheresom- 
e’er he is, either in heaven or in hell! 

Host. Nay, sure, he’s not in hell. He’s in 
Arthur’s bosom, if ever man went to Ar- [to 
thur’s bosom. ’A made a finer end and went 
away an it had been any christom child. ’A 
parted even just between twelve and one, even 
at the turning o’ the tide: for after I saw 
him fumble with the sheets, and play with 
flowers, and smile upon his fingers’ ends, I [is 
knew there was but one way ; for his nose was 


as sharp as a pen, and ’a babbled of green 
fields. “How now, Sir John!” quoth I; 
“what, man! be o’ good cheer.” So ’a cried 
out, “ God, God, God ! ” three or four times. 
Now I, to comfort him, bid him ’a should not [20 
think of God ; I hop’d there was no need to 
trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So 
’a bade me lay more clothes on his feet. I put 
my hand into the bed and felt them, and they 
were as cold as any stone ; then I felt to his [26 
knees, [and they were as cold as any stone ;] 
and so upward and upward, and all was as cold 
as any stone. 

Nym. They say he cried out of sack. 

Host. Ay, that ’a did. 3 ( 

Bard. And of women. 

Host. Nay, that ’a did not. 

Boy. Yes, that ’a did ; and said they were 
devils incarnate. 

Host. ’A could never abide carnation; ’t was 
a colour he never lik’d. 36 

Boy. ’A said once, the devil would have him 
about women. 

Host. ’A did in some sort, indeed, handle 
women ; but then he was rheumatic, and talk’d 
of the whore of Babylon. *’ 

Boy. Do you not remember, ’a saw a flea 
stick upon Bardolph’s nose, and ’a said it was a 
black soul burning in hell-fire ? ** 

Bard. Well, the fuel is gone that maintain’d 
that fire. That’s all the riches I got in his ser¬ 
vice. 

Nym. Shall we shog ? The King will be 
gone from Southampton. 

Pist. Come, let’s away. My love, give me 
thy lips. 

Look to my chattels and my movables. bo 

Let senses rule ; the word is “ Pitch and Pay.” 
Trust none; 

For oaths are straws, men’s faiths are wafer- 
cakes, 

And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck ; 
Therefore, Caveto be thy counsellor. bb 

Go, clear thy crystals. Yoke-fellows in arms, 
Let us to France ; like horse-leeches, my boys, 
To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck ! 

Boy. And that’s but unwholesome food, they 
say. go 

Pist. Touch her soft mouth, and march. 
Bard. Farewell, hostess. [Kissing her. 1 

Nym. I cannot kiss ; that is the humour of 
it; but, adieu. 

Pist. Let housewifery appear. Keep close, I 
thee command. bb 

Host. Farewell; adieu. [Exeunt. 

[Scene IV. France. The King's palace .] 

Flourish. Enter the French King, the Dau¬ 
phin, the Dukes of Berri and Bretagne 
[the Constable, and others ]. 

Fr. King. Thus comes the English with full 
power upon us, 

And more than carefully it us concerns 
To answer royally in our defences. 

Therefore the Dukes of Berri and of Bretagne, 
Of Brabant and of Orleans, shall make forth, b 





II. IV. 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


609 


And you, Prince Dauphin, with all swift dis¬ 
patch, 

To line and new repair our towns of war 
With men of courage and with means defen¬ 
dant ; 

For England his approaches makes as fierce 
As waters to the sucking of a gulf. 10 

It fits us then to be as provident 
As fears may teach us out of late examples 
Left by the fatal and neglected English 
Upon our fields. 

Dau. My most redoubted father, 

It is most meet we arm us ’gainst the foe ; 15 

For peace itself should not so dull a kingdom, 
Though war nor no known quarrel were in 
question, 

But that defences, musters, preparations, 
Should he maintain’d, assembled, and collected, 
As were a war in expectation. 20 

Therefore, I say, ’tis meet we all go forth 
To view the sick and feeble parts of France. 
And let ixs do it with no show of fear ; 

No, with no more than if we heard that Eng¬ 
land 

Were busied with a Whitsun morris-dance ; 25 
For, my good liege, she is so idly king’d, 

Her sceptre so fantastically borne 

By a vain, giddy, shallow, humorous youth, 

That fear attends her not. 

Con. O peace, Prince Dauphin ! 

You are too much mistaken in this king. 30 
Question your Grace the late ambassadors 
With what great state he heard their embassy, 
How well supplied with noble counsellors, 

How modest in exception, and withal 
How terrible in constant resolution, 35 

And you shall find his vanities forespent 
Were but the outside of the Roman Brutus, 
Covering discretion with a coat of folly, 

As gardeners do with ordure hide those roots 
That shall first spring and be most delicate. 40 
Dau. Well, ’tis not so, my Lord High Con¬ 
stable ; 

But though we think it so, it is no matter. 

In cases of defence’t is best to weigh 
The enemy more mighty than he seems, 

So the proportions of defence are fill’d ; 45 

Which, of a weak and niggardly projection, 
Doth, like a miser, spoil his coat with scanting 
A little cloth. 

Fr. King. Think we King Harry strong ; 
And, Princes, look you strongly arm to meet 
him. 

The kindred of him hath been flesh’d upon 
us; . 50 

And he is bred out of that bloody strain 
That haunted us in our familiar paths. 

Witness our too much memorable shame 
When Cressy battle fatally was struck, 

And all our princes captiv’d by the hand bb 
Of that black name, Edward, Black Prince of 
Wales; 

Whiles that his mountain sire, on mountain 
standing, 

Up in the air, crown’d with the golden sun, 
Saw his heroical seed, and smil’d to see him, 
Mangle the work of nature and deface 60 


The patterns that by God and by French fathers 
Had twenty years been made. This is a stem 
Of that victorious stock ; and let us fear 
The native mightiness and fate of him. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. Ambassadors from Harry King of 
England 66 

Do crave admittance to your Majesty. 

Fr. King. We ’ll give them present audience. 
Go, and bring them. 

[j Exeunt Messenger and certain 
Lords.] 

You see this chase is hotly follow’d, friends. 
Dau. Turn head, and stop pursuit; for cow¬ 
ard dogs 

Most spend their mouths when what they seem 
to threaten 70 

Runs far before them. Good my sovereign, 
Take up the English short, and let them know 
Of what a monarchy you are the head. 
Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin 
As self-neglecting. 

Enter Exeter. 

Fr. King. From our brother of England ? 
Exe. From him; and thus he greets your 
Majesty: 76 

He wills you, in the name of God Almighty, 
That you divest yourself, and lay apart 
The borrowed glories that by gift of heaven, 
By law of nature and of nations, longs 80 

To him and to his heirs ; namely, the crown 
And all wide-stretched honours tnat pertain 
By custom and the ordinance of times 
Unto the crown of France. That you may 
know 

’T is no sinister nor no awkward claim *« 

Pick’d from the worm-holes of long-vanish’d 
days, 

Nor from the dust of old oblivion rak’d, 

He sends you this most memorable line, 

In every branch truly demonstrative ; 

Willing you overlook this pedigree ; 00 

And when you find him evenly deriv’d 
From his most fam’d of famous ancestors, 
Edward the Third, he bids you then resign 
Your crown and kingdom, indirectly held 
From him, the native and true challenger. as 
Fr. King. Or else what follows ? 

Exe. Bloody constraint; for if you hide the 
crown 

Even in your hearts, there will he rake for it. 
Therefore in fierce tempest he is coming, 

In thunder and in earthquake, like a Jove, i«o 
That, if requiring fail, he will compel; 

And bids you, in the bowels of the Lord, 
Deliver up the crown, and to take mercy 
On the poor souls for whom this hungry war 
Opens his vasty jaws ; and on your head 10s 
Turning the widows’ tears, the orphans’ cries, 
The dead men’s blood, the pining maidens’ 
groans, 

For husbands, fathers, and betrothed lovers, 
That shall be swallowed in this controversy. 
This is his claim, his threat’ning, and my mes¬ 
sage ; no 





6io 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


III. L 


Unless the Dauphin be in presence here, 

To whom expressly I bring greeting too. 

Fr. King. For us, we will consider of this 
further. 

To-morrow shall you hear our full intent 
Back to our brother of England. 

Dau. For the Dauphin, 

I stand here for him. What to him from Eng¬ 
land ? ns 

Exe. Scorn and defiance. Slight regard, 
contempt, 

And anything that may not misbecome 
The mighty sender, doth he prize you at. 

Thus says my king: an if your father’s High¬ 
ness 120 

Do not, in grant of all demands at large, 
Sweeten the bitter mock you sent his Majesty, 
He ’ll call you to so hot an answer of it, 

That caves and womby vaultages of France 
Shall chide your trespass and return your 
mock 125 

In second accent of his ordinance. 

Dau. Say, if my father render fair return, 

It is against my will ; for I desire 
Nothing but odds with England. To that end, 
As matching to his youth and vanity, 130 

I did present him with the Paris balls. 

Exe. He ’ll make your Paris Louvre shake 
for it, 

Were it the mistress-court of mighty Europe ; 
And, be assur’d, you ’ll find a difference. 

As we his subjects have in wonder found, 135 

Between the promise of his greener days 
And these he masters now. Now he weighs 
time 

Even to the utmost grain. That you shall read 
In your own losses, if he stay in France. 

Fr. King. To-morrow shall you know our 
mind at full. [Flourish, wo 

Exe. Dispatch us with all speed, lest that 
our king 

Come here himself to question our delay ; 

For he is footed in this land already. 

Fr. King. You shall be soon dispatch’d with 
fair conditions. 

A night is but small breath and little pause 145 
To answer matters of this consequence. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT [III] 

[prologue] 

Flourish. Enter Chorus. 

[CAor.] Thus with imagin’d wing our swift 
scene flies 

In motion of no less celerity 
Than that of thought. Suppose that you have 
seen 

The well-appointed king at [Hampton] pier 
Embark his royalty, and his brave fleet 5 
With silken streamers the young Phoebus fan¬ 
ning. 

Play with your fancies, and in them behold 
Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing; 
Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give 
To sounds confus’d ; behold the threaden sails, 


Borne with the invisible and creeping wind, it 
Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d 
sea, 

Breasting the lofty surge. O, do but think 
You stand upon the rivage and behold 
A city on the inconstant billows dancing; 10 

For so appears this fleet majestical, 

Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, fol¬ 
low ! 

Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy, 
And leave your England, as dead midnight 
still, 

Guarded with grandsires, babies, and old wo¬ 
men, 20 

Either past or not arriv’d to pith and puissance. 
For who is he, whose chin is but enrich’d 
With one appearing hair, that will not follow 
These cull’d and choice-drawn cavaliers to 
France ? 

Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a 
siege; 25 

Behold the ordnance on their carriages, 

With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur. 
Suppose the ambassador from the French 
conies back, 

Tells Harry that the King doth offer him 
Katharine his daughter, and with her, to 
dowry, 30 

Some petty and unprofitable dukedoms. 

The offer likes not; and the nimble gunner 
With linstock now the devilish cannon touches, 
[Alarum, and chambers go off. 
And down goes all before them. Still be kind, 
And eke out our performance with your 
mind. [Exit. 35 

[Scene I. France. Before ] Harfleur. 

Alarum. Enter King Henry, Exeter, Bed¬ 
ford, Gloucester, [and Soldiers, with\ scal¬ 
ing-ladders. 

K. Hen. Once more unto the breach, dear 
friends, once more, 

Or close the wall up with our English dead. 

In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man 
As modest stillness and humility; 

But when the blast of war blows in our ears, s 
Then imitate the action of the tiger ; 

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage; 
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; 

Let it pry through the portage of the head 10 
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’er- 
whelm it 

As fearfully as doth a galled rock 
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base, 

Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean. 14 
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, 
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit 
To his full height. On, on, you noblest Eng¬ 
lish, 

Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! 
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, 

Have in these parts from morn till even fought, 
And sheath’d their swords for lack of argu¬ 
ment. 21 

Dishonour not your mothers; now attest 





III. u. 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


611 


That those whom you call’d fathers did beget 
you. 

Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 

And teach them how to war. And you, good 
yeomen, 25 

Whose limbs were made in England, show us 
here 

The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear 
That you are worth your breeding, which I 
doubt not; 

For there is none of you so mean and base, 
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. so 
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, 
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot! 
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge 
Cry, “ God for Harry! England and Saint 
George! ” 

[Exeunt.] Alarum, and chambers go 

off. 

[Scene II. The same.] 

Enter Nym, Bardolph, Pistol, and Boy. 

Bard. On, on, on, on, on I To the breach, to 
the breach ! 

Nym. Pray thee, corporal, stay. The knocks 
are too hot; and, for mine own part, I have not 
a case of lives. The humour of it is too hot; 
that is the very plain-song of it. « 

Pist. The plain-song is most just, for hu¬ 
mours do abound. 

“ Knocks go and come ; God’s vassals drop and 
die; 

And sword and shield, 

In bloody field, 10 

Doth win immortal fame.” 

Boy. Would I were in an alehouse in Lon¬ 
don ! I would give all my fame for a pot of ale 
and safety. 

Pist. And I. is 

“ If wishes would prevail with me, 

My purpose should not fail with me, 

But thither would I hie.” 

Boy. “ As duly, but not as truly, 

As bird doth sing on bough.” 20 

Enter Fluellen. 

Flu. Up to the breach, you dogs! Avaunt, 
you cullions ! [ Driving them forward.] 

Pist. Be merciful, great Duke, to men of 
mould. 

Abate thy rage, abate thy manly rage, 

Abate thy rage, great Duke I 26 

Good bawcock, bate thy rage; use lenity, 
sweet chuck! 

Nym. These be good humours ! Your honour 
wins bad humours. [Exeunt [all but Boy]. 

Boy. As young as I am, I have observ’d 
these three swashers. I am boy to them all 
three; but all they three, though they [30 
would serve me, could not be man to me ; for 
indeed three such antics do not amount to a 
man. For Bardolph, he is white-liver’d and 
red-fac’d ; by the means whereof ’a faces it 
out, but fights not. For Pistol, he hath a [36 


killing tongue and a quiet sword ; by the means 
whereof ’a breaks words, and keeps whole 
weapons. For Nym, he hath heard that men of 
few words are the best men ; and therefore he 
scorns to say his prayers, lest ’a should be 
thought a coward. But his few bad words [40 
are match’d with as few good deeds ; for ’a 
never broke any man’s head but his own, and 
that was against a post when he was drunk. 
They will steal anything, and call it purchase. 
Bardolph stole a lute-case, bore it twelve [« 
leagues, and sold it for three half-pence. Nym 
and Bardolph are sworn brothers in filching, 
and in Calais they stole a fire-shovel. I knew 
by that piece of service the men would carry 
coals. They would have me as familiar with [so 
men’s pockets as their gloves or their handker- 
chers; which makes much against my man¬ 
hood, if I should take from another’s pocket 
to put into mine ; for it is plain pocketing up 
of wrongs. I must leave them, and seek some [ss 
better service. Their villainy goes against my 
weak stomach, and therefore I must cast it up. 

[Exit. 

Enter Gower [and Fluellen]. 

Gow. Captain Fluellen, you must come pre¬ 
sently to the mines. The Duke of Gloucester 
would speak with you. so 

Flu. To the mines ! Tell you the Duke, it is 
not so good to come to the mines; for, look 
you, the mines is not according to the dis¬ 
ciplines of the war. The concavities of it is not 
sufficient; for, look you, the athversary, you 
may discuss unto the Duke, look you, is digt 
himself four yard under the countermines. By 
Cheshu, I think ’a will plow up all, if there is 
not better directions. ss 

Gow. The Duke of Gloucester, to whom the 
order of the siege is given, is altogether directed 
by an Irishman, a very valiant gentleman, i’ 
faith. 

Flu. It is Captain Macmorris, is it not ? 

Gow. I think it be. . « 

Flu. By Cheshu, he is an ass, as in the world. 
I will verify as much in his beard. He has no 
more directions in the true disciplines of the 
wars, look you, of the Roman disciplines, than 
is a puppy-dog. 

Enter Macmorris and Captain Jamy. 

Gow. Here ’a comes ; and the Scots captain, 
Captain Jamy with him. so 

Flu. Captain Jamy is a marvellous falorous 
gentleman, that is certain ; and of great expe¬ 
dition and knowledge in the aunchient wars, 
upon my particular knowledge of his direc¬ 
tions. By Cheshu, he will maintain his argu¬ 
ment as well as any military man in the world, 
in the disciplines of the pristine wars of the 
Romans. 

Jamy. I say gud-day, Captain Fluellen. 

Flu. God-den to your worship, good Captain 
James. 

Gow. How now, Captain Macmorris! have 
you quit the mines ? Have the pioners given 
o’er ? 




6 l2 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


hi. iii. 


Mac. By Clirish, la! ’tish ill done. The 
work ish give over, the trompet sound the re¬ 
treat. By my hand I swear, and my father’s 
soul, the work ish ill done ; it ish give over. I 
would have blowed up the town, so Chrish save 
me, la ! in an hour. 0, ’tish ill done, ’tish ill 
done ; by my hand, ’tish ill done ! 

Flu. Captain Macmorris, I beseech you now, 
will you voutsafe me, look you, a few dispu¬ 
tations with you, as partly touching or con¬ 
cerning the disciplines of the war, the Homan 
wars, in the way of argument, look you, and 
friendly communication ; partly to satisfy my 
opinion, and partly for the satisfaction, [ios 
look you, of my mind, as touching the direc¬ 
tion of the military discipline ; that is the 
point. 

Jamy. It sail be very gud, gud feith, gud 
captains bath: and I sail quit you with gud 
leve, as I may pick occasion; that sail I, 
marry. m 

Mac. It is no time to discourse, so Chrish 
save me. The day is hot, and the weather, and 
the wars, and the King, and the Dukes. It is 
no time to discourse. The town is beseech’d, 
and the trumpet call us to the breach, and [us 
we talk, and, be Chrish, do nothing. ’Tis 
shame for us all. So God sa’ me, ’t is shame to 
stand still; it is shame, by my hand; and 
there is throats to be cut, and works to be 
done ; and there ish nothing done, so Chrish sa’ 
me, la! 121 

Jamy. By the mess, ere theise eyes of mine 
take themselves to slomber, I ’ll de gud ser¬ 
vice, or I ’ll lig i’ the grund for it; ay, or go 
to death ; and I ’ll pay’t as valourously as I 
may, that sail I suerly do, that is the breff and 
the long. Marry, I wad full fain heard some 
question ’tween you tway. 128 

Flu. Captain Macmorris, I think, look you, 
under your correction, there is not many of 
your nation — 131 

Mac. Of my nation! What ish my nation ? 
Ish a villain, and a bastard, and a knave, and 
a rascal ? What ish my nation ? Who talks of 
my nation ? 135 

Flu. Look you, if you ^ake the matter other¬ 
wise than is meant, Captain Macmorris, perad- 
venture I shall think you do not use me with 
that affability as in discretion you ought to use 
me, look you, being as good a man as yourself, 
both in the diseiplines of war, and in the deri¬ 
vation of my birth, and in other particu¬ 

larities. 

Mac. I do not know you so good a man as 
myself. So Chrish save me, I will cut off your 
head. 

Gow. Gentlemen both, you will mistake 

each other. 

Jamy. Ah ! that’s a foul fault. 

[A parley [sounded]. 
Gow. The town sounds a parley. 149 

Flu. Captain Macmorris, when there is more 
better opportunity to be required, look you, I 
will be so bold as to tell you I know the dis¬ 
ciplines of war ; and there is an end. 153 

[ Exeunt. 


[Scene III. The same.] Before the gates. 

[The Governor and some Citizens on the walls; 
the English forces below.] Enter King Henry 
and his train. 

K. Hen. How yet resolves the governor of 
the town ? 

This is the latest parle we will admit; 
Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves, 

Or like to men proud of destruction 
Defy us to our worst; for, as I am a soldier, c 
A name that in my thoughts becomes me best, 
If I begin the battery once again, 

I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur 
Till in her ashes she lies bux*ied. 

The gates of mercy shall be all shut up, 10 
And the flesh’d soldier, rough and hard of 
heart, 

In liberty of bloody hand shall range 
With conscience wide as hell, mowing like 
grass 

Your fresh fair virgins and your flow’ring in¬ 
fants. 

What is it then to me, if impious War, « 

Array’d in flames like to the prince of fiends, 
Do with his smirch’d complexion all fell feats 
Enlink’d to waste and desolation ? 

What is’t, to me, when you yourselves are 
cause, 

If your pure maidens fall into the hand 20 
Of hot and forcing violation ? 

What rein can hold licentious wickedness 
When down the hill he holds his fierce career ? 
We may as bootless spend our vain command 
Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil 26 
As send precepts to the leviathan 
To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Har¬ 
fleur, 

Take pity of your town and of your people. 
Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command, 
Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of 
grace *0 

O’erblows the filthy and contagious clouds 
Of heady murder, spoil, and villainy. 

If not, why, in a moment look to see 
The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand 
Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daugh¬ 
ters ; 3 « 

Your fathers taken by the silver beards, 

And their most reverend heads dash’d to the 
walls; 

Your naked infants spitted upon pikes, 

Whiles the mad mothers with their howls con¬ 
fus’d 

Do break the clouds, as did the wives of 
Jewry 40 

At Herod’s bloody-hunting slaughtermen. 
What say you ? Will you yield, and this avoid, 
Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy’d ? 

Gov. Our expectation hath this day an end. 
The Dauphin, whom of succours we entreated, 
Returns us that his powers are vet not ready 4s 
To raise so great a siege. Therefore, great 
King, 

We yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy. 
Enter our gates ; dispose of us and ours ; 

For we no longer are defensible. oo 




III. V. 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


K. Hen. Open your gates. Come, uncle Exe¬ 
ter, 

Go you and enter Harfleur ; there remain, 

And fortify it strongly ’gainst the French. 

Use mercy to them all. For us, dear uncle, 

The winter coming on, and sickness growing 66 
Upon our soldiers, we will retire to Calais. 
To-night in Harfleur will we be yonr guest; 
To-morrow for the march are we addrest. 

[. Flourish. [The King and his train ] 
enter the town. 

[Scene IV. The French King's palace.] 

Enter Katharine and [Alice] an old Gentle¬ 
woman. 

Kath. Alice, tu as < 5 t 3 en Angleterre, et tu 
paries bien le langage. 

Alice. Un peu, madame. 

Kath. Je te prie, m’enseignez; il faut que 
j’apprenne k parler. Comment appelez-vous la 
main en Anglois ? « 

Alice. La main ? Elle est appel^e de hand. 
Kath. De hand. Et les doigts ? 

Ailice. Les doigts ? Ma foi, j’oublie les doigts; 
mais je me souviendrai. Les doigts? Je pense 
qu’ils sont appel^s de fingres ; oui, de fingres. 11 
Kath. La main, de hand ; les doigts, de fin- 
gres. Je pense que je suis le bon ^colier; j’ai 
gagn^ deux mots d’Anglois vitement. Com¬ 
ment appelez-vous les ongles ? ie 

Alice. Les ongles ?,Nous les appelons de nails. 
Kath. De nails. Ecoutez; aites-moi, si je 
parle bien : de hand, de fingres, et de nails. 

Alice. C’est bien dit, madame ; il est fort 
bon Anglois. *o 

Kath. Dites-moi l’Anglois pour le bras. 
Alice. De arm, madame. 

Kath. Et le coude ? 

Alice. D’ elbow. 24 

Kath. D’ elbow. Je m’en fais la r^pdtition 
de tous les mots que vous m’avez appris d 6 s & 
present. 

Alice. Il est trop difficile, madame, comme 
je pense. 

Kath. Excusez-moi, Alice ; Ecoutez : D’ hand, 
de fingres, de nails, d’ arma, de bilbow. si 

Alice. D’ elbow, madame. 

Kath. O Seigneur Dieu, je m’en oublie ! D’ 
elbow. Comment appelez-vous le col? 

Alice. De nick, madame. 36 

Kath. De nick. Et le menton ? 

Alice. De chin. 

Kath. De sin. Le col, de nick; le menton, 
de sin. 39 

Alice. Oui. Sauf votre honneur, en v^rit^, 
vous prononcez les mots aussi droit que les 
natifs d’Angleterre. 

Kath. Je ne doute point d’apprendre, par la 
grace de Dieu, et en peu de temps. ** 

Alice. N’avez vous pas ddjk oubli£ ce que je 
vous ai enseign^ ? 

Kath. Non, je reciterai k vous promptement: 
d’ hand, de fingres, de mails, — 

Alice. De nails, madame. 

Kath. De nails, de arm, de ilbow. eo 

Alice. Sauf votre honneur, de elbow. 


613 


Kath. Ainsi dis-je ; d’ elbow, de nick, et de 
sin. Comment appelez-vous le pied et la robe ? 
Alice. De foot, madame ; et de coun. 64 
Kath. De foot et de coun ! O Seigneur Dieu ! 
ce sont mots de son mauvais, corruptible, gros, 
et impudique, et non pour les dames d’lion- 
neur d’user. Je ne voudrais prononcer ces mots 
devant les seigneurs de France pour tout le 
monde. Foh! le foot et le coun ! Neanmoins, je 
reciterai une autre fois ma legon ensemble : d’ 
hand, de fingres, de nails, d’ arm, d’ elbow, de 
nick, de sin, de foot, de coun. «3 

Alice. Excellent, madame! 

Kath. C’est assez pour une fois: allons-nous 
k diner. [ Exeunt. 

[Scene V. The same.] 

Enter the King of France, the Dauphin, [the 
Duke of Bourbon,] the Constable of 
France, and others. 

Fr. King. ’Tis certain he hath pass’d the 
river Somme. 

Con. An if he be not fought withal, my lord, 
Let us not live in France ; let us quit all 
And give our vineyards to a barbarous people. 

Dau. O Dieu vivant! shall a few sprays of us, 
The emptying of our fathers’ luxury, a 

Our scions put in wild and savage stock, 

Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds, 

And overlook their grafters ? 

Bour. Normans, but bastard Normans, Nor¬ 
man bastards! 10 

Mori de ma vie ! if they march along 
Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom, 
To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm 
In that nook-shotten isle of Albion. 

Con. Dieu de batailles ! where have they this 
mettle ? « 

Is not their climate foggy, raw, and dull, 

On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale, 
Killing their fruit with frowns? Can sodden 
water, 

A drench for sur-rein’d jades, their barley- 
broth, 

Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat? 2# 
And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine, 
Seem frosty ? 0 , for honour of our land, 

Let us not hang like roping icicles 
Upon our houses’ thatch, whiles a more frosty 
people 

Sweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields ! 
Poor we may call them in their native lords. 28 
Dau. By faith and honour, 

Our madams mock at us, and plainly say 
Our mettle is bred out, and they will give 
Their bodies to the lust of English youth 30 
To new-store France with bastard warriors. 
Bour. They bid us to the English dancing- 
schools, 

And teach lavoltas high, and swift corantos ; 
Saying our grace is only in our heels, 

And that we are most lofty runaways. 35 

Fr. King. Where is Montjoy the herald ? 
Speed him hence. 

Let him greet England with our sharp defiance. 
Up, princes ! and, with spirit of honour edged 





614 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


III. VI. 


More sharper than your swords, hie to the field ! 
Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France; 40 
You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berri, 
Alen^on, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy ; 
Jacques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont, 
Beaumont, Grandpr^, Roussi, and Fauconberg, 
Foix, Lestrale, Bouciqualt, and Charolois ; 45 

High dukes, great princes, barons, lords, and 
knights, 

For your great seats now quit you of great 
shames. 

Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our 
land 

With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur. 
Rush on his host, as doth the melted snow bo 
Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat 
The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon. 
Go down upon him, you have power enough, 
And in a captive chariot into Rouen 
Bring him our prisoner. 

Con. This becomes the great. 

Sorry am I his numbers are so few, so 

His soldiers sick and famish’d in their march ; 
For I am sure, when he shall see our army, 

He ’ll drop his heart into the sink of fear 
And for achievement offer us his ransom. eo 
Fr. King. Therefore, Lord Constable, haste 
on Montjoy, 

And let him say to England that we send 
To know what willing ransom lie will give. 
Prince Dauphin, you shall stay with us in Rouen. 
Dau. Not so, I do beseech your Majesty. 65 
Fr. King. Be patient, for you shall remain 
with us. 

Now forth, Lord Constable and princes all, 
And quickly bring us word of England’s fall. 

\.Exeunt. 

[Scene VI. The English camp in Picardy .] 

Enter Gower and Fluellen [meeting]. 

Goto. How now. Captain Fluellen ! come you 
from the bridge ? 

Flu. I assure you, there is very excellent 
services committed at the bridge. 

Gow. Is the Duke of Exeter safe? b 

Flu. The Duke of Exeter is as magnanimous 
as Agamemnon; and a man that I love and 
honour with my soul, and my heart, and my 
duty, and my live, and my living, and my ut¬ 
termost power. He is not — God be praised 
and blessed ! — any hurt in the world ; but [10 
keeps the bridge most valiantly, with excellent 
discipline. There is an aunchient lieutenant 
there at the pridge, I think in my very con¬ 
science he is as valiant a man as Mark Antony; 
and he is a man of no estimation in the world, [is 
but I did see him do as gallant service. 

Gow. What do you call him ? 

Flu. He is called Aunchient Pistol. 

Gow. I know him not. 20 

Enter Pistol. 

Flu. Here is the man. 

Pist. Captain, I thee beseech to do me fa¬ 
vours. 

The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well. 


Flu. Ay, I praise God; and I have merited 
some love at his hands. 2* 

Pist. Bardolph, a soldier, firm and sound of 
heart, 

And of buxom valour, hath, by cruel fate, ^ 
And giddy Fortune’s furious fickle wheel, 

That goddess blind, 

That stands upon the rolling restless stone— s# 
Flu. By your patience, Aunchient Pistol. 
Fortune is painted blind, with a muffler afore 
his eyes, to signify to you that Fortune is blind ; 
and she is painted also with a wheel, to signify 
to you, which is the moral of it, that she is 
turning, and inconstant, and mutability, and [35 
variation ; and her foot, look you, is fixed upon 
a spherical stone, which rolls, and rolls, and 
rolls. In good truth, the poet makes a most 
excellent description of it. Fortune is an excel¬ 
lent moral. 40 

Pist. Fortune is Bardolpli’s foe, and frowns 
on him; 

For he hath stolen a pax, and hanged must ’a 
be, — 

A damned death ! 

Let gallows gape for dog ; let man go free, 

And let not hemp his windpipe suffocate. 45 
But Exeter hath given the doom of death 
For pax of little price. 

Therefore, go speak; the Duke will hear thy 
voice; 

And let not Bardolph’s vital thread be cut 
With edge of penny cord and vile reproach. 59 
Speak, captain, for his life, and I will thee 
requite. 

Flu. Aunchient Pistol, I do partly under¬ 
stand your meaning. 

Pist. Why then, rejoice therefore. m 

Flu. Certainly, aunchient, it is not a thing 
to rejoice at; for if, look you, he were my 
brother, I would desire the Duke to use his 
good pleasure, and put him to execution ; for 
discipline ought to be used. 

Pist. Die and be damn’d ! and figo for thy 
friendship! #c 

Flu. It is well. 

Pist. The fig of Spain. [Exit. 

Flu. Very good. 

Gow. Why, this is an arrant counterfeit ras¬ 
cal. I remember him now; a bawd, acutpurse. 65 
Flu. I ’ll assure you, ’a uttered as prave 
words at the pridge as you shall see in a sum¬ 
mer’s day. But it is very well; what he has 
spoke to me, that is well, I warrant you, when 
time is serve. 69 

Gow. Why, ’tis a gull, a fool, a rogue, that 
now and then goes to the wars, to grace him¬ 
self at his return into London under the form of 
a soldier. And such fellows are perfect in the 
great commanders’ names ; and they will learn 
you by rote where services were done ; at such 
and such a sconce, at such a breach, at such [ia 
a convoy ; who came off bravely, who was shot, 
who disgrac’d, what terms the enemy stood on; 
and this they con perfectly in the phrase of war, 
which they trick up with new-tuned oaths: and 
what a beard of the general’s cut and a hor- [so 
rid suit of the camp will do among foapiing 





III. Vll. 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


6i 5 


bottles and ale-wash’d wits, is wonderful to 
be thought on. But you must learn to know 
such slanders of the age, or else you may be 
marvellously mistook. 86 

Flu. I tell you what, Captain Gower; I do 
perceive he is not the man that he would gladly 
make show to the world he is. If I find a hole 
in his coat, I will tell him my mind. [ Drum 
heard.] Hark you, the King is coming, and I 
must speak with him from the pridge. oi 

Drum and colours. Enter King Henry, 
[Gloucester,] and his poor Soldiers. 

God bless your Majesty! 

K. Hen. How now, Fluellen! cam’st thou 
from the bridge ? 

Flu. Ay, so please your Majesty. The Duke 
of Exeter has very gallantly maintain’d the [#s 
pridge. The French is gone off, look you ; and 
there is gallant and most prave passages. 
Marry, th’ athversary was have possession of 
the pridge ; but he is enforced to retire, and the 
Duke of Exeter is master of the pridge. I can 
tell your Majesty, the Duke is a prave man. 101 
K. Hen. What men have you lost, Fluellen? 
Flu. The perdition of the athversary hath 
been very great, reasonable great. Marry, for 
my part, I think the Duke hath lost never a 
man, but one that is like to be executed for [ioe 
robbing a church, one Bardolph, if your Maj¬ 
esty know the man. His face is all bubukles, 
and whelks, and knobs, and flames o’ fire ; and 
his lips blows at his nose, and it is like a coal 
of fire, sometimes plue and sometimes red ; but 
his nose is executed, and his fire’s out. m 
K. Hen. We would have all such offenders 
so cut off ; and we give express charge, that in 
our marches through the country, there be 
nothing compell’d from the villages, nothing 
taken but paid for, none of the French up¬ 
braided or abused in disdainful language • for 
when lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, 
the gentler gamester is the soonest winner. 120 

Tucket. Enter Montjoy. 

Mont. You know me by my habit. 

K. Hen. Well then I know thee. What shall 
I know of thee ? 

Mont. My master’s mind. 

K. Hen. Unfold it. 124 

Mont. Thus says my King: Say thou to 
Harry of England : Though we seem’d dead, 
we did but sleep ; advantage is a better soldier 
than rashness. Tell him we could have rebuk’d 
him at Harfleur, but that we thought not good 
to bruise an injury till it were full ripe. Now 
we speak upon our cue, and our voice is im- [130 
perial. England shall repent his folly, see his 
weakness, and admire our sufferance. Bid him 
therefore consider of his ransom ; which must 
proportion the losses we have borne, the sub¬ 
jects we have lost, the disgrace we have [is# 
digested ; which in weight to re-answer, his 
ettiness would bow under. For our losses, 
is exchequer is too poor; for the effusion of 
our blood, the muster of his kingdom too faint 
a number; and for our disgrace, his own per¬ 


son, kneeling at our feet, but a weak and [uo 
worthless satisfaction. To this add defiance: 
and tell him, for conclusion, he hath betrayed 
his followers, whose condemnation is pro¬ 
nounc’d. So far my King and master ; so much 
my office. 14* 

K. Hen. What is thy name ? I know thy 
quality. 

Mont. Montjoy. 

K. Hen. Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn 
thee back, 

And tell thy King I do not seek him now. 

But could be willing to march on to Calais is# 
Without impeachment; for, to say the sooth. 
Though’t is no wisdom to confess so much 
Unto an enemy of craft and vantage, 

My people are with sickness much enfeebled, 
My numbers lessen’d, and those few I have iss 
Almost no better than so many French ; 

Who when they were in health, I tell thee, 
herald, 

I thought upon one pair of English legs 
Did march three Frenchmen. Yet, forgive me, 
God, i6» 

That I do brag thus! This your air of France 
Hath blown that vice in me. I must repent. 

Go therefore, tell thy master here I am ; 

My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk, 
My army but a weak and sickly guard ; 

Yet, God before, tell him we will come on, im 
T hough France himself and such another neigh¬ 
bour 

Stand in our way. There’s for thy labour, 
Montjoy. 

Go, bid thy master well advise himself. 

If we may pass, we will; if we be hind’red, ie» 
We shall your tawny ground with your red 
blood 

Discolour ; and so, Montjoy, fare you well. 

The sum of all our answer is but this : 

We would not seek a battle, as we are ; 

Nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it. 

So tell your master. ns 

Mont. I shall deliver so. Thanks to your 
Highness. _ [Exit.] 

Glou. 1 hope they will not come upon us now. 
E. Hen. We are in God’s hands, brother, not 
in theirs. 

March to the bridge; it now draws toward 
night. 

Beyond the river we ’ll encamp ourselves, iso 
And on to-morrow bid them march away. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene VII. The French camp , near Agin- 
court.] 

Enter the Constable of France, the Lord 
Rambures, Orleans, Dauphin, with others. 

Con. Tut! I have the best armour of the 
world. Would it were day ! 

Orl. You have an excellent armour; but let 
my horse have his due. 

Con. It is the best horse of Europe. 6 

Orl. Will it never be morning ? 

Dau. My Lord of Orleans, and my Lord 
High Constable, you talk of horse and armour ? 




6i6 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


III. Vll. 


Orl. You are as well provided of both as any 
prince in the world. . 10 

Dau. What a long night is this ! I will not 
change my horse with any that treads but on 
four pasterns. Ca , ha! he bounds from the 
earth, as if his ’entrails were hairs ; le cheval 
volant , the Pegasus, chez les narines de feu ! 
When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk ; [is 
he trots the air; the earth sings when he 
touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more 
musical than the pipe of Hermes. 

Orl. He’s of the colour of the nutmeg. 20 
Dau. And of the heat of the ginger. It is a 
beast for Perseus. He is pure air and fire ; and 
the dull elements of earth and water never 
appear in him, but only in patient stillness 
while his rider mounts him. He is indeed a 
horse, and all other jades you may call beasts. 26 
Con. Indeed, my lord, it is a most absolute 
and excellent horse. 

Dau. It is the prince of palfreys ; his neigh 
is like the bidding of a monarch, and his coun¬ 
tenance enforces homage. 31 

Orl. No more, cousin. 

Dau. Nay, the man hath no wit that cannot, 
from the rising of the lark to the lodging of the 
lamb, vary deserved praise on my palfrey. It 
is a theme as fluent as the sea; turn the [35 
sands into eloquent tongues, and my horse is 
argument for them all. ’T is a subject for a 
sovereign to reason on, and for a sovereign’s 
sovereign to ride on ; and for the world, famil¬ 
iar to us and unknown, to lay apart their [40 
particular functions and wonder at him. I once 
writ a sonnet in his praise and began thus: 
“Wonder of nature,” — 

Orl. I have heard a sonnet begin so to one’s 
mistress. _ 45 

Dau. Then did they imitate that which I 
compos’d to my courser, for my horse is my 
mistress. 

Orl. Your mistress bears well. 

Dau. Me well; which is the prescript praise 
and perfection of a good and particular mis¬ 
tress. so 

Con. Nay, for methought yesterday your 
mistress shrewdly shook your back. 

Dau. So perhaps did yours. 

Con. Mine was not bridled. 64 

Dau. 0 then belike she was old and gentle ; 
and you rode, like a kern of Ireland, your 
French hose off, and in your strait strossers. 

Con. You have good judgement in horseman¬ 
ship. 69 

Dau. Be warn’d by me, then ; they that ride 
so and ride not warily, fall into foul bogs. I had 
rather have my horse to my mistress. 

Con. I had as lief have my mistress a 
jade. 

Dau. I tell thee, Constable, my mistress 
wears his own hair. es 

Con. I could make as true a boast as that, if 
I had a sow to my mistress. 

Dau. “ Le chien est retournS d. son propre vo- 
missement , et la truie lavie au bourbier." Thou 
mak’st use of anything. 70 

Con. Yet do I not use my horse for my mis¬ 


tress, or any such proverb so little kin to the 
purpose. 

Ram. My Lord Constable, the armour that I 
saw in your tent to-night, are those stars or 
suns upon it ? 76 

Con. Stars, my lord. 

Dau. Some of them will fall to-morrow, I 
hope. 

Con. And yet my sky shall not want. 

Dau. That may be, for you bear a many 
superfluously, and ’t were more honour some 
were away. »i 

Con. Even as your horse bears your praises ; 
who would trot as well, were some of your 
brags dismounted. 

Dau. Would I were able to load him with 
his desert! Will it never be day? I will trot 
to-morrow a mile, and my way shall be paved 
with English faces. «8 

Con. I will not say so, for fear I should be 
fac’d out of my way. But I would it were 
morning ; for I would fain be about the ears of 
the English. 92 

Ram. Who will go to hazard with me for 
twenty prisoners ? 

Con. You must first go yourself to hazard, 
ere you have them. 96 

Dau. ’T is midnight; I ’ll go arm myself. 

[Exit. 

Orl. The Dauphin longs for morning. 

Ram. He longs to eat the English. 

Con. I think he will eat all he kills. 100 

Orl. By the white hand of my lady, he’s a 
gallant prince. 

Con. Swear by her foot that she may tread 
out the oath. 

Orl. He is simply the most active gentleman 
of France. ioe 

Con. Doing is activity; and he will still be 
doing. 

Orl. He never did harm, that I heard of. 
Con. Nor will do none to-morrow. He will 
keep that good name still. in 

Orl. I know him to be valiant. 

Con. I was told that by one that knows him 
better than you. 

Orl. What’she? 118 

Con. Marry, he told me so himself; and he 

said he car’d not who knew it. 

Orl. He needs not; it is no hidden virtue in 
him. 119 

Con. By my faith, sir, but it is ; never any¬ 
body saw it but his lackey. ’T is a hooded val¬ 
our ; and when it appears, it will bate. 

Orl. “ Ill will never said well.” 

Con. I will cap that proverb with “ There is 
flattery in friendship.” 125 

Orl. And I will take up that with “ Give the 
devil his due.” 

Con. Well plac’d. There stands your friend 
for the devil; have at the very eye of that 
proverb with “A pox of the devil.” 130 

Orl. You are the better at proverbs, by how 
much “ A fool’s bolt is soon shot.” 

Con. You have shot over. 

Orl. ’T is not the first time you were over¬ 
shot. 




IV. 1. 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. My Lord High Constable, the English 
lie within fifteen hundred paces of your tents. 
Con. Who hath measur’d the ground ? 137 

Mess. The Lord Grandpr 4 . 

Con. A valiant and most expert gentleman. 
Would it were day ! Alas, poor Harry of Eng¬ 
land, he longs not for the dawning as we do. i«i 
Orl. What a wretched and peevish fellow is 
this King of England, to mope with his fat- 
brain’d followers so far out of his knowledge ! 

Con. If the English had any apprehension, 
they would run away. us 

Orl. That they lack; for if their heads had 
any intellectual armour, they could never wear 
such heavy head-pieces. 

Ram. That island of England breeds very 
valiant creatures. Their mastiffs are of un- 

matchable courage. 152 

Orl. Foolish curs, that run winking into the 
mouth of a Russian bear and have their heads 
crush’d like rotten apples ! You may as well 
say, that’s a valiant flea that dare eat his 
breakfast on the lip of a lion. 157 

Con. Just, just; and the men do sympathize 
with the mastiffs in robustious and rough com¬ 
ing on, leaving their wits with their wives ; and 
then, give them great meals of beef and iron 
and steel, they will eat like wolves and fight 
like devils. 102 

Orl. Ay, but these English are shrewdly out 
of beef. 

Con. Then shall we find to-morrow they have 
only stomachs to eat and none to fight. Now is 
the time to arm. Come, shall we about it ? i «7 
Orl. It is now two o’clock ; but, let me see, 
by ten 

We shall have each a hundred Englishmen. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT [IV] 

[prologue] 

[Enter Chorus.] 

Char. Now entertain conjecture of a time 
When creeping murmur and the poring dark 
Fills the wide vessel of the universe. 

From camp to camp through the foul womb of 
night 

The hum of either army stilly sounds, b 

That the fix’d sentinels almost receive 
The secret whispers of each other’s watch ; 

Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames 
Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face ; 
Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful 
neighs 10 

Piercing the night’s dull ear ; and from the 
tents 

The armourers, accomplishing the knights, 
With busy hammers closing rivets up, 

Give dreadful note of preparation. 

The country oocks do crow, the clocks do toll, ib 
A nd the third hour of drowsy morning name. 
Proud of their numbers and secure in soul, 

The confident and over-lusty French 


617 


Do the low-rated English play at dice ; 

And chide the cripple tardy-gaited Night 20 
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp 
So tediously away. The poor condemned Eng¬ 
lish, 

Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires 
Sit patiently and inly ruminate 
The morning’s danger ; and their gesture sad, 26 
Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats, 
Presented them unto the gazing moon 
So many horrid ghosts. 0 now, who will behold 
The royal captain of this ruin’d band 
Walking from watch to watch, from tent to 
tent, 80 

Let him cry, “ Praise and glory on his head ! ” 
For forth he goes and visits all his host, 

Bids them good morrow with a modest smile, 
And calls them brothers, friends, and country¬ 
men. 

Upon his royal face there is no note ss 

How dread an army hath eni’ounded him; 

Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour 
Unto the weary and all-watched night, 

But freshly looks, and over-bears attaint 
With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty ; *o 
That every wretch, pining and pale before, 
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks. 
A largess universal like the sun 
His liberal eye doth give to every one, 

'Bbawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all 
Behold, as may unworthiness define, 

A little touch of Harry in the night. 

And so our scene must to the battle fly, 

Where — 0 for pity ! — we shall much disgrace 
With four or five most vile and ragged foils, b# 
Right ill-dispos’d in brawl ridiculous, 

The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see, 
Minding true things by what their mockeries 
be. [Exit. 

[Scene I. The English camp at Agincourt .] 

Enter King Henry, Bedford, and Glouces¬ 
ter. 

K. Hen. Gloucester, ’t is true that we are in 
great danger; 

The greater therefore should our courage be. 
Good morrow, brother Bedford. God Almighty 1 
There is some soul of goodness in things evil, 
Would men observingly distil it out; 5 

For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers, 
Which is both healthful and good husbandry. 
Besides, they are our outward consciences, 

And preachers to us all, admonishing 
That we should dress us fairly for our end. 10 
Thus may we gather honey from the weed, 
And make a moral of the devil himself. 

Enter Erpingham. 

Good morrow, old Sir Thomas Erpingham. 

A good soft pillow for that good white head 
Were better than a churlish turf of France. « 
Erp. Not so, my liege; this lodging likes me 
better, 

Since I may say, “ Now lie I like a king.” 

K. Hen. ’T is good for men to love their 
present pains 




6 i8 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


IV. 1. 


Upon example ; so the spirit is eased ; » 

And when the mind is quick’ned, out of doubt, 
The organs, though defunct and dead before, 
Break up their drowsy grave and newly move, 
With casted slough and fresh legerity. 

Lend me thy cloak, Sir Thomas. Brothers 
both, 

Commend me to the princes in our camp ; 25 

Do my good morrow to them, and anon 
Desire them all to my pavilion. 

Glou. We shall, my liege. 

Erp. Shall I attend your Grace ? 

K. Hen. No, my good knight; 

Go with my brothers to my lords of England. 30 
I and my bosom must debate a while, 

And then I would no other company. 

Erp. The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble 
Harry ! [Exeunt [all but King}. 

K. Hen. God-a-mercy, old heart! thou 
speak’st cheerfully. 

Enter Pistol. 

Pist. Qui va lb? 35 

K. Hen. A friend. 

Pist. Discuss unto me ; art thou officer ? 

Or art thou base, common, and popular ? 

K. Hen. I am a gentleman of a company. 
Pist. Trail’st thou the puissant pike ? 40 

K. Hen. Even so. What are you ? 

Pist. As good a gentleman as the Emper<m 
K. Hen. Then you are a better than the 
King. 

Pist. The King’s a bawcock, and a heart of 
gold, 

A lad of life, an imp of fame ; 45 

Of parents good, of fist most valiant. 

I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heart-string 
I love the lovely bully. What is thy name ? 

K. Hen. Harry le Roy. 

Pist. Le Roy ! a Cornish name. Art thou of 
Cornish crew ? so 

K. Hen. No, I am a Welshman. 

Pist. Know’st thou Fluellen ? 

K. Hen. Yes. 

Pist. Tell him, I ’ll knock his leek about his 
pate 

Upon Saint Davy’s day. es 

K. Hen. Do not you wear your dagger in 
your cap that day, lest he knock that about 
yours. 

Pist. Art thou his friend ? 

K. Hen. And his kinsman too. 

Pist. The figo for thee, then ! 60 

K. Hen. I thank you. God be with you ! 
Pist. My name is Pistol call’d. [Exit. 

K. Hen. It sorts well with your fierceness. 

Enter Fluellen and Gower. 

Gow. Captain Fluellen ! «4 

Flu. So ! in the name of Jesu Christ, speak 
lower. It is the greatest admiration in the 
universal world, when the true and aunchient 
prerogatifes and laws of the wars is not kept. 
If you would take the pains but to examine the 
wars of Pompey the Great, you shall find, I 
warrant you, that there is no tiddle ta’ddle [to 
nor pibble pabble in Pompey’s camp. I warrant 


you, you shall find the ceremonies of the wars, 
and the cares of it, and the forms of it, and the 
sobriety of it, and the modesty of it, to be 
otherwise. . 76 

Gow. Why, the enemy is loud ; you hear him 
all night. 

Flu. If the enemy is an ass and a fool and 
a prating coxcomb, is it meet, think you, that 
we should also, look you, be an ass and a fool 
and a prating coxcomb r In your own con¬ 
science, now ? 81 

Gow. I will speak lower. 

Flu. I pray you and beseech you that you 
will. [Exeunt [Gower and Fluellen ]. 

K. Hen. Though it appear a little out of 
fashion, 86 

There is much care and valour in this Welsh¬ 
man. 

Enter three soldiers, John Bates, Alexander 
Court, and Michael Williams. 

Court. Brother John Bates, is not that the 
morning which breaks yonder ? 

Bates. I think it be ; but we have no great 
cause to desire the approach of day. 90 

Will. We see yonder the beginning of the 
day, but I think we shall never see the end of 
it. Who goes there ? 

K. Hen. A friend. 

Will. Under what captain serve you ? oe 
K. Hen. Under Sir Thomas Erpingham. 
Will. A good old commander and a most 
kind gentleman. I pray you, w r hat thinks he of 
our estate ? 

E. Hen. Even as men wreck’d upon a sand, 
that look to be wash’d off the next tide. 101 
Bates. He hath not told his thought to the 
King ? 

K. Hen. No; nor it is not meet he should. 
For, though I speak it to you, I think the King 
is but a man, as I am. The violet smells to [105 
him as it does to me ; the element shows to him 
as it doth to me ; all his senses have but human 
conditions. His ceremonies laid by, in his 
nakedness he appears but a man ; and though 
his affections are higher mounted than ours, [no 
yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like 
wing. Therefore, when he sees reason of fears 
as we do, his fears, out of doubt, be of the 
same relish as ours are ; yet, in reason, no man 
should possess him with any appearance of fear, 
lest he, by showing it, should dishearten his 
army. 117 

Bates. He may show what outward courage 
he will; but I believe, as cold a night as ’t is, 
he could wish himself in Thames up to the neck; 
and so I would he were, and I by him, at all 
adventures, so we were quit here. 122 

K. Hen. By my troth, I will speak my con¬ 
science of the King : I think he would not wish 
himself anywhere but where he is. 

Bates. Then I would he were here alone ; so 
should he be sure to be ransomed, and a many 
poor men’s lives saved. 12s 

K. Hen. I dare say you love him not so ill 
to. wish him here alone, howsoever you speak 
this to feel other men’s minds. Methinks I 




IV. 1. 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


619 


could not die anywhere so contented as in the 
King’s company, his cause being just and his 
quarrel honourable. 134 

Will. That’s more than we know. 

Bates. Ay, or more than we should seek 
afterfor we know enough, if we know we are 
the King’s subjects. If his cause be wrong, our 
obedience to the King wipes the crime of it out 

Of US. 139 

Will. But if the cause be not good, the King 
himself hath a heavy reckoning to make, when 
all those legs and arms and heads, chopp’d off 
in a battle, shall join together at the latter day 
and cry all, “We died at such a place ” ; some 
swearing, some crying for a surgeon, some upon 
their wives left poor behind them, some [us 
upon the debts they owe, some upon their chil¬ 
dren rawly left. I am afeard there are few die 
well that die in a battle: for how can they 
charitably dispose of anything, when blood is 
their argument ? Now, if these men do not die 
well, it will be a black matter for the King that 
led them to it; who to disobey were against all 
proportion of subjection. 153 

K. Hen. So, if a son that is by his father 
sent about merchandise do sinfully miscarry* 
upon the sea, the imputation of his wickedness, 
by your rule, should be imposed upon his father 
that sent him : or if a servant, under his mas¬ 
ter’s command transporting a sum of money, 
be assailed by robbers and die in many ir- [100 
reconcil’d iniquities, you may call the business 
of the master the author of the servant’s dam¬ 
nation. But this is not so. The King is not 
bound to answer the particular endings of 
his soldiers, the father of his son, nor the 
master of his servant; for they purpose not [ies 
their death, when they purpose their services. 
Besides, there is no king, be his cause never 
so spotless, if it come to the arbitrement of 
swords, can try it out with all unspotted sol¬ 
diers. Some peradventure have on them the 
guilt of premeditated and contrived mur- [no 
der; some, of beguiling virgins with the 
broken seals of perjury; some, making the 
wars their bulwark, that have before gored 
the gentle bosom of Peace with pillage and rob¬ 
bery. Now, if these men have defeated the [ns 
law and outrun native punishment, though 
they can outstrip men, they have no wings to 
fly from God. War is his beadle, war is his 
vengeance; so that here men are punish’d for 
before-breach of the King’s laws in now the 
King’s quarrel. Where they feared the [iso 
death, they have borne life away ; and where 
they would be safe, they perish. Then if they 
die unprovided, no more is the King guilty of 
their damnation than he was before guilty of 
those impieties for the which they are now vis ¬ 
ited. Every subject’s duty ft the King’s; [iss 
but every subject’s soul is his own. Therefore 
should every soldier in the wars do as every sick 
man in his bed, wash every mote out of his con¬ 
science ; and dying so, death is to him advan¬ 
tage ; or not dying, the time was blessedly [100 
lost wherein such preparation was gained; 
and in him that escapes, it were not sin to think 


that, making God so free an offer, He let him 
outlive that day to see His greatness and to 
teach others how they should prepare. 100 

Will. ’T is certain, every man that dies ill, 
the ill upon his own head, the King is not to 
answer it. 

Bates. I do not desire he should answer for 
me; and yet I determine to fight lustily for 
him. 201 

K. Hen. I myself heard the King say he 
would not be ransom’d. 

Will. Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheer¬ 
fully ; but when our throats are cut, he may be 
ransom’d, and we ne’er the wiser. 

K. Hen. If I live to see it, I will never trust 
his word after. 208 

Will. You pay him then. That’s a perilous 
shot out of an elder-gun, that a poor and a pri¬ 
vate displeasure can do against a monarch! 
You may as well go about to turn the sun to ice 
with fanning in his face with a peacock’s 
feather. You ’ll never trust his word after! 
Come,’t is a foolish saying. 210 

* K. Hen. Your reproof is something too 
round. I should be angry with you, if the 
time were convenient. 

Will. Let it be a quarrel between us, if you 
live. 220 

K. Hen. I embrace it. 

Will. How shall I know thee again ? 

K. Hen. Give me any gage of thine, and I 
will wear it in my bonnet; then, if ever thou 
dar’st acknowledge it, I will make it my quar¬ 
rel. 225 

Will. Here’s my glove ; give me another of 

thine. 

K. Hen. There. 

Will. This will I also wear in my cap. If 
ever thou come to me and say, after to-morrow, 
“ This is my glove,” by this hand, I will take 
thee a box on the ear. . 2S2 

K. Hen. If ever I live to see it, I will chal¬ 
lenge it. 

Will. Thou dar’st as well be hang’d. 

K. Hen. Well, I will do it, though I take 
thee in the King’s company. 237 

Will. Keep thy word ; fare thee well. 

Bates. Be friends, you English fools, be 
friends. We have French quarrels enow, if you 
could tell how to reckon. [ Exeunt soldiers. 241 
K. Hen. Indeed, the French may lay twenty 
French crowns to one they will beat us, for 
they bear them on their shoulders ; but it is no 
English treason to cut French crowns, and to¬ 
morrow the King himself will be a clipper. 24a 
Upon the King ! let us our lives, our souls, 

Our debts, our careful wives, 

Our children, and our sins lay on the King! 

We must bear all. 0 hard condition, 250 

Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath 
Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel 
But his own wringing 1 What infinite heart’s- 
ease 

Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy ! 
And what have kings, that privates have not 

tOO, 268 

Save ceremony, save general ceremony ? 





620 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


IV. 11. 


And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony ? 
What kind of god art thou, that sufl:er’st more 
Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers ? 
What are thy rents? What are thy comings 
in? 

0 Ceremony, show me hut thy worth ! 26i 

What is thy soul of adoration ? 

Art thou aught else but place, degree, and 
form, 

Creating awe and fear in other men ? 

Wherein thou art less happy being fear’d 265 
Than they in fearing. 

What drink’st thou oft, instead of homage 
sweet. 

But poison’d flattery ? 0 , be sick, great great¬ 
ness, 

And bid thy Ceremony give thee cure ! 
Think’st thou the fiery fever will go out 270 
With titles blown from adulation ? 

Will it give place to flexure and low bending? 
Canst thou, when thou command’st the beg¬ 
gar’s knee, 

Command the health of it? No, thou proud 
dream, 

That play’st so subtly with a king’s repose ; 275 
I am a king that find thee, and I know 
’T is not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball, 
The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, 

The intertissued robe of gold and pearl, 

The farced title running ’fore the King, 280 
The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp 
That beats upon the high shore of this world, 
No, not all these, thriee-gorgeous Ceremony, — 
Not all these, laid in bed majestical, 

Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, 285 
Who with a body fill’d and vacant mind 
Gets him to rest, cramm’d with distressful 
bread, 

Never sees horrid night, the child of hell, 

But, like a lackey, from the rise to set 
Sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night 290 
Sleeps in Elysium ; next day after dawn, 

Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse, 

And follows so the ever-running year, 

With profitable labour, to his grave: 

And, but for ceremony, such a wretch, 295 

Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep, 
Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king. 

The slave, a member of the country’s peace, 
Enjoys it, but in gross brain little wots 
What watch the King keeps to maintain the 
peace, 

Whose hours the peasant best advantages, soi 
Enter Erpingham. 

Erp. My lord, your nobles, jealous of your 
absence, 

Seek through your camp to find you. 

K. Hen. Good old knight, 

Collect them all together at my tent. 

I ’ll be before thee. 

Erp. I shall do’t, my lord. 305 

[Exit. 

K. Hen. 0 God of battles 1 steel my soldiers’ 
hearts. 

Possess them not with fear. Take from them 
now 


The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers 
Pluck their hearts from them. Not to-day, 0 
Lord, 

0 , not to-day, think not upon the fault sio 
My father made in compassing the crown! 

I Richard’s body have interred new. 

And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears 
Than from it issued forced drops of blood. 

Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay, sis 
Who twice a day their wither’d hands hold up 
Toward heaven, to pardon blood ; and I have 
built 

Two chantries, where the sad and solemn 
priests 

Sing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do ; 
Though all that I can do is nothing worth, 320 
Since that my penitence comes after all, 
Imploring pardon. 

Enter Gloucester. 

Glou. My liege! 

K. Hen. My brother Gloucester’s voice ? Ay ; 
I know thy errand, I will go with thee. 325 
The day, my friends, and all things stay forme. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. The French camp.] 

Enter the Dauphin, Orleans, Rambures, 
and others. 

Orl. The sun doth gild our armour ; up, my 
lords! 

Dau. Montez d cheval! My horse, varlet! 

lackey! ha! 

Orl. 0 brave spirit! 

Dau. Via ! les eaux et la terre. 

Orl. Rien puis ? Hair et le feu. a 

Dau. del , cousin Orleans. 

Enter Constable. 

Now, my Lord Constable! 

Con. Hark, how our steeds for present ser¬ 
vice neigh! 

Dau. Mount them, and make incision in 
their hides, 

That their hot blood may spin in English eyes, 
And dout them with superfluous courage, ha ! 11 
Ram. What, will you have them weep our 
horses’ blood ? 

How shall we, then, behold their natural tears ? 
Enter Messenger. 

Mess. The English are embattl’d, you French 
peers. 

Con. To horse, you gallant princes! straight 
to horse! is 

Do but behold yond poor and starved band, 
And your fair show shall suck away their souls, 
Leaving them but the shales and husks of men. 
There is not work*enough for all our hands ; 
Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins 20 
To give each naked curtle-axe a stain, 

That our French gallants shall to-day draw out, 
And sheathe for lack of sport. Let us but 
blow on them, 

The vapour of our valour will o’erturn them. 

’T is positive ’gainst all exceptions, lords, 26 





IV. iii. 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


621 


That our superfluous lackeys and our peasants, 
Who in unnecessary action swarm 
About our squares of battle, were enow 
To purge this field of such a hilding foe, 
Though we upon this mountain’s basis by so 
Took stand for idle speculation, 

But that our honours must not. What’s to say ? 
A very little little let us do. 

And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound 
The tucket sonance and the note to mount; so 
For our approach shall so much dare the field 
That England shall crouch down in fear and 
yield. 

Enter Grandpr 6 . 

Grand. Why do you stay so long, my lords 
of France ? 

Yond island carrions, desperate of their bones, 
Ill-favou#edly become the morning field. 40 
Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose, 

And our air shakes them passing scornfully. 
Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar’d 
host 

And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps ; 

The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks 46 
With torch-staves in their hand; and their 
poor jades 

Lob down their heads, drooping the hides and 
hips, 

The gum down-roping from their pale-dead 

. ey es >. 

And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit 
Lies foul with chew’d grass, still, and motion¬ 
less ; _ so 

And their executors, the knavish crows, 

Fly o’er them, all impatient for their hour. 
Description cannot suit itself in words 
To demonstrate the life of such a battle, 

In life so lifeless as it shows itself. 55 

Con. They have said their prayers, and they 
stay for death. 

Dau. Shall we go send them dinners and 
fresh suits 

And give their fasting horses provender, 

And after fight with them ? 

Con. I stay but for my guard; on to the 
field! 60 

I will the banner from a trumpet take, 

And use it for my haste. Come, come, away ! 
The sun is high, and we outwear the day. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III. The English camp.\ 

Enter Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Er- 
pingham, with all his host: Salisbury and 

W ESTMORELAND. 

Glou. Where is the King? 

Bed. The King himself is rode to view their 
battle. 

West. Of fighting men they have full three¬ 
score thousand. 

Exe. There’s five to one; besides, they all 
are fresh. 

Sal. God’s arm strike with us ! ’t is a fearful 
odds. 8 

God be wi’ you, princes all; I ’ll to my charge. 


If we no more meet till we meet in heaven, 
Then, joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford, 

My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord 
Exeter, 

And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu ! 10 

Bed. Farewell, good Salisbury, and good 
luck go with thee ! 

Exe. Farewell, kind lord ; fight valiantly to¬ 
day ! 

And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, 
For thou art fram’d of the firm truth of valour. 

[Exit Salisbury.] 
Bed. He is as full of valour as of kindness, is 
Princely in both. 

Enter the King. 

West. 0 that we now had here 

But one ten thousand of those men in England 
That do no work to-day ! 

K. Hen. What’s he that wishes so ? 

My cousin Westmoreland ? No, my fair cousin. 
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow 20 

To do our country loss ; and if to live. 

The fewer men, the greater share of honour. 
God’s will 1 I pray thee, wish not one man 
more. 

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, 

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; 26 

It yearns me not if men my garments wear ; 
Such outward things dwell not in my desires ; 
But if it be a sin to covet honour, 

I am the most offending soul alive. 

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from Eng¬ 
land. 30 

God’s peace! I would not lose so great an 
honour 

As one man more, methinks, would share from 
me 

For the best hope I have. 0 , do not wish one 
more! 

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through 
my host, 

That he which hath no stomach to this fight, 3s 
Let him depart. His passport shall be made, 
And crowns for convoy put into his purse. 

We would not die in that man’s company 
That fears his fellowship to die with us. 

This day is call’d the feast of Crispian. 40 
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, 
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named, 
And rouse him at the name of Crispian. 

He that shall live this day, and see old age, 
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, 45 
And say, “To-morrow is Saint Crispian.” 

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, 
And say, “These wounds I had on Crispin’s 
day.” 

Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, 

But he ’ll remember with advantages bo 

What feats he did that day. Then shall our 
names, 

Familiar in his mouth as household words, 
Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter, 
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, 
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red. oc 
This story shall the good man teach his son; 
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, 




622 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


IV. IV. 


From this day to the ending of the world, 

But we in it shall be remembered, 

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers, so 
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me 
Shall be my brother ; be he ne’er so vile, 

This day shall gentle his condition ; 

And gentlemen in England now a-bed 
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not 
here, _ 65 

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any 
speaks 

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day. 

Re-enter Salisbury. 

Sal. My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with 
speed. 

The French are bravely in their battles set, 
And will with all expedience charge on us. 70 

K. Hen. All things are ready, if our minds 
be so. 

West. Perish the man whose mind is back¬ 
ward now ! 

K. Hen. Thou dost not wish more help from 
England, coz ? 

West. God’s will! my liege, would you and 
I alone, 

Without more help, could fight this royal 
battle! > ts 

K. Hen. Why, now thou hast unwish’d five 
thousand men, 

Which likes me better than to wish us one. 
You know your places. God be with you all! 

Tucket. Enter Montjoy. 

Mont. Once more I come to know of thee, 
King Harry, 

If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound, so 
Before thy most assured overthrow ; 

For certainly thou art so near the gulf, 

Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in 
mercy, 

The Constable desires thee thou wilt mind 
Thy followers of repentance ; that their souls so 
May make a peaceful and a sweet retire 
From off these fields, where, wretches, their 
poor bodies 
Must lie and fester. 

K. Hen. Who hath sent thee now ? 

Mont. The Constable of France. 

K. Hen. I pray thee, bear my former answer 
back: so 

Bid them achieve me and then sell my bones. 
Good God ! why should they mock poor fellows 
thus ? 

The man that once did sell the lion’s skin 
While the beast liv’d, was kill’d with hunting 
him. 

A many of our bodies shall no doubt ob 

Find native graves, upon the which, I trust, 
.Shall witness live in brass of this day’s work ; 
And those that leave their valiant bones in 
France, 

Dying like men, though buried in your dung¬ 
hills, 

They shall be fam’d; for there the sun shall 
greet them, too 

And draw their honours reeking up to heaven ; 


Leaving their earthly parts to choke your 
clime, 

The smell whereof shall breed a plague in 
France. 

Mark then abounding valour in our English, 
That being dead, like to the bullet’s grazing, nw 
Break out into a second course of mischief, 
Killing in relapse of mortality. 

Let me speak proudly : tell the Constable 
We are but warriors for the working-dav. 

Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch’d no 
With rainy marching in the painful field ; 
There’s not a piece of feather in our host — 
Good argument, I hope, we will not fly — 

And time hath worn us into slovenry ; 

But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim ; us 
And mv poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night 
They ’ll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck 
The gay new coats o’er the French ‘soldiers’ 
heads 

And turn them out of service. If they do this — 
As, if God please, they shall, — my ransom 
then 120 

Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy 
labour. 

Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald. 
They shall have none, I swear, but these my 
joints; 

Which if they have as I will leave ’em them, 
Shall yield them little, tell the Constable. 126 
Mont. I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee 
well; 

Thou never shalt hear herald any more. [Exit. 
K. Hen. I fear thou ’It once more come again 
for ransom. 

Enter York. 

York. My lord, most humbly on my knee I 
beg 

The leading of the vaward. 130 

K. Hen. Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, 
march away; 

And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day ! 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene IV. The field of battle.'] 

Alarum. Excursions. Enter Pistol, French 
Soldier, and Boy. 

Pist. Yield, cur! 

Fr. Sol. Je pense que vous ites le gentilhomme 
de bonne aualitt. 

Pist. Qualtitie calmie custure me! Art thou 
a gentleman ? What is thy name ? Discuss, b 
Fr. Sol. O Seigneur Dieu ! 

Pist. 0 , Signieur Dew should be a gentle¬ 
man. 

Perpend my words, O Signieur Dew, and mark : 
0 Signieur Dew, thou diest on point of fox, 
Except, O signieur, thou do give to me m 
E gregious ransom. 

Fr. Sol. O, prenez mistricorde ! ayez pitU de 
moi! 

Pist. Moy shall not serve ; I will have forty 
moys, 

Or I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat ib 
I n drops of crimson blood. 





IV. vi. 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


623 


Fr. Sol. Est-il impossible d' echapper la force 
de ton bras ? 

Fist. Brass, cur! 

Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat, 20 
Offer’st me brass ? 

Fr. Sol. O pardonnez moi! 

Pist. Say’st thou me so? Is that a ton of 
moys ? 

Come hither, boy ; ask me this slave in French 
What is his name. 25 

Boy. Ecoutez: comment etes-vous appelf? 

Fr. Sol. Monsieur le Fer. 

Boy. He says his name is Master Fer. 

Pist. Master Fer! I’ll fer him, and firk him, 
and ferret him. Discuss the same in French 
unto him. 31 

Boy. I do not know the French for fer, and 
ferret, and firk. 

Pist. Bid him prepare ; for I will cut his 
throat. 

Fr. Sol. Que dit-il, monsieur ? m 

Boy. II me commande a vous dire que vous 
faites vous pret; car ce soldat ici est dispose tout 
h cette heure de couper votre gorge. 

Pist. Owy, cuppele gorge , permafoy, 

Peasant, unless thou give me crowns, brave 

crowns; 40 

Or mangled shalt thou be by this my sword. 

Fr. Sol. O, je vous supplie. pour Vamour le 
Dieu, me pardonner ! Je suis le gentilhomme de 
bonne maison; gardez ma vie, et je vous donnerai 
deux cents feus. *s 

Pist. What are his words ? 

Boy. He prays you to save his life. He is a 
entleman of a good house ; and for his ransom 
e will give you two hundred crowns. 

Pist. Tell him my fury shall abate, and I so 
The crowns will take. 

Fr. Sol. Petit monsieur, que dit-il ? 

Boy. Encore qu'il est contre son jurement de 
pardonner aucun prisonnier nfanmoins, pour 
les ecus que vous Vavez promts, il est content de 
vous donner la liber tf, le franchisement. so 

Fr. Sol. Sur mes genoux je vous donne mille 
remercimens; et je m'estime heureux que je suis 
tombf entre les mains d'un chevalier , je pense , 
le plus brave, vaillant, et tres distingue seigneur 
d' Angleterre. ei 

Pist. Expound unto me, boy. 

Boy. He gives you upon his knees, a thou¬ 
sand thanks ; and he esteems himself happy 
that he hath fallen into the hands of one, as he 
thinks, the most brave, valorous, and thrice- 
worthy seigneur of England. 

Pist. As I suck blood, I will some mercy 
show. Follow me ! so 

Boy. Suivez-vous le arand capitaine. [Exeunt 
Pistol, and French Soldier.] I did never know 
so full a voice issue from so empty a heart; but 
the saying is true, “The empty vessel makes 
the greatest sound.” Bardolph and Nym had 
ten times more valour than this roaring devil i’ 
the old play, that every one may pare his [75 
nails with a wooden dagger ; and they are both 
hang’d ; and so would this be, if he durst steal 
anything adventurously. I must stay with the 
lackeys with the luggage of our camp. The 


French might have a good prey of us, if he 
knew of it ; for there is none to guard it but 
boys. [Exit. 82 

[Scene V. Another part of the field.] 

Enter Constable, Orleans, Bourbon, 
Dauphin, and Kambures. 

Con. O diable! 

Orl. 0 seigneur ! le jour est perdu, tout est 
perdu! 

Dau. Mort de ma vie ! all is confounded, all! 
Reproach and everlasting shame 
Sits mocking in our plumes. O mfehante for¬ 
tune ! 5 

Do not run away. [A short alarum. 

Con. Why, all our ranks are broke. 

Dau. 0 perdurable shame ! let’s stab our¬ 
selves. 

Be these the wretches that we play’d at dice 
for? 

Orl. Is this the king we sent to for his ran¬ 
som ? 

Bour. Shame and eternal shame, nothing 
but shame! 10 

Let’s die in honour ! Once more back again! 
And he that will not follow Bourbon now, 

Let him go hence, and with his cap in hand, 
Like a base pandar, hold the chamber door 
Whilst by a slave, no gentler than my dog, is 
His fairest daughter is contaminated. 

Con. Disorder, that hath spoil’d us, friend us 
now ! 

Let us on heaps go offer up our lives. 

Orl. We are enow yet living in the field 
To smother up the English in our throngs, 20 
If any order might be thought upon. 

Bour. The devil take order now ! I ’ll to the 
throng. 

Let life be short, else shame will be too long. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene VI. Another part of the, field.] 

Alarum. Enter King Henry and his train, 
with prisoners. 

K. Hen. Well have we done, thrice valiant 
countrymen. 

But all’s not done ; yet keep the French the 
field. 

Exe. The Duke of York commends him to 
your Majesty. 

K. Hen. Lives he, good uncle? Thrice 
within this hour 

I saw him down ; thrice up again, and fighting. 
From helmet to the spur all blood he was. 6 
Exe. In which array, brave soldier, doth he 
lie, 

Larding the plain ; and by his bloody side, 
Yoke-fellow to his honour-owing wounds, 

The noble Earl of Suffolk also lies. 10 

Suffolk first died ; and York, all haggled over, 
Comes to him, where in gore he lay insteeped, 
And takes him by the beard ; kisses the gashes 
That bloodily did yawn upon his face. 

He cries aloud, “ Tarry, my cousin Suffolk ! « 
My soul shall thine keep company to heaven; 






624 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


IV. Vll. 


Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly abreast, 
As in this glorious and well-foughten field 
We kept together in our chivalry ! ” i» 

Upon these words I eame and cheer’d him up. 
He smil’d me in the face, raught me his hand, 
And, with a feeble gripe, says, “ Dear my lord, 
Commend my service to my sovereign.” 

So did he turn and over Suffolk’s neck 24 

He threw his wounded arm and kiss’d his lips ; 
And so espous’d to death, with blood he seal’d 
A testament of noble-ending love. 

The pretty and sweet manner of it forc’d 
Those waters from me which I would have 
stopp’d; 

But I had not so much of man in me, 30 

And all my mother came into mine eyes 
And gave me up to tears. 

K. Hen. I blame you not; 

For, hearing this, I must perforce compound 
With mistful eyes, or they will issue too. 

[ Alarum. 

But, hark ! what new alarum is this same ? 35 
The French have reinforc’d their scatter’d men. 
Then every soldier kill his prisoners ; 

Give the word through. [Exeunt. 

[Scene VII. Another part of the field ..] 

Enter Fluellen and Gower. 

Flu. Kill the poys and the luggage! ’T is 
expressly against the law of arms. ’Tis as 
arrant a piece of knavery, mark you now, as can 
be offer’t; in your conscience, now, is it not ? 4 
Gow. ’T is certain there’s not a boy left 
alive \ and the cowardly rascals that ran from 
the battle ha’ done this slaughter. Besides, 
they have burned and carried away all that was 
in the King’s tent; wherefore the King, most 
worthily, hath caus’d every soldier to cut his 
prisoner’s throat. O, ’t is a gallant king ! 11 

Flu. Ay, he was porn at Monmouth, Captain 
Gower. What call you the town’s name where 
Alexander the Pig was born ! 

Gow. Alexander the Great. 15 

Flu. Why, I pray you, is not pig great ? The 
pig, or the great, or the mighty, or the huge, or 
the magnanimous, are all one reckonings, save 
the phrase is a little variations. 19 

Gow. I think Alexander the Great was horn 
in Macedon. His father was called Philip of 
Macedon, as I take it. 

Flu. I think it is in Macedon where Alexan¬ 
der is porn. I tell you, captain, if you look in 
the maps of the ’orld, I warrant you sail find, 
in the comparisons between Macedon and [25 
Monmouth, that the situations, look you, is 
both alike. There is a river in Macedon ; and 
there is also moreover a river at Monmouth. 
It is call’d Wye at Monmouth; but it is out of 
my prains what is the name of the other [so 
river ; but ’tis all one, ’tis alike as my fingers 
is to my fingers, and there is salmons in both. 
If you mark Alexander’s life well, Harry of 
Monmouth’s life is come after it indifferent 
well ; for there is figures in all things. [35 
Alexander, God knows, and you know, in his 
rages, and his furies, and his wraths, and his 


cholers, and his moods, and his displeasures, 
and his indignations, and also being a little in¬ 
toxicates in his prains, did, in his ales and his 
angers, look you, kill his best friend, Cleitus. 41 
Gow. Our King is not like him in that. He 
never kill’d any of his friends. 

Flu. It is not well done, mark you now, to 
take the tales out of my mouth, ere it is 
made and finished. I speak but in the figures [45 
and comparisons of it. As Alexander kill’d his 
friend Cleitus, being in his ales and his cups; 
so also Harry Monmouth, being in his right wits 
and his good judgements, turn’d away the fat 
knight with the great belly doublet. He [bo 
was full of jests, and gipes, and knaveries, and 
mocks ; I have forgot his name. 

Gow. Sir John Falstaff. 

Flu. That is he. I ’ll tell you there is good 
men porn at Monmouth. b« 

Gow. Here comes his Majesty. 

Alarum. Enter King Henry and [forces: 
Warwick, Gloucester, Exeter,] with 
prisoners. Flourish. 

K. Hen. I was not angry since I came to 
France 

Until this instant. Take a trumpet, herald; 
Ride thou unto the horsemen on yond hill. 00 
If they will fight with us, bid them come down, 
Or void the field ; they do offend our sight. 

If they ’ll do neither, we will come to them, 
And make them skirr away, as swift as stones 
Enforced from the old Assyrian slings. 65 

Besides, we ’ll cut the throats of those we have, 
And not a man of them that we shall take 
Shall taste our mercy. Go and tell them so. 

Enter Montjoy. 

Exe. Here comes the herald of the French, 
my liege. 

Glou. His eyes are humbler than they us’d to 
be. 70 

K. Hen. How now ! w hat means this, herald ? 
Know’st thou not 

That I have fin’d these bones of mine for ran¬ 
som ? 

Com’st thou again for ransom ? 

Mont. No, great King; 

I come to thee for charitable license, 

That we may wander o’er this bloody field u 
To book our dead, and then to bury them ; 

To sort our nobles from our common men. 

For many of our princes — woe the while ! — 
Lie drown’d and soak’d in mercenary blood ; 

So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs so 
In blood of princes ; and their wounded steeds 
Fret fetlock deep in gore, and with wild rage 
Yerk out their armed heels at their dead 
masters, 

Killing them twice. O, give us leave, great 
. Kin &> 

To view the field in safety, and dispose se 
Of their dead bodies ! 

K. Hen. I tell thee truly, herald, 

I know not if the day he ours or no ; 

For yet a many of your horsemen peer 
And gallop o’er the field. 




HENRY THE FIFTH 


iv. viii. 


Mont. The day is yours. 

K. Hen. Praised be God, and not our strength, 
for it! »o 

What is this castle call’d that stands hard by ? 
Mont. They call it Agincourt. 

K. Hen. Then call we this the field of Agin¬ 
court, 

Fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus. 04 
Flu. Your grandfather of famous memory, 
an ’t. please your Majesty, and your great-uncle 
Edward the Plack Prince of Wales, as I have 
read in the chronicles, fought a most prave 
pattle here in France. 

K. Hen. They did, Fluellen. 100 

Flu. Your Majesty says very true. If your 
Majesties is rememb’red of it, the Welshmen 
did good service in a garden where leeks did 
grow, wearing leeks in their Monmouth caps ; 
which, your Majesty know, to this hour is an 
honourable badge of the service ; and I do be¬ 
lieve your Majesty takes no scorn to wear the 
leek upon Saint Tavy’s day. ios 

K. Hen. I wear it for a memorable honour ; 
For I am Welsh, you know, good countryman. 

Flu. All the water in Wye cannot wash your 
Majesty’s Welsh plood out of your pody, I can 
tell you that. God pless it and preserve it, as long 
as it pleases His grace, and His majesty too ! 
K. Hen. Thanks, good my countryman, ns 
Flu. By Jeshu, I am your Majesty’s country¬ 
man, I care not who know it. I will confess it 
to all the ’orld. I need not to be ashamed of 

S mr Majesty, praised be God, so long as your 
ajesty is an honest man. 120 

K. Hen. God keep me so 1 

Enter Williams. 

Our heralds go with him ; 
Bring me just notice of the numbers dead 
On both our parts. Call yonder fellow hither. 

[Exeun 1 > Heralds with Mont joy.] 
Exe. Soldier, you must come to the King. 124 
K. Hen. Soldier, why wear’st thou that 
glove in thy cap ? 

Will. An’t please your Majesty, ’t is the gage 
of one that I should fight withal, if he be alive. 
K. Hen. An Englishman ? 129 

Will. An ’t please your Majesty, a rascal 
that swagger’d with me last night ; who, if 
alive and ever dare to challenge this glove, I 
have sworn to take him a box o’ the ear ; or if 
I can see my glove in his cap, which he swore, 
as he was a soldier, he would wear if alive, I 
will strike it out soundly. 13 » 

K. Hen. What think you, Captain Fluellen ? 
Is it fit this soldier keep his oath ? 

Flu. He is a craven and a villain else, an ’t 
please your Majesty, in my conscience. uo 

K. Hen. It may be his enemy is a gentleman 
of great sort, quite from the answer of his de¬ 
gree. 143 

Flu. Though he be as good a gentleman as 
the devil is, as Lucifer and Belzebub himself, 
it is necessary, look your Grace, that he keep 
his vow and his oath. If he be perjur’d, see 
you now, his reputation is as arrant a villain 
and a Jack-sauce, as ever his black shoe trod 


625 


upon God’s ground and His earth, in my con¬ 
science, la! iso 

K. Hen. Then keep thy vow, sirrah, when 
thou meet’st the fellow. 

Will. 80 I will, my liege, as I live. 

K. Hen. Whoserv’st thou under ? 

Will. Under Captain Gower, my liege. tss 

Flu. Gower is a good captain, and is good 
knowledge and literatured in the wars. 

K. Hen. Call him hither to me, soldier. 

Will. I will, my liege. [Exit. ie» 

K. Hen. Here, Fluellen ; wear thou this 
favour for me and stick it in thy cap. When 
Alengon and myself were down together, I 
pluck’d this glove from his helm. If any man 
challenge this, he is a friend to Alengon, and 
an enemy to our person. If thou encounter any 
such, apprehend him, an thou dost me love, ice 
Flu. Your Grace doo’s me as great honours as 
can be desir’d in the hearts of his subjects. I 
would fain see the man, that has but two legs, 
that shall find himself aggrief’d at this glove ; 
that is all. But I would fain see it once, an 
please God of His grace that I might see. 122 
K. Hen. Know’st thou Gower ? 

Flu. He is my dear friend, an please you. 

K. Hen. Pray thee, go seek him, and bring 
him to my tent. ns 

Flu. I will fetch him. [Exit. 

K. Hen. My Lord of Warwick, and my 
brother Gloucester, 

Follow Fluellen closely at the heels. 

The glove which I have given him for a favour 
May haply purchase him a box o’ the ear. wi 
It is the soldier’s ; I by bargain should 
Wear it myself. Follow, good cousin Warwick. 
If that the soldier strike him, as I judge 
By his blunt bearing he will keep his word, ns 
Some sudden mischief may arise of it; 

For I do know Fluellen valiant 
And, touch’d with choler, hot as gunpowder, 
And quickly will return an injury. ns 

Follow, and see there be no harm between them. 
Go you with me, uncle of Exeter. [Exeunt. 

[Scene VIII. Before King Henry's pavilion .] 
Enter Go web and Williams. 

Will. I warrant it is to knight you, captain. 

Enter Fluellen. 

Flu. God’s will and his pleasure, captain, I 
beseech you now, come apace to the King. 
There is more good toward you peradventure 
than is in your knowledge to dream of. n 

Will. Sir, know you this glove ? 

Flu. Know the glove ! I know the glove is a 
glove. 

Will. I know this ; and thus I challenge it. 

[Strikes him. 

Flu. ’Sblood ! an arrant traitor as any is in 
the universal world, or in France, or in Eng¬ 
land ! 11 

Gow. How now, sir ! you villain ! 

Will. Do you think I ’ll be forsworn? 

Flu. Stand away, Captain Gower. I will give 
treason his payment into plows, I warrant you. 




626 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


IV. viii. 


Will. I am no traitor. w 

Flu. That’s a lie in thy throat. I charge you 
in his Majesty’s name, apprehend him ; he’s a 
friend of the Duke Alengon’s. 

Enter Warwick and Gloucester. 

War. How now, how now ! what’s the mat¬ 
ter ? 

Flu. My Lord of Warwick, here is — praised 
be God for it! — a most contagious treason 
come to light, look you, as you shall desire in a 
summer’s day. Here is his Majesty. 

Enter King Henry and Exeter. 

K. Hen. How now ! what’s the matter ? 25 

Flu. My liege, here is a villain and a traitor, 
that, look your Grace, has struck the glove 
which your Majesty is take out of the helmet 
of Alengon. 28 

Will. My liege, this was my glove; here is 
the fellow of it; and he that I gave it to in 
change promis’d to wear it in his cap. I pro¬ 
mis’d to strike him, if he did. I met this man 
with my glove in his cap, and I have been as 
good as my word. 34 

Flu. Your Majesty hear now, saving your 
Majesty’s manhood, what an arrant, rascally, 
beggarly, lousy knave it is. I hope your Maj¬ 
esty is pear me testimony and witness, and 
will avouchment, that this is the glove of Alen- 
gon that your Majesty is give me; in your 
conscience, now ? 40 

K. Hen. Give me thy glove, soldier. Look, 
here is the fellow of it. 

’Twas I, indeed, thou promisedstto strike ; 
And thou hast given me most bitter terms. 

Flu. An it please your Majesty, let his neck 
answer for it, if there is any martial law in the 
world. 47 

K. Hen. How canst thou make me satisfac¬ 
tion? 

Will. All offences, my lord, come from the 
heart. Never came any from mine that might 
offend your Majesty. ei 

K. Hen. It was ourself thou didst abuse. 
Will. Your Majesty came not like yourself. 
You appear’d to me but as a common man; 
witness the night, your garments, your lowli¬ 
ness; and what your Highness suffer’d under [55 
that shape, I beseech you take it for your own 
fault and not mine ; for had you been as I took 
you for, I made no offence; therefore, I be¬ 
seech your Highness, pardon me. 00 

K. Hen. Here, uncle Exeter, fill this glove 
with crowns, 

And give it to this fellow. Keep it, fellow ; 
And wear it for an honour in thy cap 
Till I do challenge it. Give him his crowns ; 
And, captain, you must needs be friends with 
him. 65 

Flu. By this day and this light, the fellow 
has mettle enough in his belly. Hold, there is 
twelve pence for you ; and I pray you to serve 
God, and keep you out of prawls, and prabbles, 
and quarrels, and dissensions, and, I warrant 
you, it is the better for you. 71 

Will. I will none of your money. 


Flu. It is with a good will; I can tell you, it 
will serve you to mend your shoes. Come, where¬ 
fore should you be so pashful ? Your shoes is 
not so good. ’T is a good silling, I warrant you, 
or I will change it. ” 

Enter [an English] Herald. 

K. Hen. Now, herald, are the dead num- 
b’red? 

Her. Here is the number of the slaught’red 
French. 

K. Hen. What prisoners of good sort are 
taken, uncle ? so 

Exe. Charles Duke of Orleans, nephew to 
the King; 

John Duke of Bourbon, and Lord Bouciqualt: 
Of other lords and barons, knights and squires, 
Full fifteen hundred, besides common men. 

K. Hen. This note doth tell me of ten thou¬ 
sand French ss 

That in the field lie slain ; of princes, in this 
number, 

And nobles bearing banners, there lie dead 
One hundred twenty-six ; added to these, 

Of knights, esquires, and gallant gentlemen, 
Eight thousand and four hunared; of the 
which, an 

Five hundred were but yesterday dubb’d 
knights; 

So that, in these ten thousand they have lost, 
There are but sixteen hundred mercenaries ; 
The rest are princes, barons, lords, knights, 
squires, 

And gentlemen of blood and quality. 95 

The names of those their nobles that lie dead : 
Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France ; 
Jacques of Chatillon, Admiral of France ; 

The master of the cross-bows, Lord Rambures ; 
Great Master of France, the brave Sir Guichard 
Dauphin, 100 

John Drake of Alengon, Anthony Duke of 
Brabant, 

The brother to the Duke of Burgundy, 

And Edward Duke of Bar ; of lusty earls, 
Grandpr^ and Roussi, Fauconberg and Foix, 
Beaumont and Marie, Vaudemont and Le- 

strale. 105 

Here was a royal fellowship of death ! 

Where is the number of our English dead ? 

[Herald shows him another paper.] 
Edward the Duke of York, the Earl of Suffolk, 
Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire; 

None else of name ; and of all other men 11# 

But five and twenty. — 0 God, thy arm was 
here ; 

And not to us, but to thy arm alone, 

Ascribe we all! When, without stratagem, 
But in plain shock and even play of battle, 
Was ever known so great and little loss us 
On one part and on the other ? Take it, God, 
For it is none but thine ! 

Exe. ’T is wonderful! 

K. Hen. Come, go we in procession to the 
village; 

And be it death proclaimed through our host 
To boast of this or take that praise from God 121 
Which is His only. 




V. 1. 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


627 


Flu. Is it not lawful, an please your Majesty, 
to tell how many is kill’d ? 

K. Hen. Yes, captain, but with this acknow¬ 
ledgement, 

That God fought for us. m 

Flu. Yes, my conscience, He did us great 
good. 

K. Hen. Do we all holy rites. 

Let there be sung Non nobis and Te Deum , 

The dead with charity enclos’d in clay, 

And then to Calais ; and to England then, 130 
Where ne’er from France arriv’d more happy 
men. [Exeunt. 

ACT V 
[prologue] 

Enter Chorus. 

[Chor.] Vouchsafe to those that have not 
read the story, 

That I may prompt them ; and of such as have, 
I humbly pray them to admit the excuse 
Of time, 01 numbers, and due course of things, 
Which cannot in their huge and proper life 5 
Be here presented. Now we bear the King 
Toward Calais; grant him there; there seen, 
Heave him away upon your winged thoughts 
Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach 
Pales in the flood with men, with wives and 
boys, 10 

Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep- 
mouth’d sea, 

Which like a mighty whiffler ’fore the King 
Seems to prepare his way. So let him land, 
And solemnly see him set on to London. 

So swift a pace hath thought that even now is 
You may imagine him upon Blackheath, 
Where that his lords desire him to have borne 
His bruised helmet and his bended sword 
Before him through the city. He forbids it, 
Being free from vainness and self-glorious 
pride; 20 

Giving full trophy, signal, and ostent 
Quite from himself to God. But now behold, 

In the quick forge and working-house of 
thought, 

How London doth pour out her citizens ! 

The mayor and all his brethren in best sort, 25 
Like to the senators of the antique Rome, 

With the plebeians swarming at their heels, 

Go forth and fetch their conquering Caesar in ; 
As, by a lower but loving likelihood, 29 

Were now the general of our gracious empress, 
As in good time he may, from Ireland com¬ 
ing, 

Bringing rebellion broached on his sword, 

How many would the peaceful city quit, 

To welcome him ! Much more, and much more 
cause, 

Did they this Harry. Now in London place 
him; 35 

As yet the lamentation of the French 
Invites the King of England’s stay at home, — 
The Emperor’s coming in behalf of France, 

To order peace between them ; — and omit 
All the occurrences, whatever chanc’d, 40 


Till Harry’s back-return again to France. 
There must we bring him ; and myself have 
play’d 

The interim, by rememb’ring you’t is past. 
Then brook abridgement, and your eyes ad¬ 
vance 

After your thoughts, straight back again to 
France. [Exit. 45 

[Scene I. France. The English camp.] 
Enter Fluellen and Gower. 

Goto. Nay, that’s right; but why wear you 
your leek to-day ? Saint Davy’s day is past. 

Flu. There is occasions and causes why 
and wherefore in all things. I will tell you 
asse my friend, Captain Gower. The rascally, 
scald, beggarly, lousy, pragging knave, Pis- [s 
tol, which you and yourself and all the world 
know to be no petter than a fellow, look you 
now, of no merits, he is come to me and prings 
me pread and salt yesterday, look you, and bid 
me eat my leek. It was in a place where I [10 
could not breed no contention with him ; but I 
will be so bold as to wear it in my cap till I see 
him once again, and then I will tell him a little 
piece of my desires. 

Enter Pistol. 

Gow. Why, here he comes, swelling like a 
turkey-cock. is 

Flu. ’T is no matter for his swellings nor his 
turkey-cocks. God pless you, Aunchient Pistol! 
you scurfy, lousy knave, God pless you ! 

Pist. Ha! art thou bedlam ? Dost thou 
thirst, base Troyan, 20 

To have me fold up Parca’s fatal web ? 

Hence ! I am qualmish at the smell of leek. 

Flu. I peseech you heartily, scurfy, lousy 
knave, at my desires, and my requests, and my 
petitions, to eat, look you, this leek. Because, 
look you, you do not love it, nor your affec- [20 
tions and your appetites and your disgestions 
doo’s not agree with it, I would desire you to 
eat it. 

Pist. Not for Cadwallader and all his goats. 

Flu. There is one goat for you. (Strikes 
him.) Will you be so good, scald knave, as eat 
it ? 31 

Pist. Base Troyan, thou shalt die. 

Flu. You say very true, scald knave, when 
God’s will is. I will desire you to live in the 
mean time, and eat your victuals. Come, there 
is sauce for it. [Strikes him.] You call’d me [33 
yesterday mountain-squire • but I will make 
you to-day a squire of low degree. I pray you, 
fall to ; if you can mock a leek, you can eat a 
leek. 

Gow. Enough, captain ; you have astonish’d 
him. 41 

Flu. I say, I will make him eat some part of 
my leek, or I will peat his pate four days. 
Bite, I pray you; it is good for your green 
wound and your ploody coxcomb. «b 

Pist. Must I bite ? 

Flu. Yes, certainly, and out of doubt and 
out of question too, and ambiguities. 





• 628 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


v. 11, 


Pist. By this leek, I will most horribly re¬ 
venge. I eat and eat, I swear — eo 

Flu. Eat, I pray you. Will you have some 
more sauce to your leek ? There is not enough 
leek to swear by. 

Pist. Quiet thy cudgel; thou dost see I eat. 54 
Flu. Much good do you, scald knave, heart¬ 
ily. Nay, pray you, throw none away : the skin 
is good for your broken coxcomb. When you 
take occasions to see leeks hereafter, I pray 
you, mock at ’em ; that is all. 

Pist. Good. so 

Flu. Ay, leeks is good. Hold you, there is a 
groat to heal your pate. 

Pist. Me a groat! 

Flu. Yes, verily and in truth you shall take 
it; or I have another leek in my pocket, which 
you shall eat. ee 

Pist. I take thy groat in earnest of revenge. 
Flu. If I owe you anything, I will pay you 
in cudgels. You shall be a woodmonger, and 
buy nothing of me but cudgels. God be wi’ 
you, and keep you, and heal your pate. 71 

[Exit. 

Pist. All hell shall stir for this. 

Gow. Go, go ; you are a counterfeit cowardly 
knave. Will you mock at an ancient tradition, 
begun upon an honourable respect, and worn as 
a memorable trophy of predeceased valour, [70 
and dare not avouch in your deeds any of your 
words? I have seen you gleeking and galling 
at this gentleman twice or thrice. You thought, 
because he could not speak English in the na¬ 
tive garb, he could not therefore handle an [so 
English cudgel. You find it otherwise; and 
henceforth let a Welsh correction teach you a 
good English condition. Fare ye well. [Exit. 
Pist. Doth Fortune play the huswife with 
me now ? . . 85 

News have I, that my Doll is dead i’ the spital 
Of malady of France ; 

And there my rendezvous is quite cut off. 

Old I do wax ; and from my weary limbs 
Honour is cudgell’d. Well, bawd I ’ll turn, oo 
And something lean to cutpurse of quick 
hand. 

To England will I steal, and there I ’ll steal; 
And patches will I get unto these cudgell’d 
scars, 

And swear I got them in the Gallia wars. 

[Exit. 

[Scene II. France. A royal palace.] 

Enter , at one door , King Henry, Exeter, 
Bedford, [Gloucester,] Warwick, [West¬ 
moreland,] and other Lords ; at another , the 
French King, Queen Isabel, [the Prin¬ 
cess Katharine, Alice, and other Ladies ;] 
the Duke of Burgundy, and other French. 

K. Hen. Peace to this meeting, wherefore 
we are met! 

Unto our brother France, and to our sister, 
Health and fair time of day; joy and good 
wishes 

To our most fair and princely cousin Kath¬ 
arine ; 


And, as a branch and member of this royalty, & 
By whom this great assembly is contriv’d, 

We do salute you, Duke of Burgundy ; 

And, princes French, and peers, health to you 
all! 

Fr. King. Right joyous are we to behold 
your face, 

Most worthy brother England ; fairly met! i« 
So are you, princes English, every one. 

Q. Isa. So happy be the issue, brother Eng¬ 
land, 

Of this good day and of this gracious meeting, 
As we are now glad to behold your eyes ; 

Your eyes, which hitherto have borne in 
them 16 

Against the French that met them in their 
bent 

The fatal balls of murdering basilisks. 

The venom of such looks, we fairly hope, 

Have lost their quality, and that this day 
Shall change all griefs and quarrels into 
love. 2# 

K. Hen. To cry amen to that, thus we 
appear. 

Q. Isa. You English princes all, I do salute 
you. 

Bur. My duty to you both, on equal love, 
Great Kings of France and England! That I 
have labour’d, 

With all my wits, my pains, and strong endea¬ 
vours, 25 

To bring your most imperial Majesties 
Unto this bar and royal interview, 

Your mightiness on both parts best can wit¬ 
ness. 

Since then my office hath so far prevail’d 
That, face to face and royal eye to eye, 30 

You have congreeted, let it not disgrace me, 

If I demand, before this royal view, 

What rub or what impediment there is, 

Why that the naked, poor, and mangled Peace, 
Dear nurse of arts, plenties, and joyful 
births, 35 

Should not in this best garden of the world, 
Our fertile France, put up her lovely visage ? 
Alas, she hath from France too long been 

chas’d, 

And all her husbandry doth lie on heaps, 
Corrupting in it own fertility. *o 

Her vine, the merry cheerer of the heart, 
Unpruned dies ; her hedges even-pleach’d, 

Like prisoners wildly overgrown with hair, 

Put forth disorder’d twigs ; her fallow leas 
The darnel, hemlock, and rank fumitory 45 

Doth root upon, while that the coulter rusts 
That should deracinate such savagery ; 

The even mead, that erst brought sweetly 
forth 

The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green 
clover, 

Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank, 50 

Conceives by idleness, and nothing teems 
But hateful docks, rough thistles, kexes, burs, 
Losing both beauty and utility; 

And all our vineyards, fallows, meads, and 
hedges, 

Defective in their natures, grow to wildness. 55 




V. 11. 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


629 


Even so our houses and ourselves and chil¬ 
dren 

Have lost, or do not learn for want of time, 
The sciences that should become our coun¬ 
try; 

But grow like savages, — as soldiers will 
That nothing do but meditate on blood, — eo 
To swearing and stern looks, diffus’d attire, 
And everything that seems unnatural. 

Which to reduce into our former favour 
You are assembled ; and my speech entreats 
That I may know the let, why gentle Peace 65 
Should not expel these inconveniences 
And bless us with her former qualities. 

K. Hen. If, Duke of Burgundy, you would 
the peace, 

Whose want gives growth to the imperfec¬ 
tions 

Which you have cited, you must buy that peace 
With full accord to all our just demands ; 71 

Whose tenours and particular effects 
You have enschedul’d briefly in your hands. 
Bur. The King hath heard them; to the 
which as yet 74 

There is no answer made. 

K. Hen. Well, then, the peace, 

Which you before so urg’d, lies in his an¬ 
swer. 

Fr. King. I have but with a cursorary eye 
O’erglanc’d the articles. Pleaseth your Grace 
To appoint some of your council presently 
To sit with us once more, with better heed so 
To re-survey them, we will suddenly 
Pass our accept and peremptory answer. 

K. Hen. Brother, we shall. Go, uncle Exe¬ 
ter, 

And brother Clarence, and you, brother 
Gloucester, 

Warwick, and Huntingdon, go with the King; 
And take with you free power to ratify, se 
Augment, or alter, as your wisdoms best 
Shall see advantageable for our dignity, 
Anything in or out of our demands, 

And we ’ll consign thereto. Will you, fair 
sister, 00 

Go with the princes ? or stay here with us ? 

Q. Isa. Our gracious brother, I will go with 
them. 

Haply a woman’s voice may do some good, 
When articles too nicely urg’d be stood on. 

K. Hen. Yet leave our cousin Katharine here 
with us: 96 

She is our capital demand, compris’d 
Within the fore-rank of our articles. 

Q. Isa. She hath good leave. 

[Exeunt all except Henry , Katha¬ 
rine [and Alice ]. 

K. Hen. Fair Katharine, and most fair, 
Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms 
Such as will enter at a lady’s ear 100 

And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart ? 

Kath. Your Majesty shall mock at me; I 
cannot speak your England. 

K. Hen. 0 fair Katharine, if you will love 
me soundly with your French heart, I will be 

f lad to hear you confess it brokenly with your 
Inglish tongue. Do you like me. Kate ? 107 


Kath. Pardonnez-moi , I cannot tell wat is 
“ like me.” 

K. Hen. An angel is like you, Kate, and you 
are like an angel. m 

Kath. Que dit-il? Que je suis semblable h les 
anges;? 

Alice. Oui, irraiment, sauf votre grace , ainsi 
dit-il. 

K. Hen. I said so, dear Katharine ; and I 
must not blush to affirm it. 117 

Kath. O bon Dieu! les langues des hommes 
sont pleines de tromperies. 

K. Hen. What says she, fair one ? That the 
tongues of men are full of deceits ? 

Alice. Oui , dat de tongues of de mans is .be 
full of deceits: dat is de Princess. 123 

K. Hen. The Princess is the better English¬ 
woman. I’ faith, Kate, my wooing is fit for thy 
understanding. I am glad thou canst speak 
no better English; for, if thou couldst, thou 
wouldst find me such a plain king that thou 
wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my 
crown. I know no ways to mince it in love, but 
directly to say, “ I love you ” ; then if you [130 
urge me farther than to say, “Do you in 
faith?” I wear out my suit. Give me your 
answer; i’ faith, do; and so clap hands and a 
bargain. How say you, lady ? 

Kath. Sauf votre honneur , me understand 
well. 136 

K. Hen. Marry, if you would put me to 
verses, or to dance for your sake, Kate, why 
you undid me; for the one, I have neither 
words nor measure, and for the other I have no 
strength in measure, yet a reasonable mea- [140 
sure in strength. If I could win a lady at 
leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle with 
my armour on my back, under the correc¬ 
tion of bragging be it spoken, I should quickly 
leap into a wife. Or if I might buffet for [ns 
my love, or bound my horse for her favours, 
I could lay on like a butcher and sit like 
a jack-an-apes, never off. But, before God, 
Kate, I cannot look greenly, nor gasp out my 
eloquence, nor I have no cunning in pro¬ 
testation ; only downright oaths, which [iso 
I never Tise till urg’d, nor never break for 
urging. If thou canst love a fellow of this 
temper, Kate, whose face is not worth sun- 
burning, that never looks in his glass for love 
of anything he sees there, let thine eye be [if® 
thy cook. I speak to thee plain soldier. If thou 
canst love me for this, take me ; if not, to say 
to thee that I shall die, is true; but for thy 
love, by the Lord, no; yet I love thee too. And 
while thou liv’st, dear Kate, take a fellow 
of plain and uncoined constancy; for he per- [iei 
force must do thee right, because he hath not 
the gift to woo in other places; for these fel¬ 
lows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme them¬ 
selves into ladies’ favours, they do always rea¬ 
son themselves out again. What! a speaker [1&5 
is but a prater; a rhyme is but a ballad. A 
good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop ; 
a black beard will turn white; a curl’d pate 
will grow bald ; a fair face will wither ; a full 
qye will wax hollow; but a good heart, [ito 


i 




630 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


V. 11. 


Kate, is the sun and the moon ; or rather the 
sun and not the moon ; for it shines bright and 
never changes, but keeps his course truly. If 
thou would have such a one, take me ; and 
take me, take a soldier ; take a soldier, take a 
king. And what say’st thou then to my love? [its 
S peak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee. 

Kath. Is it possible dat I should love de 
enemy of France ? 179 

K. Hen. No; it is not possible you should 
love the enemy of France, Kate ; but, in loving 
me, you should love the friend of France ; for 
I love France so well that I will not part with 
a village of it, I will have it all mine; and, 
Kate, when France is mine and I am yours, 
then yours is France and you are mine. iss 
j Kath. I cannot tell wat is dat. 

K. Hen. No, Kate ? I will tell thee in 
French; which I am sure will hang upon my 
tongue like a new-married wife about her hus¬ 
band’s neck, hardly to be shook off. Je [iso 
quand sur le possession de France, et quand vous 
avez le possession de moi ,—let me see, what 
then ? Saint Denis be my speed! — done votre 
est France et vous £tes mienne. It is as easy for 
me, Kate, to conquer the kingdom as to [19s 
speak so much more French. I shall never 
move thee in French, unless it be to laugh at 
me. 

Kath. Sauf votre honneur, le Francois que 
vous parlez, il est meilleur que VAnglois lequel je 
parle. 201 

K. Hen. No, faith, is ’t not, Kate; but thy 
speaking of my tongue, and I thine, most truly- 
falsely, must needs be granted to be much at 
one. But, Kate, dost thou understand thus 
much English: canst thou love me ? 200 

Kath. I cannot tell. 

K. Hen. Can any of your neighbours tell, 
Kate ? I ’ll ask them. Come, I know thou lovest 
me ; and at night, when you come into your [210 
closet, you ’ll question this gentlewoman about 
me; and I know, Kate, you will to her dis¬ 
praise those parts in me that you love with 
your heart. But, good Kate, mock me merci¬ 
fully ; the rather, gentle princess, because I 
love thee cruelly. If ever thou beest mine, [215 
Kate, as I have a saving faith within me tells 
me thou shalt, I get thee with scambling, and 
thou must therefore needs prove a good soldier- 
breeder. Shalt not thou and I, between Saint 
Denis and Saint George, compound a boy, [220 
half French, half English, that shall go to Con¬ 
stantinople and take the Turk by the beard ? 
Shall we not? What say’st thou, my fair 
flower-de-luce ? 

Kath. I do not know dat. 225 

K. Hen. No; ’tis hereafter to know, but 
now to promise. Do but now promise, Kate, 
you will endeavour for your French part of 
such a boy; and for my English moiety, take 
the word of a king and a bachelor. How an¬ 
swer you, la plus belle Katharine du monde , won 
Xres cher et devin diesse ? 232 

Kath. Your Majestee ave fausse French 
enough to deceive de most sage demoiselle dat 
is en France. 235 


K. Hen. Now, fie upon my false French ! By 
mine honour, in true English, I love thee, Kate ; 
by which honour I dare not swear thou lovest 
me ; yet my blood begins to flatter me that 
thou dost, notwithstanding the poor and [240 
untempering effect of my visage. Now, be- 
shrew my father’s ambition I he was thinking 
of civil wars when he got me ; therefore was I 
created with a stubborn outside, with an aspect 
of iron, that, wheri I come to woo ladies, 1 [245 
fright them. But, in faith, Kate, the elder I 
wax, the better I shall appear. My comfort is, 
that old age, that ill layer up of beauty, can do 
no more spoil upon my face. Thou hast me, if 
thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt 
wear me, if thou wear me, better and better ; [250 
and therefore tell me, most fair Katharine, will 
you have me ? Put off your maiden blushes; 
avouch the thoughts of your heart with the 
looks of an empress ; take me by the hand, and 
say, Harry of England, I am thine ; which [265 
word thou shalt no sooner bless mine ear 
withal, but I will tell thee aloud, England is 
thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and 
Henry Plantagenet is thine; who, though I 
speak it before his face, if he be not fellow [200 
with the best king, thou shalt find the best 
king of good fellows. Come, your answer in 
broken music ; for thy voice is music and thy 
English broken ; therefore, queen of all, Kath¬ 
arine, break thy mind to me in broken English. 
Wilt thou have me ? 266 

Kath. Dat is as it shall please de roi mon 
p'ere. 

K. Hen. Nay, it will please him well, Kate ; 
it shall please him, Kate. 

Kath. Den it sail also content me. 270 

K. Hen. Upon that I kiss your hand, and 
call you my queen. 

Kath. Laissez , mon seigneur , laissez , laissez! 
Ma foi , je ne veux point que vous abaissez votre 
grandeur en baisant la main d'une indigne servi- 
teur. Excusez-moi, je vous supplie, mon tres- 
puissant seigneur. 277 

K. Hen. Then I will kiss your lips, Kate. 
Kath. Les dames et demoiselles pour Hre 
baistes devant leur noces , il n'est pas la coutume 
de France. mi 

K. Hen. Madam my interpreter, what says 
she ? 

Alice. Dat it is not be de fashion pour les 
ladies of France, — I cannot tell wat is baiser 
en Anglish. 2*5 

K. Hen. To kiss. 

Alice. Your Majesty entendre bettre que moi. 
K. Hen. It is not the fashion for the maids 
in France to kiss before they are married, 
would she say ? 291 

Alice. Out, vraxment. 

K. Hen. 0 Kate, nice customs curtsy to 
great kings. Dear Kate, you and I cannot be 
confined within the weak list of a country’s [205 
fashion. We are the makers of manners, Kate ; 
and the liberty that follows our places stops the 
mouth of all find-faults, as I will do yours, for 
upholding the nice fashion of your country in 
denying me a kiss; therefore, patiently and [so# 






Epi. 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


631 


yielding 1 . [Kissing her.] You have witchcraft in 
your lips, Kate ; there is more eloquence in a 
sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the 
French council; and they should sooner per¬ 
suade Harry of England than a general petition 
of monarchs. Here comes your father. 306 

Re-enter the French Power and the English 
Lords. 

Bur. God save your Majesty! My royal 
cousin, teach you our princess English ? 

K. Hen. I would have her learn, my fair 
cousim how perfectly I love her; and tnat is 
good English. sii 

Bur. Is she not apt ? 

K. Hen. Our tongue is rough, eoz, and my 
condition is not smooth ; so that, having neither 
the voice nor the heart of flattery about me, 
I cannot so conjure up the spirit of love in her, 
that he will appear in his true likeness. an 
Bur. Pardon the frankness of my mirth, if 
I answer you for that. If you would conjure in 
her, you must make a circle ; if conjure up 
Love in her in his true likeness, he must appear 
naked and blind. Can you blame her then, 
being a maid yet ros’d over with the virgin 
crimson of modesty, if she deny the appearance 
of a naked blind boy in her naked seeing self ? 
It were, my lord, a hard condition for a maid 
to consign to. 326 

K. Hen. Yet they do wink and yield, as love 
is blind and enforces. 

Bur. They are then excus’d, my lord, when 
they see not what they do. 

K. Hen. Then, good my lord, teach your 
cousin to consent winking. 332 

Bur. I will wink on her to consent, my lord, 
if you will teach her to know my meaning ; for 
maids, well summer’d and warm kept, are like 
flies at Bartholomew-tide, blind, though they 
have their eyes ; ard then they will endure 
handling, which before would not abide looking 

On. 338 

K. Hen. This moral ties me over to time and 
a hot summer; and so I shall catch the fly, 
your cousin, in the latter end, and she must be 
blind too. 

Bur. As love is, my lord, before it loves. 342 
K. Hen. It is so ; and you may, some of you, 
thank love for my blindness, who cannot see 
many a fair French city for one fair French 
maid that stands in my way. 348 

Fr. King. Yes, my lord, you see them per- 
spectively, the cities turn’d into a maid ; for 
they are all girdled with maiden walls that 
war hath [never] ent’red. aso 

K. Hen. Shall Kate be my wife ? 

Fr. King. So please you. 

K. Hen. I am content, so the maiden cities 
you talk of may wait on her ; so the maid that 
stood in the way for my wish shall show me 
the way to my will. 356 

Fr. King. We have consented to all terms of 
reason. 

K. Hen. Is’t so, my lords of England ? 

West. The King hath granted every arti¬ 
cle ; 


His daughter first, and then in sequel all, 
According to their firm proposed natures. sea 

Exe. Only he hath not yet subscribed this: 
where your Majesty demands, that the King 
of France, having any occasion to write for 
matter of grant, shall name your Highness in 
this form and with this addition, in French, 
Notre tres-cher fils Henri. Roi a'Angleterre , 
lUritier de France; and tnus in Latin, Proc- 
clarissimus filius noster Henricus , Rex Anglice, 
et Hceres Francice. s-» 

Fr. King. Nor this I have not, brother, so 
denied, 

But your request shall make me let it pass. 

K. Hen. I pray you then, in love and dear 
alliance, 

Let that one article rank with the rest; 

And thereupon give me your daughter. 375 

Fr. King. Take her, fair son, and from her 
blood raise up 

Issue to me ; that the contending kingdoms 
Of France and England, whose very shores 
look pale 

With envy of each other’s happiness, 

May cease their hatred, and this dear conjunc¬ 
tion 380 

Plant neighbourhood and Christian-like accord 
In their sweet bosoms, that never war ad¬ 
vance 

His bleeding sword ’twixt England and fair 
France. 

Lords. Amen! 

j K. Hen. Now, welcome, Kate; and bear me 
witness all, 3ss 

That here I kiss her as my sovereign queen. 

[Flourish. 

Q. Isa. God, the best maker of all mar¬ 
riages, 

Combine your hearts in one, your realms in 
one ! 

As man and wife, being two, are one in love, 

So be there ’twixt your kingdoms such a 
spousal, 390 

That never may ill office, or fell jealousy, 
Which troubles oft the bed of blessed mar¬ 
riage, 

Thrust in between the paction of these king¬ 
doms, 

To make divorce of their incorporate league ; 
That English may as French, French English¬ 
men, 396 

Receive each other. God speak this Amen ! 

All. Amen! 

K. Hen. Prepare we for our marriage ; on 
which day, 

My Lord of Burgundy, we ’ll take your oath, 
And all the peers’, for surety of our leagues. 400 
Then shall I swear to Kate, and you to me ; 
And may our oaths well kept and prosperous 
be ! [ Sennet. Exeunt. 

[EPILOGUE] 

Enter Chorus. 

[Chor.] Thus far, with rough and all-unable 
pen, 

Our bending author hath pursu’d the story, 





632 


HENRY THE FIFTH 


Epi. 


In little room confining mighty men, 

Mangling by starts the full course of their 
glory. 

Small time, but in that small most greatly 
lived 6 

This star of England. Fortune made his 
sword, 

By which the world’s best garden he achieved, 
And of it left his son imperial lord. 


Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown’d King 
Of France and England, did this king suc¬ 
ceed ; 1® 

Whose state so many had the managing, 

That they lost France and made his England 
bleed ; 

Which oft our stage hath shown; and, for 
their sake, 

In your fair minds let this acceptance take. 

[Exit. 1 




THE THREE PARTS OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


The three parts of Henry VI present a more difficult problem with regard to authorship than 
any other group contained in the First Folio. The obscurities caused by the processes of revision 
and collaboration are increased by the fact that the plays belong to the period of Shakespeare’s 
apprenticeship, when it is to be presumed that his style was less individual and more under the 
influence of his predecessors than it was later. 

The First Part of Henry VI is not found in print till it appears in the First Folio. But on 
March 3 , 159 ^, a play called Henry VI was acted at the Rose Theatre by Lord Strange’s com¬ 
pany, and had a successful run. From a reference by Nash we learn that Talbot had been a 
popular figure in a recent play, and this may have been our 1 Henry VI, either as Ave have it, or 
in an earlier form. 

As to authorship, there is no external evidence hut the fact of its inclusion in the First Folio. 
Internal evidence has led almost all critics to the conclusion that it is the work of several hands. 
But there is little general agreement as to who the other dramatists were, and which parts ought 
to be assigned to each. Shakespeare is usually credited with the scene (ii. iv.) in the Temple 
Gardens, in which the red and white roses are chosen as emblems of the rival houses; by many 
with the wooing of Margaret by Suffolk (v. iii.); and by others, with the last fight of Talbot 
(iY. ii.-vii.). His collaborators, or, according to others, his predecessors, in the construction of the 
drama, are supposed to have been Marlowe and Greene, with less assurance Peele, and with still 
less Lodge. But the grounds of the assignment of the various passages to these authors are in the 
highest degree precarious. 

The material for the plot was drawn chiefly from the Chronicles of Holinshed, or of Halle, 
whose narrative for this period Holinshed paraphrases. A few details may have been derived 
from Fabian. The material thus obtained was treated with great freedom. Verbal borrowings 
are very rare, and chronological sequence is often entirely disregarded. Thus the calamities to 
the English reported by the First Messenger in I. i. as having occurred by the date of the funeral 
of Henry V in 1422 are either quite unhistorical, as in the case of the loss of Orleans and Poic- 
tiers, which were not held by the English at that time, or are antedated by from seven to twenty- 
nine years, as in the case of the loss of Rheims, Guysors, Paris, and Guienne. Again, Talbot’s 
death in the drama precedes the capture of Jeanne d’Arc; but in fact he lived till 1453 , while 
the Maid was burned in 1431 . The reconciliation which she is represented as bringing about 
between Burgundy and Charles VII did not occur till four years after her death. Nor is there 
more care for internal consistency. Paris is represented as lost by the English in I. i., yet 
Henry VI is crowned there in IV. i., and in v. ii. the Parisians are revolting to the French. 
Several picturesque incidents have no basis in the chronicle. Such are the interview of Talbot 
with the Countess of Auvergne in n. iii., and the plucking of the roses in in. iv. 28 - 45 , with 
its sequel in iv. i. 7 S- 161 . The device of disguising soldiers as countrymen bearing sacks for 
the capture of Rouen is unhistorical. Rouen was not lost by the English till 1449 ; but a trick 
similar to that in the play is described by Holinshed as having been used by the French for the 
capture of Cornill in 1441 . 

In the case of 2 and 3 Henry VI, the situation is complicated by the existence of two other 
plays on the same subject, which contain a large amount of matter in common with the two 
Shakespearean dramas. The First Part of the Contention of the two famous Houses of Yor/ce and 
Lancaster was printed in quarto in 1594 , reprinted in 1600 , and again with alterations in 1619 . 
The True Tragcdie of Richard Duke of Yorke appeared in quarto in 1595 , was reprinted in 1600 , 


634 


THE THREE PARTS OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


and again with alterations in 1619 . These two third editions formed a single quarto, called The 
Whole Contention. The Second and Third Parts of Henry VI are found first in the Folio of 1623 . 
“ Out of 3075 lines, there are in Part 2 some 1715 new lines ; some 840 altered lines (many but 
very slightly altered); and some 520 old lines. In Part 3 , out of 2902 lines, there are about 1021 
new lines, about 871 altered lines, and about 1010 old lines.” (J. Lee.) With regard to the 
authorship of these plays a great variety of views has been put forth, ranging from the ascription 
of all four to Shakespeare to the substantial denial of any significant Shakespearean element in 
any of them. As to chronological order, some have argued that The First Part of the Contention 
and The True Tragedie are corrupt transcripts of 2 and 3 Henry VI; others, and these greatly 
in the majority, that 2 and 3 Henry VI are founded upon the other two plays. The following 
positions may now be regarded as accepted by the safer modern critics : — ( 1 ) that The First 
Part of the Contention and The True Tragedie are the earlier plays; ( 2 ) that these are the work 
of several authors, including Marlowe and Greene, and perhaps Peele; ( 3 ) that 2 and 3 Henry 
VI are a revision by Shakespeare of the other two plays. Opinion is still divided on these 
points: — ( 1 ) whether Shakespeare had a hand in the earlier plays ; ( 2 ) whether he had the 
assistance of Marlowe in the revision. Miss J. Lee’s conclusion is as follows : — “I believe that 
Shakespeare was the author of Henry VI, Parts 2 and 3 , and that there is some ground for 
concluding that Marlowe was his fellow-worker: that Henry VI, Parts 2 and 3 , were written 
about the year 1590 : that they were not original plays, but were founded on . . . The Contention 
and The True Tragedie: and that Marlowe and Greene, and possibly Peele, were the writers of 
these older plays, which were written some time, perhaps some years, before 2 and 3 Henry VI .” 

The most important modification of this view by later critics is in the direction of finding 
Shakespearean elements in the two earlier plays, especially in the scenes in which Jack Cade 
plays a part. This may be accounted for by supposing either that Shakespeare had an incidental 
share in them when they were first composed, or (as is perhaps more likely) that “ passages in 
the impressions of 1594 and 1595 of the two old plays were borrowed for use from the Second 
and Third Parts, as then performed on the stage.” (Ward.) The chief objection to the former 
alternative lies in the charge of plagiarism implied in a famous passage in Greene’s Groatsworth 
of Wit; which, being undoubtedly aimed at Shakespeare, tends, but not conclusively, to exclude 
him from collaboration in the plays to which Greene is supposed to allude as the source of the 
plagiarism. 

The more general argument against Shakespeare’s having had to do with the writing of any 
of these plays lies in the facts that the two earlier were acted by a company for whom he is not 
known to have written, and that the two later are not known to have been acted by his own com¬ 
pany. These points seem more than counterbalanced, however, by the fact of their inclusion in 
the First Folio by Heminge and Condell. 

The results of modern investigation, then, while far from conclusive, tend to the belief that 
there may be a slight Shakespearean element in the two older plays, that 2 and 3 Henry VI were 
produced by Shakespeare, working on the basis of the earlier plays, probably with the assistance 
of Marlowe, and that they were re-cast between 1590 and 1592 . 

The present text is based upon that of the First Folio, for all three parts. 




THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


[DRAMATIS 

Kino Henry VI. 

Duke of Gloucester, uncle to the King, and Protec¬ 
tor. 

Duke of Bedford, uncle to the King, and Regent of 
France. 

Thomas Beaufort, duke of Exeter, I great- 

Henry Beaufort, bishop of Winchester, | uncles to 
and afterwards cardinal. ) the King. 

John Beaufort, earl, afterwards duke, of Somerset. 
Richard Plantagenet, son of Richard late earl of 
Cambridge, afterwards duke of York. 

Earl of Warwick. 

Earl of Salisbury. 

Earl of Suffolk. 

Lord Talbot, afterwards earl of Shrewsbury. 

John Talbot, his son. 

Edmund Mortimer, earl of March. 

Sir John Fastolfe. 

Sir William Lucy. 

Sir William Glansdale. 

Sib Thomas Gargrave. 


PERSONS 

Mayor of London. 

Woodvile, lieutenant of the Tower. 

Vernon, of the White Rose or York faction. 

Basset, of the Red Rose or Lancaster faction. 

A Lawyer. Mortimer’s Keepers. 

1 

Charles, Dauphin, and afterwards King, of France. 
Reignier, duke of Anjou, and titular King of Naples. 
Duke of Burgundy. 

Duke of ALEN50N. 

Bastard of Orleans. 

Governor of Paris. 

Master-Gunner of Orleans and his Son. 

General of the French forces in Bourdeaux. 

A French Sergeant. A Porter. 

An old Shepherd, father to Joan la Pucelle. 

Margaret, daughter to Reignier, afterwards married 
to King Henry. 

Countess of Auvergne. 

Joan la Pucelle, commonly called Joan of Arc. 


Lords, Wardens of the Tower, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and Attendants. 

Fiends appearing to La Pucelle. 

Scene : Partly in England and partly in France.'] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [Westminster Abbey.] 

Dead March. Enter the Funeral of King Henry 
the Fifth, attended on by the Duke of 
Bedford, Regent of France; the Duke of 
Gloucester, Protector; the Duke of Exe¬ 
ter, the Earl of Warwick, the Bishop of 
Winchester, Heralds, etc. 

Bed. Hung be the heavens with black, yield 
day to night! 

Comets, importing change of times and states, 
Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky, 

And with them scourge the bad revolting stars 
That have consented unto Henry’s death ! s 
King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long ! 
England ne’er lost a king of so much worth. 
Glou. England ne’er had a king until his 
time. 

Virtue he had, deserving to command. 

His brandish’d sword did blind men with his 
beams; 10 

His arms spread wider than a dragon’s wings ; 
His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire, 
More dazzled and drove back his enemies 
Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces. 
What should I say ? His deeds exceed all 
speech. « 

He ne’er lift up his hand but conquered. 

Exe. We mourn in black ; why mourn we 
not in blood ? 


Henry is dead and never shall revive. 

Upon a wooden coffin we attend, 

And death’s dishonourable victory 20 

We with our stately presence glorify, 

Like captives bound to a triumphant car. 

What! shall we curse the planets of mishap 
That plotted thus our glory’s overthrow ? 

Or shall we think the subtle-witted French 2s 
Conjurers and sorcerers, that afraid of him 
By magic verses have contriv’d his end ? 

Win. He was a king bless’d of the King of 
kings. 

Unto the French the dreadful judgement-day 
So dreadful will not be as was his sight. 30 
The battles of the Lord of hosts he fought ; 
The Church’s prayers made him so prosper¬ 
ous. 

Glou. The Church ! where is it ? Had not 
churchmen pray’d, 

His thread of life had not so soon decay’d. 
None do you like but an effeminate prince, *5 
Whom, like a school-boy, you may over-awe. 
Win. Gloucester, whate’er we like, thou art 
Protector 

And lookest to command the Prince and realm. 
Thy wife is proud ; she holdeth thee in awe, 
More than God or religious churchmen may. •»<> 
Glou. Name not religion, for thou lov’st the 
flesh, 

And ne’er throughout the year to church thou 
go’st 

Except it be to pray against thy foes* 





636 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


1. L 


Bed. Cease, cease these jars and rest your 
minds in peace ; 

Let’s to the altar. Heralds, wait on us. « 
Instead of gold, we ’ll offer up our arms. 

Since arms avail not now that Henry’s dead. 
Posterity, await for wretched years, 

When at their mothers’ moist eyes babes shall 
suck, 

Our isle be made a marish of salt tears, so 
And none but women left to wail the dead. 
Henry the Fifth, thy ghost I invocate : 

Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils, 
Combat with adverse planets in the heavens ! 

A far more glorious star thy soul will make ss 
Than Julius Caesar or bright — 

Enter a Messenger. 

1 . Mess. My honourable lords, health to you 
all! 

Sad tidings bring I to you out of France, 

Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture. 
Guienne, Champagne, Rheims, Orleans, 60 
Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost. 
Bed. What say’st thou, man, before dead 
Henry’s coi’se ? 

Speak softly, or the loss of those great towns 
Will make him burst his lead and rise from 
death. 

Glou. Is Paris lost ? Is Rouen yielded up ? es 
If Henry were recall’d to life again, 

These news would cause him once more yield 
theghost. 

Exe. How were they lost ? What treachery 
was us’d ? 

1 . Mess. No treachery, but want of men and 

money. 

Amongst the soldiers this is muttered, to 

That here you maintain several factions, 

And whilst a field should be dispatch’d and 
fought, 

You are disputing of your generals. 

One would have ling’ring wars with little cost; 
Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings ; 75 
A third thinks, without expense at all, 

By guileful fair words peace may be obtain’d. 
Awake, awake, English nobility! 

Let not sloth dim your honours new-begot. 
Cropp’d are the flower-de-luces in your arms ; so 
Of England’s coat one half is cut away. 

Exe. Were our tears wanting to this funeral, 
These tidings would call forth their flowing 
tides. 

Bed. Me they concern; Regent I am of 
France. 

Give me my steeled coat; I ’ll fight for France. 
Away with these disgraceful wailing robes ! so 
Wounds will I lend the French instead of eyes, 
To weep their intermissive miseries. 

Enter to them a second Messenger. 

2. Mess. Lords, view these letters full of bad 

mischance. 

France is revolted from the English quite, »o 
Except some petty towns of no import. 

The Dauphin Charles is crowned king in 
Rheims; 

The Bastard of Orleans with him is join’d ; 


Reignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part ; 
The Duke of Aleneon flieth to his side. 9fi 

[Exit. 

Exe. The Dauphin crowned king! All fly to 
him! 

0 , whither shall we fly from this reproach ? 
Glou. We will not fly, but to our enemies’ 
throats. 

Bedford, if thou be slack, I ’ll fight it out. 
Bed. Gloucester, why doubt’st thou of my 
forwardness ? 100 

An army have I muster’d in my thoughts, 
Wherewith already France is overrun. 

Enter a third Messenger. 

3 . Mess. My gracious lords, to add to your 
laments 

Wherewith you now bedew King Henry’s 

hearse, 

I must inform you of a dismal fight u» 

Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French. 
Win. What ! wherein Talbot overcame ? 
Is’t so ? 

3 . Mess. O, no ; wherein Lord Talbot was 
o’erthrown. 

The circumstance I ’ll tell you more at large. 
The tenth of August last this dreadful lord, no 
Retiring from the siege of Orleans, 

Having full scarce six thousand in his troop, 

By three and twenty thousand of the French 
Was round encompassed and set upon. 

No leisure had he to enrank his men. us 

He wanted pikes to set before his archers; 
Instead whereof sharp stakes pluck’d out of 
hedges 

They pitched in the ground confusedly, 

To keep the horsemen off from breaking in. 
More than three hours the fight continued, 120 
Where valiant Talbot above human thought 
Enacted wonders with his sword and lance. 
Hundreds he sent to hell, and none durst stand 
him ; 

Here, there, and everywhere, enrag’d he slew. 
The French exclaim’d, the devil was in arms; 
All the whole army stood agaz'd on him. 126 
His soldiers, spying his undaunted spirit, 

“ A Talbot! a Talbot! ” cried out amain 
And rush’d into the bowels of the battle. 

Here had the conquest fully been seal’d up, no 
If Sir John Fastolfe had not play’d the coward. 
He, being in the vaward, plac’d behind 
With purpose to relieve and follow them, 
Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke. 
Hence grew the general wreck and massa¬ 
cre ; m 

Enclosed were they with their enemies. 

A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin’s grace, 
Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back, 
Whom all France with their chief assembled 
strength 

Durst not presume to look once in the face. i« 
Bed. Is Talbot slain ? Then I will slay my¬ 
self 

For living idly here in pomp and ease 
Whilst such a worthy leader, wanting aid, 

Unto his dastard foemen is betray’d. u* 

3 . Mess. 0 no, he lives, but is took prisoner, 




I. II. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


637 


And Lord Scales with him and Lord Hunger- 
ford. 

Most of the rest slaughter’d or took likewise. 
Bed. His ransom there is none but I shall 
pay. 

I ’ll hale the Dauphin headlong from his throne; 
His crown shall be the ransom of my friend, igo 
F our of their lords I ’ll change for one of ours. 
Farewell, my masters ! To my task will I. 
Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make, 

To keep our great Saint George’s feast withal. 
Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take, lee 
Whose bloody deeds shall make all Europe 
quake. 

3. Mess. So you had need, for Orleans is be¬ 
sieg’d. 

The English army is grown weak and faint. 
The Earl of Salisbury craveth supply, 

And hardly keeps his men from mutiny, 160 
Since they, so few, watch such a multitude. 
Exe. Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry 
sworn, 

Either to quell the Dauphin utterly, 

Or bring him in obedience to your yoke. 

Bed. I do remember it; and here take my 
leave, 

To go about my preparation. [Exit. 

Clou. I ’ll to the Tower with all the haste I 
can, 

To view the artillery and munition ; 

And then I will proclaim young Henry king. 

[Exit. 

Exe. To Eltham will I, where the young 
King is, 170 

Being ordain’d his special governor, 

And for his safety there I ’ll best devise. 

[Exit. 

Win. Each hath his place and function to 
attend. 

I am left out; for me nothing remains. 

But long I will not be Jack out of office. 175 
The King from Eltham I intend to steal 
And sit at chiefest stern of public weal. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. France. Before Orleans .] 

A flourish. Enter Charles, Alencon. and 
Reignier, marching with drum and Soldiers. 

Char. Mars his true moving, even as in the 
heavens 

So in the earth, to this day is not known. 

Late did he shine upon the English side ; 

Now we are victors, upon us he smiles. 

What towns of any moment but we have ? 0 

At pleasure here we lie near Orleans ; 
Otherwhiles the famish’d English, like pale 
ghosts, 

Faintly besiege us one hour in a month. 

Alen. They want their porridge and their fat 
bull-beeves. 

Either they must be dieted like mules 10 

And have their provender tied to their mouths, 
Or piteous they will look, like drowned mice. 
Reig. Let’s raise the siege ; why live we idly 
here ? 

Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear; 


Remaineth none but mad-brain’d Salisbury, 15 
And he may well in fretting spend his gall. 

Nor men nor money hath he to make war. 
Char. Sound, sound alarum ! We will rush 
on them. 

Now for the honour of the forlorn French ! 
Him I forgive my death that killeth me 29 
When he sees me go back one foot or fly. 

[Exeunt. 

Alarum; they are beaten back by the English 
with great loss. Re-enter Charles, Alencon, 
and Reignier. 

Char. Who ever saw the like ? What men 
have I! 

Dogs ! cowards ! dastards ! I would ne’er have 
fled, 

But that they left me ’midst my enemies. 

Reig. Salisbury is a desperate homicide ; 25 

He fighteth as one weary of his life. 

The other lords, like lions wanting food, 

Do rush upon us as their hungry prey. 

Alen. Froissart, a countryman of ours, re¬ 
cords, 

England all Olivers and Rolands bred 30 

During the time Edward the Third did reign. 
More truly now may this be verified, 

For none but Samsons and Goliases 
It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten ! 

Lean raw-bon’d rascals! who would e’er sup¬ 
pose 36 

They had such courage and audacity ? 

Char. Let’s leave this town; for they are 
hare-brain’d slaves. 

And hunger will enforce them to be more eager. 
Of old I know them ; rather with their teeth 
The walls they ’ll tear down than forsake the 
siege. 40 

Reig. I think, by some odd gimmers or de¬ 
vice 

Their arms are set like clocks, still to strike on ; 
Else ne’er could they hold out so as they do. 

By my consent, we ’ll even let them alone. 
Alen. Be it so. 46 

Enter the Bastard of Orleans. 

Bast. Where’s the Prince Dauphin ? I have 
news for him. 

Char. Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to 
us. 

Bast. Methinks your looks are sad, your 
cheer appall’d. 

Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence ? 
Be not dismay’d, for succour is at hand. r,o 

A holy maid hither with me I bring, 

Which by a vision sent to her from heaven 
Ordained is to raise this tedious siege 
And drive the English forth the bounds of 
France. 

The spirit of deep prophecy she hath, ce 

Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome ; 

What’s past and what’s to come she can descry. 
Speak, shall I call her in ? Believe my words, 
For they are certain and unfallible. 

Char. Go, call her in. [Exit Bastard .] But 
first, to try her skill, 00 

Reignier, stand thou as Dauphin in my place ; 





6 3 8 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


I. iii. 


Question her proudly ; let thy looks be stern. 
By this means shall we sound what skill she 
hath. 

Re-enter [the Bastard of Orleans, with ] Joan 

LA PuCELLE. 

Reig. Fair maid, is’t thou wilt do these won¬ 
drous feats ? 

Rue. Reignier, is’t thou that thinkest to 
beguile me ? es 

Where is the Dauphin ? Come, come from be¬ 
hind ; 

I know thee well, though never seen before. 

Be not amaz’d, there’s nothing hid from me. 
In private will I talk with thee apart. 

Stand back, you lords, and give us leave 
a while. to 

Reig. She takes upon her bravely at first 
dash. 

Puc. Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd’s 
daughter, 

My wit untrain’d in any kind of art. 

Heaven and our Lady gracious hath it pleas’d 
To shine on my contemptible estate. 75 

Lo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs, 

And to sun’s parching heat display’d my cheeks, 
God’s mother deigned to appear to me, 

And in a vision full of majesty 

Will’d me to leave my base vocation so 

And free my country from calamity. 

Her aid she promis’d and assur’d success ; 

In complete glory she reveal’d herself ; 

And, whereas I was black and swart before, 
With those clear rays which she infus’d on 
me ss 

That beauty am I bless’d with which you see. 
Ask me what question thou canst possible, 

And I will answer unpremeditated. 

My courage try by combat, if thou dar’st, 

And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex. 00 
Resolve on this, thou shalt be fortunate, 

If thou receive me for thy warlike mate. 

Char. Thou hast astonish’d me with thy 
high terms. 

Only this proof I ’ll of thy valour make, 

In single combat thou shalt buckle with me, 00 
And if thou vanquishest, thy words are true; 
Otherwise I renounce all confidence. 

Puc. I am prepar’d : here is my keen-edg’d 
sword, 

Deck’d with five flower-de-luces on each side ; 
The which at Touraine, in Saint Katharine’s 
churchyard, 100 

Out of a great deal of old iron I chose forth. 

Char. Then come, o’ God’s name ; I fear no 
woman. 

Puc. And while I live, I ’ll ne’er fly from a 
man. 

[Here they fight, and Joan la Pu- 
celle overcomes. 

Char. Stay, stay thy hands! Thou art an 
Amazon 

And tightest with the sword of Deborah. 105 

Puc. Christ’s mother helps me, else I were 
too weak. 

Char. Whoe’er helps thee, ’tis thou that 
must help me. 


Impatiently I burn with thy desire ; 

My heart and hands thou hast at once subdu’d. 
Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so, no 

Let me thy servant and not sovereign be. 

’Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus. 

Puc. I must not yield to any rites of love, 
For my profession’s sacred from above. 

When I have chased all thy foes from hence, ns 
Then will I think upon a recompense. 

Char. Meantime look gracious on thy pros¬ 
trate thrall. 

Reig. My lord, methinks, is very long in talk. 
Alen. Doubtless he shrives this woman to 
her smock ; 

Else ne’er could he so long protract his speech. 
Reig. Shall we disturb him, since he keeps 
no mean ? 121 

Alen. He may mean more than we poor men 
do know. 

These women are shrewd tempters with their 
tongues. 

Reig. My lord, where are you ? What devise 
you on ? 

Shall we give over Orleans, or no ? 12s 

Puc. Why, no, I say, distrustful recreants ! 
Fight till the last gasp ; I will be your guard. 
Char. What she says I ’ll confirm. We ’ll 
fight it out. 

Puc. Assign’d am I to be the English scourge. 
This night the siege assuredly I ’ll raise. 130 
Expect Saint Martin’s summer, halcyon days, 
Since I have entered into these wars. 

Glory is like a circle in the water, 

Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself 
Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought. 135 
With Henry’s death the English circle ends ; 
Dispersed are the glories it included. 

Now am I like that proud insulting ship 
Which Csesar and his fortune bare at once. 

Char. Was Mahomet inspired with a dove ? 
Thou with an eagle art inspired then. i 4 t 

Helen, the mother of great Constantine, 

Not yet Saint Philip’s daughters, were like 
thee. 

Bright star of Venus, fallen down on the earth, 
How may I reverently worship thee enough ? us 
Alen. Leave off delays, and let us raise the 
siege. 

Reig. Woman, do what thou canst to save 
our honours. 

Drive them from Orleans and be immortaliz’d. 
Char. Presently we ’ll try ; come, let’s away 
about it. 

No prophet will I trust, if she prove false, ieo 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III. London. Before the Tower.] 


Enter the Duke of Gloucester, with his Serv¬ 
ing-men [in blue coats]. 

Glou. I am come to survey the Tower this 
day; 

Since Henry’s death, I fear, there is convey¬ 
ance. 

Where be these warders, that they wait not 
here ? 

Open the gates ; ’tis Gloucester that calls. 





THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


639 


I. iii. 


1 . Warder. [Within.] Who’s there that 
knocks so imperiously ? s 

1 . Serv. It is the noble Duke of Gloucester. 

2 . Warder. [ Within.] Whoe’er he be, you 

may not be let in. 

1 . Serv. Villains, answer you so the Lord 
Protector ? 

1 . Warder. [ Within.] The Lord protect 
him ! so we answer him. 

We do no otherwise than we are will’d. 10 

Glou. Who willed you ? or whose will stands 
but mine ? 

There’s none Protector of the realm ; but I. 
Break up the gates, I ’ll be your warrantize. 
Shall I be flouted thus by dunghill grooms ? 

[ Gloucester's men rush at the Tower 
Gates , and Woodvile the Lieu¬ 
tenant speaks within. 

Woodv. What noise is this ? What traitors 
have we here ? . 15 

Glou. Lieutenant, is it you whose voice I 
hear ? 

Open the gates ; here’s Gloucester that would 
enter. 

Woodv. Have patience, noble Duke, I may 
not open ; 

The Cardinal of Winchester forbids. 

From him I have express commandment 20 
That thou nor none of thine shall be let in. 

Glou. Faint-hearted Woodvile, prizest him 
’fore me ? 

Arrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate, 
Whom Henry, our late sovereign, ne’er could 
brook ? 

Thou art no friend to God or to the King. 25 
Open the gates, or I ’ll shut thee out shortly. 

Serving-men. Open the gates unto the Lord 
Protector, 

Or we ’ll burst them open, if that you come not 
quickly. [They rush again at the gates.] 

Enter to the Lord Protector at the Tower Gates 
Winchester and his men in tawny coats. 

Win. How now, ambitious Humphrey ! what 
means this ? 

Glou. Peel’d priest, dost thou command me 
to be shut out ? 30 

Win. I do, thou most usurping proditor, 
And not Protector, of the King or realm. 

Glou. Stand back, thou manifest conspirator, 
Thou that contriv’dst to murder our dead lord ; 
Thou that giv’st whores indulgences to sin. 35 
I ’ll canvass thee in thy broad cardinal’s hat, 

If thou proceed in this thy insolence. 

Win. Nay, stand thou back; I will not 
budge a foot. 

This be Damascus, be thou cursed Cain 
To slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt. 40 

Glou. I will not slay thee, but I ’ll drive thee 
back. 

Thy scarlet robes as a child’s bearing-cloth 
I ’ll use to carry thee out of this place. 

Win. Do what thou dar’st; I beard thee to 
thy face. 

Glou. What! am I dar’d and bearded to my 
face ? 48 

Draw, men, for all this privileged place; 


Blue coats to tawny coats ! Priest, beware 
your beard ; 

I mean to tug it and to cuff you soundly. 
Under my feet I stamp thy cardinal’s hat. 

In spite of Pope or dignities of church, so 

Here by the cheeks I ’ll drag thee up and down. 
Win. Gloucester, thou wilt answer this be¬ 
fore the Pope. 

Glou. Winchester goose, I cry, “ A rope ! a 
rope! ” 

Now beat them hence ; why do you let them 
stay ? 

Thee I ’ll chase hence, thou wolf in sheep’s 
array. cs 

Out, tawny coats ! Out, scarlet hypocrite ! 

Here Gloucester's men beat out the Cardinal's 
men , and enter in the hurly-burly the Mayor 
of London and his Officers, 

May. Fie, lords I that you, being supreme 
magistrates, 

Thus contumeliously should break the peace ! 
Glou. Peace, mayor, thou know’st little of 
my wrongs. 

Here’s Beaufort, that regards nor God nor 
king, so 

Hath here distrain’d the Tower to his use. 

Win. Here’s Gloucester, a foe to citizens, 
One that still motions war and never peace, 
O’ercharging your free purses with large fines, 
That seeks to overthrow religion ss 

Because he is Protector of the realm, 

And would have armour here out of the Tower, 
To crown himself king and suppress the Prince. 
Glou. I will not answer thee with words, but 
blows. [Here they skirmish again. 

May. Nought rests for me in this tumult¬ 
uous strife t 

But to make open proclamation. 

Come, officer ; as loud as e’er thou canst, 

Cry. 73 

[l. Off-] All manner of men assembled here 
in arms this day against God’s peace and the 
King’s, we charge and command you, in his 
Highness’ name, to repair to your several dwell¬ 
ing-places ; and not to wear, handle, or use any 
sword, weapon, or dagger, henceforward, upon 
pain of death. 79 

Glou. Cardinal, I ’ll be no breaker of the 
law ; 

But we shall meet, and break our minds at 
large. 

Win. Gloucester, we ’ll meet to thy cost, be 
sure. 

Thy heart-blood I will have for this day’s 
work. 

May. I ’ll call for clubs, if you will not 
away. 

This cardinal’s more haughty than the devil, es 
Glou. Mayor, farewell; thou dost but what 
thou mayst. 

Win. Abominable Gloucester, guard thy 
head; 

For I intend to have it ere long. 

[Exeunt [ severally , Gloucester and 
Winchester with their Serving- 
men]. 





640 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


I. IV. 


May. See the coast clear’d, and then we will 
depart. 

Good God, these nobles should such stomachs 
bear! 90 

I myself fight not once in forty year. [ Exeunt . 

[Scene IV. France. Before Orleans .] 

Enter [on the walls,] a Master Gunner and 
his Boy. 

M. Gun. Sirrah, thou know’st how Orleans 
is besieg’d, 

And how the English have the suburbs won. 
Boy. Father, I know ; and oft have shot at 
them, 

Howe’er unfortunate I miss’d my aim. 

M. Gun. But now thou shalt not. Be thou 
rul’d by me. e 

Chief master-gunner am I of this town ; 
Something I must do to procure me grace. 

The Prince’s espials have informed me 
How the English, in the suburbs close in¬ 
trench’d, 

Went through a secret grate of iron bars 10 
In yonder tower to overpeer the city 
And thence discover how with most advan¬ 
tage 

They may vex iis with shot or with assault. 

To intercept this inconvenience, 

A piece of ordnance ’gainst it I have plac’d ; is 
And even these three days have I watch’d 
If I could see them. 

Now do thou watch, for I can stay no longer. 

If thou spy’st any, run and bring me word ; 
And thou shalt find me at the governor’s. 20 

[Exit. 

Boy. Father, I warrant you; take you no 
care. 

I ’ll never trouble you, if I may spy them. 

[Exit. 

Enter , on the turret, the Lords Salisbury and 
Talbot, [Sir William Glansdale, Sir 
Thomas Gargrave,] and others. 

Sal. Talbot, my life, my joy, again re¬ 
turn’d ! 

How wert thou handled being prisoner ? 

Or by what means got’st thou to be releas’d ? 25 
Discourse, I prithee, on this turret’s top. 

Tal. The Earl of Bedford had a prisoner 
Call’d the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles; 
For him was I exchang’d and ransomed. 

But with a baser man of arms by far 30 

Once in contempt they would have barter’d 
me ; 

Which I disdaining scorn’d, and craved death 
Rather than I would be so vile-esteem’d. 

In fine, redeem’d I was as I desir’d. 

But, 0 ! the treacherous Fastolfe wounds my 
heart, 35 

Whom with my bare fists I would execute, 

If I now had him brought into my power. 

Sal. Yet tell’st thou not how thou wert en¬ 
tertain’d. 

Tal. With scoffs and scorns and contumeli¬ 
ous taunts. 

In open market-place produc’d they me, 40 


To be a public spectacle to all. 

Here, said they, is the terror of the French, 
The scarecrow that affrights our children so. 
Then broke I from the officers that led me, 
And with my nails digg’d stones out of the 
ground, 

To hurl at the beholders of my shame. 

My grisly countenance made others fly; 

None durst come near for fear of sudden 
death. 

In iron walls they deem’d me not secure ; 

So great fear of my name ’mongst them were 
spread 

That they suppos’d I could rend bars of steel 
And spurn in pieces posts of adamant ; 
Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had 
That walk’d about me every minute while ; 
And if I did but stir out of my bed, ob 

Ready they were to shoot me to the heart. 

Enter the Boy with a linstock. 

Sal. I grieve to hear what torments you en¬ 
dur’d, 

But we will be reveng’d sufficiently. 

Now it is supper-time in Orleans. 

Here, through this secret grate, I count each 
one 60 

And view the Frenchmen how they fortify. 

Let us look in ; the sight will much delight 
thee. 

Sir Thomas Gargrave, and Sir William Glans¬ 
dale, 

Let me have your express opinions 
Where is best place to make our battery next. 
Gar. I think, at the north gate ; for there 
stands lords. ee 

Gian. And I, here, at the bulwark of the 
bridge. 

Tal. For aught I see, this city must be fam¬ 
ish’d, 

Or with light skirmishes enfeebled. 

[Shot [from the town], and Salisbury 
[and Gargrave] fall. 

Sal. O Lord, have mercy on us, wretched 
sinners! 20 

Gar. O Lord, have mercy on me, woeful man! 
Tal. What chance is this that suddenly hath 
cross’d us ? 

Speak, Salisbury ; at least, if thou canst, speak. 
How far’st thou, mirror of all martial men ? 
One of thy eyes and thy cheek’s side struck 
off! 75 

Accursed tower ! accursed fatal hand 
That hath contriv’d this woeful tragedy ! 

In thirteen battles Salisbury o’ercame. 

Henry the Fifth he first train’d to the wars. 
Whilst any trump did sound, or drum struck 
v«P, ... 84 

His sword did ne’er leave striking in the field. 
Yet liv’st thou, Salisbury ? Though thy speech 
doth fail, 

One eye thou hast, to look to heaven for grace ; 
The sun with one eye vieweth all the world. 
Heaven, be thou gracious to none alive, «5 
If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands ! 

Bear hence his body ; I will help to bury it. 

Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life ? 




THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


641 


I. vi. 


Speak unto Talbot; nay, look up to him. 
Salisbury, cheer thy spirit with this comfort; »o 
Thou shalt not die whiles — 

He beckons with his hand and smiles on me, 
As who should say, “When I am dead and 
gone, 

Remember to avenge me on the French.” 
Plantagenet, I will • and like thee, [Nero,] »5 
Play on the lute, beholding the towns burn. 
Wretched shall France be only in my name. 

[Here an alarum , and it thunders and 
liahtens. 

What stir is this ? What tumult’s in the hea¬ 
vens ? 

Whence cometh this alarum and the noise ? 
Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. My lord, my lord, the French have 
gather’d head. 100 

The Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle join’d, 
A holy prophetess new risen up, 

Is come with a great power to raise the siege. 

[Here Salisbury lifteth himself up 
and groans. 

Tal. Hear, hear how dying Salisbury doth 
groan 1 

It irks his heart he cannot be reveng’d. 105 
Frenchmen, I ’ll be a Salisbury to you. 

Pucelle or puzzel, dolphin or dogfish, 

Your hearts I’ll stamp out with my horse’s 
heels, 

And make a quagmire of your mingled 
brains. 

Convey me Salisbury into his tent, no 

And then we ’ll try what these dastard French¬ 
men dare. 

[Alarum. Exeunt [bearing out the 
bodies ]. 

[Scene Y. The same.] 

Here an alarum again: and Talbot pursueth 
the Dauphin, and driveth him. Then enter 
Joan la Pucelle, driving Englishmen before 
her [and exit after them]. Then re-enter Tal¬ 
bot. 

Tal. Where is my strength, my valour, and 
my force ? 

Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them ; 
A woman clad in armour chaseth them. 

Re-enter La Pucelle. 

Here, here she comes. I ’ll have a bout with 
thee; 

Devil or devil’s dam, I ’ll conjure thee. « 

Blood will I draw on thee, thou art a witch, 
And straightway give thy soul to him thou 
serv’st. 

Puc. Come, come, ’tis only I that must dis¬ 
grace thee. [Here they,fight. 

Tal. Heavens, can you suffer hell so to pre- 
vail? 

My breast I ’ll burst with straining of my 
courage 10 

And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder, 
But I will chastise this high-minded strumpet. 

[They,fight again. 


Puc. Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet 
come. 

I must go victual Orleans forthwith. 

[A short alarum: then La Pucelle 
enters the town with soldiers. 
O’ertake me, if thou canst; I scorn thy 
strength. is 

Go, go, cheer up thy hungry, starved men ; 
Help Salisbury to make his testament. 

This day is ours, as many more shall be. [Exit. 
Tal. My thoughts are whirled like a potter’s 
wheel; 

I know not where I am, nor what I do. »o 

A witch, by fear, not force, like Hannibal, 
Drives back our troops and conquers as she 
lists ; 

So bees with smoke and doves with noisome 
stench 

Are from their hives and houses driven away. 
They call’d us for our fierceness English dogs ; 
Now, like to whelps, we crying run away. 

[A short alarum- 

Hark, countrymen! either renew the fight, 

Or tear the lions out of England’s coat. 
Renounce your soil, give sheep in lions’ stead. 
Sheep run not half so treacnerous from the 
wolf, 30 

Or horse or oxen from the leopard, 

As you fly from your oft-subdued slaves. 

[Alarum. Another skirmish. 
It will not be. Retire into your trenches. 

You all consented unto Salisbury’s death, 

For none would strike a stroke in his revenge. 
Pucelle is ent’red into Orleans 36 

In spite of us or aught that we could do. 

O, would I were to die with Salisbury ! 

The shame hereof will make me hide my head. 

[Exit Talbot. Alarum; retreat; 
flourish. 

[Scene VI. The same.] 

Enter , on the walls , La Pucelle, Charles, 
Reignier, Alenq'ON, and Soldiers. 

Puc. Advance our waving colours on the 
walls; 

Rescu’d is Orleans from the English ! 

Thus Joan la Pucelle hath perform’d her word. 

Char. Divinest creature, Astraea’s daughter, 
How shall I honour thee for this success ? s 
Thy promises are like Adonis’ garden 
That one day bloom’d and fruitful were the next. 
France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess ! 
Recover’d is the town of Orleans. 

More blessed hap did ne’er befall our state. 10 
Reig. Why ring not out the bells aloud 
throughout the town ? 

Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires 
And feast and banquet in the open streets, 

To celebrate the joy that God hath given us. 
Alen. All France will be replete with mirth 
and joy, « 

When they shall hear how we have play’d the 
men. 

Char. ’T is Joan, not we, by whom the day 
is won ; 

For which I will divide my crown with her, 




642 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


11. L 


And all the priests and friars in my realm 
Shall in procession sing her endless praise. 20 
A statelier pyramis to her I ’ll rear 
Than Rhodope’s or Memphis’ ever was. 

In memory of her when she is dead, 

Her ashes, in an urn more precious 
Than the rich-jewell’d coffer of Darius, 25 
Transported shall be at high festivals 
Before the kings and queens of France. 

No longer on Saint Denis will we cry, 

But Joan la Pucelle shall be France’s saint. 
Come in, and let us banquet royally, 30 

After this golden day of victorv. 

[Flourish. Exeunt. 


ACT II 

Scene I. [ Before Orleans.] 

Enter a [French] Sergeant, with two Senti¬ 
nels. 

Serg. Sirs, take your places and be vigilant. 
If any noise or soldier you perceive 
Near to the walls, by some apparent sign 
Let us have knowledge at the court of guard. 

1 . Sent. Sergeant, you shall. [Exit Sergeant .] 
Thus are poor servitors, e 

When others sleep upon their quiet beds, 
Constrain’d to watch in darkness, rain, and 
cold. 


Bur. And I to this. 

Tal. And here will Talbot mount, or make 
his grave. 

Now, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right 36 

Of English Henry, shall this night appear 

How much in duty I am bound to both. 

Sent. Arm ! arm ! the enemy doth make as¬ 
sault ! 

[Cry: 11 St. George ,” “ A Talbot.” 

[The English scale the walls.] 

The French leap over the walls in their shirts. 
Enter , several ways , the Bastard of Orleans, 
Alen^on, and Reignier, half ready , and 
half unready. 

Alen. How now, my lords ! what, all unready 
so ? 

Bast. Unready ! Ay, and glad we scap’d so 
well. *0 

Beig. ’T was time, I trow, to wake and 
leave our beds, 

Hearing alarums at our chamber-doors. 

Alen. Of all exploits since first I follow’d 
arms, 

Ne’er heard I of a warlike enterprise 

More venturous or desperate than this. « 

Bast. I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell. 
Beig. If not of hell, the heavens, sure, fa¬ 
vour him. 

Alen. Here cometh Charles; I marvel how 
he sped. 


Enter Talbot, Bedford, Burgundy, [and 
forces,] with scaling-ladders , their drums beat¬ 
ing a dead march. 


Tal. Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy, 
By whose approach the regions of Artois, 
Wallon and Picardy are friends to us, 10 

This happy night tne Frenchmen are secure, 
Having all day carous’d and banqueted. 
Embrace we then this opportunity 
As fitting best to quittance their deceit 
Contriv’d by art and baleful sorcery. is 

Bed. Coward of France! how much he 
wrongs his fame, 

Despairing of his own arm’s fortitude, 

To join with witches and the help of hell! 

Bur. Traitors have never other company. 
But what’s that Pucelle whom they term so 
pure ? 20 

Tal. A maid, they say. 

Bed. A maid ! and be so martial! 

Bur. Pray God she prove nob masculine ere 
long, 

If underneath the standard of the French 
She carry armour as she hath begun. 

Tal. Well, let them practise and converse 
with spirits. 26 

God is our fortress, in whose conquering name 
Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks. 
Bed. Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow 
thee. 

Tal. Not all together. Better far, I guess, 
That we do make our entrance several ways ; 30 
That, if it chance the one of us do fail, 

The other yet may rise against their force. 
Bed. Agreed. I ’ll to yond corner. 


Enter Charles and La Pucelle. 

Bast. Tut, holy Joan was his defensive 
guard. 

Char. Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful 
dame ? eo 

Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal, 

Make us partakers of a little gain, 

That now our loss might be ten times so much ? 

Puc. Wherefore is Charles impatient with 
his friend ? 

At all times will you have my power alike ? bb 
Sleeping or waking must I still prevail, 

Or will you blame and lay the fault on me ? 
Improvident soldiers! had your watch been 
good, 

This sudden mischief never could have fallen. 

Char. Duke of Alen§on, this was your de¬ 
fault, 60 

That, being captain of the watch to-night, 

Did look no better to that weighty charge. 

Alen. Had all your quarters been as safely 
kept 

As that whereof I had the government, 

We had not been thus shamefully surpris’d, gb 

Bast. Mine was secure. 

Beig. And so was mine, my lord. 

Char. And, for myself, most part of all this 
night, 

Within her quarter and mine own precinct 
I was employ’d in passing to and fro, 

About relieving of the sentinels. to 

Then how or which way should they first break 
in ? 

Puc. Question, my lords, no further of the 
case, 




THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


II. iii. 


How or which way. ’T is sure they found some 
place 

But weakly guarded, where the breach was 
made. 

And now there rests no other shift hut this, ts 
To gather our soldiers, scatter’d and dispers’d, 
And lay new platforms to endamage them. 

Alarum. Enter an [English] Soldier, crying , 
“ A Talbot! a Talbot /” They fly, leaving 
their clothes behind. 

Sold. I ’ll be so bold to take what they have 
left. 

The cry of Talbot serves me for a sword ; 

For I have loaden me with many spoils, so 
Using no other weapon but his name. [Exit. 

[Scene II. Orleans. Within the town.\ 

Enter Talbot, Bedford, Burgundy [a Cap¬ 
tain, and others ]. 

Bed. The day begins to break, and night is 
fled, 

Whose pitchy mantle over-veil’d the earth. 
Here sound retreat, and cease our hot pursuit. 

[Retreat sounded. 

Tal. Bring forth the body of old Salisbury, 
And here advance it in the market-place, b 
The middle centre of this cursed town. 

Now have I paid my vow unto his soul; 

For every drop of blood was drawn from him 
There hath at least five Frenchmen died to¬ 
night. 

And that hereafter ages may behold 10 

What ruin happened in revenge of him, 

Within their chiefest temple I’ll erect 
A tomb, wherein his corpse shall be interr’d ; 
Upon the which, that every one may read, 
Shall be engrav’d the sack of Orleans, 15 

The treacherous manner of his mournful death, 
And what a terror he had been to France. 

But, lords, in all our bloody massacre, 

I muse we met not with the Dauphin’s grace, 
His new-come champion, virtuous Joan of 
Arc, _ 20 

Nor any of his false confederates. 

Bed. ’T is thought, Lord Talbot, when the 
fight began, 

Rous’d on the sudden from their drowsy beds, 
They did amongst the troops of armed men 
Leap o’er the walls for refuge in the field. 26 
Bur. Myself, as far as I could well discern 
For smoke and dusky vapours of the night, 

Am sure I scar’d the Dauphin and his trull, 
When arm in arm they both came swiftly run- 
ning, 

Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves 30 

That could not live asunder day or night. 

After that things are set in order here, 

We ’ll follow them with all the power we have. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. All hail, my lords! Which of this 
princely train 

Call ye the warlike Talbot, for his acts 35 
So much applauded through the realm of 
France ? 


643 


Tal. Here is the Talbot; who would speak 
with him ? 

Mess. The virtuous lady, Countess of Au¬ 
vergne, 

With modesty admiring thy renown, 

By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouch¬ 
safe 40 

To visit her poor castle where she lies, 

That she may boast she hath beheld the man 
Whose glory fills the world with loud report. 
Bur. Is it even so ? Nay, then, I see our 
wars 

Will turn unto a peaceful comic sport, 45 

When ladies crave to be encount’red with. 

You mav not, my lord, despise her gentle suit. 
Tal. Ne’er trust me then ; for when a world 
of men 

Could not prevail with all their oratory, 

Yet hath a woman’s kindness over-rul’d ; bo 
And therefore tell her I return great thanks, 
And in submission will attend on her. 

Will not your honours bear me company ? 

Bed. No, truly, ’t is more than manners will; 
And I have heard it said, unbidden guests bs 
Are often welcomest when they are gone. 

Tal. Well then, alone, since there’s no 
remedy, 

I mean to prove this lady’s courtesy. 

Come hither, captain. ( Whispers.) You per¬ 
ceive my mind ? 

Capt. I do, my lord, and mean accordingly, co 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III. Auvei-gne. The Countess's castle .] 

Enter the Countess [and her Porter]. 

Count. Porter, remember what I gave in 
charge; 

And when you have done so, bring the keys to 
me. 

Port. Madam, I will. [Exit. 

Count. The plot is laid. If all things fall out 
right 

I shall as famous be by this exploit b 

As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus’ death. 

Great is the rumour of this dreadful knight, 
And his achievements of no less account; 

Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine 
ears, 

To give their censure of these rare reports* 10 
Enter Messenger and Talbot. 

Mess. Madam, 

According as your ladyship desir’d, 

By message crav’d^ so is Lord Talbot come. 
Count. And he is welcome. What! is this 
the man ? 

Mess. Madam, it is. 

Count. Is this the scourge of France ? 

Is this the Talbot, so much fear’d abroad i« 
That with his name the mothers still their 
babes ? 

I see report is fabulous and false. 

I thought I should have seen some Hercules, 

A second Hector, for his grim aspect, 20 

And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs. 
Alas, this is a child, a silly dwarf ! 







644 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


II. IV. 


It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp 
Should strike such terror to his enemies. 

Tal. Madam, I have been bold to trouble 
you; 26 

But since your ladyship is not at leisure, 

I ’ll sort some other time to visit you. [Going.] 
Count. What means he now ? Go ask him 
whither he goes. 

Mess. Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady 
craves 

To know the cause of your abrupt departure. 30 
Tal. Marry, for that she ’s in a wrong belief, 
I go to certify her Talbot’s here. 

Re-enter Porter with keys. 

Count. If thou be he, then art thou prisoner. 
Tal. Prisoner ! To whom ? 

Count. To me, blood-thirsty lord ; 

And for that cause I train’d thee to my house. 3 e 
Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me, 
For in my gallery thy picture hangs ; 

But now the substance shall endure the like, 
And I will chain these legs and arms of thine, 
That hast by tyranny these many years 40 
Wasted our country, slain our citizens, 

And sent our sons and husbands captivate. 

Tal. Ha, ha, ha! 

Count. Laughest thou, wretch ? Thy mirth 
shall turn to moan. 

Tal. I laugh to see your ladyship so fond 45 
To think that you have aught but Talbot’s 
shadow 

Whereon to practise your severity. 

Count. Why, art not thou the man ? 

Tal. I am indeed. 

Count. Then have I substance too. 

Tal. No, no, I am but shadow of myself, eo 
You are deceiv’d, my substance is not here ; 
For what you see is but the smallest part 
And least proportion of humanity. 

I tell you, madam, were the whole frame 
here, 

It is of such a spacious lofty pitch, 66 

Your roof were not sufficient to contain’t. 
Count. This is a riddling merchant for the 
nonce; 

He will be here, and yet he is not here. 

How can these contrarieties agree ? 

Tal. That will I show you presently. 60 
[Winds his horn. Drums strike up: 
a peal of ordnance. [The gates 
are forced .] 

Enter Soldiers. 

How say you, madam ? Are you now persuaded 
That Talbot is but shadow of himself ? 

These are his substance, sinews, arms, and 
strength, 

With which he yoketh your rebellious necks, 
Razeth your cities and subverts your towns 66 
And in a moment makes them desolate. 

Count. Victorious Talbot! pardon my abuse. 
I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited 
And more than may be gathered by thy shape. 
Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath ; 70 
For I am sorry that with reverence 
I did not entertain thee as thou art. 


Tal. Be not dismay’d, fair lady ; nor mis¬ 
construe 

The mind of Talbot, as you did mistake 
The outward composition of his body. « 

What you have done hath not offended me ; 
Nor other satisfaction do I crave, 

But only, with your patience, that we may 
Taste of your wine and see what cates you 
have ; 

For soldiers’ stomachs always serve them 
well. _ so 

Count. With all my heart, and think me 
honoured 

To feast so great a warrior in my house. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene IV. London. The Temple-garden.] 

Enter the Earls of Somerset, Suffolk, and 
Warwick ; Richard Plantagenet [Ver¬ 
non, and another Lawyer]. 

Plan. Great lords and gentlemen, what 
means this silence ? 

Dare no man answer in a case of truth ? 

Suf. Within the Temple-hall we were too 
loud ; 

The garden here is more convenient. 

Plan. Then say at once if I maintain’d the 
truth; 6 

Or else was wrangling Somerset in the error ? 

Suf. Faith, I have been a truant in the law, 
And never yet could frame my will to it; 

And therefore frame the law unto my will. 

Som. Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, 
then, between us. 10 

War. Between two hawks, which flies the 
higher pitch ; 

Between two dogs, which hath the deeper 
mouth ; 

Between two blades, which bears the better 
temper; 

Between two horses, which doth bear him best; 
Between two girls, which hath the merriest 
eye; < # 16 

I have perhaps some shallow spirit of judge¬ 
ment ; 

But in these nice sharp quillets of the law, 

Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw. 

Plan. Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbear¬ 
ance. 

The truth appears so naked on my side 2# 
That any purblind eye may find it out. 

Som. And on my side it is so well appar- 
efl’d, 

So clear, so shining, and so evident 
That it will glimmer through a blind man’s eye. 
Plan. Since you are tongue-tied and so loath 
to speak, 26 

In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts. 
Let him that is a true-born gentleman 
And stands upon the honour of his birth, 

If he suppose that I have pleaded truth. 

From off this brier pluck a white rose with me. 
Som. Let him that is no coward nor no flat¬ 
terer, 31 

But dare maintain the party of the truth, 
Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me. 





II. IV. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


645 


War. I love no colours, and without all 
colour 

Of base insinuating flattery 35 

I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet. 

Suf. I pluck this red rose with young Som¬ 
erset 

And say withal I think he held the right. 

Ver. Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck 
no more 

Till you conclude that he upon whose side *o 
The fewest roses are cropp’d from the tree 
Shall yield the other in the right opinion. 

(Sow. Good Master Vernon, it is well ob¬ 
jected. 

If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence. 

Plan. And I. 45 

Ver. Then for the truth and plainness of the 
case, 

I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here, 
Giving my verdict on the white rose side. 

-Sow. Prick not your finger as you pluck it off, 
Lest bleeding you do paint the white rose red 
And fall on my side so. against your will. 61 

Ver. If I, my lord, tor my opinion bleed, 
Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt 
And keep me on the side where still I am. 

(Sow. Well, well, come on; who else? bs 

Law. Unless my study and my books be 
false, 

The argument you held was wrong in you ; 

[To Somerset.] 

In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too. 

Plan. Now, Somerset, where is your argu¬ 
ment? 

(Sow. Here in my scabbard, meditating that 
Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red. ei 

Plan. Meantime your cheeks do counterfeit 
our roses; 

For pale they look with fear, as witnessing 
The truth on our side. 

/Sow. No, Plantagenet, 

’T is not for fear but anger that thy cheeks «s 
Blush for pure shame to counterfeit our roses, 
And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error. 

Plan. Hath not thy rose a canker, Somer¬ 
set ? 

(Sow. Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantage- 
net ? 

Plan. Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain 
his truth ; 7 ° 

Whiles thy consuming canker eats his false¬ 
hood. 

(Sow. Well, I ’ll find friends to wear my 
bleeding roses, 

That shall maintain what I have said is true, 
Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen. 

Plan. Now, by this maiden blossom in my 
hand, 76 

I scorn thee and thy faction, peevish boy. 

Suf. Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantage¬ 
net. 

Plan. Proud Pole, I will, and scorn both 
him and thee. 

Suf. I’ll turn my part thereof into thy 
throat. 79 

(Sow. Away, away, good William de la Pole ! 
We grace the yeoman by conversing with him. 


War. Now, by God’s will, thou wrong’st 
him. Somerset; 

His grandfather was Lionel Duke of Clarence, 
Third son to the third Edward King of Eng¬ 
land. 84 

Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root ? 

Plan. He bears him on the place’s privilege, 
Or durst not, for his craven heart, say thus. 

(Sow. By Him that made me, I ’ll maintain 
my words 

On any plot of ground in Christendom. 

Was not thy father, Richard Earl of Cam¬ 
bridge, 60 

For treason executed in our late king’s days ? 
And, by his treason, stand’st not thou at> 
tainted, 

Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry ? 
His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood ; 

And, till thou be restor’d, thou art a yeoman. 

Plan. My father was attached, not at¬ 
tainted, 88 

Condemn’d to die for treason, but no traitor ; 
And that I ’ll prove on better men than Somer¬ 
set, 

Were growing time once ripened to my will. 
For your partaker Pole ana you yourself, 100 
I ’ll note you in my book of memory, 

To scourge you for this apprehension. 

Look to it well and say you are well warn’d. 

(Sow. Ah, thou shalt find us ready for thee 
still; 

And know us by these colours for thy foes, 105 
For these my friends in spite of thee shall wear. 

Plan. And, by my soul, this pale and angry 
rose, 

As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate, 

Will I for ever and my faction wear, 

Until it wither with me to my grave no 

Or flourish to the height of my degree. 

Suf. Go forward and be chok’d with thy am¬ 
bition ! 

And so farewell until I meet thee next. [Exit. 

Som. Have with thee, Pole. Farewell, am¬ 
bitious Richard. [Exit. 

Plan. How I am brav’d and must perforce 
endure it! us 

War. This blot that they object against your 
house 

Shall be wip’d out in the next parliament 
Call’d for the truce of Winchester and Glouces¬ 
ter ; 

And if thou be not then created York, 

I will not live to be accounted Warwick. m 
Meantime, in signal of my love to thee, 

Against proud Somerset and William Pole, 
Will I upon thy party wear this rose ; 

And here I prophesy: this brawl to-day, 

Grown to this faction in the Temple-garden, 12s 
Shall send between the red rose and the white 
A thousand souls to death and deadly night. 

Plan. Good Master Vernon, I am bound to 
you, 

That you on my behalf would pluck a flower. 

Ver. In your behalf still will I wear the 
same. uo 

Law. And so will I. 

Plan. Thanks, gentle sir. 





6 4 6 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


II. V. 


Come, let us four to dinner. I dare say 
This quarrel will drink blood another day. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene Y. The Tower of London .] 

Enter Mortimer, brought in a chair , and 
Gaolers. 

Mor. Kind keepers of my weak decaying 
age, 

Let dying Mortimer here rest himself. 

Even like a man new haled from the rack, 

So fare my limbs with long imprisonment; 

And these grey locks, the pursuivants of death, 
Nestor-like aged in an age of care, 6 

Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer. 

These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is 
spent, 

Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent; 

Weak shoulders, overborne with burdening 
grief, . • 10 

And pithless arms, like to a withered vine 
That droops his sapless branches to the ground. 
Yet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is 
numb, 

Unable to support this lump of clay, 
Swift-winged with desire to get a grave, is 
As witting I no other comfort have. 

But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come ? 

1 . Gaol. Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will 
come. 

We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber ; 
And answer was return’d that he will come. 20 
Mor. Enough; my soul shall then be satis¬ 
fied. 

Poor gentleman ! his wrong doth equal mine. 
Since Henry Monmouth first began to reign, 
Before whose glory I was great in arms, 

This loathsome sequestration have I had ; 26 

And even since then hath Richard been ob¬ 
scur’d, 

Deprived of honour and inheritance. 

But now the arbitrator of despairs, 

Just Death, kind umpire of men’s miseries, 
With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me 
hence. so 

I would his troubles likewise were expir’d, 
That so he might recover what was lost. 

Enter Richard Plantagenet. 

1 . Gaol. My lord, your loving nephew now is 
come. 

Mor. Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he 
come ? 

Plan. Ay, noble uncle, thus ignobly us’d, 35 
Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes. 
Mor. Direct mine arms I may embrace his 
neck, 

And in his bosom spend my latter gasp. 

O, tell me when my lips do touch his cheeks, 
That I may kindly give one fainting kiss. 40 
And now declare, sweet stem from York’s great 
stock, 

Why didst thou say, of late thou wert de¬ 
spis’d ? 

Plan. First, lean thine aged back against 
mine arm; 


And, in that ease, I ’ll tell thee my disease. 
This day, in argument upon a case, <6 

Some words there grew ’twixt Somerset and 
me; 

Among which terms he us’d his lavish tongue 
And did upbraid me with my father’s death ; 
Which obloquy set bars before my tongue, 

Else with the like I had requited him. so 

Therefore, good uncle, for my father’s sake, 

In honour of a true Plantagenet 
And for alliance sake, declare the cause 
My father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head. 
Mor. That cause, fair nephew, that impris¬ 
on’d me 66 

And hath detain’d me all my flowering youth 
Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine, 
Was cursed instrument of his decease. 

Plan. Discover more at large what cause 
that was, 

For I am ignorant and cannot guess. eo 

Mor. I will, if that my fading breath permit 
And death approach not ere my tale be done. 
Henry the Fourth, grandfather to this king, 
Deposed his nephew Richard, Edward’s son, 
The first-begotten and the lawful heir ee 

Of Edward king, the third of that descent; 
During whose reign the Percies of the north, 
Finding his usurpation most unjust, 
Endeavour’d my advancement to the throne. 
The reason mov’d these warlike lords to this 
Was, for that — young King Richard thus re¬ 
mov’d, 71 

Leaving no heir begotten of his body — 

I was the next by birth and parentage ; 

For by my mother I derived am 
From Lionel Duke of Clarence, the third son 76 
To King Edward the Third ; whereas he 
From John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree, 
Being but fourth of that heroic line. 

But mark : as in this haughty great attempt 
They laboured to plant the rightful heir, or. 
I lost my liberty and they their lives. 

Long after this, when Henry the Fifth, 
Succeeding his father Bolingbroke, did reign, 
Thy father, Earl of Cambridge, then deriv’d 
From famous Edmund Langley, Duke of York, 
Marrying my sister that thy mother was, so 
Again in pity of my hard distress 
Levied an army, weening to redeem 
And have install’d me in the diadem. 

But, as the rest, so fell that noble earl so 

And was beheaded. Thus the Mortimers, 

In whom the title rested, were suppress’d. 

Plan. Of which, my lord, your honour is the 
last. 

Mor. True; and thou seest that I no issue 
have 94 

And that my fainting words do warrant death. 
Thou art my heir ; the rest I wish thee gather, 
But yet be wary in thy studious care. 

Plan. Thy grave admonishments prevail with 
me. 

But yet, methinks, my father’s execution 
Was nothing less than bloody tyranny. 100 

Mor. With silence, nephew, be thou politic. 
Strong-fixed is the house of Lancaster 
And like a mountain, not to be remov’d. 





III. 1. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


647 


But now thy uncle is removing hence, 

As princes do their courts, when they are 
cloy’d 106 

With long continuance in a settled place. 

Plan. 0 , uncle, would some part of my 
young years 

Might but redeem the passage of your age ! 
Mor. Thou dost then wrong me, as that 
slaughterer doth 

Which eiveth many wounds when one will 
kill. no 

Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good ; 
Only give order for my funeral. 

Ana so farewell, and fair be all thy hopes 
And prosperous be thy life in peace and war! 

[Dies. 

Plan. And peace, no war, befall thy parting 
soul! lie 

In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage 
And like a hermit overpass’d thy days. 

Well, I will lock his counsel in my breast; 

And what I do imagine, let that rest. 

Keepers, convey him hence, and I myself 120 
Will see his burial better than his life. 

[Exeunt [Gaolers, bearing out the 
body of Mortimer]. 

Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer, 

Chok’d with ambition of the meaner sort; 

And for those wrongs, those bitter injuries 
Which Somerset hath offer’d to my house, 126 
I doubt not but with honour to redress. 

And therefore haste I to the parliament, 

Either to be restored to my blood, 

Or make iry ill the advantage of my good. 

[Exit. 

ACT III 

Scene I. [London. The Parliament-house.] 

Flourish. Enter King, Exeter, Gloucester, 
Warwick, Somerset, and Suffolk ; the 
Bishop of Winchester, Richard Plan- 
tagenet [and others], Gloucester offers to 
put up a bill; Winchester snatches it, and 
tears it. 

Win. Com’st thou with deep premeditated 
lines, 

With written pamphlets studiously devis’d, 
Humphrey of Gloucester ? If thou canst accuse, 
Or aught intend’st to lay unto my charge, 

Do it without invention, suddenly ; e 

As I with sudden and extemporal speech 
Purpose to answer what thou canst object. 

Glou. Presumptuous priest! this place com¬ 
mands my patience, 

Or thou shouldst find thou hast dishonour’d me. 
Think not, although in writing I preferr’d 10 
The manner of thy vile outrageous crimes, 
That therefore I have forg’d, or am not able 
Verbatim to rehearse the method of my pen. 
No, prelate ; such is thy audacious wickedness, 
Thy lewd, pestiferous, and dissentious pranks, 
As very infants prattle of thy pride. i« 

Thou art a most pernicious usurer, 

Froward by nature, enemy to peace ; 
Lascivious, wanton, more than well beseems 


A man of thy profession and degree ; 20 

And for thy treachery, what’s more manifest ? 
In that thou laid’st a trap to take my life, 

As well at London Bridge as at the Tower. 
Beside, I fear me, if thy thoughts were sifted, 
The King, thy sovereign, is not quite exempt 2£ 
From envious malice of thy swelling heart. 
Win. Gloucester, I do defy thee. Lords, 
vouchsafe 

To give me hearing what I shall reply. 

If I were covetous, ambitious, or perverse, 

As he will have me, how am I so poor ? so 
Or how haps it I seek not to advance 
Or raise myself, but keep my wonted calling ? 
And for dissension, who preferreth peace 
More than I do ? — except I be provok’d. 

No, my good lords, it is not that offends ; so 
It is not that that hath incens’d the Duke. 

It is because no one should sway but he, 

No one but he should be about the King; 

And that engenders thunder in his breast 
And makes him roar these accusations forth. 40 
But he shall know I am as good — 

Glou. As good I 

Thou bastard of my grandfather I 

Win. Ay, lordly sir; for what are you, I 

pray, . 

But one imperious in another’s throne ? 

Glou. Am I not Protector, saucy priest ? « 

Win. And am not I a prelate of the Church ? 
Glou. Yes, as an outlaw in a castle keeps 
And useth it to patronage his theft. 

Win. Unreverent Gloucester! 

Glou. Thou art reverend 

Touchingthy spiritual function, not thy life. 60 
Win. Rome shall remedy this. 

War. Roam thither, then. 

pSom.] My lord, it were your duty to forbear. 
[ JFar.l Ay, see the Bishop be not overborne. 
Som. Methinks my lord should be religious 
And know the office that belongs to such. ee 
War. Methinks his lordship should be hum¬ 
bler; 

It fitteth not a prelate so to plead. 

Som. Yes, when his holy state is touch’d so 
near. 

War. State holy or unhallow’d, what of that? 
Is not his Grace Protector to the King ? 00 

Plan. [Aside.] Plantagenet, I see, must hold 
his tongue. 

Lest it be saia, “Speak, sirrah, when you 
should ; 

Must your bold verdict enter talk with lords ? ” 
Else would I have a fling at Winchester. 

King. Uncles of Gloucester and of Win¬ 
chester, 66 

The special watchmen of our English weal, 

I would prevail, if prayers might prevail, 

To join your hearts in love and amity. 

O, what a scandal is it to our crown, 

That two such noble peers as ye should jar ! to 
B elieve me, lords, my tender years can tell 
Civil dissension is a viperous worm 
That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth. 

[A noise within, “ Down with the 
tawny-coats ! ” 

What tumult’s this ? 




6 4 8 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


hi. i. 


War. An uproar, I dare warrant, 75 

Begun through malice of the Bishop’s men. 

[A noise again , “ Stones ! stones! ” 

Enter the Mayor [of London, attended ]. 

May. 0 , my good lords, and virtuous Henry, 
Pity the city of London, pity us ! 

The Bishop and the Dune of Gloucester’s 
men, 

Forbidden late to carry any weapon, 

Have fill’d their pockets full of pebble stones so 
And banding themselves in contrary parts 
Do pelt so fast at one another’s pate 
That many have their giddy brains knock’d 
out. 

Our windows are broke down in every street 
And we for fear compell’d to shut our shops, ss 

Enter [Serving-men of both parties ,] in skir¬ 
mish, with bloody pates. 

King. We charge you, on allegiance to our¬ 
self, 

To hold your slaught’ring hands and keep the 
peace. 

Pray, uncle Gloucester, mitigate this strife. 

1 . Serv. Nay, if we be forbidden stones, we ’ll 

fall to it with our teeth. 90 

2 . Serv. Do what ye dare, we are as reso¬ 

lute. [Skirmish again. 

Glou. You of my household, leave this peev¬ 
ish broil 

And set this unaccustom’d fight aside. 

3 . Serv. My lord, we know your Grace to be 

a man 

Just and upright; and, for your royal birth, 96 
Inferior to none but to his Majesty : 

And ere that we will suffer such a prince, 

So kind a father of the commonweal, 

To be disgraced by an inkhorn mate, 

We and our wives and children all will fight 100 
And have our bodies slaught’red by thy foes. 

1 . Serv. Ay, and the very parings of our 
nails 

Shall pitch a field when we are dead. 

[Begin again. 

Glou. Stay, stay, I say ! 

And if you love me, as you say you do, 

Let me persuade you to forbear a while. 105 
King. 0 , how this discord doth afflict my 
soul! 

Can you, my Lord of Winchester, behold 
My sighs and tears and will not once relent ? 
Who should be pitiful, if you be not ? 

Or who should study to prefer a peace, no 
If holy churchmen take delight in broils ? 

War. Yield, my Lord Protector ; yield, Win¬ 
chester ; 

Except you mean with obstinate repulse 
To slay your sovereign and destroy the realm. 
You see what mischief and what murder too ns 
Hath been enacted through your enmity. 

Then be at peace, except ye thirst for blood. 
Win. He shall submit, or I will never yield. 
Glou. Compassion on the King commands 
me stoop ; 

Or I would see his heart out, ere the priest 120 
Should ever get that privilege of me. 


War. Behold, my Lord of Winchester, the 
Duke 

Hath banish’d moody discontented fury, 

As by his smoothed brows it doth appear. 

Why look you still so stern and tragical ? 126 

Glou. Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand. 
King. Fie, uncle Beaufort! I have heard 
you preach 

That malice was a great and grievous sin ; 

And will not you maintain the thing you teach, 
But prove a chief offender in the same ? 130 

War. Sweet king ! the Bishop hath a kindly 
gird. 

For shame, my Lord of Winchester, relent! 
What, shall a child instruct you what to do ? 
Win. Well, Duke of Gloucester, I will yield 
to thee ; 

Love for thy love and hand for hand I give. 135 
Glou. [Aside.] Ay, but, I fear me, with a 
hollow heart. — 

See here, my friends and loving countrymen, 
This token serveth for a flag of truce 
Betwixt ourselves and all our followers. 

So help me God, as I dissemble not! 140 

Win. [Aside.] So help me God, as I intend 
it not! 

King. 0 loving uncle, kind Duke of Glouces¬ 
ter, 

How joyful am I made by this contract! 

Away, my masters! trouble us no more ; 144 

But join in friendship, as your lords have done. 

1 . Serv. Content; I ’ll to the surgeon’s. 

2 . Serv. And so will I. 

3 . Serv. And I will see what physic the 
tavern affords. 

[Exeunt [ Serving-men , Mayor , etc.]. 
War. Accept this scroll, most gracious sov¬ 
ereign, 

Which in the right of Richard Plantagenet 160 
We do exhibit to your Majesty. 

Glou. Well urg’d, my Lord of Warwick ; for, 
sweet prince, 

An if your Grace mark every circumstance, 
You have great reason to do Richard right; 
Especially for those occasions 166 

At Eltham Place I told your Majesty. 

King. And those occasions, uncle, were of 
force. 

Therefore, my loving lords, our pleasure is 
That Richard be restored to his blood. 

War. Let Richard be restored to his blood ; 
So shall his father’s wrongs be recompens’d. i«i 
Win. As will the rest, so willeth Winchester. 
King. If Richard will be true, not that alone 
But all the whole inheritance I give 
That doth belong unto the house of York, les 
From whence you spring by lineal descent. 

Plan. Thy humble servant vows obedience 
And humble service till the point of death. 
King. Stoop then and set your knee against 
my foot; 

And, in reguerdon of that duty done, 120 

I gird thee with the valiant sword of York. 
Rise, Richard, like a true Plantagenet, 

And rise created princely Duke of York. 

Plan. And so thrive Richard as thy foes 
may fall I 




in. ii. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


649 


And as my duty springs, so perish they 175 
That grudge one thought against your Majesty ! 
All. Welcome, high prince, the mighty Duke 
of York ! 

Som. [Aside. ] Perish, base prince, ignoble 
Duke of York! 

Glou. Now will it best avail your Majesty 
To cross the seas and to be crown’d in France. 
The presence of a king engenders love m 

Amongst his subjects and his loyal friends, 

As it disanimates his enemies. 

King. When Gloucester says the word, King 
Henry goes ; 

For friendly counsel cuts off many foes. iss 
Glou. Your ships already are in readiness. 

[Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt [all but 
Exeter J. 

E:re. Ay, we may march in England or in 
France, 

Not seeing what is likely to ensue. 

This late dissension grown betwixt the peers 
Burns under feigned ashes of forg’d love, 190 
And will at last break out into a flame: 

As fest’red members rot but by degree, 

Till bones and flesh and sinews fall away, 

So will this base and envious discord breed. 
And now I fear that fatal prophecy 195 

Which in the time of Henry named the Fifth 
Was in the mouth of every sucking babe ? 

That Henry born at Monmouth should wm all, 
And Henry born at Windsor lose all. 

Which is so plain that Exeter doth wish 200 
His days may finish ere that hapless time. 

[Exit. 

Scene II. [France. Before Rouen.] 

Enter La Pucelle disguised, with four Sol¬ 
diers with sacks upon their backs. 

Puc. These are the city gates, the gates of 
Rouen, 

Through which our policy must make a breach. 
Take heed, be wary how you place your words ; 
Talk like the vulgar sort of market men 
That come to gather money for their corn. 6 
If we have entrance, as I hope we shall, 

And that we find the slothful watch but weak, 

I ’ll by a sign give notice to our friends, 

That Charles the Dauphin may encounter them. 
1 . Sol. Our sacks shall be a mean to sack the 
city, 10 

And we be lords and rulers over Rouen ; 
Therefore we ’ll knock. [Knock. 

Watch. [ Within.] Qui est Id, ? 

Puc. Paysans, pauvres gens de France; 

Poor market folks that come to sell their 
corn. is 

Watch. Enter, go in; the market bell is 
rung. 

Puc. Now, Rouen, I ’ll shake thy bulwarks 
to the ground. [Exeunt [to the town]. 

Enter Charles, the Bastard of Orleans, 
Alencon [Reignier, and forces]. 

Char. Saint Denis bless this happy strata¬ 
gem ! 

And once again we ’ll sleep secure in Rouen. 


Bast. Here ent’red Pucelle and her practi- 
sants. 20 

Now she is there, how will she specify 
Where is the best and safest passage in ? 

Reig. By thrusting out a torch from yonder 
tower; 

Which, once discern’d, shows that her mean- 
ing is, 

No way to that, for weakness, which she en¬ 
t’red. 25 

Enter La Pucelle on the top , thrusting out a 
torch burning. 

Puc. Behold, this is the happy wedding 
torch 

That joineth Rouen unto her countrymen. 

But burning fatal to the Talbotites ! [Exit.] 

Bast. See, noble Charles, the beacon of our 
friend; 

The burning torch in yonder turret stands. 30 
Char. Now shine it like a comet of re¬ 
venge, 

A prophet to the fall of all our foes ! 

Reig. Defer no time, delays have dangerous 
ends. 

Enter, and cry “The Dauphin ! ” presently, 
And then do execution on the watch. 35 

[Alarum. [Exeunt.] 

An alarum. Enter Talbot in an excursion. 

Tal. France, thou shalt rue this treason with 
thy tears, 

If Talbot but survive thy treachery. 

Pucelle, that witch, that damned sorceress, 
Hath wrought this hellish mischief unawares, 
That hardly we escap’d the pride of France. *0 

[Exit. 

An alarum: excursions. Bedford, brought in 
sick in a chair. Enter Talbot and Burgundy 
without: within La Pucelle, Charles, Bas¬ 
tard, [Alencon,] and Reignier, on the 
walls. 

Puc. Good morrow, gallants! want ye corn 
for bread ? 

I think the Duke of Burgundy will fast 
Before he ’ll buy again at such a rate. 

’T was full of darnel; do you like the taste ? 
Bur. Scoff on, vile fiend and shameless cour¬ 
tezan ! « 

I trust ere long to choke thee with thine own 
And make thee curse the harvest of that 

corn. 

Char. Your Grace may starve perhaps be¬ 
fore that time. 

Bed. 0 , let no words, but deeds, revenge 
this treason! 

Puc. What will you do, good grey-beard? 

Break a lance, 60 

And run a tilt at Death within a chair ? 

Tal. Foul fiend of France, and hag of all de¬ 
spite, 

Encompass’d with thy lustful paramours ! 
Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age 
And twit with cowardice a man half dead ? 55 
Damsel, I ’ll have a bout with you again, 

Or else let Talbot perish with this shame. 






650 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


hi. iii. 


Puc. Are ye so hot, sir? Yet, Pucelle, hold 
thy peace; 

If Talbot do but thunder, rain will follow. 

[The English whisper together in 
council. 

God speed the parliament! Who shall be the 
speaker ? 60 

Tal. Dare ye come forth and meet us in the 
field? 

Puc. Belike your lordship takes us then for 
fools, 

To trv if that our own be ours or no. 

Tal. I speak not to that railing Hecate, 

But unto thee, Alengon, and the rest. <55 

Will ye, like soldiers, come and fight it out ? 
Alen. Signior, no. 

Tal. Signior, hang ! Base muleteers of 
France! 

Like peasant foot-boys do they keep the walls 
And dare not take up arms like gentlemen. 70 
Puc. Away, captains ! let’s get us from the 
walls 

For Talbot means no goodness by his looks. 

God b’uy, my lord 1 we came but to tell you 
That we are here. 

[Exeunt [La Pucelle , etc.,] from the 
walls. 

Tal. And there will we be too, ere it be long, 
Or else reproach be Talbot’s greatest fame ! 76 
Yow, Burgundy, by honour of thy house, 
Prick’d on by public wrongs sustain’d in 
France, 

Either to get the town again or die: 

And I, as sure as English Henry lives so 

And as his father here was conqueror, 

As sure as in this late-betrayed town 
Great Cceur-de-lion’s heart was buried, 

So sure I swear to get the town or die. 

Bur. My vows are equal partners with thy 

VOWS. 86 

Tal. But, ere we go, regard this dying prince, 
The valiant Duke of Bedford. Come, my lord, 
We will bestow you in some better place, 

Fitter for sickness and for crazy age. 

Bed. Lord Talbot, do not so dishonour me. 90 
Here will I sit before the walls of Rouen 
And will be partner of your weal or woe. 

Bur. Courageous Bedford, let us now per¬ 
suade you. 

Bed. Not to be gone from hence; for once I 
read 

That stout Pendragon in his litter sick 95 

Came to the field and vanquished his foes. 
Methinks I should revive the soldiers’ hearts, 
Because I ever found them as myself. 

Tal. Undaunted spirit in a dying breast! 
Then be it so. Heavens keep old Bedford safe ! 
And now no more ado, brave Burgundy, 101 
But gather we our forces out of hand 
And set upon our boasting enemy. 

[Exeunt [into the town all but Bed¬ 
ford and Attendants]. 

An alarum : excursions. Enter Sir John Fas- 
tolfe and a Captain. 

Cap. Whither away, Sir John Fastolfe, in 
such haste ? 


Fast. Whither away! to save myself by 
flight. n» 

We are like to have the overthrow again. 

Cap. What! will you fly, and leave Lord 
Talbot ? 

Fast. Ay, 

All the Talbots in the world, to save my life. 

[Exit. 

Cap. Cowardly knight! ill fortune follow 
thee 1 [Exit [into the town ]. 

Retreat: excursions. La Pucelle, Alenin, 
and Charles [enter from the town and] fly. 

Bed. Now, quiet soul, depart when heaven 
please, . no 

For I have seen our enemies’ overthrow. 

What is the trust or strength of foolish man ? 
They that of late were daring with their scoffs 
Are glad and fain by flight to save themselves. 

[Bedford dies , and is carried in by 
two in his chair. 

An alarum. Re-enter Talbot, Burgundy, 
and the rest. 

Tal. Lost, and recovered in a day again! us 
This is a double honour, Burgundy ; 

Yet heavens have glory for this victory ! 

Bur. Warlike and martial Talbot, Burgundy 
Enshrines thee in his heart and there erects 
Thy noble deeds as valour’s monuments. 120 
Tal. Thanks, gentle duke. But where is 
Pucelle now ? 

I think her old familiar is asleep. 

Now where’s the Bastard’s braves, and Charles 
his gleeks ? 

What, all amort ? Rouen hangs her head for grief 
That such a valiant company are fled. 125 

Now will we take some order in the town, 
Placing therein some expert officers, 

And then depart to Paris to the King, 

For there young Henry with his nobles lie. 

Bur. What wills Lord Talbot pleaseth Bur¬ 
gundy. 130 

Tal. But yet, before we go, let’s not forget 
The noble Duke of Bedford late deceas’d, 

But see his exequies fulfill’d in Rouen. 

A braver soldier never couched lance, 

A gentler heart did never sway in court. 13c 
But kings and mightiest potentates must die, 
For that’s the end of human misery. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. [The plains near Rouen.] 

Enter Charles, the Bastard of Orleans. 
Alen^on, La Pucelle [and /orces]. 

Puc. Dismay not, princes, at this accident, 
Nor grieve that Rouen is so recovered. 

Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, 

For things that are not to be remedi’d. 

Let frantic Talbot triumph for a while 6 

And like a peacock sweep along his tail; 

We ’ll pull his plumes and take away his train, 
If Dauphin and the rest will be but rul’d. 

Char. We have been guided by thee hitherto 
And of thy cunning had no diffidence. i* 

One sudden foil shall never breed distrust. 




III. iv. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


Bast. Search out thy wit for secret policies, 
And we will make thee famous through the 
world. 

Alen. We’ll set thy statue in some holy 
place, 

And have thee reverenc’d like a blessed saint, is 
Employ thee then, sweet virgin, for our good. 

Puc. Then thus it must be ; this doth Joan 
devise: 

By fair persuasions mix’d with sug’red words 
We will entice the Duke of Burgundy 
To leave the Talbot and to follow us. 20 

Char. Ay, marry, sweeting, if we could do 
that, 

France were no place for Henry’s warriors ; 
Nor should that nation boast it so with us, 

But be extirped from our provinces. 

Alen. For ever should they be expuls’d 
from France 25 

And not have title of an earldom here. 

Puc. Your honours shall perceive how I will 
work 

To bring this matter to the wished end. 

[Drum sounds afar off. 
Hark ! by the sound of drum you may per¬ 
ceive 

Their powers are marching unto Paris-ward. 30 

Here sound an English march. [Enter, and pass 

over at a distance , Talbot and his forces .] 

There goes the Talbot, with his colours spread, 
And all the troops of English after him. 

French march. [Enter the Duke of Burgundy 
and forces .] 

Now in the rearward comes the Duke and his. 
Fortune in favour makes him lag behind. 
Summon a parley ; we will talk with him. 35 
[ Trumpets sound a parley. 

Char. A parley with the Duke of Bur¬ 
gundy 1 

Bur. Who craves a parley with the Bur¬ 
gundy ? 

Puc. The princely Charles of France, thy 
countryman. 

Bur. What say’st thou, Charles ? for I am 
marching hence. 

Char. Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with 
thy words. *> 

Puc. Brave Burgundy, undoubted hope of 
France! 

Stay, let thy humble handmaid speak to thee. 

Bur. Speak on ; hut be not over-tedious. 

Puc. Look on thy country, look on fertile 
France, 

And see the cities and the towns defac’d « 

By wasting ruin of the cruel foe. 

As looks the mother on her lowly babe 
When death doth close his tender dying eyes, 
See, see the pining malady of France ! 

Behold the wounds, the most unnatural 
wounds, 60 

Which thou thyself hast given her woeful 
breast. 

O, turn thy edged sword another way ; 

Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that 
help. 


6 5 * 


One drop of blood drawn from thy country’s 
bosom 

Should grieve thee more than streams of for¬ 
eign gore. 65 

Return thee therefore with a flood of tears, 
And wash away thy country’s stained spots. 

Bur. Either she hath bewitch’d me with her 
words, 

Or nature makes me suddenly relent. 

Puc. Besides, all French and France ex¬ 
claims on thee, co 

Doubting thy birth and lawful progeny. 

Who join’st thou with but with a lordly nation 
That will not trust thee but for profit’s sake ? 
When Talbot hath set footing once in France 
And fashion’d thee that instrument of ill, es 
Who then but English Henry will be lord 
And thou be thrust out like a fugitive ? 

Call we to mind, and mark but this for proof, 
Was not the Duke of Orleans thy foe ? 

And was he not in England prisoner ? 70 

But when they heard he was thine enemy, 
They set him free without his ransom paid. 

In spite of Burgundy and all his friends. 

See, then, thou fight’st against thy country¬ 
men 

And join’st with them will be thy slaughter¬ 
men. 76 

Come, come, return; return, thou wandering 
lord ! 

Charles and the rest will take thee in their 
arms. 

Bur. I am vanquished. These haughty words 
of hers 

Have batt’red me like roaring cannon-shot, 
And made me almost yield upon my knees. »o 
Forgive me, country, and sweet countrymen, 
And, lords, accept this hearty kind embrace ; 
My forces and my power of men are yours. 

So farewell, Talbot; I ’ll no longer trust thee. 

Puc. [Aside.] Done like a Frenchman; turn, 
and turn again! 86 

Char. Welcome, brave duke! thy friend¬ 
ship makes us fresh. 

Bast. And doth beget new courage in our 
breasts. 

Alen. Pucelle hath bravely play’d her part 
in this, 

And doth deserve a coronet of gold. 

Char. Now let us on, my lords, and join our 
powers, w 

And seek how we may prejudice the foe. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [Paris. The palace.] 

Enter King Henry, Gloucester, Bishop of 

Winchester, York, Suffolk, Somerset, 

Warwick, Exeter (Vernon, Basset, and 

others ]. To them with his Soldiers, Talbot. 

Tal. My gracious prince, and honourable 
peers, 

Hearing of your arrival in this realm, 

I have a while given truce unto my wars 
To do my duty to my sovereign ; 

In sign whereof, this arm, that hath reclaim’d s 
To your obedience fifty fortresses, 




THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


652 


IV. L 


Twelve cities, and seven walled towns of 
strength, 

Beside five hundred prisoners of esteem, 

Lets fall his sword before your Highness’ feet, 
And with submissive loyalty of heart 10 

Ascribes the glory of his conquest got 
First to my God and next unto your Grace. 

[Kneels.] 

King. Is this the Lord Talbot, uncle 
Gloucester, 

That hath so long been resident in France ? 
Glou. Yes, if it please your Majesty, my 
liege. is 

King. Welcome, brave captain and victori¬ 
ous lord ! 

When I was young, as yet I am not old, 

I do remember how my father said 
A stouter champion never handled sword. 

Long since we were resolved of your truth, 20 
Your faithful service, and your toil in war; 
Yet never have you tasted our reward, 

Or been reguerdon’d with so much as thanks, 
Because till now we never saw your face. 
Therefore, stand up; and, for these good 
deserts, 26 

We here create you Earl of Shrewsbury; 

And in our coronation take your place. 

[Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all hut 
Vernon and Basset. 

Ver. Now, sir, to you, that were so hot at 
sea, 

Disgracing of these colours that I wear 
In honour of my noble Lord of York : 30 

Dar’st thou maintain the former words thou 
spak’st ? 

Bas. Yes, sir ; as well as you dare patron¬ 
age 

The envious barking of your saucy tongue 
Against my lord the Duke of Somerset. 

Ver. Sirrah, thy lord I honour as he is. 36 
Bas. Why, what is he ? As good a man as 
York. 

Ver. Hark ye, not so; in witness, take ye 
that. _ [Strikes him. 

Bas. Villain, thou know’st the law of arms 
is such 

That whoso draws a sword, ’t is present death, 
Or else this blow should broach thy dearest 
blood. 40 

But I’ll unto his Majesty, and crave 
I may have liberty to venge this wrong ; 

When thou shalt see I ’ll meet thee to thy cost. 
Ver. Well, miscreant, I ’ll be there as soon 
as you ; 

And, after, meet you sooner than you would. 46 

[Exeunt. 

ACT IV 

Scene I. [Paris. A hall of state.] 

Enter King Henry, Gloucester, Bishop of 
Winchester, York, Suffolk, Somerset, 
Warwick, Talbot, Exeter, the Governor 
of Paris [and others]. 

Glou. Lord Bishop, set the crown upon his 
head, 


Win. God save King Henry, of that name 
the sixth ! 

Glou. Now, governor of Paris, take your 
oath, 

That you elect no other king but him ; 

[Governor kneels.] 
Esteem none friends but such as are his friends, 
And none your foes but such as shall pretend 6 
Malicious practices against his state. 

This shall ye do, so help you righteous God ! 

[Exeunt Governor , etc.] 

Enter Sir John Fastolfe. 

Fast. My gracious sovereign, as I rode from 
Calais, 

To haste unto your coronation, 10 

A letter was deliver’d to my hands. 

Writ to your Grace from the Duke 01 Burgundy. 
Tal. Shame to the Duke of Burgundy and 
thee ! 

I vow’d, base knight, when I did meet thee 
next, 

To tear the Garter from thy craven’s leg, is 

[Plucking it off.] 

Which I have done, because unworthily 
Thou wast installed in that high degree. 

Pardon me, princely Henry, and the rest. 

This dastard, at the battle of Poictiers, 

When but in all I was six thousand strong 21 
And that the French were almost ten to one, 
Before we met or that a stroke was given, 

Like to a trusty squire did run away ; 

In which assault we lost twelve hundred men ; 
Myself and divers gentlemen beside 26 

Were there surpris’d and taken prisoners. 

Then judge, great lords, if I have done amiss; 
Or whether that such cowards ought to wear 
This ornament of knighthood, yea or no. 

Glou. To say the truth, this fact was in¬ 
famous 30 

And ill beseeming any common man, 

Much more a knight, a captain, and a leader. 
Tal. When first this order was ordain’d, my 
lords, 

Knights of the Garter were of noble birth, 
Valiant and virtuous, full of haughty courage, 
Such as were grown to credit by the Avars ; 36 

Not fearing death, nor shrinking for distress, 
But always resolute in most extremes. 

He then that is not furnish’d in this sort 
Doth but usurp the sacred name of knight, 40 
Profaning this most honourable order, 

And should, if I were worthy to be jndge, 

Be quite degraded, like a hedge-born swain 
That doth presume to boast of gentle blood. 
King. Stain to thy countrymen, thou hear’st 
thy doom! 46 

Be packing, therefore, thou that wast a knight; 
Henceforth we banish thee, on pain of death. 

[Exit Fastolfe.] 

And now, my Lord Protector, view the letter 
Sent from our uncle Duke of Burgundy. 

Glou. What means his Grace, that he hath 
chang’d his style ? 

No more but, plain and bluntly, “ To the 
King! ” 

Hath he forgot he is his sovereign ? 




IV. 1. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


653 


Or doth this churlish superscription 
Pretend some alteration in good will ? 

What’s here ? 

[Kearfs.l “ I have, upon especial cause, 55 
Mov’d with compassion of my country’s wreck, 
Together with the pitiful complaints 
Of such as your oppression feeds upon, 
Forsaken your pernicious faction 
And join’d with Charles, the rightful King of 
France.” eo 

0 monstrous treachery ! can this be so, 

That in alliance, amity, and oaths, 

There should be found such false dissembling 
guile? 

j King. What ! doth my uncle Burgundy re¬ 
volt? 

Glou. He doth, my lord, and is become your 
foe. as 

King. Is that the worst this letter doth con¬ 
tain ? 

Glou. It is the worst, and all, my lord, he 
writes. 

King. Why, then, Lord Talbot there shall 
talk witn him 

And give him chastisement for this abuse. 

How say you, my lord ? Are you not content ? 

Tal. Content, my liege ? Yes. But that I am 
prevented, 71 

I should have begg’d I might have been em¬ 
ploy’d. 

Kina. Then gather strength and march unto 
him straight. 

Let him perceive how ill we brook his treason, 
And what offence it is to flout his friends. 75 

Tal. I go, my lord, in heart desiring still 
You may behold confusion of your foes. [Exit. 

Enter Vernon and Basset. 

Ver. Grant me the combat, gracious sov¬ 
ereign. 

Bas. And me, my lord, grant me the combat 
too. 

York. This is my servant; hear him, noble 
prince. so 

Som. And this is mine ; sweet Henry, favour 
him. 

K. Hen. Be patient, lords; and give them 
leave to speak. 

Say, gentlemen, what makes you tlms exclaim ? 
And wherefore crave you combat? or with 
whom ? 

Ver. With him, my lord ; for he hath done 
me wrong. ss 

Bas. And I with him ; for he hath done me 
wrong. 

K. Hen. What is that wrong whereof you 
both complain ? 

First let me know, and then I ’ll answer you. 

Bas. Crossing the sea from England into 
France, 

This fellow here, with envious carping tongue, 
Upbraided me about the rose I wear, »i 

Saying the sanguine colour of the leaves 
Did represent my master’s blushing cheeks, 
When stubbornly he did repugn the truth 
About a certain question in the law 95 

Argued betwixt the Duke of York and him ; 


With other vile and ignominious terms; 

In confutation of which rude reproach 
And in defence of my lord’s worthiness, 

I crave the benefit of law of arms. io« 

Ver. And that is my petition, noble lord. 
For though he seem with forged quaint conceit 
To set a gloss upon his bold intent, 

Yet know, my lord, I was provok’d by him ; 
And he first took exceptions at this badge, 105 
Pronouncing that the paleness of this flower 
Bewray’d the faintness of my master’s heart. 
York. Will not this malice, Somerset, be left? 
Som. Your private grudge, my Lord of York, 
will out, 

Though ne’er so cunningly you smother it. no 
K. Hen. Good Lord, what madness rules in 
brainsick men, 

When for so slight and frivolous a cause 
Such factious emulations shall arise ! 

Good cousins both, of York and Somerset, 
Quiet yourselves, I pray, and be at peace. 11s 
York. Let this dissension first be tried by 
fight, 

And then your Highness shall command a peace. 
Som. The quarrel toucheth none but us 
alone ; 

Betwixt ourselves let us decide it then. 

York. There is my pledge ; accept it, Somer¬ 
set. 

Ver. Nay, let it rest where it began at first. 
Bas. Confirm it so, mine honourable lord. 
Glou. Confirm it so ! Confounded be your 
strife ! 

And perish ye, with your audacious prate ! 
Presumptuous vassals, are you not asham’d us 
With this immodest clamorous outrage 
To trouble and disturb the King and us ? 

And you, my lords, methinks you do not well 
To bear with their perverse objections ; 

Much less to take occasion from their mouths 130 
To raise a mutiny betwixt yourselves. 

Let me persuade you take a better course. 

Exe. It grieves nis Highness. Good my lords, 
be friends. 

K. Hen. Come hither, you that would be 
combatants. 

Henceforth I charge you, as you love our fa¬ 
vour, 135 

Quite to forget this quarrel and the cause. 

And you, my lords, remember where we are; 
In France, amongst a fickle, wavering nation. 
If they perceive dissension in our looks 
And that within ourselves we disagree, no 

How will their grudging stomachs be provok’d 
To wilful disobedience, and rebel! 

Beside, what infamy will there arise, 

When foreign princes shall be certified 
That for a toy, a thing of no regard, i« 

King Henry’s peers and chief nobility 
Destroy’d themselves, and lost the realm of 
France! 

0 , think upon the conquest of my father, 

My tender years, and let us not forgo 

That for a trifle that was bought with blood ! iso 

Let me be umpire in this doubtful strife. 

I see no reason, if I wear this rose, 

[Putting on a red rose .j 




654 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


IV. 1L 


That any one should therefore be suspicious 
I more incline to Somerset than York. 

Both are my kinsmen, and I love them both, iss 
As well they may upbraid me with my crown, 
Because, forsooth, the King of Scots is crown’d. 
But your discretions better can persuade 
Than I am able to instruct or teach ; 

And therefore, as we hither came in peace, iso 
So let us still continue peace and love. 

Cousin of York, we institute your Grace 
To be our regent in these parts of France ; 
And, good my Lord of Somerset, unite 
Your troops of horsemen with his bands of 
foot; 166 

And, like true subjects, sons of your progeni¬ 
tors, 

Go cheerfully together and digest 
Your angry choler on your enemies. 

Ourself, my Lord Protector, and the rest 
After some respite will return to Calais; no 

From thence to England ; where I hope ere long 
To be presented, by your victories, 

With Charles, Alengon, and that traitorous 
rout. 

[Exeunt all but York , Warwick , 
Exeter and Vernon. 

War. My Lord of York, I promise you, the 
King 

Prettily, methought, did play the orator. ne 
York. And so he did ; but yet I like it not, 
In that he wears the badge of Somerset. 

War. Tush, that was but his fancy, blame 
him not. 

I dare presume, sweet prince, he thought no 
harm. 

York. An if I wist he did, — but let it rest; 
Other affairs must now be managed. isi 

[Flourish. Exeunt all but Exeter. 
Exe. Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress 
thy voice ; 

For, had the passions of thy heart burst out, 

I fear we should have seen decipher’d there 
More rancorous spite, more furious raging 
broils, i86 

Than yet can be imagin’d or suppos’d. 

But howsoe’er, no simple man that sees 
This jarring discord of nobility. 

This shouldering of each other in the court, 
This factious bandying of their favourites, iso 
But that it doth presage some ill event. 

’T is much when sceptres are in children’s 
hands; 

But more when envy breeds unkind division. 
There comes the ruin, there begins confusion. 

[Exit. 

[Scene II.] Before Bourdeaux. 

Enter Talbot, with trump and drum. 

Tal. Go to the gates of Bourdeaux, trum¬ 
peter ; 

Summon their general unto the wall. 

Trumpet sounds. Enter General [and others ,] 
aloft. 

English John Talbot, captains, calls you forth, 
Servant in arms to Harry King of England, 


And thus he would : Open your city gates ; « 

Be humble to us ; call my sovereign yours, 
And do him homage as obedient subjects ; 

And I ’ll withdraw me and my bloody power. 
But, if you frown upon this proffer’d peace, 
You tempt the fury of my three attendants, m 
Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing 
fire ; 

Who in a moment even with the earth 
Shall lay your stately and air-braving towers, 
If you forsake the offer of their love. 

Gen. Thou ominous and fearful owl of 
death, « 

Our nation’s terror and their bloody scourge ! 
The period of thy tyranny approach eth. 

On us thou canst not enter but by death ; 

For, I protest, we are well fortified 
And strong enough to issue out and fight. 2 * 

If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed, 
Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee. 
On either hand thee there are squadrons 
pitch’d, 

To wall thee from the liberty of flight; 

And no way canst thou turn thee for re¬ 
dress 26 

But death doth front thee with apparent 
spoil, 

And pale destruction meets thee in the face. 
Ten thousand French have ta’en the sacra¬ 
ment 

To rive their dangerous artillery 
Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot. 30 

Lo, there thou stand’st, a breathing valiant 
man, 

Of an invincible unconquer’d spirit 1 
This is the latest glory of thy praise 
That I, thy enemy, due thee withal; 

For ere the glass, that now begins to run, 36 
Finish the process of his sandy hour, 

These eyes, that see thee now well coloured, 
Shall see thee withered, bloody, pale, and 
dead. [Drum afar off. 

Hark ! hark ! the Dauphin’s drum, a warning 
bell, 

Sings heavy music to thy timorous soul; ao 
And mine shall ring thy dire departure out. 

[Exeunt [ General , etc.]. 
Tal. He fables not; I hear the enemy. 

Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their 
wings. 

O, negligent and heedless discipline! 

How are we park’d and bounded in a pale, *• 
A little herd of England’s timorous deer, 

Maz’d with a yelping kennel of French curs! 

If we be English deer, be then in blood ; 

Not rascal-like, to fall down with a pinch, 

But rather, moody-mad and desperate stags, eo 
Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of 
steel 

And make the cowards stand aloof at bay. 

Sell every man his life as dear as mine, 

And they shall find dear deer of us, my 
friends. 

God and Saint George, Talbot and England’s 
right, 66 

Prosper our colours in this dangerous fight! 

[Exeunt.] 




IV. iv. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


6SS 


[Scene III. Plains in Gascony .] 

Enter York, with trumpet and many Soldiers: 
to him a Messenger. 


York. Are not the speedy scouts return’d 
again, 

That dogg’d the mighty army of the Dauphin ? 
Mess. They are return’d, my lord, and give 
it out 

That he is march’d to Bourdeaux with his 
power, 

To fight with Talbot. As he march’d along, 6 
By your espials were discovered 
Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led, 
Which join’d with him and made their march 
for Bourdeaux. 

York. A plague upon that villain Somerset, 
That thus delays my promised supply 10 

Of horsemen, that were levied for this siege ! 
Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid, 

And I am louted by a traitor villain 
And cannot help the noble chevalier. 

God comfort him in this necessity ! is 

If he miscarry, farewell wars in France ! 


Enter another Messenger [Sir William Lucy]. 


[Lucy.] Thou princely leader of our English 
strength, 

Never so needful on the earth of France, 

Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot, 

Who now is girdled with a waist of iron 20 
And hemm’d about with grim destruction. 

To Bourdeaux, warlike duke ! to Bourdeaux, 
York! 

Else, farewell Talbot, Fiance, and England’s 
honour! 

York. 0 God, that Somerset, who in proud 
heart 

Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot’s 
place! 25 

So should we save a valiant gentleman 
By forfeiting a traitor and a coward. 

Mad ire and wrathful fury makes me weep, 
That thus we die, while remiss traitors sleep. 

[Lucy.] 0 , send some succour to the distress’d 
lord! so 

York. He dies, we lose ; I break my warlike 
word; 

We mourn, France smiles ; we lose, they daily 


get; 

All long of this vile traitor Somerset. 

[Lucy.] Then God take mercy on brave Tal¬ 
bot’s soul, 

And on his son young John, who two hours 
since _ _ ss 

I met in travel toward his warlike father ! 
This seven years did not Talbot see his son, 
And now they meet where both their lives are 
done. 

York. Alas, what joy shall noble Talbot 
have 

To bid his young son welcome to his grave ? *o 
Away ! vexation almost stops my breath, 

That sund’red friends greet in the hour of 


death. 

Lucy, farewell; no more my fortune can, 
But curse the cause I cannot aid the man. 


Maine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours, are won 
away, 45 

Long all of Somerset and his delay. 

[Exit [with his soldiers ]. 
[Lucy.] Thus, while the vulture of sedition 
Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders, 
Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss 
The conquest of our scarce cold conqueror, 50 
That ever living man of memory, 

Henry the Fifth. Whiles they each other cross, 
Lives, honours, lands, and all hurry to loss. 

[Exit.] 

[Scene IV. Other plains in Gascony.] 

Enter Somerset, with his army [a Captain of 
Talbot’s with him]. 

Som. It is too late ; I cannot send them now. 
This expedition was by York and Talbot 
Too rashly plotted. All our general force 
Might with a sally of the very town 
Be buckled with. The over-daring Talbot s 
Hath sullied all his gloss of former honour 
By this unheedful, desperate, wild adventure. 
York set him on to fight and die in shame, 
That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the 
name. 

Cap. Here is Sir William Lucy, who with 
me w 

Set from our o’ermatch’d forces forth for aid. 

Enter Sir William Lucy. 

Som. How now, Sir William I whither were 
you sent ? 

Lucy. Whither, my lord ? From bought and 
sold Lord Talbot; 

Who, ring’d about with bold adversity. 

Cries out for noble York and Somerset 16 

To beat assailing death from his weak legions ; 
And whiles the honourable captain there 
Drops bloody sweat from his war-wearied limbs, 
And, in advantage ling’ring, looks for rescue, 
You, his false hopes, the trust of England’s 
honour, 20 

Keep off aloof with worthless emulation. 

Let not your private discord keep away 
The levied succours that should lend him aid, 
While he, renowned noble gentleman, 

Yield up his life unto a world of odds. 25 

Orleans the Bastard, Charles, Burgundy, 
Alencon, Reignier, compass him about, 

And Talbot perisheth by your default. 

Som. York set him on; York should have 
sent him aid. 

Lucy. And York as fast upon your Grace 
exclaims, s« 

Swearing that you withhold his levied host, 
Collected for this expedition. 

Som. York lies ; he might have sent and had 
the horse. 

I owe him little duty, and less love ; 

And take foul scorn to fawn on him by sending. 
Lucy. The fraud of England, not the force 
of France, 

Hath now entrapp’d the noble-minded Talbot. 
Never to England shall he bear his life, 

But dies, betray’d to fortune by your strife. 






656 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


IV. VI. 


Som. Come, go; I will dispatch the horse¬ 
men straight. 40 

Within six hours they will be at his aid. 

Lucy. Too late comes rescue. He is ta’en or 
slain; 

For fly he could not, if he would have fled ; 
And fly would Talbot never, though he might. 

Som. If he be dead, brave Talbot, then 
adieu! « 

Lucy. His fame lives in the world, his shame 
in you. [ Exeunt. 

[Scene V. The English camp near Bourdeaux.] 
Enter Talbot and [John] his son. 

Tal. 0 young John Talbot! I did send for 
thee 

To tutor thee in stratagems of war, 

That Talbot’s name might be in thee reviv’d 
When sapless age and weak unable limbs 
Should bring thy father to his drooping chair. 6 
But, O malignant and ill-boding stars ! 

Now thou art come unto a feast of death, 

A terrible and unavoided danger. 

Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest 
horse; 

And I ’ll direct thee how thou shalt escape 10 
By sudden flight. Come, dally not, be gone. 

John. Is my name Talbot? and am I your 
son ? 

And shall I fly ? 0 , if you love my mother, 
Dishonour not her honourable name, 

To make a bastard and a slave of me ! is 

The world will say, he is not Talbot’s blood, 
That basely fled when noble Talbot stood. 

Tal. Fly, to revenge my death, if I be slain. 

John. He that flies so will ne’er return again. 

Tal. If we both stay, we both are sure to 
die. 20 

John. Then let me stay; and, father, do you 

fly. . 

Your loss is great, so your regard should be ; 
My worth unknown, no loss is known in me. 
Upon my death the French can little boast; 

In yours they will, in you all hopes are lost. 25 
Flight cannot stain the honour you have won, 
But mine it will, that no exploit have done. 
You fled for vantage, every one will swear ; 
But, if I bow, they ’ll say it was for fear. 

There is no hope that ever I will stay, 30 

If the first hour I shrink and run away. 

Here on my knee I beg mortality, 

Rather than life preserv’d with infamy. 

Tal. Shall all thy mother’s hopes lie in one 
tomb ? 

John. Ay, rather than I’ll shame my 
mother’s womb. 35 

Tal. Upon my blessing, I command thee go. 

John. To fight I will, but not to fly the foe. 

Tal. Part of thy father may be sav’d in 
thee. 

John. No part of him but will be shame in 
me. 

Tal. Thou never hadst renown, nor canst not 
lose it. 40 

John. Yes, your renowned name. Shall flight 
abuse it ? 


Tal. Thy father’s charge shall clear thee 
from that stain. 

John. You cannot witness for me, being slain. 
If death be so apparent, then both fly. 

Tal. And leave my followers here to fight 
and die ? 45 

My age was never tainted with such shame. 
John. And shall my youth be guilty of such 
blame ? 

No more can I be severed from your side. 

Than can yourself yourself in twain divide. 
Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I; eo 
For live I will not, if my father die. 

Tal. Then here I take my leave of thee, fair 
son, 

Born to eclipse thy life this afternoon. 

Come, side by side together live and die; 

And soul with soul from France to heaven fly. 65 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene VI. Afield of battle.'] 

Alarum: excursions , wherein John Talbot is 
hemmed about , and Talbot rescues him. 

Tal. Saint George and victory! fight, sol¬ 
diers, fight! 

The Regent hath with Talbot broke his word 
And left us to the rage of France his sword. 
Where is John Talbot ? Pause, and take thy 
breath; 

I gave thee life and rescu’d thee from death. 6 
John. O, twice my father, twice am I thy 
son! 

The life thou gav’st me first, was lost and done, 
Till with thy warlike sword, despite of fate, 

To my determin’d time thou gav’st new date. 
Tal. When from the Dauphin’s crest thy 
sword struck fire, 10 

It warm’d thy father’s heart with proud desire 
Of bold-fac’d victory. Then leaden age, 
Quicken’d with youthful spleen and warlike 
rage, 

Beat down Aleinjon, Orleans, Burgundy, 

And from the pride of Gallia rescued thee. « 
The ireful bastard Orleans, that drew blood 
From thee, my boy, and had the maidenhood 
Of thy first fight, I soon encountered, 

And interchanging blows I quickly shed 
Some of his bastard blood ; and in disgrace 20 
Bespoke him thus : “ Contaminated, base, 

And misbegotten blood I spill of thine, 

Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of 
mine 

Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave 
boy.” 

Here, purposing the Bastard to destroy, 25 
Came in strong rescue. Speak, thy father’s 
care. 

Art thou not weary, John? How dost thou 
fare ? 

Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly, 
Now thou art seal’d the son of chivalry ? 

Fly, to revenge my death when I am dead ; so 
The help of one stands me in little stead. 

O, too much folly is it, well I wot. 

To hazard all our lives in one small boat! 

If I to-day die not with Frenchmen’s rage, 




IV. vii. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


657 


To-morrow I shall die with mickle age. ss 
By me they nothing gain an if I stay ; 

’T is but the short’ning of my life one day. 

In thee thy mother dies, our household’s name, 
My death’s revenge, thy youth, and England’s 
fame. 

All these and more we hazard by thy stay ; 40 

All these are sav’d if thou wilt fly away. 

John. The sword of Orleans hath not made 
me smart; 

These words of yours draw life-blood from my 
heart. 

On that advantage, bought with such a shame, 
To save a paltry life and slay bright fame, 45 
Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly, 

The coward horse that bears me fall and die ! 
And like me to the peasant boys of France, 

To be shame’s scorn and subject of mischance ! 
Surely, by all the glory you have won, bo 

An if I fly, I am not Talbot’s son. 

Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot; 

If son to Talbot, die at Talbot’s foot. 

Tal. Then follow thou thy desperate sire of 
Crete, 

Thou Icarus. Thy life to me is sweet. bs 

If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father’s side ; 
And, commendable prov’d, let’s die in pride. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene VII. Another part of the field .] 

Alarum: excursions. Enter old Talbot led [by 
a Servant]. 

Tal. Where is my other life ? mine own is 
gone. 

O, where’s young Talbot ? where is valiant 
John ? 

Triumphant Death, smear’d with captivity, 
Young Talbot’s valour makes me smile at thee. 
When he perceiv’d me sink and on my knee, b 
H is bloody sword he brandish’d over me, 

And, like a hungry lion, did commence 
Bough deeds of rage and stern impatience ; 

But when my angry guardant stood alone, 
Tend’ring my ruin and assail’d of none, 10 
Dizzy-ey’d fury and great rage of heart 
Suddenly made him from my side to start 
Into the clust’ring battle of the French ; 

And in that sea of blood my boy did drench 
His over-mounting spirit^ and there died, is 
My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride. 

Enter [Soldiers,] with the body of John Talbot. 

Serv. 0 my dear lord, lo, where your son is 
borne ! 

Tal. Thou antic Death, which laugh’st us 
here to scorn, 

Anon, from thy insulting tyranny, 

Coupled in bonds of perpetuity, 20 

Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky, 

In thy despite shall scape mortality. 

0 thou, whose wounds become hard-favoured 
Death, 

Speak to thy father ere thou vield thy breath ! 
Brave Death by speaking, whether he will or 
no; 26 

Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe. 


Poor boy ! he smiles, methinks, as who should 
say, 

Had Death been French, then Death had died 
to-day. 

Come, come, and lay him in his father’s 
arms. 

My spirit can no longer bear these harms. so 
Sold iers, adieu ! I have what I would have, 
Now my old arms are young John Talbot’s 
grave. [Dies. 

Enter Charles, Alenoon, Burgundy, Bas¬ 
tard, La Pucelle [and forces ]. 

Char. Had York and Somerset brought res¬ 
cue in, 

We should have found a bloody day of this. 

Bast. How the young whelp of Talbot’s, 
raging wood, ss 

Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen’s blood! 

Puc. Once I encount’red him, and thus I 
said : 

“Thou maiden youth, be vanquish’d by a 
maid ! ” 

But, with a proud majestical high scorn, 

He answer’d thus: “ Young Talbot was not 
born 40 

To be the pillage of a giglot wench.” 

So, rushing in the bowels of the French, 

He left me proudly, as unworthy fight. 

Bur. Doubtless he would have made a noble 
knight. 

See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms 45 
Of the most bloody nurser of his harms! 

Bast. Hew them to pieces, hack their bones 
asunder, 

Whose life was England’s glory, Gallia’s won¬ 
der. 

Char. O, no, forbear! for that which we 
have fled 

During the life, let us not wrong it dead. bo 

Enter Sir William Lucy [attended; Herald 
of the French preceding ]. 

Lucy. Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin’s 
tent 

To know who hath obtain’d the glory of the day. 

Char. On what submissive message art thou 
sent ? 

Lucy. Submission, Dauphin! ’t is a mere 
French word; 

We English warriors wot not what it means, bs 
I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta’en 
And to survey the bodies of the dead. 

Char. For prisoners ask’st thou ? Hell our 
prison is. 

But tell me whom thou seek’st. 

Lucy. But where’s the great Alcides of the 
field, «o 

Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, 
Created, for his rare success in arms. 

Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Va¬ 
lence ; 

Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield, 

Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of 
Alton, os 

Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of 
Sheffield, 







6 5 8 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


V. 11. 


The thrice-vietorious Lord of Falconbridge ; 
Knight of the noble Order of Saint George, 
Worthy Saint Michael, and the Golden Fleece ; 
Great marshal to Henry the Sixth 70 

Of all his wars within the realm of France ? 

Puc. Here is a silly stately style indeed ! 
The Turk, that two and fifty kingdoms hath, 
Writes not so tedious a style as this. 

Him that thou magnifi’st with all these titles 
Stinking and fly-blown lies here at our feet. 76 
Lucy. Is Talbot slain, the Frenchmen’s only 
scourge, 

Your kingdom’s terror and black Nemesis ? 

O, were mine eye-balls into bullets turn’d, 
That I in rage might shoot them at your faces! 
O, that I could but call these dead to life ! 81 

It were enough to fright the realm of France. 
Were but his picture left amongst you here, 

It would amaze the proudest of you all. 

Give me their bodies, that I may bear them 
hence «6 

And give them burial as beseems their worth. 
Puc. I think this upstart is old Talbot’s 
ghost, 

He speaks with such a proud commanding 
spirit. 

For God’s sake, let him have him. To keep 
them here, 

They would but stink, and putrefy the air. so 
Char. Go, take their bodies hence. 

Lucy. I ’ll bear them hence ; but from their 
ashes shall be rear’d 

A phoenix that shall make all France afeard. 
Char. So we be rid of them, do with them 
what thou wilt. 

And now to Paris, in this conquering vein ; 95 

All will be ours, now bloody Talbot’s slain. 

[Exeunt. 

[ACT V] 

Scene [I. London. The palace.] 

Sennet. Enter King, Gloucester, and Exe¬ 
ter. 

King. Have you perus’d the letters from the 
Pope, 

The Emperor, and the Earl of Armagnac ? 
Glou. I have, my lord ; and their intent is 
this: 

They humbly sue unto your excellence 
To have a godly peace concluded of e 

Between the realms of England and of France. 
King. How doth your Grace affect their mo¬ 
tion ? 

Glou. Well, my good lord ; and as the only 
means 

To stop effusion of our Christian blood 
And stablish quietness on every side. 10 

King. Ay, marry, uncle ; for I always thought 
It was both impious and unnatural 
That such immanity and bloody strife 
Should reign among professors of one faith. 

Glou. Beside, my lord, the sooner to effect « 
And surer bind this knot of amity, 

The Earl of Armagnac, near knit to Charles, 

A man of great authority in France, 


Proffers his only daughter to your Grace 
In marriage, with a large and sumptuous dowry. 
King. Marriage, uncle! Alas, my years are 
young! 21 

And fitter is my study and my books 
Than wanton dalliance with a paramour. 

Yet call the ambassadors ; and, as you please, 
So let them have their answers every one. 28 
I shall be well content with any choice 
Tends to God’s glory and my country’s weal. 

Enter Winchester [in Cardinal's habit , a 
Legate, and two] Ambassadors. 

Exe. What! is my Lord of Winchester in¬ 
stall’d, 

And call’d unto a cardinal’s degree ? 

Then I perceive that will be verified so 

Henry the Fifth did sometime prophesy, 

“ If once he come to be a cardinal, 

He ’ll make his cap co-equal with the crown.” 
King. My lords ambassadors, your several 
suits 

Have been consider’d and debated on. ss 

Your purpose is both good and reasonable ; 

And therefore are we certainly resolv’d 
To draw conditions of a friendly peace ; 

Which by my Lord of Winchester we mean 
Shall be transported presently to France. 40 
Glou. And for the proffer of my lord your 
master, 

I have inform’d his Highness so at large; 

As liking of the lady’s virtuous gifts, 

Her beauty, and the value of her dower, 

He doth intend she shall be England’s queen. *b 
King. [To the A mb.] In argument and proof 
of which contract, 

Bear her this jewel, pledge of my affection. 
And so, my Lord Protector, see them guarded 
And safely brought to Dover; where inshipp’d 
Commit them to the fortune of the sea. e* 
[Exeunt [all but Winchester and 
Legate]. 

Win. Stay, my lord legate ; you shall first 
receive 

The sum of money which I promised 
Should be delivered to his Holiness 
For clothing me in these grave ornaments. 

Leg. I will attend upon your lordship’s 
leisure. 65 

Win. [Aside.] Now Winchester will not sub¬ 
mit, I trow, 

Or be inferior to the proudest peer. 

Humphrey of Gloucester, thou shalt well per¬ 
ceive 

That, neither in birth or for authority, 

The Bishop will be overborne by thee. 00 

I ’ll either make thee stoop and bend thy knee, 
Or sack this country with a mutiny. [Exeunt. 

Scene [II. France. Plains in Anjou.] 

Enter Charles, Burgundy, ALENgoN, Bas¬ 
tard, Reignier, La Pucelle [andforces]. 

Char. These news, my lords, may cheer our 
drooping spirits. 

’T is said the stout Parisians do revolt 
And turn again unto the warlike French. 






V. ffi. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 




Alen. Then march to Paris, royal Charles of 
France, 

And keep not back your powers in dalliance, c 
Puc. Peace be amongst them, if they turn 
to us; 

Else, ruin combat with their palaces ! 

Enter Scout. 

Scout. Success unto our valiant general, 

And happiness to his accomplices! 

Char. What tidings send our scouts ? I pri¬ 
thee, speak. 10 

Scout. The English army, that divided was 
Into two parties, is now conjoin’d in one, 

, And means to give you battle presently. 

Char. Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warn¬ 
ing is; 

But we will presently provide for them. is 
Bur. I trust the ghost of Talbot is not 
there. 

Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear. 
Puc. Of all base passions, fear is most ac- 
curs’d. 

Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be 
thine, 

Let Henry fret and all the world repine. 20 
Char. Then on, my lords; and France be 
fortunate 1 [Exeunt. 

[Scene III. Before Anglers .] 

Alarum. Excursions. Enter La Pucelle. 

Puc. The Regent conquers, and the French¬ 
men fly. 

Now help, ye charming spells and periapts ; 
And ye choice spirits that admonish me 
And give me signs of future accidents. 

[Thunder. 

You speedy helpers, that are substitutes 
Under the lordly monarch of the north, 

Appear and aid me in this enterprise. 

Enter Fiends. 

This speedy and quick appearance argues proof 
Of your accustomed diligence to me. 

Now, ye familiar spirits, that are cull’d 10 
Out of the powerful regions under earth, 

Help me this once, that France may get the 
field. [They walk , and speak not. 

0 , hold me not with silence over-long ! 

Where I was wont to feed you with my blood, 

I ’ll lop a member off and give it you is 

In earnest of a further benefit, 

So you do condescend to help me now. 

[They hang their heads. 
No hope to have redress ? My body shall 
Pay recompense, if you will grant my suit. 

[ They shake their heads. 
Cannot my body nor blood-sacrifice 20 

Entreat you to your wonted furtherance ? 

Then take my soul, my body, soul, and all. 
Before that England give the French the foil. 

[They depart. 

See, they forsake me ! Now the time is come 
That France must vail her lof ty-plumed crest 
And let her head fall into England’s lap. 26 
My ancient incantations are too weak, 


And hell too strong for me to buckle with. 
Now, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust. 

[Exit. 

Excursions. Enter Burgundy and Yokvl fight¬ 
ing hand to hand. The French fiy. [La Pu¬ 
celle is brought in captive .] 

York. Damsel of France, I think I have you 
fast. 30 

Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms 
And try if they can gain your liberty. 

A goodly prize, fit for the devil’s grace ! 

See, how the ugly wench doth bend her brows, 
As if with Circe she would change my shape 1 35 
Puc. Chang’d to a worser shape thou canst 
not be. 

York. O, Charles the Dauphin is a proper 
man ; 

No shape but his can please your dainty eye. 
Puc. A plaguing mischief light on Charles 
and thee! 

And may ye both be suddenly surpris’d 40 
By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds ! 
York. Fell banning hag, enchantress, hold 
thy tongue! 

Puc. I prithee, give me leave to curse a while. 
York. Curse, miscreant, when thou com’st 
to the stake. [Exeunt. 

Alarum. Enter Suffolk, with Margaret in 
his hand. 

Suf. Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner. 

[Gazes on her. 

0 fairest beauty, do not fear nor fly, 46 

For I will touch thee but with reverent hands. 
I kiss these fingers for eternal peace, 

And lay them gently on thy tender side. 

Who art thou ? say, that I may honour thee, so 
Mar. Margaret my name, and daughter to a 
king, 

The King of Naples, whosoe’er thou art. 

Suf. An earl I am, and Suffolk am I call’d. 
Be not offended, nature’s miracle, 

Thou art allotted to be ta’en by me ; sb 

So doth the swan her downy cygnets save, 
Keeping them prisoner underneath her wings. 
Yet, if this servile usage once offend, 

Go and be free again as Suffolk’s friend. 

[SAe is going. 

0 , stay I [Aside.] I have no power to let her 
pass; oo 

My hand would free her, but my heart says no. 
As plays the sun upon the glassy streams, 
Twinkling another counterfeited beam, 

So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes. 
Fain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak, os 
I ’ll call for pen and ink, and write my mind. 
Fie, De la Pole 1 disable not thyself. 

Hast not a tongue ? Is she not here ? 

Wilt thou be daunted at a woman’s sight ? 

Ay, beauty’s princely majesty is such, 70 

Confounds the tongue and makes the senses 
rough. 

Mar. Say, Earl of Suffolk — if thy name be 
so — 

What ransom must I pay before I pass ? 

For I perceive I am thy prisoner. 





66o 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


v. iii. 


Suf. [Aside.] How canst thou tell she will 
deny thy suit, u> 

Before thou make a trial of her love? 

Mar. Why speak’st thou not ? What ransom 
must I pay ? 

Suf. [Aside.] She’s beautiful and therefore 
to be woo’d ; 

She is a woman, therefore to be won. 

Mar. Wilt thou accept of ransom? yea, or 
no. 8 o 


Suf. [Aside.] Fond man, remember that thou 
hast a wife; 

Then how can Margaret be thy paramour ? 

Mar. I were best to leave him, for he will 
not hear. 

Suf. [Aside.] There all is marr’d ; there lies 
a cooling card. 

Mar. He talks at random ; sure, the man is 
mad. 85 

Suf. [Aside.] And yet a dispensation may 
be had. 

Mar. And yet I would that you would an¬ 
swer me. 

Suf. [Aside.] I ’ll win this Lady Margaret. 
For whom ? 

Why, for my king. Tush, that’s a wooden 
thing ! 

Mar. He talks of wood ; it is some carpenter. 

Suf. [Aside.] Yet so my fancy may be sat¬ 
isfied, 81 

And peace established between these realms. 
But there remains a scruple in that too ; 

For though her father be the King of Naples, 
Duke of Anjou and Maine, yet is he poor, 95 
And our nobility will scorn the match. 

Mar. Hear ye, captain ? Are you not at lei¬ 
sure ? 

Suf. [Aside.] It shall be so, disdain they 
ne’er so much. 

Henry is youthful and will quicklj r yield. 
Madam, 1 have a secret to reveal. ioo 

Mar. [Aside.] What though I be enthrall’d ? 
He seems a knight, 

And will not any way dishonour me. 

Suf. Lady, vouchsafe to listen what I say. 

Mar. [Aside.] Perhaps I shall be rescu’d by 
the French; 

And then I need not crave his courtesy. 105 

Suf. Sweet madam, give me hearing in a 
cause — 

Mar. [Aside.] Tush, women have been cap¬ 
tivate ere now. 

Suf. Lady, wherefore talk you so ? 

Mar. I cry you mercy, ’t is but quid for quo. 

Suf. Say, gentle princess, would you not 
suppose 110 

Your bondage happy, to be made a queen ? 

Mar. To be a queen in bondage is more vile 
Than is a slave in base servility ; 

For princes should be free. 

Suf. And so shall you, 

If happy England’s royal king be free. no 

Mar. Why, what concerns his freedom unto 
me ? 

Suf. I’ll undertake to make thee Henry’s 
queen, 

To put a golden sceptre in thy hand 


And set a precious crown upon thy head, 

If thou wilt condescend to be my — 

Mar. What ? 120 

Suf. His love. 

Mar. I am unworthy to be Henry’s wife. 
Suf. No, gentle madam ; I unworthy am 
To woo so fair a dame to be his wife 
And have no portion in the choice myself. 125 
How say you, madam, are ye so content ? 

Mar. An if my father please, I am content. 
Suf. Then call our captains and our colours 
forth. 

And, madam, at your father’s castle walls 
We’ll crave a parley, to confer with him. 130 

A parley sounded. Enter Reignier on the walls. 

See, Reignier, see, thy daughter prisoner ! 
Reig. To whom ? 

Suf. To me. 

Reig. Suffolk, what remedy ? 

I am a soldier and unapt to weep 
Or to exclaim on fortune’s fickleness. 

Suf. Yes, there is remedy enough, my 
lord. 135 

Consent, and for thy honour give consent, 

Thy daughter shall be wedded to my king, 
Whom I with pain have woo’d and won 
thereto; 

And this her easy-held imprisonment 
Hath gain’d thy daughter princely liberty. i« 
Reig. Speaks Suffolk as he thinks ? 

Suf. Fair Margaret knows 

That Suffolk doth not flatter, face, or feign. 

Reig. Upon thy princely warrant, I descend 
To give thee answer of thy just demand. 

[Exit from the walls.] 
Suf. And here I will expect thy coming. i« 

Trumpets sound. Enter Reignier [below]. 

Reig. Welcome, brave earl, into our terri¬ 
tories ! 

Command in Anjou what your honour pleases. 
Suf. Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet a 
child, 

Fit to be made companion with a king. 

What answer makes your Grace unto my 
suit ? 150 

Reig. Since thou dost deign to woo her little 
worth 

To be the princely bride of such a lord; 

Upon condition I may quietly 
Enjoy mine own, the country Maine and 
Anjou, 

Free from oppression or the stroke of war, 155 
My daughter shall be Henry’s, if he please. 

Suf. That is her ransom ; I deliver her ; 

And those two counties I will undertake 
Your Grace shall well and quietly enjoy. 

Reig. And I again, in Henry’s royal 
name, 168 

As deputy unto that gracious king, 

Give thee her hand, for sign of plighted faith. 
Suf. Reignier of France, I give thee kingly 
thanks, 

Because this is in traffic of a king. 

[Aside.] And yet, methinks, I could be well 
content iw 




v. iv. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


661 


To be mine own attorney in this case. 

I ’ll over then to England with this news, 

And make this marriage to be solemniz’d. 

So farewell, Reignier ! Set this diamond safe 
In golden palaces, as it becomes. 170 

lieig. I do embrace thee, as I would em¬ 
brace 

The Christian prince, King Henry, were he 
here. 

Mar. Farewell, my lord! Good wishes, 
praise, and prayers 

Shall Suffolk ever- have of Margaret. [Going. 
Suf. Farewell, sweet madam! But hark 
you, Margaret; 176 

No princely commendations to my king ? 

Mar. Such commendations as becomes a 
maid, 

A virgin, and his servant, say to him. 

Suf. Words sweetly plac’d and modestly 
directed. 

But, madam, I must trouble you again ; iso 
No loving token to his Majesty ? 

Mar. Yes, my good lord, a pure unspotted 
heart, 

Never yet taint with love, I send the King. 

Suf. And this withal. [Kisses her. 

Mar. That for thyself; I will not so pre¬ 
sume 185 

To send such peevish tokens to a king. 

[Exeunt Reignier and Margaret.] 
Suf. 0 , wert thou for myself ! But, Suffolk, 
stay, 

Thou rnayst not wander in that labyrinth; 
There Minotaurs and ugly treasons lurk. 

Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise ; iso 

Bethink thee on her virtues that surmount, 
And natural graces that extinguish art; 

Repeat their semblance often on the seas, 

That, when thou com’st to kneel at Henry’s 
feet, 

Thou mayst bereave him of his wits with won¬ 
der. [Exit, we 

[Scene IV. Camp of the Duke of York in 
Anjou.] 

Enter York, Warwick [and others]. 

York. Bring forth that sorceress condemn’d 
to burn. 

[Enter La Pucelle, guarded , and a Shep¬ 
herd.] 

Shep. Ah, Joan, this kills thy father’s heart 
outright! 

Have I sought every country far and near, 
And, now it is my chance to find thee out, 

Must I behold thy timeless cruel death ? 5 

Ah, Joan, sweet daughter Joan, I ’ll die with 
thee! 

Puc. Decrepit miser! base ignoble wretch ! 

I am descended of a gentler blood. 

Thou art no father nor no friend of mine. 

Shep. Out, out! My lords, an please you, 
’t is not so. 10 

I did beget her, all the parish knows. 

Her mother liveth yet, can testify 

She was the first fruit of my bachelorship. 


War. Graceless! wilt thou deny thy parent¬ 
age? 

York. This argues what her kind of life 
hath been, is 

Wicked and vile ; and so her death concludes. 
Shep. Fie. Joan, that thou wilt be so ob¬ 
stacle ! 

God knows thou art a collop of my flesh, 

And for thy sake have I shed many a tear. 
Deny me not, I prithee, gentle Joan. 

Puc. Peasant, avaunt I — You have suborn’d 
this man, 

Of purpose to obscure my noble birth. 

Shep. ’T is true, I gave a noble to the priest 
The morn that I was wedded to her mother. 24 
Kneel down and take my blessing, good my girl. 
Wilt thou not stoop ? Now cursed be the time 
Of thy nativity ! I would the milk 
Thy mother gave thee when thou suck’dst her 
breast, 

Had been a little ratsbane for thy sake ! 

Or else, when thou didst keep my lambs 
a-field, 3 » 

I wish some ravenous wolf had eaten thee ! 

Dost thou deny thy father, cursed drab ? 

0 , burn her, burn her ! hanging is too good. 

[Exit. 

York. Take her away; for she hath liv’d 
too long, 

To fill the world with vicious qualities. 3 « 

Puc. First, let me tell you whom you have 
condemn’d: 

Not me begotten of a shepherd swain, 

But issued from the progeny of kings ; 

Virtuous and holy ; chosen from above, 

By inspiration of celestial grace, 40 

To work exceeding miracles on earth. 

I never had to do with wicked spirits; 

But you, that are polluted with your lusts, 
Stain’d with the guiltless blood of innocents, 
Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices, 45 
Because you want the grace that others have, 
You judge it straight a thing impossible 
To compass wonders but by help of devils. 

No ; misconceived ! Joan of Arc hath been 
A virgin from her tender infancy, eo 

Chaste and immaculate in very thought; 
Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effus’d, 
Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven. 
York. Ay, ay ; away with her to execution! 
War. And hark ye, sirs ; because she is a 
maid, 55 

Spare for no faggots, let there be enow. 

Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake, 
That so her torture may be shortened. 

Puc. Will nothing turn your unrelenting 
hearts ? 

Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity, e« 

That warrant.eth by law to be thy privilege. 

I am with child, ye bloody homicides ! 

Murder not then the fruit within my womb, 
Although ye hale me to a violent death. 

York. Now heaven forfend ! the holy maid 
with child ! ss 

War. The greatest miracle that e’er ye 
wrought! 

Is all your strict preciseness come to this ? 




662 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


v. iv. 


York. She and the Dauphin have been jug¬ 
gling. 

I did imagine what would be her refuge. 

War. Well, go to; we’ll have no bastards 
live, 70 

Especially since Charles must father it. 

Puc. You are deceiv’d; my child is none of 
his. 

It was Alengon that enjoy’d my love. 

York. Alengon ! that notorious Machiavel! 

It dies, an if it had a thousand lives. ™ 

Puc. 0 , give me leave, I have deluded you. 
’Twas neither Charles nor yet the duke I 
nam’d, 

But Reignier, King of Naples, that prevail’d. 

War. A married man ! that’s most intoler¬ 
able. 

York. Why, here’s a girl! I think she 
knows not well, so 

There were so many, whom she may accuse. 

War. It’s sign she hath been liberal and 
free. 

York. And yet, forsooth, she is a virgin 
pure. 

Strumpet, thy words condemn thy brat and 
thee. 

Use no entreaty, for it is in vain. _ so 

Puc. Then lead me hence; with whom I 
leave my curse: 

May never glorious sun reflex his beams 
Upon the country where you make abode, 

But darkness and the gloomy shade of death 
Environ you, till mischief and despair so 

Drive you to break your necks or hang your¬ 
selves ! [Exit [guarded). 

York. Break thou in pieces and consume to 
ashes, 

Thou foul accursed minister of hell! 

Enter Cardinal [Beaufort, Bishop of Win¬ 
chester, attended ]. 

Car. Lord Regent, I do greet your excellence 
With letters of commission from the King. »s 
For know, my lords, the states of Christen¬ 
dom, 

Mov’d with remorse of these outrageous broils, 
Have earnestly implor'd a general peace 
Betwixt our nation and the aspiring French ; 
And here at hand the Dauphin and his train ioo 
Approacheth, to confer about some matter. 

York. Is all our travail turn’d to this effect ? 
After the slaughter of so many peers, 

So many captains, gentlemen, and soldiers. 
That in this quarrel have been overthrown ior> 
And sold their bodies for their country’s bene¬ 
fit, 

Shall we at last conclude effeminate peace ? 
Have we not lost most part of all the towns, 

By treason, falsehood, and by treachery, 

Our great progenitors had conquered ? no 
O, Warwick, Warwick ! I foresee with grief 
The utter loss of all the realm of France. 

War. Be patient, York. If we conclude a 
peace, 

It shall be with such strict and severe cove¬ 
nants 

As little shall the Frenchmen gain thereby, us 


Enter Charles, Alen^on, Bastard, Reign¬ 
ier [and others). 

Char. Since, lords of England, it is thus 
agreed 

That peaceful truce shall be proclaim’d in 
France, 

We come to be informed by yourselves 
What the conditions of that league must be. 
York. Speak, Winchester ; for boiling choler 
chokes 120 

The hollow passage of my poison’d voice, 

By sight of these our baleful enemies. 

Car. Charles, and the rest, it is enacted 
thus: 

That, in regard King Henry gives consent, 

Of mere compassion and of lenity, i»s 

To ease your country of distressful war, 

And suffer you to breathe in fruitful peace, 
You shall become true liegemen to his crown ; 
And, Charles, upon condition thou wilt swear 
To pay him tribute and submit thyself, 130 
Thou shalt be plac’d as viceroy under him, 

And still enjoy thy regal dignity. 

Alen. Must he be then as shadow of him¬ 
self ? 

Adorn his temples with a coronet, 

And yet, in substance and authority, im 

Retain but privilege of a private man ? 

This proffer is absurd and reasonless. 

Char. ’T is known already that I am pos¬ 
sess’d 

With more than half the Gallian territories, 
And therein reverenc’d for their lawful 
king: no 

Shall I, for lucre of the rest unvanquish’d, 
Detract so much from that prerogative 
As to be call’d but viceroy of the whole ? 

No, lord ambassador, I ’ll rather keep 
That which I have than, coveting for more, ns 
Be cast from possibility of all. 

York. Insulting Charles ! hast thou by secret 
means 

Used intercession to obtain a league, 

And, now the matter grows to compromise, 
Stand’st thou aloof upon comparison ? ino 

Either accept the title thou usurp’st, 

Of benefit proceeding from our king 
And not of any challenge of desert, 

Or we will plague thee with incessant wars. 
Beig. My lord, you do not well in obsti¬ 
nacy IBS 

To cavil in the course of this contract. 

If once it be neglected, ten to one 
We shall not find like opportunity. 

Alen. To say the truth, it is your policy 
To save your subjects from such massacre ioo 
And ruthless slaughters as are daily seen 
By our proceeding in hostility ; 

And therefore take this compact of a truce, 
Although you break it when your pleasure 
serves. 

War. How say’st thou, Charles ? Shall our 
condition stand ? ioo 

Char. It shall; 

Only reserv’d, you claim no interest 
In any of our towns of garrison. 





V. V. 


THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


663 


York. Then swear allegiance to his Majesty, 
As thou art knight, never to disobey m 

Nor be rebellious to the crown of England, 
Thou, nor thy nobles, to the crown of England. 

[Charles and his party give signs of 

So, now dismiss your army when ye please ; 
Hang up your ensigns, let your drums be still, 
For here we entertain a solemn peace. i 7 B 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene] V. [ London. The palace.] 

Enter Suffolk in conference with the King ; 
Gloucester and Exeter [following]. 

King. Your wondrous rare description, noble 
earl, 

Of beauteous Margaret hath astonish’d me. 

Her virtues graced with external gifts 
Do breed love’s settled passions in my heart; 
And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts o 
Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, 
So am I driven by breath of her renown 
Either to suffer snipwreck or arrive 
Where I may have fruition of her love. 

Suf. Tush, my good lord, this superficial 
tale 10 

Is but a preface of her worthy praise. 

The chief perfections of that lovely dame, 

Had I sufficient skill to utter them, 

Would make a volume of enticing lines, 

Able to ravish any dull conceit; is 

And, which is more, she is not so divine, 

So full-replete with choice of all delights, 

But with as humble lowliness of mind 
She is content to be at your command ; 
Command, I mean, of virtuous chaste intents, 
To love and honour Henry as her lord. 21 

King. And otherwise will Henry ne’er pre¬ 
sume. 

Therefore, my Lord Protector, give consent 
That Margaret may be England’s royal queen. 

Glou. Sp should 1 give consent to flatter sin. 25 
You know, my lord, your Highness is betroth’d 
Unto anotner lady of esteem. 

How shall we then dispense with that contract, 
And not deface your honour with reproach ? 

Suf. As doth a ruler with unlawful oaths ; 30 
Or one that, at a triumph having vow’d 
To try his strength, forsaketh yet the lists 
By reason of his adversary’s odds. 

A poor earl’s daughter is unequal odds, 

And therefore may be broke without offence. 35 
Glou. Why, what, I pray, is Margaret more 
than that ? 

Her father is no better than an earl, 

Although in glorious titles he excel. 

Suf. Yes, my lord, her father is a king, 

The King of Naples and Jerusalem ; *0 

And of such great authority in France 
As his alliance will confirm our peace 
And keep the Frenchmen in allegiance. 

Glou. And so the Earl of Armagnac may do, 
Because he is near kinsman unto Charles. 45 
Exe. Beside, his wealth doth warrant a lib¬ 
eral dower, 

Where Reignier sooner will receive than give. 


Suf. A dower, my lords! disgrace not so 
your king, 

That he should be so abject, base, and poor, 

To choose for wealth and not for perfect love, so 

Henry is able to enrich his queen 

And not to seek a queen to make him rich. 

So worthless peasants bargain for their wives, 
As market-men for oxen, sheep, or horse. 
Marriage is a matter of more worth es 

Than to be dealt in by attorneyship. 

Not whom we will, but. whom his Grace affects, 
Must be companion of his nuptial bed. 

And therefore, lords, since he affects her most, 
[It] most of all these reasons bindeth us, so 
In our opinions she should be preferr’d. 

For what is wedlock forced but a hell, 

An age of discord and continual strife ? 
Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, 

And is a pattern of celestial peace. s s 

Whom should we match with Henry, being a king, 
But Margaret, that is daughter to a king ? 

Her peerless feature, joined with her birth, 
Approves her fit for none but for a king. 

Her valiant courage and undaunted spirit, to 
M ore than in women commonly is seen, 

Will answer our hope in issue of a king; 

For Henry, son unto a conqueror, 

Is likely to beget more conquerors, 

If with a lady of so high resolve 7 B 

As is fair Margaret he be link’d in love. 

Then yield, my lords; and here conclude with me 
That Margaret shall be Queen, and none but she. 
King. Whether it be through force of your 
report, 

My noble Lord of Suffolk, or for that so 

My tender youth was never yet attaint 
With any passion of inflaming love, 

I cannot tell; but this I am assur’d, 

I feel such sharp dissension in my breast, 

Such fierce alarums both of hope and fear, ss 
As I am sick with working of my thoughts. 
Take, therefore, shipping ; post, my lord, to 
France ; 

Agree to any covenants, and procure 
That Lady Margaret do vouchsafe to come 
To cross the seas to England and be crown’d no 
King Henry’s faithful and anointed queen. 

For your expenses and sufficient charge, 
Among the people gather up a tenth. 

Be gone, I say ; for, till you do return, 

I rest perplexed with a thousand cares. ns 

And you, good uncle, banish all offence. 

If you do censure me by what you were, 

Not what you are, I know it will excuse 
This sudden execution of my will. 

And so, conduct me where, from company, 100 
I may revolve and ruminate my grief. [Exit. 
Glou. Ay, grief, I fear me, both at first and 
last. [Exeunt Gloucester [and Exeter]. 
Suf. Thus Suffolk hath prevail’d ; and thus 
he goes, 

As did the youthful Paris once to Greece, 

With hope to find the like event in love, io« 
But prosper better than the Troyan did. 
Margaret shall now be Queen, and rule the King; 
But I will rule both her, the King, and realm. 

[Exit. 





66 4 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


I. i. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


[DRAMATIS 

King Henry YI. 

Humphrey, duke of Gloucester, his uncle. 

Cardinal Beaufort, bishop of Winchester, great- 
uncle to the King. 

Richard Plantagenet, duke of York. 

Edward and Richard, his sons. 

Duke of Somerset. 

Duke of Suffolk. 

Duke of Buckingham. 

Lord Clifford. 

Young Clifford, his son. 

Earl of Salisbury. 

Earl of Warwick. 

Lord Scales. 

Lord Say. 

Sir Humphrey Stafford, and William Stafford, 
his brother. 

Sir John Stanley. 

Yaux. 

Matthew Goffe. 

Alexander Iden, a Kentish gentleman. 


PERSONS 

A Sea-Captain, Master, and Master’s Mate, and Wal¬ 
ter Whitmore. 

Two Gentlemen, prisoners with Suffolk. 

John Hume and John Southwell, priests. 

Roger Bolingbroke, a conjurer. 

Thoma.s Horner, an armourer, 

Peter, his man. 

Clerk of Chatham. Mayor of Saint Alban’s. 

Simpcox, an impostor. 

Jack Cade, a rebel. 

George Bevis, John Holland, Dick the butcher, 
Smith the weaver, Michael, etc., followers of 
Cade. 

Two Murderers. 

Margaret, Queen to King Henry. 

Eleanor, duchess of Gloucester. 

Margery Jordan, a witch. 

Wife to Simpcox. 

A Spirit. 


Lords, Ladies, and Attendants, Petitioners, Aldermen, a Herald, a Beadle, Sheriff, and Officers, Citizens, 

Apprentices, Falconers, Guards, Soldiers, Messengers, etc. 

Scene : England.'] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [ London. The palace.] 

Flourish of trumpets : then hautboys. Enter the 
King, Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, 
Salisbury, Warwick, and Cardinal Beau¬ 
fort, on the one side ; the Queen, Suffolk, 
York, Somerset, and Buckingham, on the 
other. 

Suf. As by your high imperial Majesty 
I had in charge at my depart for France, 

As procurator to your Excellence, 

To marry Princess Margaret for your Grace, 
So, in the famous ancient city Tours, g 

In presence of the Kings of France and Sicil, 
The Dukes of Orleans, Calaber, Bretagne, and 
Alengon, 

Seven earls, twelve barons, and twenty reverend 
bishops, 

I have perform’d my task and was espous’d ; 
And humbly now upon my bended knee, 10 
In sight of England and her lordly peers, 
Deliver up my title in the Queen 
To your most gracious hands, that are the sub¬ 
stance 

Of that great shadow I did represent; 

The happiest gift that ever marquess gave, is 
The fairest queen that ever king receiv’d. 
King. Suffolk, arise. Welcome, Queen Mar¬ 
garet ! 

I can express no kinder sign of love 

Than this kind kiss. 0 Lord, that lends me life, 


Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness ! 20 
For thou hast given me in this beauteous face 
A world of earthly blessings to my soul, 

If sympathy of love unite our thoughts. 

Queen. Great King of England and my gra¬ 
cious lord, 

The mutual conference that my mind hath 
had, 25 

By day, by night, waking and in my dreams, 

In courtly company or at my beads, 

With you, mine alder-liefest sovereign, 

Makes me the bolder to salute my king 
With ruder terms, such as my wit affords so 
And over-joy of heart doth minister. 

King. Her sight did ravish ; but her grace 
in speech, 

Her words y-clad with wisdom’s majesty, 
Makes me from wond’ring fall to weeping joys, 
Such is the fulness of my heart’s content. 35 
Lords, with one cheerful voice welcome mv 
love. 

All (kneeling). Long live Queen Margaret, 
England’s happiness ! 

Queen. We thank you all. [Flourish. 

Suf. My Lord Protector, so it please your 
Grace, 

Here are the articles of contracted peace 40 
Between our sovereign and the French king 
Charles, 

For eighteen months concluded by consent. 

Glou. (Reads.) “Imprimis , It is agreed be¬ 
tween the French king Charles, and William 
de la Pole, Marquess of Suffolk, ambassador 





THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


665 


I. i. 


for Henry King of England, that the said [*s 
Henry shall espouse the Lady Margaret, daugh¬ 
ter unto Reignier King of Naples, Sicilia, and 
Jerusalem, and crown her Queen of England 
ere the thirtieth of May next ensuing. Item , 
that the duchy of Anjou and the county of 
Maine shall be released and delivered to the 
Kin^ her father ” — [Lets the paper fall. 62 

King. Uncle, how now ! 

Glou. Pardon me, gracious lord ; 

Some sudden qualm hath struck me at the 
heart 

And dimm’d mine eyes, that I can read no 
further. 

King. Uncle of Winchester, I pray, read on. nc 
Car. [Reads.] “ Item, It is further agreed 
between them, that the duchies of Anjou and 
Maine shall be released and delivered over to 
the King her father, and she sent over of the 
King of England’s own proper cost and charges, 
without having any dowry.” 02 

King. They please us well. Lord marquess, 
kneel down. 

We here create thee the first Duke of Suffolk, 
And gird thee with the sword. Cousin of York, 
We here discharge your Grace from being regent 
I’ the parts of France, till term of eighteen 
months 

Be full expir’d. Thanks, uncle Winchester, 
Gloucester, York, Buckingham, Somerset, 
Salisbury, and Warwick ; 70 

We thank you all for this great favour done 
In entertainment to my princely queen. 

Come, let us in, and with all speed provide 
To see her coronation be perform’d. 

[Exeunt King, Queen , and Suffolk. 
Glou. Brave peers of England, pillars of the 
state, 75 

To you Duke Humphrey must unload his grief, 
Your grief, the common grief of all the land. 
What! did my brother Henry spend his youth, 
His valour, coin, and people, in the wars ? 

Did he so often lodge in open field, so 

In winter’s cold and summer’s parching heat, 
To eonnuer France, his true inheritance? 

And did my brother Bedford toil his wits, 

To keep by policy what Henry got ? 

Have you yourselves, Somerset, Buckingham, 
Brave York, Salisbury, and victorious War¬ 
wick, so 

Receiv’d deep scars in France and Normandy? 
Or hath mine uncle Beaufort and myself, 

With all the learned council of the realm, 
Studied so long, sat in the council-house 00 
Early and late, debating to and fro 
How France and Frenchmen might be kept in 
awe, 

And hath his Highness in his infancy 
Crowned in Paris in despite of foes ? m 

And shall these labours and these honours 
die? 

Shall Henry’s conquest, Bedford’s vigilance, 
Your deeds of war, and all our counsel die ? 

0 peers of England, shameful is this league, 
Fatal this marriage, cancelling your fame, 
Blotting your names from books of memory, ioe 
Razing the characters of your renown, 


Defacing monuments of conquer’d France, 
Undoing all, as all had never been ! 

Car. Nephew, what means this passionate 
discourse, 

This peroration with such circumstance ? i<* 

For France, ’t is ours ; and we will keep it still, 
Glou. Ay, uncle, we will keep it, if we can ; 
But now it is impossible we should. 

Suffolk, the new-made duke that rules the 
roast, 

Hath given the duchy of Anjou and Maine no 
Unto the poor King Reignier, whose large style 
Agrees not with the leanness of his purse. 

Sal. Now, by the death of Him that died for 
all, 

These counties were the keys of Normandy. 
But wherefore weeps Warwick, my valiant 
son ? ns 

War. For grief that they are past recovery ; 
For, were there hope to conquer them again, 
My sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no 
tears. 

Anjou and Maine ! myself did win them both. 
Those provinces these arms of mine did con¬ 
quer ; 120 

And are the cities, that I got with wounds, 
Deliver’d up again with peaceful words ? 

Mort Dieu ! 

York. For Suffolk’s duke, may he be suffo¬ 
cate, 

That dims the honour of this warlike isle ! 125 

France should have torn and rent my very heart, 
Before I would have yielded to this league. 

I never read but England’s kings have had 
Large sums of gold and dowries with their 
wives; 

And our King Henry gives away his own, iso 
To match with her that brings no vantages. 

Glou. A proper jest, and never heard before, 
That Suffolk should demand a whole fifteenth 
For costs and charges in transporting her ! 

She should have stay’d in France and starv’d 
in France, 135 

Before — 

Car. My Lord of Gloucester, now ye grow 
too hot. 

It was the pleasure of my lord the King. 

Glou. My Lord of Winchester, I know your 
mind. 

’T is not my speeches that you do mislike, no 
But’t is my presence that doth trouble ye. 
Rancour will out. Proud prelate, in thy face 
I see thy fury. If I longer stay, 

We shall begin our ancient bickerings. 
Lordings, farewell; and say, when I am gone, 

I prophesied France will be lost ere long. i 4 « 

[Exit. 

Car. So, there goes our Protector in a rage. 
’T is known to you he is mine enemy, 

Nay, more, an enemy unto you all, 

And no great friend, I fear me, to the King, iso 
Consider, lords, he is the next of blood, 

And heir apparent to the English crown. 

Had Henry got an empire by his marriage, 

And all the wealthy kingdoms of the west ; 
There’s reason he should be displeas’d at, it. 
Look to it, lords ! Let not his smoothing words 




666 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


1 . 1 . 


Bewitch your hearts. Be wise and circum¬ 
spect. 

What though the common people favour him, 
Calling him ‘ ‘ Humphrey, the good Duke of 
Gloucester,” 

Clapping their hands, and crying with loud 
voice, _ iso 

“ Jesu maintain your royal Excellence ! ” 

With “ God preserve the good Duke Hum¬ 
phrey ! ” 

I fear me, lords, for all this flattering gloss, 

He will be found a dangerous protector. 

Buck. Why should he, then, protect our 
sovereign, i 65 

He being of age to govern of himself ? 

Cousin of Somerset, join you with me, 

And all together, with the Duke of Suffolk, 

We ’ll quickly hoise Duke Humphrey from his 
seat. 

Car. This weighty business will not brook 
delay. no 

I ’ll to the Duke of Suffolk presently. [Exit. 

Som. Cousin of Buckingham, though Hum¬ 
phrey’s pride 

And greatness of his place be grief to us, 

Yet let us watch the haughty Cardinal. 

His insolence is more intolerable its 

Than all the princes in the land beside. 

If Gloucester be displac’d, he ’ll be Protector. 

Buck. Or thou or I, Somerset, will be Pro¬ 
tectors, 

Despite Duke Humphrey or the Cardinal. 

[.Exeunt Buckingham and Somerset. 

Sal. Pride went before, ambition follows 
him. iso 

While these do labour for their own prefer¬ 
ment, 

Behoves it us to labour for the realm. 

I never saw but Humphrey Duke of Glouces¬ 
ter 

Did bear him like a noble gentleman. 

Oft have I seen the haughty Cardinal, iss 
More like a soldier than a man o’ the church, 
As stout and proud as he were lord of all, 
Swear like a ruffian, and demean himself 
Unlike the ruler of a commonweal. 

Warwick, my son, the comfort of my age, wo 
Thy deeds, thy plainness, and thy housekeep¬ 
ing, 

Hath won the greatest favour of the commons, 
Excepting none but good Duke Humphrey ; 
And, brother York, thy acts in Ireland, 

In bringing them to civil discipline, ios 

Thy late exploits done in the heart of France, 
When thou wert regent for our sovereign, 
Have made thee fear’d and honour’d of the 
people. 

Join we together, for the public good, 

In what we can, to bridle and suppress 200 
The pride of Suffolk and the Cardinal, 

With Somerset’s and Buckingham’s ambition ; 
And, as we may, cherish Duke Humphrey’s 
deeds, 

While they do tend the profit of the land. 

War. So God help Warwick, as he loves the 
land, 205 

And common profit of his country ! 


York. [Aside.] And so says York, for he 
hath greatest cause. 

Sal. Then let’s make haste away, and look 
unto the main. 

War. Unto the main! 0 father, Maine is 
lost! 

That Maine which by main force Warwick did 
win, 210 

And would have kept so long as breath did 
last! 

Main chance, father, you meant; but I meant 
Maine, 

Which I will win from France, or else be slain. 

[Exeunt Warwick and Salisbury. 

York. Anjou and Maine are given to the 
French ; 

Paris is lost; the state of Normandy 216 

Stands on a tickle point, now they are gone. 
Suffolk concluded on the articles, 

The peers agreed, and Henry was well pleas’d 
To change two dukedoms for a duke’s fair 
daughter. 

I cannot blame them all; what is’t to them ? 220 
’T is thine they give away, and not their own ; 
Pirates may make cheap pennyworths of their 
pillage 

And purchase friends and give to courtezans, 
Still revelling like lords till all be gone ; 

While as the silly owner of the goods 22* 

Weeps over them and wrings his hapless hands 
And shakes his head and trembling stands 
aloof, 

While all is shar’d and all is borne away, 

Ready to starve and dare not touch his own ; 

So York must sit and fret and bite his 
tongue, 230 

While his own lands are bargain’d for and 
sold. 

Methinks the realms of England, France, and 
Ireland 

Bear that proportion to my flesh and blood 
As did the fatal brand Althaea burn’d 
Unto the Prince’s heart of Calydon. 235 

Anjou and Maine both given unto the French ! 
Cold news for me, for I had hope of France, 
Even as I have of fertile England’s soil. 

A day will come when York shall claim his 
own; 

And therefore I will take the Nevils’ parts 240 
And make a show of love to proud Duke Hum¬ 
phrey ; 

And, when I spy advantage, claim the crown, 
For that’s the golden mark I seek to hit. 

Nor shall proud Lancaster usurp my right, 

Nor hold the sceptre in his childish fist, 245 
Nor wear the diadem upon his head, 

Whose church-like humours fits not for a 
crown. 

Then, York, be still a while, till time do serve. 
Watch thou and wake when others be asleep, 
To pry into the secrets of the state ; 260 

Till Henry, surfeiting in joys of love 
With his new bride and England’s dear-bought 
queen, 

And Humphrey with the peers be fallen at 
ja,rs. 

Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose, 





1 . 11 . 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


66 7 


With whose sweet smell the air shall be per¬ 
fum’d, 266 

And in my standard bear the arms of York, 

To grapple with the house of Lancaster; 

And, force perforce, I ’ll make him yield the 
crown, 

Whose bookish rule hath pull’d fair England 
down. [Exit. 

[Scene II. The Duke of Gloucester's house.] 

Enter Duke Humphrey and his wife Elea¬ 
nor. 

Duch. Why droops my lord, like over-ripen’d 
corn, 

Hanging the head at Ceres’ plenteous load ? 
Why doth the great Duke Humphrey knit his 
brows, 

As frowning at the favours of the world ? 

Why are thine eyes fix’d to the sullen earth, 6 
Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight ? 
What seest thou there ? King Henry’s diadem, 
Enchas’d with all the honours of the world ? 

If so, gaze on, and grovel on thy face, 

Until thv head be circled with the same. io 
Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold. 
What, is’t too short? I’ll lengthen it with 
mine; 

And, having both together heav’d it up, 

We ’ll both together lift our heads to heaven, 
And never more abase our sight so low is 

As to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground. 

Glou. O Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost love 
thy lord, 

Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts! 

And may that thought, when I imagine ill 
Against my king and nephew, virtuous Henry, 
Be my last breathing in this mortal world ! 21 

My troublous dreams this night doth make me 
sad. 

Duch. What dream’d my lord ? Tell me, and 
I ’ll requite it 

With sweet rehearsal of my morning’s dream. 

Glou. Methought this staff, mine office-badge 
in court, 25 

Was broke in twain ; by whom I have forgot, 
But, as I think, it was by the Cardinal; 

And on the pieces of the broken wand 
Were plac’d the heads of Edmund Duke of 
Somerset, 

And William de la Pole, first Duke of Suffolk. 
This was my dream; what it doth bode, God 
knows. 31 

Duch. Tut, this was nothing but an argument 
That he that breaks a stick of Gloucester’s 
grove 

Shall lose his head for his presumption. 

But list to me, my Humphrey, my sweet Duke. 
Methought I sat in seat of majesty 36 

In the cathedral church of Westminster, 

And in that chair where kings and queens are 
crown’d; 

Where Henry and Dame Margaret kneel’d to 
me 

And on my head did set the diadem. *o 

Glou. Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide out¬ 
right. 


Presumptuous dame, ill-nurtur’d Eleanor, 

Art thou not second woman in the realm, 

And the Protector’s wife, belov’d of him ? 
Hast thou not worldly pleasure at command, 46 
Above the reach or compass of thy thought ? 
And wilt thou still be hammering treachery, 

To tumble down thy husband and thyself 
From top of honour to disgrace’s feet? 

Away from me, and let me hear no more 1 *0 

Duch. What, what, my lord! are you so 
choleric 

With Eleanor, for telling but her dream ? 

Next time 1 ’ll keep my dreams unto myself, 
And not be check’d. 

Glou. Nay, be not angry ; I am pleas’d again. 
Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. My Lord Protector, ’t is his Highness’ 
pleasure 66 

You do prepare to ride unto Saint Alban’s, 
Where as the King and Queen do mean to hawk. 
Glou. I go. Come, Nell, thou wilt ride with 
us ? 

Duch. Yes, my good lord, I ’ll follow pre¬ 
sently. «o 

[Exeunt Gloucester [and Messenger], 
Follow I must; I cannot go before, 

While Gloucester bears this base and humble 
mind. 

Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood, 

I would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks 
And smooth my way upon their headless necks ; 
And, being a woman, I will not be slack «« 

To play my part in Fortune’s pageant. 

Where are you there ? Sir John ! Nay, fear not, 
man, 

We are alone ; here’s none but thee and I. 
Enter Hume. 


Hume. Jesus preserve your royal Majesty! to 

Duch. What say’st thou? Majesty? I am 
but Grace. 

Hume. But, by the grace of God, and Hume’s 
advice, 

Your Grace’s title shall be multiplied. 

Duch. What say’st thou, man? Hast thou 
as yet conferr’d 

With Margery Jordan, the cunning witch, to 

With Roger Bolingbroke, the conjurer ? 

And will they undertake to do me good ? 

Hume. This they have promised, to show 
your Highness 

A spirit rais’d from depth of under-ground, 

That shall make answer to such questions «o 

As by vour Grace shall be propounded him. 

Duch. It is enough; I’ll think upon the 
questions. 

When from Saint Alban’s we do make return, 

We ’ll see these things effected to the full. 

Here, Hume, take this reward. Make merry, 
man, » 

With thy confederates in this weighty cause. 

[Exit. 

Hume. Hume must make merry with the 
Duchess’ gold: 

Marry, and shall. But, how now, Sir John 
Hume! 




668 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


I. iii. 


Seal up your lips, and give no words but mum ; 
The business asketh silent secrecy. »o 

Dame Eleanor gives gold to bring the witch. 
Gold cannot come amiss, were she a devil. 

Yet have I gold flies from another coast, 

I dare not say from the rich Cardinal 
And from the great and new-made Duke of 
Suffolk, 95 

Yet I do find it so ; for, to be plain, 

They, knowing Dame Eleanor’s aspiring hu¬ 
mour, 

Have hired me to undermine the Duchess 
And buzz these conjurations in her brain. 

They say, “ A crafty knave does need no 
broker; ” 100 

Yet am I Suffolk and the Cardinal’s broker. 
Hume, if you take not heed, you shall go near 
To call them both a pair of crafty knaves. 

Well, so it stands ; and thus, I fear, at last 
Hume’s knavery will be the Duchess’ wreck, 
And her attainture will be Humphrey’s fall. ioe 
Sort how it will, I shall have gold for all. 

[Exit. 

[Scene III. The palace.} 

Enter three or four Petitioners, [Peter] the 
Armourer's man being one. 

1 . Petit. My masters, let’s stand close. My 
Lord Protector will come this way by and by, 
and then we may deliver our supplications in 
the quill. 

2. Petit. Marry, the Lord protect him, for 

he ’s a good man ! Jesu bless him ! e 

Enter Suffolk and Queen. 

Peter. Here ’a comes, methinks, and the 
Queen with him. I ’ll be the first, sure. 

2. Petit. Come back, fool. This is the Duke 
of Suffolk, and not my Lord Protector. 

Suf. How now, fellow! wouldst anything 
with me ? 12 

1. Petit. I pray, my lord, pardon me. I took 
ye for my Lord Protector. 

Queen. [Reading.} “ To my Lord Protec¬ 
tor ! ” Are your supplications to his lordship ? 
Let me see them. What is thine ? 11 

1. Petit. Mine is, an ’t please your Grace, 

against John Goodman, my Lord Cardinal’s 
man, for keeping my house, and lands, and 
wife, and all from me. 21 

Suf. Thy wife too ! that’s some wrong, in¬ 
deed. What’s yours? What’s here! [/?cac?s.] 
“Against the Duke of Suffolk, for enclosing 
the commons of Melford.” How now, sir 
knave! 25 

2. Petit. Alas, sir, I am but a poor petitioner 
of our whole township. 

Peter. [ Giving his petition.} Against my 
master, Thomas Horner, for saying that the 
Duke of York was rightful heir to the crown. 30 

Queen. What say’st thou ? Did the Duke of 
York say he was rightful heir to the crown ? 

Peter. That my master was? No, forsooth. 
My master said that he was, and that the King 
was an usurper. 36 

Suf. Who is there ? ( Enter Servant.) Take 


this fellow in, and send for his master with a 
pursuivant presently. We ’ll hear more of your 
matter before the King. 

[Exit [Servant with Peter}. 
Queen. And as for you, that love to be pro¬ 
tected 40 

Under the wings of our Protector’s grace, 

Begin your suits anew, and sue to him. 

[Tears the supplications. 
Away, base cullions ! Suffolk, let them go. 

All. Come, let’s be gone. [Exeunt. 

Queen. My Lord of Suffolk, say, is this the 
guise, 45 

Is this the fashion in the court of England ? 

Is this the government of Britain’s isle, 

And this the royalty of Albion’s king ? 

What, shall King Henry be a pupil still 
Under the surly Gloucester’s governance ? so 
Am I a queen in title and in style, 

And must be made a subject to a duke ? 

I tell thee, Pole, when in the city Tours 
Thou ran’st a tilt in honour of my love 
And stol’st away the ladies’ hearts of France, sc 
I thought King Henry had resembled thee 
In courage, courtship, and proportion. 

But all his mind is bent to holiness, 

To number Ave-Maries on his beads. 

His champions are the prophets and apostles, o» 
His weapons holy saws of sacred writ, 

His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves 
Are brazen images of canonized saints. 

I would the college of the cardinals 
Would choose him Pope and carry him to 
Rome, sc 

And set the triple crown upon his head. 

That were a state fit for his holiness. 

Suf. Madam, be patient. As I was cause 
Your Highness came to England, so will I 
In England work your Grace’s full content. 70 
Queen. Beside the haughty Protector, have 
we Beaufort 

The imperious churchman, Somerset, Buck¬ 
ingham, 

And grumbling York ; and not the least of 
these 

But can do more in England than the King. 
Suf. And he of these that can do most of 
all _ 7 c 

Cannot do more in England than the Nevils. 
Salisbury and Warwick are no simple peers. 
Queen. Not all these lords do vex me half so 
much 

As that proud dame, the Lord Protector’s wife. 
She sweeps it through the court with troops of 
ladies, so 

More like an empress than Duke Humphrey’s 
wife. 

Strangers in court do take her for the Queen. 
She bears a duke’s revenues on her back, 

And in her heart she scorns our poverty. 

Shall I not live to be aveng’d on her ? ss 

Contemptuous base-born callet as she is, 

She vaunted ’mongst her minions t’ other day, 
The very train of her worst wearing gown 
Was better worth than all my father’s lands, 
Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daugh¬ 
ter. 90 






THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


669 


L iii. 


Suf. Madam, myself have lim’d a bush for 
her, 

And placed a quire of such enticing’ birds 
That she will light to listen to the lays, 

And never mount to trouble you again. 

So, let her rest; and, madam, list to me, 95 
For I am bold to counsel you in this. 

Although we fancy not the Cardinal, 

Yet must we join with him and with the lords, 
Till we have brought Duke Humphrey in dis¬ 
grace. 

As for the Duke of York, this late complaint 100 
Will make but little for his benefit. 

So, one by one, we ’ll weed them all at last, 
And you yourself shall steer the happy helm. 

Sound a sennet. Enter the King, Duke Hum¬ 
phrey, Cardinal Beaufort, Bucking¬ 
ham, York, [Somerset,] Salisbury, War¬ 
wick, and the Duchess of Gloucester. 

King. For my part, noble lords, I care not 
which ; 

Or Somerset or York, all’s one to me. ios 

York. If York have ill demean’d himself in 
France, 

Then let him be denay’d the regentship. 

Som. If Somerset be unworthy of the place, 
Let York be Regent; I will yield to him. 

War. Whether your Grace be worthy, yea 
or no, no 

Dispute not that York is the worthier. 

Car. Ambitious Warwick, let thy betters 
speak. 

War. The Cardinal’s not my better in the 
field. 

Buck. All in this presence are thy betters, 
Warwick. 

War. Warwick may live to be the best of 
all. ns 

Sal. Peace, son! and show some reason, 
Buckingham, 

Why Somerset should be preferr’d in this. 
Queen. Because the King, forsooth, will 
have it so. 

Glou. Madam, the King is old enough him- 
self 

To give his censure. These are no women’s 
matters. 120 

Queen. If he be old enough, what needs 
your Grace 

To be protector of his Excellence ? 

Glou. Madam, I am Protector of the realm ; 
And, at his pleasure, will resign my place. 

Suf. Resign it then and leave thine inso¬ 
lence. 125 

Since thou wert king — as who is king but 
thou ? — 

The commonwealth hath daily run to wreck, 
The Dauphin hath prevail’d beyond the seas, 
And all the peers and nobles of the realm 
Have been as bondmen to thy sovereignty. 130 
Car. The commons hast thou rack’d ; the 
clergy’s bags 

Are lank and lean with thy extortions. 

Som. Thy sumptuous buildings and thy 
wife’s attire 

Have cost a mass of public treasury. 


Buck. Thy cruelty in execution 135 

Upon offenders hath exceeded law 
And left thee to the mercy of the law. 

Queen. Thy sale of offices and towns in 
France, 

If they were known, as the suspect is great, 
Would make thee quickly hop without thy 
head. 140 

[Exit Gloucester. [The Queen drops 
her fan.] 

Give me my fan. What, minion ! can ye not ? 

[She gives the Duchess a box on the 
ear. 

I cry you mercy, madam ; was it you ? 

Duch. Was’tl! Yea, I it was, proud French¬ 
woman. 

Could I. come near your beauty with my 
nails, 

I ’d set my ten commandments in your face, no 
King. Sweet aunt, be quiet; ’t was against 
her will. 

Duch. Against her will! Good king, look 
to’t in time ; 

She ’ll hamper thee, and dandle thee like a 
baby. 

Though in this place most masters wear no 
breeches, 149 

She shall not strike Dame Eleanor unreveng’d. 

[Exit. 

Buck. Lord Cardinal, I will follow Eleanor, 
And listen after Humphrey, how he pro¬ 
ceeds. 

She ’8 tickled now ; her fume needs no spurs, 
She ’ll gallop far enough to her destruction. 

[Exit. 

Re-enter Gloucester. 

Glou. Now, lords, my choler being over¬ 
blown 165 

With walking once about the quadrangle, 

I come to talk of commonwealth affairs. 

As for your spiteful false objections, 

Prove them, and I lie open to the law ; 

But God in mercy so deal with my soul, ieo 
As I in duty love my king and country ! 

But, to the matter that we have in hand. 

I say, my sovereign, York is meetest man 
To be your regent in the realm of France. 

Suf. Before we make election, give me 
leave 1 es 

To show some reason, of no little force, 

That York is most unmeet of any man. 

York. I’ll tell thee, Suffolk, why I am un¬ 
meet. 

First, for I cannot flatter thee in pride ; 

Next, if I be appointed for the place, 17c 

My Lord of Somerset will keep me here 
Without discharge, money, or furniture, 

Till France be won into the Dauphin’s hands. 
Last time, I danc’d attendance on his will 
Till Paris was besieg’d, famish’d, and lost. 175 
War. That can I witness; and a fouler 
fact 

Did never traitor in the land commit. 

Suf. Peace, headstrong Warwick ! 

War. Image of pride, why should I hold my 
peace ? 






6jo 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


I. iv. 


Enter [Horner, the] Armourer , and his man 
[Peter, guarded ]. 

Suf. Because here is a man accused of trea¬ 
son. 180 

Pray God the Duke of York excuse himself ! 
York. Doth any one accuse York for a 
traitor ? 

King. What mean’st thou, Suffolk? Tell 
me, what are these ? 

Suf. Please it your Majesty, this is the man 
That doth accuse his master of high treason, iss 
His words were these: that Richard Duke of 
York 

Was rightful heir unto the English crown 
And that your Majesty was an usurper. 

King. Say, man, were these thy words ? i «9 

Hor. An ’t shall please your Majesty, I never 
said nor thought any such matter. God is my 
witness, I am falsely accus’d by the villain. 

Pet. By these ten hones, my lords [ holding 
up his hands ] he did speak them to me in the 
garret one night, as we were scouring my Lord 
of York’s armour. 105 

York. Base dunghill villain and mechanical, 
I ’ll have thy head for this thy traitor’s speech. 

I do beseech your royal Majesty, 

Let him have all the rigour of the law. 199 
Hor. Alas, my lord, hang me, if ever I spake 
the words. My accuser is my ’prentice; and 
when I did correct him for his fault the other 
day, he did vow upon his knees he would be 
even with me. I have good witness of this; 
therefore I beseech your Majesty, do not cast 
away an honest man for a villain’s accusation. 206 
King. Uncle, what shall we say to this in 
law ? 

Glou. This doom, my lord, if I may judge: 
Let Somerset be regent o’er the French, 
Because in York this breeds suspicion ; 210 

And let these have a day appointed them 
For single combat in convenient place, 

For he hath witness of his servant’s malice. 
This is the law, and this Duke Humphrey’s 
doom. 

Som. I hiynbly thank your royal Majesty. 216 
Hor. And I accept the combat willingly. 

Pet. Alas, my lord, I cannot fight; for God’s 
sake, pity my case. The spite of man prevail¬ 
ed against me. O Lord, have mercy upon me ! 
I shall never be able to fight a blow. O Lord, 
my heart! 221 

Glou. Sirrah, or you must fight, or else be 
bang’d. 

King. Away with them to prison; and the 
day of combat shall be the last of the next 
month. Come, Somerset, we ’ll see thee sent 
away. [Flourish. Exeunt. 220 

[Scene IV. Gloucester's garden .] 

Enter the witch [Margery Jordan], the two 
priests , Hume and Southwell, ana Boling- 
broke. 

Hume. Come, my masters; the Duchess, I 
tell you, expects performance of your promises. 
Boling. Master Hume, we are therefor pro¬ 


vided. Will her ladyship behold and hear our 
exorcisms ? 

Hume. Ay, what else ? Fear you not her 
courage. 1 

Boling. I have heard her reported to he a wo¬ 
man of an invincible spirit; but it shall be con¬ 
venient, Master Hume, that you be by her aloft, 
while we be busy below ; and so, I pray you, 

f o, in God’s name, and leave us. [ Exit Hume. 

lother Jordan, be y;ou prostrate and grovel 
on the earth; John Southwell, read you ; and 
let us to our work. is 

Enter Duchess aloft [Hume following ]. 

Duch. Well said, my masters, and welcome 
all. To this gear, the sooner the better. 

Boling. Patience, good lady ; wizards know 
their times. 

Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night, 
The time of night when Troy was set on fire, *o 
The time when screech-owls cry and ban-dogs 
howl 

And spirits walk and ghosts break up their 
graves, 

That time best fits the work we have in hand. 
Madam, sit you and fear not. Whom we raise, 
We will make fast within a hallow’d verge. 20 
[Here they do the ceremonies belong¬ 
ing , and make the circle; Bo- 
lingbroke or Southwell reads , 
“ Conjuro te,” etc. It thunders 
and lightens terribly; then the 
Spirit riseth. 

Spir. Adsum. 

M. Jord. Asmath, 

By the eternal God, whose name and power 
Thou tremblest at, answer that I shall ask ; 

For, till thou speak, thou shalt not pass from 
hence. 30 

Spir. Ask what thou wilt. That I had said 
and done 1 

Boling. “First of the King: what shall of 
him become ? ” [Reading out of a paper.] 
Spir. The duke yet lives that Henry shall 
depose ; 

But him outlive, and die a violent death. 

[As the Spirit speaks, Bolingbroke 
writes the answer.] 

Boling. “What fates await the Duke of 
_ Suffolk ? ” 36 

Spir. By water shall he die, and take his 
end. 

Boling. “What shall befall the Duke of 
Somerset? ” 

Spir. Let him shun castles. 

Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains 
Than where castles mounted stand. <w 

Have done, for more I hardly can endure. 
Boling. Descend to darkness and the burning 
lake! 

False fiend, avoid ! 

[Thunder and lightning. Exit Spirit. 

Enter the Duke of York and the Duke of 
Buckingham with their Guard, and break in. 

York. Lay hands upon these traitors and 
their trash. 





II. I. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


671 


Beldam, I think we watch’d you at an inch. 45 
What, madam, are you there ? The King and 
commonweal 

Are deeply indebted for this piece of pains. 

My Lord Protector will, I doubt it not, 

See you well guerdon’d for these good deserts. 
Duch. Not half so bad as thine to England’s 
king, 60 

Injurious duke, that threatest where’s no 
cause. 

Buck. True, madam, none at all. What call 
you this ? [ Showing the papers .] 

Away with them ! let them be clapp’d up close, 
And kept asunder. You, madam, shall with us. 
Stafford, take her to thee. sc 

[Exeunt above Duchess and Hume , 
guarded.] 

We ’ll see your trinkets here all forthcoming. 
All, away! 

[Exeunt [guard with Jordan , South- 
well, etc.]. 

York. Lord Buckingham, methinks you 
watch’d her well. 

A pretty plot, well chosen to build upon 1 c» 
Now, pray, my lord, let’s see the devil’s writ. 
What have we here? [Reads. 

“ The duke yet lives, that Henry shall depose ; 
But him outlive, and. die a violent death.” 
Why, this isiust 

“ Aio [te,] AEacida, Romanos vincere posse.” ec 
Well, to the rest: 

“ Tell me what fate awaits the Duke of Suf¬ 
folk? 

By water shall he die, and take his end. 

What shall betide the Duke of Somerset ? 

Let him shun castles; . 70 

Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains 
Than where castles mounted stand.” 

Come, come, my lords ; 

These oracles are hardly attain’d, 

And hardly understood. 75 

The King is now in progress towards Saint Al¬ 
ban’s, 

With him the husband of this lovely lady. 
Thither goes these news, as fast as horse can 
carry them, 

A sorry breakfast for my Lord Protector. 
Buck. Your Grace shall give me leave, my 
Lord of York, so 

To be the post, in hope of his reward. 

York. At your pleasure, my good lord. 
Who’s within there, ho ! 

Enter a Servingman. 

Invite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick 
To sup with me to-morrow night. Away ! 

[Exeunt. 

ACT II 

[Scene I. Saint Alban's.] 

Enter the King, Queen, Gloucester, Cardi¬ 
nal, and Suffolk, with Falconers, halloing. 

Queen. Believe me, lords, for flying at the 
brook, 

I saw not better sport these seven years’ day ; 


Yet, by your leave, the wind was very high, 
And, ten to one, old Joan had not gone out. 

King. But what a point, my lord, your fal¬ 
con made, s 

And what a pitch she flew above the rest! 

To see how God in all His creatures works! 
Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high. 

Suf. No marvel, an it like your Majesty, 

My Lord Protector’s hawks do tower so well. 10 
They know their master loves to be aloft 
And bears his thoughts above his falcon’s 
pitch. 

Glou. My lord, ’tis but a base ignoble mind 
That mounts no higher than a bird can soar. 

Car. I thought as much. He would be above 
the clouds. is 

Glou. Ay, my Lord Cardinal? How think 
you by that ? 

Were it not good your Grace could fly to hea¬ 
ven ? 

King. The treasury of everlasting joy. 

Car. Thy heaven is on earth ; thine eyes and 
thoughts 

Beat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart, 20 
Pernicious Protector, dangerous peer, 

That smooth’st it so with king and common¬ 
weal ! 

Glou. What, Cardinal, is your priesthood 
grown peremptory ? 

Tantcene animis caelestibus irce ? 

Churchmen so hot ? Good uncle, hide such 
malice. 26 

With such holiness can you do it ? 

Suf. No malice, sir ; no more than well be¬ 
comes 

So good a quarrel and so bad a peer. 

Glou. As who, my lord ? 

Suf Why, as you, my lord, 

An’t like your lordly Lord-protectorship. 30 

Glou. Why, Suffolk, England knows thine 
insolence. 

Queen. And thy ambition, Gloucester. 

King. I prithee, peace, good queen, 

And whet not on these furious peers ; 

For blessed are the peacemakers on earth. ss 

Car. Let me be blessed for the peace I 
make, 

Against this proud Protector, with my sword ! 

Glou. [Aside to Car.] Faith, holy uncle, 
would’t were come to that 1 

Car. [Aside to Glou.] Marry, when thou 
dar’st. 

Glou. [Aside to Car.] Make up no factious 
numbers for the matter ; 40 

In thine own person answer thy abuse. 

Car. [Aside to Glou.] Ay, where thou dar’st 
not peep. An if thou dar’st, 

This evening, on the east side of the grove. 

King. How now, my lords ! 

Car. Believe me, cousin Gloucester, 

Had not your man put up the fowl so sud¬ 
denly, 46 

We had had more sport. [Aside to Glou.] Come 
with thy two-hand sword. 

Glou. True, uncle. 

[Car. Aside to Glou.] Are ye advis’d ? The 
east side of the grove. 




672 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


11. i. 


Glou. [Aside to Car.] Cardinal, I am with 
you. 

King. Why, how now, uncle Gloucester ! 
Glou. Talking of hawking; nothing else, my 
lord. 60 

[Aside to Car.] Now, by God’s mother, priest, 
I ’ll shave your crown for this, 

Or all my fence shall fail. 

Car. [Aside to Clou.] Medice , teipsum — 
Protector, see to’t well, protect yourself. 

King. The winds grow high ; so do your 
stomachs, lords. 

How irksome is this music to my heart! 65 

When such strings jar, what hope of harmony ? 
I pray, my lords, let me compound this strife. 

Enter [a Townsman of Saint Alban’s,] crying , 
“ A miracle ! ” 

Glou. What means this noise ? 

Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim ? eo 
Towns. A miracle ! a miracle ! 

Suf. Come to the King and tell him what 
miracle. 

Towns. Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Al¬ 
ban’s shrine, 

Within this half-hour, hath receiv’d his sight; 
A man that ne’er saw in his life before. 6 s 
King. Now, God be prais’d, that to believ¬ 
ing souls 

Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair 1 

Enter the Mayor of Saint Alban’s and his 
brethren, bearing the man [Simpcox] between 
two in a chair [Simpcox’ s Wife and others 
following]. 

Car. Here comes the townsmen on proces¬ 
sion, 

To present your Highness with the man. 

King. Great is his comfort in this earthly 
vale, . . 70 

Although by his sight his sin be multiplied. 
Glou. Stand by, my masters. Bring him near 
the King; 

His Highness’ pleasure is to talk with him. 
King. Good fellow, tell us here the circum¬ 
stance, 

That we for thee may glorify the Lord. 75 
What, hast thou been long blind and now re¬ 
stor’d ? 

Simp. Born blind, an’t please your Grace. 
Wife. Ay, indeed, was he. 

Suf. What woman is this ? 

Wife. His wife, an’t like your worship. so 
Glou. Hadst thou been his mother, thou 
couldst have better told. 

King. Where wert thou born ? 

Simp. At Berwick in the north, an’t like 
your Grace. 

King. Poor soul, God’s goodness hath been 
great to thee. 

Let never day nor night unhallowed pass, so 
But still remember what the Lord hath done. 
Queen. Tell me, good fellow, eam’st thou 
here by chance, 

Or of devotion, to this holy shrine ? 

Simp. God knows, of pure devotion; being 
call’d 


A hundred times and oftener, in my sleep, 9 <* 
By good Saint Alban, who said, “Simpcox, 
come; 

Come, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.” 
Wife. Most true, forsooth; and many time 
and oft 

Myself have heard a voice to call him so. 

Car. Wbat, art thou lame ? 

Simp. Ay, God Almighty help me ! 

Suf. How cam’st thou so? 

Simp. A fall off of a tree. 

Wife. A plum-tree, master. 

Glou. How long hast thou been blind ? 

Simp. 0 , born so, master. 

Glou. What, and wouldst climb a tree ? 
Simp. But that in all my life, when I was a 
youth. 

Wife. Too true; and bought his climbing 
very dear. 100 

Glou. Mass, thou lov’dst plums well, that 
wouldst venture so. 

Simp. Alas, good master, my wife desir’d 
some damsons, 

And made me climb, with danger of my life. 
Glou. A subtle knave! but yet it shall not 
serve. 

Let me see thine eyes. Wink now; now open 
them. 106 

In my opinion yet thou see’st not well. 

Simp. Yes, master, clear as day, I thank 
God and Saint Alban. 

Glou. Say’st thou me so? What colour is 
this cloak of ? 

Simp. Red, master ; red as blood. no 

Glou. Why, that’s well said. What colour is 
my gown of ? 

Simp. Black, forsooth ; coal-black as jet. 
King. Why, then, thou know’st what colour 
jet is of ? 

Suf. And yet, I think, jet did he never see. 
Glou. But cloaks and gowns, before this day, 
a many. 116 

Wife. Never, before this day, in all his life. 
Glou. Tell me, sirrah, what’s my name ? 
Simp. Alas, master, I know not. 

Glou. What’s his name ? 

Simp. I know not. 120 

Glou. Nor his? 

Simp. No, indeed, master. 

Glou. What’s thine own name ? 

Simp. Saunder Simpcox, an if it please you, 
master. 124 

Glou. Then, Saunder, sit there, the lying’st 
knave in Christendom. If thou hadst been 
born blind, thou miglitst as well have known 
all our names as thus to name the several col¬ 
ours we do wear. Sight may distinguish of 
colours, but suddenly to nominate them all, it 
is impossible. My lords, Saint Alban here hath 
done a miracle; and would ye not think his 
cunning to be great, that could restore this 
cripple to his legs again ? 133 

Simp. 0 master, that you could ! 

Glou. My masters of Saint Alban’s, have you 
not, beadles in your town, and things call’d 
whips ? 

May. Yes, my lord, if it please your Grace. 




II. 11. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


673 


Glou. Then send for one presently. 130 

May. Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither 
straight. [Exit [an Attendant]. 

Glou. Now fetch me a stool hither by and by. 
[A stool brought.] Now, sirrah, if you mean to 
save yourself from whipping, leap me over this 
stool and run away. 

Simp. Alas, master, I am not able to stand 
alone. i« 

You go about to torture me in vain. 

Enter a Beadle with whips. 

Glou.' Well, sir, we must have you find your 
legs. Sirrah beadle, whip him till he leap over 
that same stool. 

Bead. I will, my lord. Come on, sirrah ; off 
with your doublet quickly. iei 

Simp. Alas, master, what shall I do ? I am 
not able to stand. 

[After the Beadle hath hit him once, 
he leaps over the stool and runs 
away; and they follow and cry, 
“ A miracle ! ” 

King. 0 God, seest Thou this, and bearest so 
long? 

Queen. It made me laugh to see the villain 
run. 155 

Glou. Follow the knave ; and take this drab 
away. 

Wife. Alas, sir, we did it for pure need. 

Glou. Let them be whipp’d through every 
market-town, till they come to Berwick, from 
whence they came. 100 

[Exeunt [Wife, Beadle, Mayor, etc.]. 

Car. Duke Humphrey has done a miracle to¬ 
day. 

Suf. True ; made the lame to leap and fly 
away. 

Glou. But you have done more miracles 
than I; 

You made in a day, my lord, whole towns to fly. 

Enter Buckingham. 

King. What tidings with our cousin Buck¬ 
ingham ? 185 

Buck. Such as my heart doth tremble to 
unfold. 

A sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent. 

Under the countenance and confederacy 
Of Lady Eleanor, the Protector’s wife, 

The ringleader and head of all this rout, no 
Have practis’d dangerously against your state, 
Dealing with witches and with conjurers ; 
Whom we have apprehended in the fact, 
Raising up wicke.d spirits from under ground, 
Demanding of King Henry’s life and death, ns 
And other of your Highness’ privy-council, 

As more at large your Grace shall understand. 

Car. [Aside to Glou.] And so, my Lord Pro¬ 
tector, by this means 
Your lady is forthcoming yet at London. 

This news, I think, hath turn’d your weapon’s 
edge; wo 

’T is like, my lord, you will not keep your 
hour. 

Glou. Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict 
my heart. 


Sorrow and grief have vanquish’d all my 
powers ; 

And, vanquish’d as I am, I yield to thee, 

Or to the meanest groom. iss 

King. O God, what mischiefs work the wicked 
ones, 

Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby ! 
Queen. Gloucester, see here the tainture of 
thy nest, 

And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best. 
Glou. Madam, for myself, to heaven I do 
appeal, ioo 

How I have lov’d my king and commonweal; 
And, for my wife, I know not how it stands. 
Sorry I am to hear what I have heard. 

Noble she is, but if she have forgot 
Honour and virtue, and convers’d with such i «6 
As, like to pitch, defile nobility, 

I banish her my bed and company 
And give her as a prey to law and shame, 

That hath dishonoured Gloucester’s honest 
name. 

King. Well, for this night we will repose us 
here; 200 

To-morrow toward London back again, 

To look into this business thoroughly 
And call these foul offenders to their answers, 
And poise the cause in justice’ equal scales, 
Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause 
prevails. [Flourish. Exeunt. 205 

[Scene II. London. The Duke of York's 
garden.] 

Enter York, Salisbury, and Warwick. 

York. Now, my good Lords of Salisbury and 
Warwick, 

Our simple supper ended, give me leave 
In this close walk to satisfy myself, 

In craving your opinion of my title, 

Which is infallible, to England’s crown. 6 

Sal. My lord, I long to near it at full. 

War. Sweet York, begin ; and if thy claim 
be good, 

The Nevils are thy subjects to command. 

York. Then thus : 

Edward the Third, my lords, had seven sons: 10 
The first, Edward the Black Prince, Prince of 
Wales; 

The second, William of Hatfield; and the 
third, 

Lionel Duke of Clarence ; next to whom 
Was John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster ; 
The fifth was Edmund Langley, Duke of York ; 
The sixth was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of 
Gloucester; is 

William of Windsor was the seventh and last. 
Edward the Black Prince died before his father 
And left behind him Richard, his only son, 
Who after Edward the Third’s death reign’d 

as king, 20 

Till Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster, 
The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt, 
Crown’d by the name of Henry the Fourth, 
Seiz’d on the realm, depos’d the rightful king, 
Sent his poor queen to France, from whence 

she came, as 





674 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


ii. iii. 


And him to Pomfret; where, as all you know, 
Harmless Richard was murdered traitorously. 

War. Father, the Duke hath told the truth ; 
Thus got the house of Lancaster the crown. 
York. Which now they hold by force and not 
by right ; . . 30 

For Richard, the first son’s heir, being dead, 
The issue of the next son should have reign’d. 
Sal. But William of Hatfield died without 
an heir. 

York. The third son, Duke of Clarence, from 
whose line 

I claim the crown, had issue, Philippe, a daugh¬ 
ter, 35 

Who married Edmund Mortimer, Earl of 
March ; 

Edmund had issue, Roger Earl of March ; 
Roger had issue, Edmund, Anne, and Eleanor. 
Sal. This Edmund, in the reign of Boling- 
broke, 

As I have read, laid claim unto the crown ; 40 

And, but for Owen Glendower, had been king, 
Who kept him in captivity till he died. 

But to the rest. 

York. His eldest sister, Anne, 

My mother, being heir unto the crown, 

Married Richard Earl of Cambridge, who was 
son 45 

To Edmund Langley, Edward the Third’s fifth 
son. 

By her I claim the kingdom. She was heir 
To Roger Earl of March, who was the son 
Of Edmund Mortimer, who married Philippe, 
Sole daughter unto Lionel Duke of Clarence ; so 
So, if the issue of the elder son 
Succeed before the younger, I am king. 

War. What plain proceeding is more plain 
than this ? 

Henry doth claim the crown from John of 
Gaunt, 

The fourth son ; York claims it from the 
third. 55 

Till Lionel’s issue fails, his should not reign. 

It fails not yet, but flourishes in thee 
And in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock. 
Then, father Salisbury, kneel we together ; 
And in this private plot be we the first eo 

That, shall salute our rightful sovereign 
With honour of his birthright to the crown. 
Both. Long live our sovereign Richard, Eng¬ 
land’s king! 

York. We thank you, lords. But I am not 
your king 

Till I be crown’d, and that my sword be 
stain’d es 

With heart-blood of the house of Lancaster; 
And that’s not suddenly to be perform’d, 

But with advice and silent secrecy. 

Do you as I do in these dangerous days ; 

Wink at the Duke of Suffolk’s insolence, 70 

At Beaufort’s pride, at Somerset’s ambition, 
At Buckingham and all the crew of them, 

Till they have snar’d the shepherd of the flock, 
That virtuous prince, the good Duke Hum¬ 
phrey. 

’T is that, they seek, and they in seeking that 75 
Shall find their deaths, if York can prophesy. 


Sal. My lord, break we off; we know your 
mind at full. 

War. My heart assures me that the Earl of 
Warwick 

Shall one day make the Duke of York a king. 

York. And, Nevil, this I do assure myself, so 
Richard shall live to make the Earl of War¬ 
wick 

The greatest man in England but the King. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III. A hall of justice.'] 

Sound trumpets. Enter the King [the Queen, 
Gloucester, York, Suffolk, and Salis¬ 
bury ; the Duchess of Gloucester, Mar¬ 
gery Jordan, Southwell, Hume, and 
Bolingbroke, under guard]. 

King. Stand forth, Dame Eleanor Cobham, 
Gloucester’s wife. 

In sight of God and us, your guilt is great. 
Receive the sentence of the law for sins 
Such as by God’s book are adjudg’d to death. 
You four, from hence to prison back again ; 6 

From thence unto the place of execution. 

The witch in Smithfield shall be burn’d to 
ashes, 

And you three shall be strangled on the gal¬ 
lows. 

You, madam, for you are more nobly born, 
Despoiled of your honour in your life, 10 

Shall, after three days’ open penance done, 

Live in your country here in banishment, 

With Sir John Stanley, in the Isle of Man. 
Duch. Welcome is banishment; welcome 
were my death. 

Glou. Eleanor, the law, thou see’st, hath 
judged thee. is 

I cannot justify whom the law condemns. 

[Exeunt Duchess and other pris¬ 
oners, guarded.] 

Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief. 
Ah, Humphrey, this dishonour in thine age 
Will bring thy head with sorrow to the ground ! 
I beseech your Majesty, give me leave to go ; 20 
Sorrow would solace, and mine age would ease. 
King. Stay, Humphrey Duke of Gloucester ! 
Ere thou go, 

Give up thy staff. Henry will to himself 
Protector be ; and God shall be my hope, 

My stay, my guide, and lantern to my feet; 25 
And go in peace, Humphrey, no less belov’d 
Than when thou wert Protector to thy king. 

Queen. I see no reason why a king of years 
Should be to be protected like a child. 

God and King Henry govern England’s realm. 30 
Give up your staff, sir, and the King his realm. 
Glou. My staff ? Here, noble Henry, is my 
_ staff. 

As willingly do I the same resign 
As e’er thy father Henry made it mine ; 

And even as willingly at thy feet I leave it 35 
As others would ambitiously receive it. 
Farewell, good king! When I am dead and 
gone, 

May honourable peace attend thy throne ! 

[ Exit. 




II. iv. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


675 


Queen. Why, now is Henry king, and Mar¬ 
garet queen : 

And Humphrey Duke of Gloucester scarce 
himself, 40 

That bears so shrewd a maim ; two pulls at 
once; 

His lady banish’d, and a limb lopp’d off. 

This staff of honour raught, there let it stand 
Where it best fits to be, in Henry’s hand. 

Suf, Thus droops this lofty pine and hangs 
his sprays ; 45 

Thus Eleanor’s pride dies in her youngest days. 
York. Lords, let him go. Please it your 
4 Majesty, 

This is the day appointed for the combat; 

And ready are the appellant and defendant, 
The armourer and his man, to enter the lists, 
So please your Highness to behold the fight, si 
Queen. Ay, good my lord; for purposely 
therefore 

Left I the court, to see this quarrel tried. 

King. 0 ’ God’s name, see the lists and all 
things fit. 

Here let them end it; and God defend the 
right! 55 

York. I never saw a fellow worse bested 
Or more afraid to fight, than is the appellant, 
The servant of this armourer, my lords. 

Enter at one door [Horner,] the Armourer, and 
his Neighbours, drinking to him so much that 
he is drunk: ana he enters with a drum before 
him and his staff with a sand-bag fastened to 
it; and at the other door [Peter,] his man , 
with a drum and sand-bag , and ’Prentices 
drinking to him. 

1 . Neigh. Here, neighbour Horner, I drink 

to you in a cup of sack ; and fear not, neigh¬ 
bour, you shall do well enough. ei 

2 . Neigh. And here, neighbour, here’s a cup 
of charneco. 

3 . Neigh. And here’s a pot of good double 
beer, neighbour. Drink, and fear not your 
man. 

Hor. Let it come, i’ faith, and I ’ll pledge 
you all; and a fig for Peter ! ce 

1 . ’Pren. Here, Peter, I drink to thee ; and 
be not afraid. 

2 . 'Pren. Be merry, Peter, and fear not thy 
master. Fight for credit of the ’prentices. 71 

Peter. I thank you all. Drink, and pray for 
me, I pray you ; for I think I have taken my 
last draught in this world. Here, Robin, an if 
I die, I give thee my apron ; and, Will, thou 
shalt have my hammer; and here, Tom, take 
all the money that I have. O Lord bless me ! I 
pray God ! for I am never able to deal with my 
master, he hath learnt so much fence already. 79 
Sal. Come, leave your drinking, and fall to 
blows. Sirrah, what’s thy name r 
Peter. Peter, forsooth. 

Sal. Peter ! What more ? 

Peter. Thump. 

Sal. Thump! Then see thou thump thy 
master well. 80 

Hor. Masters, I am come hither, as it were, 
upon my man’s instigation, to prove him a 


knave and myself an honest man ; and touch¬ 
ing the Duke of York, I will take my death, I 
never meant him any ill, nor the King, nor the 
Queen ; and therefore, Peter, have at thee with 
a downright blow ! 9 s 

York. Dispatch. This knave’s tongue be¬ 
gins to double. 

Sound, trumpets, alarum to the combatants ! 

[Alarum.] They .fight, and Peter 
strikes him down. 

Hor. Hold, Peter, hold ! I confess, I confess 
treason. [Dies] 

York. Take away his weapon. Fellow, 

thank God, and the good wine in thy master’s 
way. 99 

Peter. 0 God, have I overcome mine enemy 

in this presence ? 0 Peter, thou hast prevail’d 
in right 1 

King. Go, take hence that traitor from our 
sight, 

For bv his death we do perceive his guilt; 

And God in justice hath reveal’d to us 105 

The truth and innocence of this poor fellow, 
Which he had thought to have murder’d wrong¬ 
fully. 

Come, fellow, follow us for thy reward. 

[Sound a flourish. Exeunt. 

[Scene IY. A street.] 

Enter Gloucester and his Serving-men, in 
mourning cloaks. 

Glou. Thus sometimes hath the brightest 
day a cloud; 

And after summer evermore succeeds 
Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold ; 
So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet. 

Sirs, what’s o’clock ? 

Serv. Ten, my lord. b 

Glou. Ten is the hour that was appointed me 
To watch the coming of my punish’d duchess. 
Uneath may she endure the flinty streets, 

To tread them with her tender-feeling feet. 
Sweet Nell, ill can thy noble mind abrook 10 
The abject people gazing on thy face, 

With envious looks laughing at thy shame, 
That erst did follow thy proud chariot-wheels 
When thou didst ride in triumph through the 
streets. 

But, soft! I think she comes ; and I ’ll pre¬ 
pare is 

My tear-stain’d eyes to see her miseries. 

Enter the Duchess of Gloucester [barefoot], 
in a white sheet [with verses pinned upon her 
back], and a taper burning in her hand; with 
[Sir John Stanley,] the Sheriff, and Offi¬ 
cers. 

Serv. So please your Grace, we ’ll take her 
from the sheriff. 

Glou. No, stir not, for your lives ; let her 
pass by. 

Ducn. Come you, my lord, to see my open 
shame ? 

Now thou dost penance too. Look how they 
gaze! 

See how the giddy multitude do point, 





676 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


hi. 1. 


And nod their heads, and throw their eyes on 
thee! 

Ah, Gloucester, hide thee from their hateful 
looks, 

And, in thy closet pent up, rue my shame, 

And ban thine enemies, both mine and thine ! 25 
Glou. Be patient, gentle Nell; forget this 
grief. 

Duch. Ah, Gloucester, teach me to forget 
myself! 

For whilst I think I am thy married wife 
And thou a prince, Protector of this land, 
Methinks I should not thus be led along, 30 
Mail’d up in shame, with papers on my back, 
And follow’d with a rabble that rejoice 
To see my tears and hear my deep-fet groans. 
The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet, 

And when I start, the envious people laugh 35 
And bid me be advised how I tread. 

Ah, Humphrey, can I bear this shameful yoke ? - 
Trow’st thou that e’er I ’ll look upon the 
world, 

Or count them happy that enjoys the sun ? 

No ; dark shall be my light and night my day ; 
To think upon my pomp shall be my hell. 41 
Sometime I ’ll say, I am Duke Humphrey’s wife, 
And he a prince and ruler of the land ; 

Yet so he rul’d and such a prince he was 
As he stood by whilst I, his forlorn duchess, *6 
Was made a wonder and a pointing-stock 
To every idle rascal follower. 

But be thou mild and blush not at my shame, 
Nor stir at nothing till the axe of death 
Hang over thee, as, sure, it shortly will; 60 

For Suffolk, he that can do all in all 
With her that hateth thee and hates us all, 

And York and impious Beaufort, that false 
priest, 

Have all lim’d bushes to betray thy wings, 

And, fly thou how thou canst, they ’ll tangle 
thee. 55 

But fear not thou, until thy foot be snar’d, 

Nor never seek prevention of thy foes. 

Glou. Ah, Nell, forbear! thou aimest all 
awry. 

I must offend before I be attainted ; 

And had I twenty times so many foes, co 

And each of them had twenty times their 
power, 

All these could not procure me any scatli 
So long as I am loyal, true, and crimeless. 
Wouldst have me rescue thee from this re¬ 
proach ? 

Why, yet thy scandal were not wip’d away, es 
But I in danger for the breach of law. 

Thy greatest help is quiet, gentle Nell. 

I pray thee, sort thy heart to patience ; 

These few days’ wonder will be quickly worn. 

Enter a Herald. 

Her. I summon your Grace to his Majesty’s 
parliament, 70 

Holden at Bury the first of this next month. 
Glou. And my consent ne’er ask’d herein be¬ 
fore ! 

This is close dealing. Well, I will be there. 

[Exit Herald.] 


My Nell, I take my leave ; and, master sheriff, 
Let not her penance exceed the King’s commis¬ 
sion. w 

Sher. An ’t please your Grace, here my com¬ 
mission stays, 

And Sir John Stanley is appointed now 
To take her with him to the Isle of Man. 

Glou. Must you, Sir John, protect my lady 
here ? 

Stan. So am I given in charge, may’t please 
your Grace. so 

Glou. Entreat her not the worse in that I 
pray 

You use her well. The world may laugh again, 
And I may live to do you kindness if 
You do it her. And so, Sir John, farewell! 
Duch. What, gone, my lord, and bid me not 
farewell! ss 

Glou. Witness my tears, I cannot stay to 
speak. 

[Exeunt Gloucester [and Serving- 
men], 

Duch. Art thou gone too ? All comfort go 
with thee, 

For none abides with me. My joy is death ; 
Death, at whose name I oft have been afear’d, 
Because I wish’d this world’s eternity. ao 

Stanley, I prithee, go, and take me hence ; 

I care not whither, for I beg no favour, 

Only convey me where thou art commanded. 
Stan. Why, madam, that is to the Isle of 
Man ; 

There to be us’d according to your state. as 
Duch. That’s bad enough, for I am but re¬ 
proach ; 

And shall I then be us’d reproachfully ? 

Stan. Like to a duchess, and Duke Hum¬ 
phrey’s lady. 

According to that, state you shall be us’d. 

Duch. Sheriff, farewell; and better than I 
fare, 100 

Although thou hast been conduct of my shame. 
Sher. It is my office ; and, madam, pardon me. 
Duch. Ay, ay, farewell; thy office is dis¬ 
charg’d. 

Come, Stanley, shall we go? 

Stan. Madam, your penance done, throw off 
this sheet, ios 

And go we to attire you for our journey. 

Duch. My shame will not be shifted with my 
sheet. 

No, it will hang upon my richest robes 
And show itself, attire me how I can. 

Go, lead the way ; I long to see my prison. 11# 

[Exeunt. 

[ACT III] 

[Scene I. The Abbey at Bury St. Edmund's.] 

A sennet. Enter the King, the Queen, Car¬ 
dinal, Suffolk, York, Buckingham, 
Salisbury, and Warwick to the Parliament. 

King. I muse my Lord of Gloucester is not 

come; 

’T is not his wont to be the hindmost man, 
Whate’er occasion keeps him from us now. 





III. 1. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


677 


Queen. Can you not see, or will ye not observe 
The strangeness of his alter’d countenance ? s 
With what a majesty he bears himself, 

How insolent of late he is become, 

How proud, how peremptory, and unlike him¬ 
self ? 

We know the time since he was mild and 
affable. 

And if we dia but glance a far-off look, 10 

Immediately he was upon his knee, 

That all the court admir’d him for submission ; 
But meet him now, and, be it in the morn, 
When every one will give the time of day, 

He knits his brow and shows an angry eye re 
And passeth by with stiff unbowed knee, 
Disdaining duty that to us belongs. 

Small curs are not regarded when they grin, 
But great men tremble when the lion roars ; 
And Humphrey is no little man in England. 20 
First note that he is near you in descent, 

And should you fall, he is the next will mount. 
Me seemeth then it is no policy, 

Respecting what a rancorous mind he bears 
And his advantage following your decease, 25 
That he should come about your royal person 
Or be admitted to your Highness’ council. 

By flattery hath he won the commons’ hearts, 
And when he please to make commotion, 

’T is to be fear’d they all will follow him. 30 
Now ’t is the spring, and weeds are shallow- 
rooted ; 

Suffer them now, and they ’ll o’ergrow the 
garden 

And choke the herbs for want of husbandry. 
The reverent care I bear unto my lord 
Made me collect these dangers in the Duke, se 
If it be fond, call it a woman’s fear ; 

Which fear if better reasons can supplant, 

I will subscribe and say I wrong’d the Duke. 
My Lord of Suffolk, Buckingham, and York, 
Reprove my allegation, if you can, 40 

Or else conclude my words effectual. 

Suf. Well hath your Highness seen into this 
duke; 

And, had I first been put to speak my mind, 

I think I should have told your Grace’s tale. 
The Duchess by his subornation, 45 

Upon my life, began her devilish practices ; 

Or, if he were not privy to those faults, 

Yet, by reputing of his high descent, 

As next the King he was successive heir, 

And such high vaunts of his nobility, «o 

Did instigate the bedlam brain-sick Duchess 
By wicked means to frame our sovereign’s fall. 
Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep ; 
And in his simple show he harbours treason. 
The fox barks not when he would steal the lamb. 
No, no, my sovereign ; Gloucester is a man eo 
Unsounded yet and full of deep deceit. 

Car. Did he not, contrary to form of law, 
Devise strange deaths for small offences done ? 

York. And did he not, in his protectorship, 
Levy great sums of money through the realm si 
For soldiers’ pay in France, and never sent it, 
By means whereof the towns each day revolted ? 
Buck. Tut, these are petty faults to faults 
unknown 


Which time will bring to light in smooth Duke 
Humphrey. ss 

King. My lords, at once ; the care you have 
of us, 

To mow down thorns that would annoy our 
foot, 

Is worthy praise ; but, shall I speak my con¬ 
science, 

Our kinsman Gloucester is as innocent 
From meaning treason to our royal person 70 
As is the sucking lamb or harmless dove. 

The Duke is virtuous, mild, and too well given 
To dream on evil or to work my downfall. 

Queen. Ah, what’s more dangerous than this 
fond affiance! 

Seems he a dove ? His feathers are but bor¬ 
row’d, re 

For he’s disposed as the hateful raven. 

Is he a lamb ? His skin is surely lent him, 

For he’s inclin’d as is the ravenous wolf. 

Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit ? 
Take heed, my lord ; the welfare of us all so 
Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man. 

Enter Somerset. 

Som. All health unto my gracious sovereign ! 

King. Welcome, Lord Somerset. What news 
from France ? 

Som. That all your interest in those territo¬ 
ries 

Is utterly bereft you. All is lost. ss 

King. Cold news, Lord Somerset; but God's 
will be done ! 

York. [ Aside .] Cold news for me ; for I had 
hope of France 

As firmly as I hope for fertile England. 

Thus are my blossoms blasted in the bud 
And caterpillars eat my leaves away. oo 

But I will remedy this gear ere long, 

Or sell my title for a glorious grave. 

Enter Gloucester. 

Glou. All happiness unto my lord the King ! 
Pardon, my liege, that I have stay’d so long. 

Suf. Nay, Gloucester, know that thou art 
come too soon, 

Unless thou wert more loyal than thou art. 

I do arrest thee of high treason here. 

Glou. Well, Suffolk, thou shalt not see me 
blush 

Nor change my countenance for this arrest; 

A heart unspotted is not easily daunted. io« 
The purest spring is not so free from mud 
As I am clear from treason to my sovereign. 
Who can accuse me ? Wherein am I guilty ? 

York. ’T is thought, my lord, that you took 
bribes of France, 104 

And, being Protector, stay’d the soldiers’ pay, 
By means whereof his Highness hath lost 
France. 

Glou. Is it but thought so ? What are they 
that think it ? 

I never robb’d the soldiers of their pay, 

Nor ever had one penny bribe from France. 

So help me God, as I have watch’d the night, no 
Ay, night by night, in studying good for Eng¬ 
land, 




678 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


III. L 


That doit that e’er I wrested from the King, 
Or any groat I hoarded to my use, 

Be brought against me at my trial-day 1 
No ; many a pound of mine own proper store, ns 
Because I would not tax the needy commons, 
Have I dispursed to the garrisons, 

And never ask’d for restitution. 

Car. It serves you well, my lord, to say so 
much. 

Glou. I say no more than truth, so help me 
God! ... 120 

York. In your protectorship you did devise 
Strange tortures for offenders never heard of, 
That En gla nd was defam’d by tyranny. 

Glou. Why, ’tis well known that, whiles I 
was Protector, 

Pity was all the fault that was in me ; 12s 

For I should melt at an offender’s tears, 

And lowly words were ransom for their fault. 
Unless it were a bloody murderer, 

Or foul felonious thief that fleec’d poor passen¬ 
gers, 

I never gave them condign punishment. 130 
Murder indeed, that bloody sin, I tortur’d 
Above the felon or what trespass else. 

Suf. My lord, these faults are easy, quickly 
answer’d ; 

But mightier crimes are laid unto your charge, 
Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself. 135 
I do arrest you in his Highness’ name ; 

And here commit you to my Lord Cardinal 
To keep, until your further time of trial. 

King. My Lord of Gloucester, ’t is my special 
hope 

That you will clear yourself from all suspect. 140 
My conscience tells me you are innocent. 

Glou. Ah, gracious lord, these days are dan¬ 
gerous. 

Virtue is chok’d with foul ambition, 

And charity chas’d hence by rancour’s hand. 
Foul subornation is predominant, 145 

And equity exil’d your Highness’ land. 

I know their complot is to have my life, 

And if my death might make this island happy 
And prove the period of their tyranny, 

I would expend it with all willingness ; 150 

But mine is made the prologue to their play ; 
For thousands more, that yet suspect no peril, 
Will not conclude their plotted tragedy. 
Beaufort’s red sparkling eyes blab his heart’s 
malice, 

And Suffolk’s cloudy brow his stormy hate ; 155 
Sharp Buckingham unburdens with his tongue 
The envious load that lies upon his heart; 

And dogged York, that reaches at the moon, 
Whose overweening arm I have pluck’d back, 
By false accuse doth level at my life ; 160 

And you, my sovereign lady, with the rest, 
Causeless have laid disgraces on my head 
And with your best endeavour have stirr’d up 
My liefest liege to be mine enemy. 

Ay, all of you have laid your heads together — 
Myself had notice of your conventicles— iee 
And all to make away my guiltless life. 

I shall not want false witness to condemn 
me, 

Nor store of treasons to augment my guilt. 


The ancient proverb will be well effected, ire 
“ A staff is quickly found to beat a dog.” 

Car. My liege, his railing is intolerable. 

If those that care to keep your royal person 
From treason’s secret knife and traitors’ rage 
Be thus upbraided, chid, and rated at, ire 
And the offender granted scope of speech, 

’T will make them cool in zeal unto your Grace. 

Suf. Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here 
With ignominious words, though clerkly 
couch’d, 

As if she had suborned some to swear iso 

False allegations to o’erthrow his state ? 

Queen. But I can give the loser leave to 
chide. 

Glou. Far truer spoke than meant. I lose, 
indeed. 

Beshrew the winners, for they play’d me 
false! 

And well such losers may have leave to speak. 
Buck. He ’ll wrest the sense and hold us 
here all day. iso 

Lord Cardinal, he is your prisoner. 

Car. Sirs, take away the Duke, and guard 
him sure. 

Glou. Ah ! thus King Henry throws away 
his crutch 

Before his legs be firm to bear his body. 190 
Thus is the shepherd beaten from thy side 
And wolves are gnarling who shall gnaw thee 
first. 

Ah, that my fear were false ! Ah, that it were ! 
For, good King Henry, thy decay I fear. 

[Exit [guarded ]. 
King. My lords, what to your wisdoms 
seemeth best, res 

Do or undo, as if ourself were here. 

Queen. What, will your Highness leave the 
parliament ? 

King. Ay, Margaret; my heart is drown’d 
with grief, 

Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes, 
My body round engirt with misery, 200 

For what’s more miserable than discontent ? 
Ah, uncle Humphrey ! in thy face I see 
The map of honour, truth, and loyalty ; 

And yet, good Humphrey, is the hour to come 
That e’er I prov’d thee false or fear’d thy 
faith. 265 

What louring star now envies thy estate, 

That these great lords and Margaret our queen 
Do seek subversion of thy harmless life ? 

Thou never didst them wrong nor no man 
wrong; 

And as the butcher takes away the calf 210 
And binds the wretch and beats it when it 
> strays, 

Bearing it to the bloody slaughter-house, 

Even so remorseless have they borne him hence ; 
And as the dam runs lowing up and down, 214 
Looking the way her harmless young one went, 
And can do nought but wail her darling’s loss, 
Even so myself bewails good Gloucester’s case 
With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimm’d 
eyes 

Look after him and cannot do him good, 

So mighty are his vowed enemies. 220 





III. 1. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


679 


His fortunes I will weep, and ’twixt each groan 
Say, “Who’s a traitor? Gloucester he is 
none.” 

[Exeunt [all but Queen , Cardinal , 
Suffolk , and York; Somerset 
remains apart]. 

Queen. Free lords, cold snow melts with the 
sun’s hot beams. 

Henry my lord is cold in great affairs, 

Too full of foolish pity, and Gloucester’s show 
Beguiles him as the mournful crocodile 220 
With sorrow snares relenting passengers, 

Or as the snake roll’d in a flow’ring bank, 
With shining checker’d slough, doth sting a 
child 

That for the beauty thinks it excellent. 230 
Believe me, lords, were none more wise 
than I — 

And yet herein I judge mine own wit good — 
This Gloucester should be quickly rid the 
world. 

To rid us from the fear we have of him. 

Car. That he should die is worthy policy, 235 
But yet we want a colour for his death. 

’T is meet he be condemn’d by course of law. 

Suf. But, in my mind, that were no policy. 
The King will labour still to save his life, 

The commons haply rise, to save his life ; 240 

And yet we have but trivial argument, 

More than mistrust, that shows him worthy 
death. 

York. So that, by this you would not have 
him die. 

Suf. Ah, York, no man alive so fain as I! 

York. ’Tis York that hath more reason for 
his death. 245 

But, my Lord Cardinal, and you, my Lord of 
Suffolk, 

Say as you think, and speak it from your souls, 
Were’t not all one, an empty eagle were set 
To guard the chicken from a hungry kite, 

As place Duke Humphrey for the King’s Pro¬ 
tector ? 250 

Queen. So the poor chicken should be sure of 
death. 

Suf. Madam, ’t is true ; and, were’t not 
madness, then, 

To make the fox surveyor of the fold ? 

Who being accus’d a crafty murderer, 

His guilt should be but idly posted over, 255 

Because his purpose is not executed. 

No ; let him die, in that he is a fox, 

By nature prov’d an enemy to the flock, 

Before his chaps be stain’d with crimson blood, 
As Humphrey, prov’d by reasons, to my 

liege. _ 260 

And do not stand on quillets how to slay him ; 
Be it by gins, by snares, by subtlety, 

Sleeping or waking, ’t is no matter how, 

So he be dead ; for that is good deceit 
Which mates him first that first intends de¬ 
ceit. 265 

Queen. Thrice-noble Suffolk, ’tis resolutely 
spoke. 

Suf. Not resolute, except so much were 
done, 

For things are often spoke and seldom meant; 


But that my heart accordeth with my tongue, 
Seeing the deed is meritorious, 270 

And to preserve my sovereign from his foe, 

Say but the word, and I will be his priest. 

Car. But I would have him dead, my Lord 
of Suffolk, 

Ere you can take due orders for a priest. 

Say you consent and censure well the deed, 275 
And I ’ll provide his executioner, 

I tender so the safety of my liege. 

Suf. Here is my hand, the deed is worthy 
doing. 

Queen. And so say I. 

York. And I; and now we three have spoke 
. it, 280 

It skills not greatly who impugns our doom. 

Enter a Post. 

Post. Great lords, from Ireland am I come 
amain, 

To signify that rebels there are up 
And put the Englishmen unto the sword. 

Send succours, lords, and stop the rage be- 
time, 265 

Before the wound do grow uncurable ; 

For, being green, there is great hope of help. 
Car. A breach that craves a quick expedi¬ 
ent stop! 

What counsel give you in this weighty cause ? 
York. That Somerset be sent as Regent 
thither. 290 

’T is meet that lucky ruler be employ’d ; 
Witness the fortune he hath had in France. 

Som. If York, with all his far-fet policy, 
Had been the Regent there instead of me, 

He never would have stay’d in France so 

long. 296 

York. No, not to lose it all, as thou hast 
done. 

I rather would have lost my life betimes 
Than bring a burden of dishonour home 
By staying there so long till all were lost. 

Show me one scar character’d on thy skin. 300 
Men’s flesh preserv’d so whole do seldom win. 
Queen. Nay, then, this spark will prove a 
raging fire, 

If wind and fuel be brought to feed it with. 

No more, good York ; sweet Somerset, be still. 
Thy fortune, York, hadst thou been Regent 
there, 305 

Might happily have prov’d far worse than his. 
York. What, worse than nought ? Nay, then, 
a shame take all! 

Som. And, in the number, thee that wishest 
shame ! 

Car. My Lord of York, try what your for¬ 
tune is. 

The uncivil kerns of Ireland are in arms sic 
And temper clay with blood of Englishmen. 

To Ireland will you lead a band of men, 
Collected choicely, from each county some, 
And try your hap against the Irishmen ? 

York. I will, my lord, so please his Maj¬ 
esty. _ 31 . 

Suf. Why, our authority is his consent, 

And what we do establish he confirms. 

Then, noble York, take thou this task in hand. 





68o 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


hi. iL 


York.. I am content. Provide me soldiers, 
lords, 

Whiles I take order for mine own affairs. 320 
Suf. A charge, Lord York, that I will see 
perform’d. 

But now return we to the false Duke Hum¬ 
phrey. 

Car. No more of him ; for I will deal with him 
That henceforth he shall trouble us no more. 
And so break off ; the day is almost spent. 325 
Lord Suffolk, you and I must talk of that 
event. 

York. My Lord of Suffolk, within fourteen 
days 

At Bristol I expect my soldiers ; 

For there I ’ll ship them all for Ireland. 

Suf. I’ll see it truly done, my Lord of 
York. [Exeunt all but York. 330 

York. Now, York, or never, steel thy fear¬ 
ful thoughts, 

And change misdoubt to resolution. 

Be that thou hop’st to be, or what thou art 
Resign to death ; it is not worth the enjoying. 
Let pale-fac’d fear keep with the mean-born 
man, 3S5 

And find no harbour in a royal heart. 

Faster than spring-time showers comes thought 
on thought, 

And not a thought but thinks on dignity. 

My brain more busy than the labouring spider 
Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies. 
Well, nobles, well, ’t is politicly done, 341 

To send me packing with an host of men. 

I fear me you but warm the starved snake, 
Who, cherish’d in your breasts, will sting your 
hearts. 

’T was men I lack’d and you will give them 
me. 346 

I take it kindly ; yet be well assur’d 
You put sharp weapons in a madman’s hands. 
Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band, 

I will stir up in England some black storm 
Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or 
hell; 360 

And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage 
Until the golden circuit on my head, 

Like to the glorious sun’s transparent beams, 
Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw. 

And, for a minister of my intent, s66 

I have seduc’d a headstrong Kentishman, 

John Cade of Ashford, 

To make commotion, as full well he can, 

Under the title of John Mortimer. 

In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade 300 

Oppose himself against a troop of kerns, 

And fought so long, till that his thighs with 
darts 

Were almost like a sharp-quill’d porpentine ; 
And, in the end being rescued, I nave seen 
Him caper upright like a wild Morisco, 366 
Shaking the bloody darts as he his bells. 

Full often, like a shag-hair’d crafty kern, 

Hath he conversed with the enemy, 

And undiscover’d come to me again 

And given me notice of their villainies. 370 

This devil here shall be my substitute, 

For that John Mortimer, which now is dead, 


In face, in gait, in speech, he doth resemble. 

By this I shall perceive the commons’ mind, 
How they affect the house and claim of York. 
Say he be taken, rack’d, and tortured, 376 

I know no pain they can inflict upon him 
Will make him say I mov’d him to those arms. 
Say that he thrive, as’t is great like he will, 
Why, then from Ireland come I with my 
strength 390 

And reap the harvest which that rascal sow’d ; 
For Humphrey being dead, as he shall be, 

And Henry put apart, the next for me. [Exit. 

[Scene II. Bury St. Edmund's. A room of 
state.] 

Enter two or three [Murderers] running over 
the stage , from the murder of Duke Humphrey. 

1 . Mur. Run to my Lord of Suffolk; let 

him know 

We have dispatch’d the Duke, as he com¬ 
manded. 

2 . Mur. 0 that it were to do! What have 

we done ? 

Didst ever hear a man so penitent ? 

Enter Suffolk. 

1 . Mur. Here comes my lord. 5 

Suf. Now, sirs, have you dispatch’d this 
thing ? 

1 . Mur. Ay, my good lord, he’s dead. 

Suf. Why, that’s well said. Go, get you to 
my house; 

I will reward you for this venturous deed. 

The King and all the peers are here at hand. 10 
Have you laid fair the bed ? Is all things well, 
According as I gave directions ? 

1 . Mur. ’T is, my good lord. 

Suf. Away ! be gone. [Exeunt [ Murderers ]. 

Sound trumpets. Enter the King, the Queen, 
Cardinal, Somerset, with Attendants. 

King. Go, call our uncle to our presence 
straight. 15 

Say we intend to try his Grace to-day, 

If he be guilty, as’t is published. 

Suf. I ’ll call him presently, my noble lord. 

[Exit. 

King. Lords, take your places ; and, 1 pray 
you all, 

Proceed no straiter ’gainst our uncle Gloucester 
Than from true evidence of good esteem * 21 

He be approv’d in practice culpable. 

Queen. God forbid any malice should pre¬ 
vail, 

That faultless may condemn a nobleman ! 

Pray God he may acquit him of suspicion 1 25 

King. I thank thee, [Meg;] these words 
content me much. 

Re-enter Suffolk. 

How now ! why look’st thou pale ? Why 
tremblest thou ? 

Where is our uncle ? What’s the matter, Suf¬ 
folk ? 

Suf. Dead in his bed, my lord ; Gloucester 
is dead. 






hi. ii. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


681 


Queen. Marry, God forfend ! so 

Car. God’s secret judgement. I did dream 
to-night 

The Duke was dumb and could not speak a 
word. [The King swoons. 

Queen. How fares my lord ? Help, lords! 
the King is dead. 

Som. Rear up his body ; wring him by the 
nose. 

Queen. Run, go, help, help! 0 Henry, ope 
thine eves! 35 

Suf. He doth revive again. Madam, be 
patient. 

King. O heavenly God ! 

Queen. How fares my gracious lord ? 

Suf. Comfort, my sovereign ! gracious Henry, 
comfort! 

King. What, doth my Lord of Suffolk com¬ 
fort me ? 

Came he right now to sing a raven’s note, 40 
Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers ; 
And thinks he that the chirping of a wren, 

By crying comfort from a hollow breast, 

Can chase away the first-conceived sound ? 
Hide not thy poison with such sug’red words. « 
Lay not thy hands on me ; forbear, I say ! 
Their touch affrights me as a serpent's sting. 
Thou baleful messenger, out of my sight! 

Upon thy eye-balls murderous tyranny 
Sits in grim majesty, to fright the world. so 

Look not upon me, for thine eyes are wound¬ 
ing. 

Yet do not go away. Come, basilisk, 

And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight; 

For in the shade of death I shall find joy ; 

In life but double death, now Gloucester’s 
dead. 66 

Queen. Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolk 
thus ? 

Although the Duke was enemy to him, 

Yet he most Christian-like laments his death ; 
And for myself, foe as he was to me, 

Might liquid tears or heart-offending groans «> 
Or blood-consuming sighs recall his life, 

I would be blind with weeping, sick with 
groans, 

Look pale as primrose with blood-drinking 
sighs, 

And all to have the noble Duke alive. 

What know I how the world may deem of me, 
For it is known we were but hollow friends ? 

It may be judg’d I made the Duke away ; 

So shall my name with slander’s tongue be 
wounded, 

And princes’ courts be fill’d with my reproach. 
This get I by his death. Ay me, unhappy ! to 
T o be a queen, and crown’d with infamy ! 

King. Ah, woe is me for Gloucester, 
wretched man ! 

Queen. Be woe for me, more wretched than 
he is. 

What, dost thou turn away and hide thy face ? 
I am no loathsome leper ; look on me. 76 

What! art thou, like the adder, waxen deaf ? 
Be poisonous too and kill thy forlorn queen. 

Is all thy comfort shut in Gloucester’s tomb ? 
Why, then, Dame [Margaret] was ne’er thy joy. 


Erect his statue and worship it, so 

And make my image but an alehouse sign. 

Was I for this nigh wreck’d upon the sea 
And twice by awkward wind from England’s 
bank 

Drove back again unto my native clime ? 

What boded this, but well forewarning wind ss 
Did seem to say, “Seek not a scorpion’s nest, 
Nor set no footing on this unkind shore ” ? 
What did I then, but curs’d the gentle gusts 
And he that loos’d them forth their brazen 
caves; 

And bid them blow towards England’s blessed 
shore, so 

Or turn our stern upon a dreadful rock ? 

Yet iEolus would not be a murderer, 

But left that hateful office unto thee. 

The pretty-vaulting sea refus’d to drown me, 
Knowing that thou wouldst have me drown’d 
on shore, oe 

With tears as salt as sea, through thy unkind¬ 
ness. 

The splitting rocks cower’d in the sinking 
sands 

And would not dash me with their ragged sides, 
Because thy flinty heart, more hard than they, 
Might in thy palace perish [Margaret]. 100 

As far as I could ken thy chalky cliffs, 

When from thy shore the tempest beat us back, 
I stood upon the hatches in the storm ; 

And when the dusky sky began to rob 
My earnest-gaping sight of thy land’s view, ios 
I took a costly jewel from my neck, 

A heart it was, bound in with diamonds, 

And threw it towards thy land. The sea re¬ 
ceiv’d it, 

And so I wish’d thy body might my heart. io« 
And even with this I lost fair England’s view, 
And bid mine eyes be packing with my heart 
And call’d them blind and dusky spectacles, 
For losing ken of Albion’s wished coast. 

How often have I tempted Suffolk’s tongue. 
The agent of thy foul inconstancy, us 

To sit and witch me, as Ascanius did 
When he to madding Dido would unfold 
His father’s acts commenc’d in burning Troy ! 
Am I not witch’d like her ? or thou not false 
like him ? 

Ay me, I can no more ! Die, [Margaret !J 120 
For Henry weeps that thou dost live so long. 

Noise within. Enter Warwick, [Salisbury,] 
and many Commons. 

War. It is reported, mighty sovereign, 

That good Duke Humphrey traitorously is 
murd’red 

By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort’s means. 
The commons, like an angry hive of bees 126 
That want their leader, scatter up and down 
And care not who they sting in his revenge. 
Myself have calm’d their spleenful mutiny, 
Until they hear the order of his death. 

King. That he is dead, good Warwick, ’tis 
too true; is« 

But how he died God knows, not Henry. 

Enter his chamber, view his breathless corpse. 
And comment then upon his sudden death. 




682 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


hi. u. 


War. That shall I do, my liege. Stay, Salis- 
bury, 

With the rude multitude till I return. 135 

[Exit Warwick and Salisbury , sev¬ 
erally.] 

King. 0 Thou that judgest all things, stay 
my thoughts, 

My thoughts, that labour to persuade my soul 
Some violent hands were laid on Humphrey’s 
life! 

If my suspect be false, forgive me, God, 

For judgement only doth belong to thee. wo 
Fain would I go to chafe his paly lips 
With twenty thousand kisses, and to drain 
Upon his face an ocean of salt tears, 

To tell my love unto his dumb deaf trunk 
And with my fingers feel his hand unfeeling. 
But all in vain are these mean obsequies ; no 

Re-enter Warwick and others , bearing Glouces¬ 
ter's body on a bed. 


And to survey his dead and earthy image, 
What were it but to make my sorrow greater ? 
War. Come hither, gracious sovereign, view 
this body. 

King. That is to see how deep my grave is 
made; iso 

For with his soul fled all my worldly solace, 
And seeing him I see my life in death. 

War. As surely as my soul intends to live 
With that dread King that took our state upon 
him 

To free us from his father’s wrathful curse, ies 
I do believe that violent hands were laid 
Upon the life of this thrice-famed duke. 

Suf. A dreadful oath, sworn with a solemn 
tongue! 

What instance gives Lord Warwick for his vow ? 

War. See how the blood is settled in his face. 
Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost, iei 

Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale, and bloodless, 
Being all descended to the labouring heart; 
Who, in the conflict that it holds with death, 
Attracts the same for aidance ’gainst the en¬ 
emy ; i 65 

Which with the heart there cools and ne’er re- 
turneth 

To blush and beautify the cheek again. 

But see, his face is black and full of blood, 

His eye-balls further out than when he lived, 
Staring full ghastly like a strangled man ; no 
His hair uprear’d, his nostrils stretch’d with 
struggling; 

His hands abroad display’d, as one that grasp’d 
And tugg’d for life and was by strength sub¬ 
du’d. 

Look, on the sheets his hair, you see, is stick- 
ing; 

His well-proportion’d beard made rough and 
rugged, i 76 

Like to the summer’s corn by tempest lodged. 
It cannot be but he was murd’red here ; 

The least of all these signs were probable. 

Suf. Why, Warwick, who should do the 
Duke to death ? 

Myself and Beaufort had him in protection, iso 
And we, I hope, sir, are no murderers. 


War. But both of you were vow’d Duke 
Humphrey’s foes, 

And you, forsooth, had the good Duke to 
keep. 

’T is like you would not feast him like a friend ; 
And’t is well seen he found an enemy. iss 

Queen. Then you, belike, suspect these no¬ 
blemen 

As guilty of Duke Humphrey’s timeless death. 

War. Who finds the heifer dead and bleed¬ 
ing fresh 

And sees fast by a butcher with an axe, 

But will suspect’t was he that made the slaugh¬ 
ter ? i»o 

Who finds the partridge in the puttock’s nest, 
But may imagine how the bird was dead, 
Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak ? 
Even so suspicious is this tragedy. 

Queen. Are you the butcher, Suffolk ? 
Where’s your knife ? i»s 

Is Beaufort term’d a kite? Where are his 
talons ? 

Suf. I wear no knife to slaughter sleeping 
men ; 

But here’s a vengeful sword, rusted with ease, 
That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart 
That slanders me with murder’s crimson badge. 
Say, if thou dar’st, proud Lord of Warwick¬ 
shire, 201 

That I am faulty in Duke Humphrey’s death. 

[Exeunt Cardinal , Somerset , and 
others .] 

War. What dares not Warwick, if false 
Suffolk dare him ? 

Queen. He dares not calm his contumelious 
spirit 

Nor cease to be an arrogant controller, 205 
Though Suffolk dare him twenty thousand 
times. 

War. Madam, be still, with reverence may I 
_ say; 

For every word you speak in his behalf 
Is slander to your royal dignity. 

Suf. Blunt-witted lord, ignoble in demean¬ 
our ! 210 

If ever lady wrong’d her lord so much, 

Thy mother took into her blameful bed 
Some stern, untutor’d churl, and noble stock 
Was graft with crab-tree slip ; whose fruit thou 
art 

And never of the Nevils’ noble race. 215 

War. But that the guilt of murder bucklers 
thee 

And I should rob the deathsman of his fee, 
Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames, 
And that my sovereign’s presence make me 
mild, 2x8 

I would, false murd’rous coward, on thy knee 
Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech 
And say it was thy mother that thou meant’st, 
That thou thyself wast born in bastardy ; 

And after all this fearful homage done, 

Give thee thy hire and send thy soul to hell, 226 
Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men ! 

Suf. Thou shalt be waking while I shed thy 
blood, 

If from this presence thou dar’st go with me. 




III. II. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


683 


War. Away even now, or I will drag thee 
hence. 229 

Unworthy though thou art, I ’ll cope with thee 
And do some service to Duke Humphrey’s 
ghost. [Exeunt [Suffolk and Warwick ]. 
King. What stronger breastplate than a heart 
untainted! 

Thrice is he arm’d that hath his quarrel just, 
And he but naked, though lock’d up in steel, 
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. 

[A noise within. 

Queen. What noise is this ? 236 

Re-enter Suffolk and Warwick, with their 
weapons drawn. 

King. Why, how now, lords ! your wrathful 
weapons drawn 

Here in our presence ! Dare you be so bold ? 
Why, what tumultuous clamour have we here ? 
Suf The traitorous Warwick with the men 
of Bury 240 

Set all upon me, mighty sovereign. 

Enter Salisbury. 

Sal. [To the Commons .] Sirs, stand apart; the 
King shall know your mind. 

Dread lord, the commons send you word by 
me, 

Unless Lord Suffolk straight be done to death, 
Or banished fair England’s territories, 245 

They will by violence tear him from your palace 
And torture him with grievous ling’ring death. 
They say, by him the good Duke Humphrey 
died ; 

They say, in him they fear your Highness’ 
death ; 

And mere instinct of love and loyalty, 250 

Free from a stubborn opposite intent, 

As being thought to contradict your liking, 
Makes them thus forward in his banishment. 
They say, in care of your most royal person, 
That if your Highness should intend to sleep, 
And charge that no man should disturb your 
rest _ 2c« 

In pain of your dislike or pain of death, 

Yet, notwithstanding such a strait edict, 

Were there a serpent seen, with forked tongue, 
That slily glided towards your Majesty, 260 
It were but necessary you were wak’d, 

Lest, being suffer’d in that harmful slumber, 
The mortal worm might make the sleep eternal; 
And therefore do they cry, though you forbid, 
That they will guard you, whe’er you will or no, 
From such fell serpents as false Suffolk is, 266 
With whose envenomed and fatal sting, 

Your loving uncle, twenty times his worth, 
They say, is shamefully bereft of life. 

Commons. (Within.) An answer from the 
King, my Lord of Salisbury ! 270 

Suf. ’T is like the commons, rude unpolish’d 
hinds, 

Could send such message to their sovereign. 

But you, my lord, were glad to be employ’d, 

To show how quaint an orator you are ; 

But all the honour Salisbury hath won 275 

Is, that he was the lord ambassador 
Sent from a sort of tinkers to the King. 


Commons. (Within.) An answer from the 
King, or we will all break in ! 

King. Go, Salisbury, and tell them all from 
me, 

I thank them for their tender loving care ; 2B0 

And had I not been cited so by them, 

Yet did I purpose as they do entreat, 

For, sure, my thoughts do hourly prophesy 
Mischance unto my state by Suffolk’s means ; 
And therefore, by His majesty 1 swear, 2S6 
Whose far unworthy deputy 1 am, 

He shall not breathe infection in this air 
But three days longer, on the pain of death. 

[ Exit Salisbury.] 

Queen. 0 Henry, let me plead for gentle 
Suffolk! 

King. Ungentle queen, to call him gentle 
Suffolk! 290 

No more, I say ! If thou dost plead for him, 
Thou wilt but add increase unto my wrath. 
Had I but said, I would have kept my word ; 
But when I swear, it is irrevocable. 

If, after three days’ space, thou here be’st 
found 296 

On any ground that I am ruler of, 

The world shall not be ransom for thy life. 
Come, Warwick, come, good Warwick, go with 
me ; 

I have great matters to impart to thee. 

[Exeunt [all but Queen and Suffolk], 

Queen. Mischance and Sorrow go along with 
you! 300 

Heart’s Discontent and sour Affliction 
Be playfellows to keep you company ! 

Tli ere’s two of you ; the devil make a third ! 
And threefold vengeance tend upon your steps ! 

Suf. Cease, gentle queen, these execra¬ 
tions, 306 

And let thy Suffolk take his heavy leave. 

Queen. Fie, coward woman and soft-hearted 
wretch! 

Hast thou not spirit to curse thine enemy ? 

Suf. A plague upon them ! wherefore should 
I curse them ? 

Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake’s 
groan, sio 

I would invent as bitter searching terms, 

As curst, as harsh and horrible to hear, 
Deliver’d strongly through my fixed teeth, 
With full as many signs of deadly hate, 

As lean-faced Envy in her loathsome cave. 31 5 
My tongue should stumble in mine earnest 
words ; 

Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint; 
Mine hair be fix’d on end, as one distract; 

Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban ; 
And even now my burden’d heart would 
break, 320 

Should I not curse them. Poison be their 
drink ! 

Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they 
taste! 

Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress trees ! 
Their chiefest prospect murd’ring basilisks ! 
Their softest touch as smart as lizards’ 
stings! 326 

Their music frightful as the serpent’s hiss, 






68 4 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


III. iii. 


And boding screech-owls make the consort 
full! 

All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell — 

Queen. Enough, sweet Suffolk! Thou tor- 
ment’st thyself; 

And these dread curses, like the sun ’gainst 
glass, 330 

Or like an overcharged gun, recoil, 

And turn the force of them upon thyself. 

Suf. You bade me ban, ana will you bid me 
leave ? 

Now, by the ground that I am banish’d from, 
Well could I curse away a winter’s night, 335 
Though standing naked on a mountain top 
Where biting cold would never let grass grow, 
And think it but a minute spent in sport. 
Queen. O, let me entreat thee cease. Give 
me thy hand, 

That I may dew it with my mournful tears ; 340 
Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place, 

To wash away my woeful monuments. 

O, could this kiss be printed in thy hand, 

That thou mightst think upon these by the 
seal, 

Through whom a thousand sighs are breath’d 
for thee ! 345 

So, get thee gone, that I may know my grief. 
’T is but surmis’d whiles thou art standing by, 
As one that surfeits thinking On a want. 

I will repeal thee, or, be well assur’d, 
Adventure to be banished myself ; seo 

And banished I am, if but from thee. 

Go ; speak not to me ; even now be gone. 

O, go not yet! Even thus two friends con¬ 
demn’d 

Embrace and kiss and take ten thousand leaves, 
Leather a hundred times to part than die. 355 
Yet now farewell; and farewell life with thee ! 
Suf. Thus is poor Suffolk ten times ban¬ 
ished ; 

Once by the King, and three times thrice by 
thee. 

’T is not the land I care for, wert thou thence. 
A wilderness is populous enough, 360 

So Suffolk had thy heavenly company; 

For where thou art, there is the world itself, 
With every several pleasure in the world, 

And where thou art not, desolation. 

I can no more. Live thou to joy thy life ; sss 
Myself to joy in nought but that thou liv’st. 

Enter Vaux. 

Queen. Whither goes Vaux so fast? What 
news, I prithee ? 

Vaux. To signify unto his Majesty 
That Cardinal Beaufort is at point of death ; 
For suddenly a grievous sickness took him, 370 
That makes him gasp and stare and catch the 
air, 

Blaspheming God and cursing men on earth. 
Sometime he talks as if Duke Humphrey’s 
ghost 

Were by his side ; sometime he calls the King 
And whispers to his pillow as to him 375 

The secrets of his overcharged soul; 

And I am sent to tell his Majesty 
That even now he cries aloud for him. 


Queen. Go tell this heavy message to the 
King. [ Exit Vaux. 

Ay me ! what is this world! What news are 
these! sso 

But wherefore grieve I at an hour’s poor loss, 
Omitting Suffolk’s exile, my soul’s treasure ? 
Why only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee, 

And with the southern clouds contend in tears, 
Theirs for the earth’s increase, mine for my 
sorrow’s ? 38 s 

Now get thee hence ; the King, thou know’st, 
is coming. 

If thou be found by me, thou art but dead. 

Suf. If I depart from thee, I cannot live ; 
And in thy sight to die, what were it else 
But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap ? 390 

Here could I breathe my soul into the air, 

As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe 
Dying with mother’s dug between its lips; 
Where, from thy sight, 1 should be raging mad 
And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes, 3 »e 
T o have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth. 
So shouldst thou either turn my flying soul, 

Or I should breathe it so into thy body, 

And then it liv’d in sweet Elysium. 

To die by thee were but to die in jest; 400 

From thee to die were torture more than death. 
O, let me stay, befall what may befall! 

Queen. Away ! though parting be a fretful 
corrosive, 

It is applied to a deathful wound. 

To France, sweet Suffolk ! Let me hear from 
thee; 405 

For wheresoe’er thou art in this world’s globe, 

I ’ll have an Iris that shall find thee out. 

Suf. I go. 

Queen. And take my heart with thee. 
Suf. A jewel, lock’d into the woefull’st cask 
That ever did contain a thing of worth. 410 
Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we ; 

This way fall I to death. 

Queen. This way for me. 

[Exeunt [ severally ]. 

[Scene III. London. Beaufort's bedchamber.] 

Enter the King, Salisbury, Warwick, to the 
Cardinal in bed. 

King. How fares my lord ? Speak, Beaufort, 
to thy sovereign. 

Car. If thou be’st death, I ’ll give thee 
England’s treasure, 

Enough to purchase such another island, 

So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain. 

King. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life, is 
Where death’s approach is seen so terrible ! 
War. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to 
thee. 

Car. Bring me unto my trial when you will. 
Died he not in his bed ? Where should he die ? 
Can I make men live, whe’er they will or no ? 
0 , torture me no more ! I will confess. ir 

Alive again ? Then show me where he is ; 

I ’ll give a thousand pound to look upon him. 
He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them. 
Comb down his hair ; look, look ! it stands up¬ 
right, 16 





IV. 1. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


68s 


Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul. 
Give me some drink ; and bid the apothecary 
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him. 

King. 0 thou eternal Mover of the heavens, 
Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch! 20 

0 , beat away the busy meddling fiend 
That lays strong siege unto this wretch’s soul, 
And from his bosom purge this black despair ! 

War. See, how the pangs of death do make 
him grin ! 

Sal. Disturb him not; let him pass peace¬ 
ably. 25 

King. Peace to his soul, if God’s good plea¬ 
sure be ! 

Lord Cardinal, if thou think’st on heaven’s bliss, 
Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. — 
He dies, and makes no sign. 0 God, forgive 
him ! 

War. So bad a death argues a monstrous 
life. 30 

King. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners 
all. 

Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close ; 
And let us all to meditation. [ Exeunt. 


ACT IV 

[Scene I. The coast of Kent.] 

Alarum. Fight at sea. Ordnance goes off. 
Enter a Lieutenant, [o Master, a Mas¬ 
ter’s Mate, Walter Whitmore, and 
others; with mem] Suffolk [disguised, and 
other gentlemen, prisoners]. 

Lieu. The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful 
day 

Is crept into the bosom of the sea; 

And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades 

That drag the tragic melancholy night; 

Who, with their drowsy, slow, and flagging 
wings, < « 

Clip dead men’s graves, and from their misty 
jaws 

Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air. 

Therefore bring forth the soldiers of our prize ; 

For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs, 

Here shall they make their ransom on the 
sand, ... 10 

Or with their blood stain this discoloured shore. 

Master, this prisoner freely give I thee ; 

And thou that art his mate, make boot of this ; 

The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy share. 

1 . Gent. What is my ransom, master ? Let 
me know. is 

Mast. A thousand crowns, or else lay down 
your head. 

Mate. And so much shall you give, or off 
goes yours. 

Lieu. What, think you much to pay two 
thousand crowns. 

And bear the name and port of gentlemen ? 

Cut both the villains’ throats ; for die you shall. 

The lives of those which we have lost in fight 21 

Be counterpois’d with such a petty sum ! 

1 . Gent. I ’ll give it, sir; and therefore spare 
my life. 


2 . Gent. And so will I, and write home for it 
straight. 

Whit. I lost mine eye in laying the prize 
aboard, 25 

And therefore to revenge it shalt thou die : 

[To Suffolk. 

And so should these, if I might have mv will. 

Lieu. Be not so rash ; take ransom, let him 
live. 

Suf. Look on my George ; I am a gentleman. 
Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shadt be paid. 

Whit. And so am I; my name is Walter 
Whitmore. 31 

How now! why start’st thou ? What, doth 
death affright ? 

Suf. Thy name affrights me, in whose sound 
is death. 

A cunning man did calculate my birth 
And told me that by water I should die : 35 

Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded ; 
Thy name is Gualtier, being rightly sounded. 

Whit. Gualtier, or Walter, which it is, I 
care not. 

Never yet did base dishonour blur our name, 
But with our sword we wip’d away the blot; « 
Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge, 
Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defac’d, 
And I proclaim’d a coward through the world ! 

[Lays hold of Suffolk.] 

Suf. Stay, Whitmore; for thy prisoner is a 
prince, 

The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole. « 

Whit. The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in 
rags! 

Suf. Ay, but these rags are no part of the 
duke: 

[Jove sometime went disguised, and why not I ?] 

Lieu. But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt 
be. 

Suf. Obscure and lousy swain, King Henry’s 
blood, so 

The honourable blood of Lancaster, 

Must not be shed by such a jaded groom. 

Hast thou not kiss’d thy hand and held my 
stirrup ? 

Bare-headed plodded by my foot-cloth mule 
And thought thee happy when I shook my 
head? 65 

How often hast thou waited at my cup, 

Fed from my trencher, kneel’d down at the 
board, 

When I have feasted with Queen Margaret ? 
Remember it and let it make thee crest-fallen, 
Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride, eo 

How in our voiding lobby hast thou stood 
And duly waited for my coming forth. 

This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf 
And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue. 

Whit. Speak, captain, shall I stab the for¬ 
lorn swain ? «s 

Lieu. First let my words stab him, as he 
hath me. 

Suf. Base slave, thy words are blunt and so 
art thou. 

Lieu. Convey him hence and on our long¬ 
boat’s side 
Strike off his head. 





686 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


IV. 11. 


Suf. Thou dar’st not, for thy own. 

[Lieu. Yes, Pole. 

Suf. Pole!] 

Lieu. Pool! Sir Pool! lord ! to 

Ay, kennel, puddle, sink; whose filth and dirt 
Troubles the silver spring where England 
drinks. 

Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth 
For swallowing the treasure of the realm. 

Thy lips that kiss’d the Queen shall sweep the 
ground; to 

And thou that smil’d’st at good Duke Hum¬ 
phrey’s death 

Against the senseless winds shalt grin in vain, 
Who in contempt shall hiss at thee again ; 

And wedded be thou to the hags of hell, 

For daring to affy a mighty lord so 

Unto the daughter of a worthless king, 

Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem. 

By devilish policy art thou grown great 
And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorg’d 
With gobbets of thy mother’s bleeding heart, so 
By thee Anjou and Maine were sold to France, 
The false revolting Normans thorough thee 
Disdain to call us lord, and Picardy 
Hath slain their governors, surpris’d our forts, 
And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home. 00 
The princely Warwick, and the Nevils all, 
Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in 
vain, 

As hating thee, are rising up in arms ; 

And now the house of York, thrust from the 
crown 

By shameful murder of a guiltless king os 
And lofty, proud, encroaching tyranny, 

Burns with revenging fire ; whose hopeful col¬ 
ours 

Advance our half-fac’d sun, striving to shine, 
Under the which is writ, “ Invitis nubibus .” 
The commons here in Kent are up in arms ; 100 
And, to conclude, reproach and beggary 
Is crept into the palace of our king, 

And all by thee. Away ! convey him hence. 
Suf. 0 that I were a god, to shoot forth 
thunder 

Upon these paltry, servile, abject drudges ! ios 
Small things make base men proud. This vil¬ 
lain here, 

Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more 
Than Bargulus the strong Illyrian pirate. 
Drones suck not eagles’ blood, but rob bee¬ 
hives. 

It is impossible that I should die 110 

By such a lowly vassal as thyself. 

Thy words move rage and not remorse in me. 

I go of message from the Queen to France ; 

I charge thee waft me safely cross the Chan¬ 
nel. 

Lieu. Walter,— 115 

Whit. Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to 
thy death. 

Suf. Gelidus timor occupat artus: it is thee I 
fear. 

Whit.. Thou shalt have cause to fear before 
I leave thee. 

What, are ye daunted now ? Now will ye 
stoop ? 


1 . Gent. My gracious lord, entreat him, 
speak him fair. u* 

Suf. Suffolk’s imperial tongue is stern and 
rough, 

Us’d to command, untaught to plead for fa¬ 
vour. 

Far be it we should honour such as these 
With humble suit. No, rather let my head 
Stoop to the block than these knees bow to any 
Save to the God of heaven and to my king ; 126 
And sooner dance upon a bloody pole 
Than stand uncover’d to the vulgar groom. 
True nobility is exempt from fear ; 

More can I bear than you dare execute. iso 
Lieu. Hale him away, and let him talk no 
more. 

Suf. Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye 
can, 

That this my death may never be forgot! 

Great men oft die by vile besonians. 

A Roman sworder and banditto slave 135 

Murder’d sweet Tully ; Brutus’ bastard hand 
Stabb’d Julius Cfesar ; savage islanders 
Pompeythe Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates. 

[Exeunt Whitmore with Suffolk. 
Lieu. And as for these whose ransom we have 
set, 

It is our pleasure one of them depart; no 

Therefore come you with us and let him go. 

[Exeunt all but the First Gentleman. 

Re-enter Whitmore with Suffolk's body. 

Whit. There let his head and lifeless body 
lie, 

Until the Queen his mistress bury it. [Exit. 

1 . Gent. O barbarous and bloody spectacle ! 
His body will I bear unto the King. us 

If he revenge it not, yet will his friends ; 

So will the Queen, that living held him dear. 

[Exit with the body.] 

[Scene II. Blackheath.] 

Enter George Bevis and John Holland. 

Bevis. Come, and get thee a sword, though 
made of a lath. They have been up these two 
days. 

Holl. They have the more need to sleep now, 
then. * 

Bevis. I tell thee, Jack Cade the clothier 
means to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, 
and set a new nap upon it. 

Holl. So he had need, for’t is threadbare. 
Well, I say it was never merry world in Eng¬ 
land since gentlemen came up. 10 

Bevis. O miserable age ! virtue is not re¬ 
garded in handicrafts-men. 

Holl. The nobility think scorn to go in 
leather aprons. 

Bevis. Nay, more, the King’s council are no 
good workmen. is 

Holl. True ; and yet it is said, labour in thy 
vocation; which is as much to say as, let the 
magistrates be labouring men; and therefore 
should we be magistrates. 29 

Bevis. Thou hast, hit it ; for there’s no 
better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand. 





IV. ii. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


6&7 


Holl. I see them! I see them! There’s 
Best’s son, the tanner of Wingham, — 

Bevis. He shall have the skins of our ene¬ 
mies, to make dog’s-leather of. 20 

Holl. And Dick the Butcher, — 

Bevis. Then is sin struck down like an ox, 
and iniquity’s throat cut like a calf. 

Holl. And Smith the weaver, — 30 

Bevis. Argo, their thread of life is spun. 
Holl. Come, come, let’s fall in with them. 

Drum. Enter Cade, Dick the Butcher } Smith 
the Weaver, and a Sawyer, with infinite num¬ 
bers. 

Cade. We John Cade, so term’d of our sup¬ 
posed father, — 

Dick. [Aside.] Or rather, of stealing a cade 
of herrings. 38 

Cade. For our enemies shall fail before us, 
inspired with the spirit of putting down kings 

ana princes,-Command silence. 

Dick. Silence! 40 

Cade. My father was a Mortimer, — 

Dick. [Aside.] He was an honest man, and 
a good bricklayer. 

Cade. My mother a Plantagenet, — « 

Dick. [Aside.] I knew her well; she was a 
midwife. 

Cade. My wife descended of the Lacies, — 
Dick. [Aside.] She was, indeed, a pedler’s 
daughter, and sold many laces. « 

Smith. [Aside.] But now of late, not able to 
travel with her furr’d pack, she washes bucks 
here at home. 

Cade. Therefore am I of an honourable 
house. 

Dick. [Aside. 1 Ay, by my faith, the field is 
honourable; and there was he born, under a 
hedge, for his father had never a house but the 
cage. so 

Cade, Valiant I am. 

Smith. [Aside.] ’A must needs ; for beggary 
is valiant. 

Cade. I am able to endure much. eo 

Dick. [Aside ] No question of that; for I 
have seen him whipp’d three market-days to¬ 
gether. 

Cade. I fear neither sword nor fire. 

Smith. [Aside.] He need not fear the sword ; 
for his coat is of proof. fi 5 

Dick. [Aside.] But methinks he should stand 
in fear of fire, being burnt i’ the hand for 
stealing of sheep. « 8 

Cade. Be brave, then; for your captain is 
brave, and vows reformation. There shall be 
in England seven halfpenny loaves sold for a 
penny; the three-hoop’d pot shall have ten 
hoops, and I will make it felony to drink small 
beer. All the realm shall be in common, and in 
Cheapside shall my palfrey go to grass; and 
when I am king, as king I will be, — 76 

All. God save your Majesty ! 

Cade. I thank you, good people,—there 
shall be no money. All shall eat and drink on 
my score ; and I will apparel them all in one 
livery, that they may agree like brothers and 
worship me their lord. 


Dick. The first thing we do, let’s kill all the 
lawyers. 84 

Cade. Nay, that I mean to do. Is not this a 
lamentable thing, that of the skin of an inno¬ 
cent lamb should be made parchment? that 
parchment, being scribbl’d o’er, should undo a 
man ? Some say the bee stings ; but I say, ’tis 
the bee’s wax ; for I did but seal once to a thing, 
and I was never mine own man since. How 
now ! who’s there ? 01 

Enter [some, bringing forward the] Clerk [of 
Chatham], 

Smith. The clerk of Chatham. He can write 
and read and cast account. 

Cade. O monstrous! 

Smith. We took him setting of boys’ copies. 
Cade. Here’s a villain ! «« 

Smith. Has a book in his pocket with red 
letters in’t. 

Cade. Nay, then, he is a conjurer. 

Dick. Nay, he can make obligations, and 
write court-hand. 101 

Cade. I am sorry for’t. The man is a proper 
man, of mine honour ; unless I find him guilty, 
he shall not die. Come hither, sirrah, I must 
examine thee. What is thy name ? 

Clerk. Emmanuel. ioe 

Dick. They use to write it on the top of 
letters ; ’twill go hard with you. 

Cade. Let me alone. Dost thou use to write 
thy name, or hast thou a mark to thyself, like 
an honest plain-dealing man ? in 

Clerk. Sir, I thank God, I have been so well 
brought up that I can write my name. 

All. He hath confess’d! Away with him! 
He’s a villain and a traitor. ub 

Cade. Away with him, I say ! Hang him 
with his pen and ink-horn about his neck. 

[Exit one with the Clerk. 

Enter Michael. 

Mich. Where’s our general ? 

Cade. Here I am, thou particular fellow, no 
Mich. Fly, fly, fly! Sir Humphrey Stafford 
and his brother are hard by, with the King’s 
forces. 

Cade. Stand, villain, stand, or I ’ll fell thee 
down. He shall be encount’red with a man as 
good as himself. He is but a knight, is ’a ? 126 
Mich. No. 

Cade. To equal him, I will make myself a 
knight presently. [Kneels.] Rise up Sir John 
Mortimer. [Rises.] Now have at him ! 

Enter Sir Humphrey Stafford and his 
Brother, with drum and soldiers. 

Staf. Rebellious hinds, the filth and scum 
of Kent, iso 

Mark’d for the gallows, lay your weapons down ! 
Home to your cottages, forsake this groom ! 
The King is merciful, if you revolt. 

Bro. But angry, wrathful, and inclin’d to 
blood, 

If you go forward ; therefore yield, or die. i »5 
Cade. As for these silken-coated slaves, I 
pass not. 





688 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


IV. IV. 


It is to you, good people, that I speak, 

Over whom, in time to come, I hope to reign, 
For I am rightful heir unto the crown. 

Staf. Villain, thy father was a plasterer, uo 
And thou thyself a shearman, art thou not ? 
Cade. And Adam was a gardener. 

Bro. And what of that ? 

Cade. Marry, this: Edmund Mortimer, Earl 
of March, 

Married the Duke of Clarence’ daughter, did 
he not ? i 45 

Staf. Ay, sir. 

Cade. By her he had two children at one birth. 
Bro. That’s false. 

Cade. Ay, there’s the question; but I say, 
’t is true. 

The elder of them, being put to nurse, ieo 
Was by a beggar-woman stolen away ; 

And, ignorant of his birth and parentage, 
Became a bricklayer when he came to age. 

His son am I ; deny it, if you can. 

Dick. Nay, ’t is too true ; therefore he shall 
be king. 155 

Smith. Sir, he made a chimney in my father’s 
house, and the bricks are alive at this day to 
testify it; therefore deny it not. 

Staf. And will you credit this base drudge’s 
words, 

That speaks he knows not what ? ieo 

All. Ay, marry, will we; therefore get ye 
gone. 

Bro. Jack Cade, the Duke of York hath 
taught you this. 

Cade. [Aside.] He lies; for I invented it 
myself. — i 63 

Go to, sirrah, tell the King from me, that, for 
his father’s sake, Henry the Fifth, in whose 
time boys went to span-counter for French 
crowns, I am content he shall reign ; but I ’ll 
be Protector over him. 

Dick. And furthermore, we ’ll have the Lord 
Say’s head for selling the dukedom of Maine, no 
Cade. And good reason ; for thereby is Eng¬ 
land maim’d, and fain to go with a staff, but 
that my puissance holds it up. Fellow kings, I 
tell you that that Lord Say hath gelded the 
commonwealth, and made it an eunuch ; and 
more than that, he can speak French, and 
therefore he is a traitor. in 

Staf. 0 gross and miserable ignorance ! 

Cade. Nay, answer, if you can. The French¬ 
men are our enemies. Go to, then, I ask but 
this : can he that speaks with the tongue of an 
enemy be a good counsellor, or no ? 

All. No, no; and therefore we ’ll havehishead. 
Bro. Well, seeing gentle words will not pre¬ 
vail, < 184 

Assail them with the army of the King. 

Staf. Herald, away ; and throughout every 
town 

Proclaim them traitors that are up with Cade ; 
That those which fly before the battle ends 
May, even in their wives’ and children’s sight, 
Be bang’d up for example at their doors. mo 
And you that be the King’s friends, follow me. 

[Exeunt [the two Staffords , and 
Soldiers ]. 


Cade. And you that love the commons, fol¬ 
low me. 

Now show yourselves men ; ’t is for liberty. 

We will not leave one lord, one gentleman. 
Spare none but such as go in clouted shoon ; 195 
For they are thrifty honest men and such 
As would, but that they dare not, take our parts. 
Dick. They are all in order and march 
toward us. 

Cade. But then are we in order when we are 
most out of order. Come, march forward. 200 

[Exeunt.] 

[Scene III. Another part of Blackheath.] 

Alarums to the fight , wherein both the Staf¬ 
fords are slain. Enter Cade and the rest. 

Cade. Where’s Dick, the butcher of Ashford? 
Dick. Here, sir. 

Cade. They fell before thee like sheep and 
oxen, and thou behavedst thyself as if thou 
hadst been in thine own slaughter-house ; 
therefore thus will I reward thee: the Lent 
shall be as long again as it is ; and thou shalt 
have a license to kill for a hundred lacking one. 
Dick. I desire no more. 10 

Cade. And, to speak truth, thou deservest 
no less. This monument of the victory will I 
bear [putting on Stafford's armour] ; and the 
bodies shall be dragg’d at my horse heels till I 
do come to London, where we will have the 
mayor’s sword borne before us. ie 

Dick. If we mean to thrive and do good, 
break open the gaols and let out the prisoners. 

Cade. Fear not that, I warrant thee. Come, 
let’s march towards London. [Exeunt. 20 

[Scene IV. London. The palace.] 

Enter the King with a supplication , and the 
Queen with Suffolk's head; the Duke of 
Buckingham and the Lord Say. 

Queen. Oft have I heard that grief softens 
the mind 

And makes it fearful and degenerate ; 

Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep. 
But who can cease to weep and look on this ? 
Here may his head lie on my throbbing breast; 
But where’s the body that I should embrace ? e 
Buck. What answer makes your Grace to 
the rebels’ supplication ? 

King. I ’ll send some holy bishop to entreat, 
For God forbid so many simple souls 10 

Should perish by the sword ! And I myself, 
Rather than bloody war shall cut them short, 
Will parley with Jack Cade their general. 

But stay, I ’ll read it over once again. 

Queen. Ah, barbarous villains! hath this 
lovely face is 

Rul’d, like a wandering planet, over me, 

And could it not enforce them to relent, 

That were unworthy to behold the same ? 

King. Lord Say, Jack Cade hath sworn to 
have thy head. 

Say. Ay, but I hope your Highness shall 
have his. 20 

King. How now, madam ! 





IV. vii. 


the second part of henry the sixth 


689 


Still lamenting 1 and mourning for Suffolk’s 
death ? 

I fear me, love, if that I had been dead, 

Thou wouldest not have mourn’d so much for 
me. 

Queen. No, my love, I should not mourn, but 
die for thee. 25 

Enter a Messenger. 

King. How now ! what news ? Why comest 
thou in such haste ? 

Mess. The rebels are in Southwark ; fly, my 
lord! 

Jack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer, 
Descended from the Duke of Clarence’ house, 
And calls your Grace usurper openly, so 

And vows to crown himself in Westminster. 
His army is a ragged multitude 
Of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless. 

Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother’s death 
Hath given them heart and courage to pro¬ 
ceed. 36 

All scholars, lawyers, courtiers, gentlemen, 
They call false caterpillars and intend their 
death. 

King. O graceless men ! they know not what 
they do. 

Buck. My gracious lord, retire to Killing- 
worth, 

Until a power be rais’d to put them down. 40 

Queen. Ah, were the Duke of Suffolk now 
alive, 

These Kentish rebels would be soon appeas’d ! 

King. Lord Say, the traitors hate thee ; 
Therefore away with us to Killingworth. 

Say. So might your Grace’s person be in 
danger. 46 

The sight of me is odious in their eyes ; 

And therefore in this city will I stay 
And live alone as secret as I may. 

Enter another Messenger. 

Mess. Jack Cade hath gotten London Bridge. 
The citizens fly and forsake their houses. so 
The rascal people, thirsting after prey, 

Join with the traitor, and they jointly swear 
To spoil the city and your royal court. 

Buck. Then linger not, my lord ; away, take 
horse. 

King. Come, Margaret. God, our hope, will 
succour us. w 

Queen. My hope is gone, now Suffolk is de¬ 
ceas’d. 

King. Farewell, my lord; trust not the 
Kentish rebels. 

Buck. Trust nobody, for fear you be be¬ 
tray’d. 

Say. The trust I have is in mine innocence, 
And therefore am I bold and resolute. «o 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene V. London. The Tower.] 

Enter Lord Scales upon the Tower, walking. 

Then enter two or three Citizens below. 

Scales. How now ! is Jack Cade slain ? 

1 . Cit. No, my lord, nor likely to be slain; 


for they have won the Bridge, killing all those 
that withstand them. The Lord Mayor craves 
aid of your honour from the Tower to defend 
the city from the rebels. « 

Scales. Such aid as I can spare you shall 
command, 

But I am troubled here with them myself. 

The rebels have assay’d to win the Tower. 

But get you to Smithfield and gather head, 10 
And thither 1 will send you Matthew Goffe. 
Fight for your king, your country, and your 
lives; 

And so, farewell, for I must hence again. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene VI. London. Cannon Street.] 

Enter Jack Cade and the rest, and strikes his 
staff on London-stone. 

Cade. Now is Mortimer lord of this city. 
And here, sitting upon London-stone, I charge 
and command that, of the city’s cost, th^ piss- 
ing-conduit run nothing but claret wine this 
first year of our reign. And now henceforward 
it shall be treason for any that calls me other 
than Lord Mortimer. 1 

Enter a Soldier, running. 

Sold. Jack Cade ! Jack Cade ! 

Cade. Knock him down there. 

[They kill him. 

Smith. If this fellow be wise, he ’ll never call 
ye Jack Cade more. I think he hath a very 
fair warning. 12 

Dick. My lord, there’s an army gathered 
together in Smithfield. 

Cade. Come, then, let’s go fight with them. 
But first go and set London Bridge on fire; 
and, if you can, burn down the Tower too. 
Come, let’s away. [Exeunt. 1* 

[Scene VII. London. Smithfield.] 

Alarums. Matthew Goffe is slain, and all the 
rest. Then enter Jack Cade with his com¬ 
pany. 

Cade. So, sirs. Now go some and pull down 
the Savoy ; others to the inns of court; down 
with them all. 

Dick. I have a suit unto your lordship. 

Cade. Be it a lordship, thou shalt have it for 
that word. « 

Dick. Only that the laws of England may 
come out of your mouth. 

Holl. [Aside.] Mass, ’t will be sore law, 
then ; for he was thrust in the mouth with a 
spear, and’t is not whole yet. u 

Smith. [Aside.] Nay, John, it will be stink¬ 
ing law; for his breath stinks with eating 
toasted cheese. 

Cade. I have thought upon it; it shall be so. 
Away, burn all the records of the realm. My 
mouth shall be the parliament of England. d 
Holl. [Aside.] Then we are like to have 
biting statutes, unless his teeth be pull’d out. 

Cade. And henceforward all things shall be 
in common. 21 





690 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


IV. Vll. 


Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. My lord, a prize, a prize ! Here’s the 
Lord Say, which sold the towns in France ; he 
that made us pay one and twenty fifteens, and 
one shilling to the pound, the last subsidy. 25 

Enter George Bevis, with the Lord Say. 

Cade. Well, he shall be beheaded for it ten 
times. Ah, thou say, thou serge, nay, thou 
buckram lord ! now art thou within point-blank 
of our jurisdiction regal. What canst thou 
answer to my Majesty for giving up of Nor- [30 
mandy unto Mounsieur Basimecu, the Dauphin 
of France ? Be it known unto thee by these 
presence, even the presence of Lord Mortimer, 
that I am the besom that must sweep the 
court clean of such filth as thou art. Thou 
hast most traitorously corrupted the youth [35 
of the realm in erecting a grammar school; 
and whereas, before, our forefathers had no 
other books but the score and the tally, thou 
hast caused printing to be us’d, and, contrary 
to the King, his crown and dignity, thou [40 
hast built a paper-mill. It will he proved to 
thy face that thou hast men about thee that 
usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such 
abominable words as no Christian ear can en¬ 
dure to hear. Thou hast appointed justices of 
peace, to call poor men before them about [45 
matters they were not able to answer. More¬ 
over, thou hast put them in prison ; and because 
they could not read, thou hast hang’d them ; 
when, indeed, only for that cause they have 
been most worthy to live. Thou dost ride in a 
foot-cloth, dost thou not ? 62 

Say. What of that ? 

Cade. Marry, thou oughtest not to let thy 
horse wear a cloak, when honester men than 
thou go in their hose and doublets. 

Dick. And work in their shirt too; as my¬ 
self, for example, that am a butcher. 

Say. You men of Kent, — 

Dick. What say you of Kent ? bo 

Say. Nothing but this; ’tis “ bona terra , 
mala gens." 

Cade. Away with him, away with him ! he 
speaks Latin. 

Say. Hear me but speak, and bear me where 
you will. 

Kent, in the Commentaries Caesar writ, es 
Is term’d the civil’st place of all this isle. 
Sweet is the country, because full of riches ; 
The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy ; 
Which makes me hope you are not void of 
pity. 

I sold not Maine, I lost not Normandy ^ 70 

Yet, to recover them, would lose my life. 
Justice with favour have I always done ; 
Prayers and tears have mov’d me, gifts could 
never. 

When have I aught exacted at your hands, 

But to maintain the King, the realm, and 
you ? 75 

Large gifts have I bestow’d on learned clerks, 
Because my book preferr’d me to the King ; 
And seeing ignorance is the curse of God, 


Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to 
heaven, 

Unless you be possess’d with devilish spirits, so 
You cannot but forbear to murder me. 

This tongue hath parley’d unto foreign kings 
For your behoof, — 

Cade. Tut, when struck’st thou one blow in 
the field ? 80 

Say. Great men have reaching hands. Oft 
have I struck 

Those that I never saw and struck them 
dead. 

Geo. O monstrous coward! What, to come 
behind folks ? 

Say. These cheeks are pale for watching for 
your good. s>o 

Cade. Give him a box o’ the ear and that 
will make ’em red again. 

Say. Long sitting to determine poor men’s 
causes 

Hath made me full of sickness and diseases. 

Cade. Ye shall have a hempen caudle then 
and the help of hatchet. »b 

Dick. Why dost thou quiver, man ? 

Say. The palsy, and not fear, provokes me. 
Cade. Nay, he nods at us, as who should say, 
I ’ll be even with you. I ’ll see if his head will 
stand steadier on a pole, or no. Take him 
away, and behead him. 102 

Say. Tell me wherein have I offended most ? 
Have I affected wealth or honour ? Speak. 

Are my chests fill’d up with extorted gold? 

Is my apparel sumptuous to behold ? iob 

Whom have I injur’d, that ye seek my death ? 
These hands are free from guiltless blood-shed- 
ding, 

This breast from harbouring foul deceitful 
thoughts. 

0 , let me live ! 110 

Cade. [Aside. 1 I feel remorse in myself with 
his words ; but I ’ll bridle it. He shall die, an 
it be but for pleading so well for his life. Away 
with him ! he has a familiar under his tongue ; 
he speaks not o’ God’s name. Go, take him 
away, I say, and strike off his head presently ; 
and then break into his son-in-law’s house, Sir 
James Cromer, and strike off his head, and 
bring them both upon two poles hither. no 
All. It shall be done. 

Say. Ah, countrymen! if when you make 
your prayers, 

God should be so obdurate as yourselves, 

How would it fare with your departed souls ? 
And therefore yet relent, and save my life. 124 
Cade. Away with him ! and do as I com¬ 
mand ye. [Exeunt some with Lord Say.] The 
proudest peer in the realm shall not wear a head 
on his shoulders, unless he pay me tribute. 
There shall not a maid be married, but she 
shall pay to me her maidenhead ere they have 
it. Men shall hold of me in capite; and we 
charge and command that their wives be as 
free as heart can wish or tongue can tell. 133 
Dick. My lord, when shall we go to Cheap- 
side and take up commodities upon our bills ? 
Cade. Marry, presently. 

All. 0 , brave ! 137 




IV. ix. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


691 


JR e-enter one with the heads [of Say and Cro¬ 
mer ]. 

Cade. But is not this braver ? Let them kiss 
one another, for they lov’d well when they 
were alive. Now part them again, lest they 
consult about the giving up of some more towns 
in France. Soldiers, defer the spoil of the city 
until night; for with these borne before us, 
instead of maces, will we ride through the 
streets; and at every corner have them kiss. 
Away! [Exeunt, us 

[Scene VIII. Southwark.] 

Alarum and retreat. Enter again Cade and all 
his rabblement. 

Cade. Up Fish Street! down Saint Magnus’ 
Corner! Kill and knock down! Throw them 
into Thames ! ( Sound a parley.) What noise is 
this I hear ? Dare any be so bold to sound re¬ 
treat or parley, when I command them kill ? s 

Enter Buckingham and old Clifford [at¬ 
tended]. 

Buck. Ay, here they be that dare and will 
disturb thee. 

Know, Cade, we come ambassadors from the 
King 

Unto the commons whom thou hast misled ; 
And here pronounce free pardon to them all 
That will forsake thee and go home in peace. 
Clif. What say ye, countrymen? Will ye 
relent 11 

And yield to mercy whilst ’tis offered you; 

Or let a rabble lead you to your deaths ? 

Who loves the King and will embrace his par¬ 
don, 

Fling up his cap, and say, “ God save his Maj¬ 
esty ! ” . 15 

Who hateth him and honours not his father, 
Henry the Fifth, that made all France to quake, 
Shake he his weapon at us and pass by. 

All. God save the King! God save the 
King! . 19 

Cade. What, Buckingham and Clifford, are 
ye so brave ? And you, base peasants, do ye 
believe him ? Will you needs be hang’d with 
your pardons about your necks ? Hath my 
sword therefore broke through London gates, 
that you should leave me at the White Hart 
in Southwark ? I thought ye would never [25 
have given out these arms till you had recov¬ 
ered your ancient freedom. But you are all 
recreants and dastards, and delight to live in 
slavery to the nobility. Let them break your 
backs with burdens, take your houses over your 
heads, ravish your wives and daughters before 
your faces. For me, I will make shift for one ; 
and so, God’s curse light upon you all! 34 

All. We ’ll follow Cade, we ’ll follow Cade ! 
Clif. Is Cade the son of Henry the Fifth, 
That thus you do exclaim you ’ll go with him ? 
Will he conduct you through the heart of 
France, 

And make the meanest of you earls and dukes ? 
Alas, he hath no home, no place to fly to ; «o 


Nor knows he how to live but by the spoil, 
Unless by robbing of your friends and us. 

Were’t not a shame, that whilst you live at 

The fearful French, whom you late vanquished, 
Should make a start o’er seas and vanquish 
you ? <6 

Methinks already in this civil broil 
I see them lording it in London streets, 

Crying “ Villiago! ” unto all they meet. 

Better ten thousand base-born Cades miscarry 
Than you should stoop unto a Frenchman’s 
mercy. eo 

To France, to France, and get what you have 
lost! 

Spare England, for it is your native coast. 
Henry hath money, you are strong and manly ; 
God on our side, doubt not of victory. 

All. A Clifford ! a Clifford ! We ’ll follow 
the King and Clifford. c« 

Cade. [Aside.] Was ever feather so lightly 
blown to and fro as this multitude ? The 
name of Henry the Fifth hales them to an 
hundred mischiefs and makes them leave me 
desolate. I see them lay their heads together [00 
to surprise me. My sword make way for me, 
for here is no staying. In despite of the devils 
and hell, have through the very middest of you ! 
And heavens and honour be witness that no 
want of resolution in me, but only my followers’ 
base and ignominious treasons, makes me be¬ 
take me to my heels. [Exit. 

Buck. What, is he fled ? Go some, and fol¬ 
low him ; 

And he that brings his head unto the King 
Shall have a thousand crowns for his reward. 

\ Exeunt some of them. 
Follow me, soldiers ; we ’ll devise a mean 71 
To reconcile you all unto the King. [Exeunt. 

[Scene IX. Kenilworth Castle .] 

Trumpets. Enter King, Queen, and Somer¬ 
set, on the terrace. 

King. Was ever king that joy’d an earthly 
throne, 

And could command no more content than I ? 
No sooner was I crept out of my cradle 
But I was made a king, at nine months old. 
Was never subject long’d to be a king s 

As I do long and wish to be a subject. 

Enter Buckingham and old Clifford. 

Buck. Health and glad tidings to your Maj¬ 
esty ! 

King. Why, Buckingham, is the traitor Cade 
surpris’d ? 

Or is he but retir’d to make him strong ? 

Enter [below,] multitudes with halters about their 
necks. 

Clif. He is fled, my lord, and all his powers 
do yield ; 10 

And humbly thus, with halters on their necks, 
Expect your Highness’ doom, of life or death. 
King. Then, heaven, set ope thy everlasting 
gates, 




692 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


IV. X 


To entertain my vows of thanks and praise ! 
Soldiers, this day have you redeem’d your 
lives # 16 

And show’d how well you love your prince and 
country. 

Continue still in this so good a mind, 

And Henry, though he be infortunate, 

Assure yourselves, will never be unkind. 

And so, with thanks and pardon to you all, 20 
I do dismiss you to your sevei'al countries. 

All. God save the King! God save the 
King! 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. Please it your Grace to be advertised 
The Duke of York is newly come from Ireland, 
And with a puissant and a mighty power 2c 

Of gallowglasses and stout kerns 
Is marching hitherward in proud array, 

And still proclaimeth, as he comes along, 

His arms are only to remove from thee 
The Duke of Somerset, whom he terms a 
traitor. 30 

King. Thus stands my state, ’twixt Cade and 
York distress’d ; 

Like to a ship that, having scap’d a tempest, 

Is straightway calm’d and boarded with a 
pirate. 

But now is Cade driven back, his men dis¬ 
pers’d. 

And now is York in arms to second him. 36 
I pray thee, Buckingham, go and meet him, 
And ask him what’s the reason of these arms. 
Tell him I ’ll send Duke Edmund to the Tower ; 
And, Somerset, we will commit thee hither, 
Until his army be dismiss’d from him. *0 

Som. My lord, 

I ’ll yield myself to prison willingly, 

Or unto death, to do my country good. 

King. In any case, be not too rough in 
terms ; 

For he is fierce and cannot brook hard lan¬ 
guage. 46 

Buck. I will, my lord ; and doubt not so to 
deal 

As all things shall redound unto your good. 
King. Come, wife, let’s in, and learn to 
govern better; 

For yet may England curse my wretched 
reign. [ Flourish. Exeunt. 

[Scene X. Kent. Men’s garden .] 

Enter Cade. 

Cade. Fie on ambition ! Fie on myself, that 
have a sword, and yet am ready to famish ! 
These five days have I hid me in these woods 
and durst not peep out, for all the country is 
laid for me ; but now am I so hungry that if I 
might have a lease of my life for a thousand [e 
ears I could stay no longer. Wherefore, on a 
rick wall have I climb’d into this garden, to 
see if I can eat grass, or pick a sallet another 
while, which is not amiss to cool a man’s 
stomach this hot weather. And I think this [10 
word “sallet” was born to do me good; for 
many a time, but for a sallet, my brain-pan had 


been cleft with a brown bill; and many a time, 
when I have been dry and bravely marching, it 
hath serv’d me instead of a quart pot to drink 
in ; and now the word “ sallet ” must serve me 
to feed on. 12 

Enter Iden. 

Men. Lord, who would live turmoiled in the 
court, 

And may enjoy such quiet walks as these ? 

This small inheritance my father left me 20 

Contenteth me, and worth a monarchy. 

I seek not to wax great by others’ waning, 

Or gather wealth, I care not, with what envy. 
Sufficeth that I have maintains my state 
And sends the poor well pleased from my 

gate. 26 

Cade. [Aside .] Here’s the lord of the soil 
come to seize me for a stray, for entering his 
fee-simple without leave.—Ah, villain, thou 
wilt betray me, and get a thousand crowns of 
the King by carrying my head to him ; but I ’ll 
make thee eat iron like an ostrich, and swal¬ 
low my sword like a great pin, ere thou and I 
part. 32 

Men. Why, rude companion, whatsoe’er thou 

he, 

I know thee not; why, then, should I betray 

thee ? 

Is ’t not enough to break into my garden, 3s 

And, like a thief, to come to rob my grounds, 
Climbing my walls in spite of me the owner, 
But thou wilt brave me with these saucy 
terms ? 38 

Cade. Brave thee ? Ay, by the best blood 
that ever was broach’d, and beard thee too. 
Look on me well. I have eat no meat these 
five days; yet, come thou and thy five men, 
and if I do not leave you all as dead as a door¬ 
nail, I pray God I may never eat grass more. 44 
Iden. Nay, it shall ne’er be said, while Eng¬ 
land stands, 

That Alexander Iden, an esquire of Kent, 

Took odds to combat a poor famish’d man. 
Oppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to mine, 

See if thou canst outface me with thy looks. 

Set limb to limb, and thou art far the 
lesser; eo 

Thy hand is but a finger to my fist, 

Thy leg a stick compared with this truncheon ; 
My foot shall fight with all the strength thou 
hast ; 

And if mine arm be heaved in the air, 

Thy grave is digg’d already in the earth. es 
As for words, whose greatness answers words, 
Let this my sword report what speech for¬ 
bears. 

Cade. By my valour, the most complete 
champion that ever I heard! Steel, if thou 
turn the edge, or cut not out the burly-bon’d 
clown in chines of beef ere thou sleep in thy 
sheath, I beseech Jove on my knees thou mayst 
be turn’d to hobnails. 63 

[Here they fight. [Cade falls.] 
0 , I am slain ! Famine and no other hath 
slain me. Let ten thousand devils come against 
me, and give me but the ten meals I have lost, 




THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


693 


V. i. 


and I ’d defy them all. Wither, garden, and 
be henceforth a burying-place to all that do 
dwell in this house, because the unconquered 
soul of Cade is fled. 70 

Iden. Is ’t Cade that I have slain, that mon¬ 
strous traitor ? 

Sword, I will hallow thee for this thy deed, 
And hang thee o’er my tomb when I am dead. 
Ne’er shall this blood be wiped from thy point; 
But thou shalt wear it as a herald’s coat, 75 
To emblaze the honour that thy master got. 

Cade. Iden, farewell, and be proud of thy 
victory. Tell Kent from me, she hath lost her 
best man, and exhort all the world to be cow¬ 
ards ; for I, that never feared any, am van¬ 
quished by famine, not by valour. [Dies. «i 
Iden. How much thou wrong’st me, heaven 
be my judge. 

Die, damned wretch, the curse of her that bare 
thee; 

And as I thrust thy body in with my sword, 

So wish I, I might thrust thy soul to hell. 
Hence will I drag thee headlong by the heels 
Unto a dunghill which shall be thy grave, 

And there cut off thy most ungracious head ; 
Which I will bear in triumph to the King, 
Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon. »o 

[Exit. 

[ACT V] 

[Scene I. Fields between Dartford and Black- 
heath.] 

Enter York, and his army of Irish , with drum 
and colours. 

York. From Ireland thus comes York to 
claim his right. 

And pluck the crown from feeble Henry’s head. 
Ring, bells, aloud! burn, bonfires, clear and 
bright, 

To entertain great England’s lawful king! 

Ah ! sancta majestas , who would not buy thee 
dear ? « 

Let them obey that knows not how to rule ; 
This hand was made to handle nought but 
gold. 

I cannot give due action to my words, 

Except a sword or sceptre balance it. 

A sceptre shall it have, have I a soul, 10 

On which I ’ll toss the flower-de-luce of France. 

Enter Buckingham. 

Whom have we here ? Buckingham, to dis¬ 
turb me ? 

The King hath sent him, sure. I must dis¬ 
semble. 

Buck. York, if thou meanest well, I greet 
thee well. 

York. Humphrey of Buckingham, I accept 
thy greeting. 15 

Art thou a messenger, or come of pleasure ? 
Buck. A messenger from Henry, our dread 
liege, 

To know the reason of these arms in peace ; 

Or why thou, being a subject as I am, 

Against thy oath and true allegiance sworn, 20 


Should raise so great a power without his leave, 
Or dare to bring thy force so near the court. 
York. [Aside.] Scarce can I speak, my 
choler is so great. 

0 , I could hew up rocks and fight with flint, 

I am so angry at these abject terms ; 25 

And now, like Ajax Telamonius, 

On sheep or oxen could I spend my fury. 

I am far better born than is the King, 

More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts; 
But I must make fair weather yet a while, 30 
Till Henry be more weak and 1 more strong.— 
Buckingham, I prithee, pardon me, 

That I have given no answer all this while ; 

My mind was troubled with deep melancholy. 
The cause why I have brought this army hither 
Is to remove proud Somerset from the King, sfi 
Seditious to his Grace and to the state. 

Buck. That is too much presumption on thy 
part; 

But if thy arms be to no other end, 

The King hath yielded unto thy demand. *0 

The Duke of Somerset is in the Tower. 

York. Upon thine honour, is he prisoner? 
Buck. Upon mine honour, he is prisoner. 
York. Then, Buckingham, Ido dismiss my 
powers. 

Soldiers, I thank you all; disperse yourselves. 46 
Meet me to-morrow in Saint George’s field, 

You shall have pay and everything you wish. 
And let my sovereign, virtuous Henry, 
Command my eldest son, nay, all my sons, 

As pledges of my fealty and love ; 00 

I ’ll send them all as willing as I live. 

Lands, goods, horse, armour, anything I have, 
Is his to use, so Somerset may die. 

Buck. York, I commend this kind submis¬ 
sion. 

We twain will go into his Highness’ tent. 66 
Enter King and Attendants. 

King. Buckingham, doth York intend no 
harm to us, 

That thus he marcheth with thee arm in arm ? 

York. In all submission and humility 
York doth present himself unto your Highness. 
King. Then what intends these forces thou 
dost bring ? eo 

York. To heave the traitor Somerset from 
hence, 

And fight against that monstrous rebel Cade, 
Who since I heard to be discomfited. 

Enter Iden, with Cade's head. 

Iden. If one so rude and of so mean condition 
May pass into the presence of a king, ce 

Lo, I present your Grace a traitor’s head, 

The head of Cade, whom I in combat slew. 
King. The head of Cade ! Great God, how 
just art Thou! 

O, let me view his visage, being dead, 

That living wrought me such exceeding trouble. 
Tell me, mv friend, art thou the man that slew 
him ? 21 

Iden. I was, an ’t like your Majesty. 

King. How art thou call’d, aad what is thy 
degree ? 




694 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


V. 1. 


Iden. Alexander Iden, that’s my name ; 

A poor esquire of Kent, that loves his king. 76 
Buck. So please it you, my lord, ’twere not 
amiss 

He were created knight for his good service. 
King. Iden, kneel down. [He kneels.] Rise 
up a knight. 

We give thee for reward a thousand marks, 
And will that thou henceforth attend on us. »o 
Iden. May Iden live to merit such a bounty, 
And never live but true unto his liege ! 

[Rises.] 

Enter Queen and Somerset. 

King. See, Buckingham, Somerset comes 
with tne Queen. 

Go, bid her hide him quickly from the Duke. 
Queen. For thousand Yorks he shall not hide 
his head, ss 

But boldly stand and front him to his face. 

York. How now ! is Somerset at liberty ? 
Then, York, unloose thy long-imprisoned 
thoughts, 

And let thy tongue be equal with thy heart. 
Shall I endure the sight of Somerset ? no 

False king! why hast thou broken faith with 
me, 

Knowing how hardly I can brook abuse ? 

King did I call thee ? No, thou art not King, 
Not fit to govern and rule multitudes, 

Which dar’st not, no, nor canst not rule a 
traitor. ns 

That head of thine doth not become a crown, 
Thy hand is made to grasp a palmer’s staff, 
And not to grace an awful princely sceptre. 
That gold must round engirt these brows of 
mine, 

Whose smile and frown, like to Achilles’ 
spear, ioo 

Is able with the change to kill and cure. 

Here is a hand to hold a sceptre up 
And with the same to act controlling laws. 
Give place ! By heaven, thou shalt rule no 
more 

O’er him whom heaven created for thy ruler. 
Som. 0 monstrous traitor! I arrest thee, 
York, _ loe 

Of capital treason ’gainst the King and crown. 
Obey, audacious traitor ; kneel for grace. 

York. Wouldst have me kneel ? First let me 
ask of these, 

If they can brook I bow a knee to man. no 
Sirrah, call in my sons to be my bail. 

[Exit Attendant.] 

I know, ere they will have me go to ward, 
They ’ll pawn their swords for my enfranchise¬ 
ment. 

Queen. Call hither Clifford; bid him come 
amain, 

To say if that the bastard boys of York lie 
Shall be the surety for their traitor father. 

[Exit Buckingham.] 
York. O blood-besotted Neapolitan, 

Outcast of Naples, England’s bloody scourge ! 
The sons of York, thy betters in their birth, 
Shall be their father’s bail; and bane to those 
That for my surety will refuse the boys ! m 


Enter Edward and Richard, with forces. 

See where they come; I ’ll warrant they ’ll 
make it good. 

Enter Clifford [and his Son , Young Clif¬ 
ford, with forces]. 

Queen. And here comes Clifford to deny their 
bail. 

Clif. Health and all happiness to my lord the 
King! [Kneels.] 

York. I thank thee, Clifford. Say, what 
news with thee ? ns 

Nay, do not fright us with an angry look. 

We are thy sovereign, Clifford, kneel again ; 
For thy mistaking so, we pardon thee. 

Clif. This is my king, York, I do not mis¬ 
take ; 

But thou mistakes me much to think I do. no 
To Bedlam with him! Is the man grown 
mad? 

King. Ay, Clifford ; a bedlam and ambitious 
humour 

Makes him oppose himself against his king. 

Clif. He is a traitor; let him to the Tower, 
And chop away that factious pate of his. ns 

Queen. He is arrested, but will not obey. 

His sons, he says, shall give their words for him. 

York. Will you not, sons ? 

Edw. Ay, noble father, if our words will 
serve. 

Rich. And if words will not, then our weap¬ 
ons shall. 140 

Clif. Why, what a brood of traitors have we 
here! 

York. Look in a glass, and call thy image so. 
I am thy king, and thou a false-heart traitor. 
Call hither to the stake my two brave bears, 
That with the very shaking of their chains i 46 
They may astonish these fell-lurking curs. 

Bid Salisbury and Warwick come to me. 

Enter the Earls of Warwick and Salisbury 
[with forces]. 

Clif. Are these thy bears ? We ’ll bait thy 
bears to death, 

And manacle the bear-ward in their chains, 149 
If thou dar’st bring them to the baiting place. 

Rich. Oft have I seen a hot o’erweening 
cur 

Run back and bite, because he was withheld ; 
Who being suffer’d, with the bear’s fell paw, 
Hath clapp’d his tail between his legs and 
cried; 

And such a piece of service will you do, iss 
If you oppose yourselves to match Lord War¬ 
wick. 

Clif. Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested 
lump, 

As crooked in thy manners as thy shape ! 

York. Nay, we shall heat you thoroughly 
anon. 

Clif. Take heed, lest by your heat you burn 
yourselves. 160 

King. Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot 
to bow ? 

Old Salisbury, shame to thy silver hair, 




V. 11. 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


695 


Thou mad misleader of thy brain-sick son ! 
What, wilt thou on thy death-bed play the 
ruffian, 

And seek for sorrow with thy spectacles ? i<w 
0 , where is faith ? 0 , where is loyalty ? 

If it be banish’d from the frosty head, 

Where shall it find a harbour in the earth ? 
Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war, 

And shame thine honourable age with blood ? 
Why art thou old and want’st experience ? m 
Or wherefore dost abuse it, if thou hast it ? 
For shame ! In duty bend thy knee to me 
That bows unto the grave with mickle age. 

Sal. My lord, I have considered witn my¬ 
self ns 

The title of this most renowned duke ; 

And in my conscience do repute his Grace 
The rightful heir to England’s royal seat. 

King. Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto 
me ? 

Sal. I have. iso 

King. Canst thou dispense with heaven for 
such an oath ? 

Sal. It is great sin to swear unto a sin, 

But greater sin to keep a sinful oath. 

Who can be bound by any solemn vow 

To do a murd’rous deed, to rob a man, iss 

To force a spotless virgin’s chastity, 

To reave the orphan of his patrimony, 

To wring the widow from her custom’d right, 
And have no other reason for this wrong 
But that he was bound by a solemn oath ? 100 

Queen. A subtle traitor needs no sophister. 
Kina. Call Buckingham, and bid him arm 
himself. 

York. Call Buckingham, and all the friends 
thou hast, 

I am resolv’d for death or dignity. 

Clif. The first I warrant thee, if dreams 
prove true. i »5 

War. You were best to go to bed and dream 
again. 

To keep thee from the tempest of the field. 

Clif. I am resolv’d to bear a greater storm 
Than any thou canst conjure up to-day ; 

And that I ’ll write upon thy burgonet, 200 
Might I but know thee by thy household badge. 
War. Now, by my father’s badge, old Nevil’s 
crest, 

The rampant bear chain’d to the ragged staff, 
This day I ’ll wear aloft my burgonet, 

As on a mountain top the cedar shows 205 

That keeps his leaves in spite of any storm. 
Even to affright thee with the view thereof. 
Clif. And from thy burgonet I’ll rend thy 
bear 

And tread it under foot with all contempt, 
Despite the bear-ward that protects the bear. 210 
Y. Clif. And so to arms, victorious father, 
To quell the rebels and their complices. 

Rich. Fie ! charity, for shame ! speak not 
in spite. 

For you shall sup with Jesu Christ to-night. 

Y. Clif. Foul stigmatic, that’s more than 
thou canst tell. 318 

Rich. If not in heaven, you ’ll surely sup in 
hell. [ Exeunt [severally]. 


[Scene II. Saint Alban's, near the Castle inn.] 
[Alarums to the battle.] Enter Warwick. 

War. Clifford of Cumberland, ’t is Warwick 
calls ! 

An if thou dost not hide thee from the bear, 
Now, when the angry trumpet sounds alarum 
And dead men’s cries do fill the empty air, 
Clifford, I say, come forth and fight with me. s 
Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland, 
Warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms. 

Enter York. 

How now, my noble lord ! what, all afoot ? 
York. The deadly-handed Clifford slew my 
steed, 

But match to match I have encount’red him 10 
And made a prey for carrion kites and crows 
Even of the bonny beast he lov’d so well. 

Enter old Clifford. 

War. Of one or both of us the time is come. 
York. Hold, Warwick, seek thee out some 
other chase, 

For I myself must hunt this deer to death. is 
War. Then, nobly, York; ’t is for a crown 
thou fight’st. 

As I intend, Clifford, to thrive to-day, 

It grieves my soul to leave thee unassail’d. 

[Exit. 

Clif. What seest thou in me, York? Why 
dost thou pause ? 

York. With thy brave bearing should I be 
in love, 20 

But that thou art so fast mine enemy. 

Clif. Nor should thy prowess want praise 
and esteem, 

But that’t is shown ignobly and in treason. 
York. So let it help me now against thy 
sword 

As I in justice and true right express it. 25 
Clif. My soul and body on the action both ! 
York. A dreadful lay! Address thee in¬ 
stantly. [They fight , and Clifford falls. 1 
Clif. La fin couronne les oeuvres. [Dies.] 

York. Thus war hath given thee peace, for 
thou art still. 

Peace with his soul, Heaven, if it be thy will! 30 

[Exit.] 

Enter Young Clifford. 

Y. Clif. Shame and confusion ! all is on the 
rout; 

Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds 
Where it should guard. 0 war, thou son of 
hell, 

Whom angry heavens do make their minister, 
Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part 35 
Hot coals of vengeance ! Let no soldier fly. 

He that is truly dedicate to war 
Hath no self-love, nor he that loves himself 
Hath not essentially but by circumstance 
The name of valour. [Seeing his dead father.] 

0 , let the vile world end, 
And the premised flames of the last day *1 
Knit earth and heaven together! 

Now let the general trumpet blow his blast, 




696 


THE SECOND PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


v. iii. 


Particularities and petty sounds 
To cease ! Wast thou ordain’d, dear father, 45 
To lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve 
The silver livery of advised age, 

And, in thy reverence and thy chair-days, thus 
To die in ruffian battle ? Even at this sight 
My heart is turn’d to stone; and while ’t is 
mine, eo 

It shall be stony. York not our old men spares; 
No more will I their babes. Tears virginal 
Shall be to me even as the dew to fire, 

And beauty that the tyrant oft reclaims 
Shall to my flaming wrath be oil and flax. eo 
Henceforth I will not have to do with pity. 
Meet I an infant of the house of York, 

Into as many gobbets will I cut it 
As wild Medea young Absyrtus did. 

In cruelty will I seek out my fame. 60 

Come, thou new ruin of old Clifford’s house. 

As did jEneas old Anchises bear, 

So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders ; 

But then iEneas bare a living load, 

Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine. 65 
[Exit, bearing off his father .] 

Enter Richard and Somerset to fight. [Som¬ 
erset is killed .] 

Rich. So, lie thou there ; 

For underneath an alehouse’ paltry sign, 

The Castle in Saint Alban’s, Somerset 
Hath made the wizard famous in his death. 
Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful 
still. " 70 

Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill. 

[Exit.] 

Fight: excursions. Enter King, Queen, and 
others. 

Queen. Away, my lord! you are slow; for 
shame, away! 

Kina. Can we outrun the heavens ? Good 
Margaret, stay. 

Queen. What are you made of ? You ’ll nor 
fight nor fly. 

Now is it manhood, wisdom, and defence, 75 
To give the enemy way, and to secure us 
By what we can, which can no more but fly. 

[Alarum afar off. 
If you be ta’en, we then should see the bottom 
Of all our fortunes ; but if we haply scape, 79 
As well we may, if not through your neglect, 
We shall to London get, where you are lov’d, 
And where this breach now in our fortunes made 
May readily be stopp’d. 

Re-enter Young Clifford. 

Y. Clif. But that my heart’s on future mis¬ 
chief set, 


I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly. ss 
But fly you must. Uncurable discomfit 
Reigns in the hearts of all our present parts. 
Away, for your relief ! and we will live 
To see their day and them our fortune give. 
Away, my lord, away ! [Exeunt. »o 

[Scene III. Fields near Saint Alban's.] 

Alarum. Retreat. Enter York, Richard, 
Warwick, and Soldiers, with drum and col¬ 
ours. 

York. Of Salisbury, who can report of him, 
That winter lion, who in rage forgets 
Aged contusions and all brush of time, 

And, like a gallant in the brow of youth, 
Repairs him with occasion ? This happy day 6 
Is not itself, nor have we won one foot, 

If Salisbury be lost. 

Rich. My noble father, 

Three times to-day I holp him to his horse, 
Three times bestrid him; thrice I led him 
off, 

Persuaded him from any further act: i« 

But still, where danger was, still there I met 
him ; 

And like rich hangings in a homely house, 

So was his will in his old feeble body. 

But, noble as he is, look where he comes. 

Enter Salisbury. 

Sal. Now, by my sword, well hast thou 
fought to-day; 15 

By the mass, so did we all. I thank you, 
Richard. 

God knows how long it is I have to live ; 

And it hath pleas’d Him that three times to¬ 
day 

You have defended me from imminent death. 
Well, lords, we have not got that which we 
have. 20 

’T is not enough our foes are this time fled, 
Being opposites of such repairing nature. 

York. I know our safety is to follow them ; 
For, as I hear, the King is fled to London, 

To call a present court of parliament. 25 

Let us pursue him ere the writs go forth. 

What says Lord Warwick ? Shall we after 
them ? 

War. After them ? Nay, before them, if we 
can. 

Now, by my hand, lords, ’t was a glorious 
day. 

Saint Alban’s battle won by famous York 30 
Shall be eterniz’d in all age to come. 

Sound drum and trumpets, and to London all; 
And more such days as these to us befall! 

[Exeunt. 




THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


697 


I. i. 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


[DRAMATIS PERSONS 


King Henry VI. 

Edward, Prince of Wales, his son. 
Lewis XI. King of France. 

Duke of Somerset. 

Duke of Exeter. 

Earl of Oxford. 

Earl of Northumberland. 

Earl of Westmoreland. 

Lord Clifford. 

Richard Plantagenet, duke of York. 
Edward, earl of March, afterwards King' 
Edward IV, 

Edmund, earl of Rutland, 

George, afterwards duke of Clarence, 
Richard, afterwards duke of Gloucester, 
Duke of Norfolk. 

Marquess of Montague. 

Earl of Warwick. 

Earl of Pembroke. 


his sons. 


Lord Hastings. 

Lord Stafford. 

Sir John Mortimer, ) , . ,, , , . _ , 

Sir Hugh Mortimer, } uncles to the duke of York - 
Henry, earl of Richmond, a youth. 

Lord Rivers, brother to Lady Grey. 

Sir William Stanley. 

Sir John Montgomery. 

Sir John Somerville. 

Tutor to Rutland. Mayor of York. 

Lieutenant of the Tower. A Nobleman. 

Two Keepers. A Huutsman. 

A Son that has killed his father. 

A Father that has killed his son. 

Queen Margaret. 

Lady Grey, afterwards Queen to Edward IV. 
Bona, sister to the French Queen. 


Soldiers, Attendants, Messengers, Watchmen, etc. 


Scene : England and France.'] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [ London. The Parliament-house.] 

Alarum. Enter the Duke of York, Edward, 
Richard, Norfolk, Montague, War¬ 
wick, and Soldiers. 

War. I wonder how the King escap’d our 
hands. 

York. While we pursu’d the horsemen of 
the north, 

He slily stole away and left his men ; 

Whereat the great Lord of Northumberland, 

Whose warlike ears could never brook retreat, 

Cheer’d up the drooping army ; and himself, 0 

Lord Clifford and Lord Stafford, all abreast, 

Charg’d our main battle’s front, and breaking 
in 

Were by the swords of common soldiers slain. 
Edvs. Lord Stafford’s father, Duke of Buck¬ 
ingham, 10 

Is either slain or wounded dangerous ; 

I cleft his beaver with a downright blow. 

That this is true, father, behold his blood. 
Mont. And, brother, here’s the Earl of Wilt¬ 
shire’s blood, 

Whom I encount’red as the battles join’d. is 
j Rich. Speak thou for me and tell them what 
I did. 

[Showing the Duke of Somerset's 
head.] 

York. Richard hath best deserv’d of all my 
sons. 

But is your Grace dead, my Lord of Somerset ? 
Norf. Such hope have all the line of John of 
Gaunt l 


Rich. Thus do I hope to shake King Henry’s 
head. 20 

War. And so do I. Victorious prince of 
York, 

Before I see thee seated in that throne 

Which now the house of Lancaster usurps, 

I vow by heaven these eyes shall never close. 

This is the palace of the fearful king, 25 

And this the regal seat. Possess it, York ; 

For this is thine and not King Henry’s heirs’. 

York. Assist me, then, sweet Warwick, and 
I will; 

For hither we have broken in by force. 

Norf. We’ll all assist you; he that flies 
shall die. 30 

York. Thanks, gentle Norfolk. Stay by me, 
my lords; 

And, soldiers, stay and lodge by me this 
night. [They go up. 

War. And when the King comes, offer him 
no violence, 

Unless he seek to thrust you out perforce. 

York. The Queen this day here holds her 
parliament, 36 

But little thinks we shall be of her council. 

By words or blows here let us win our right. 

Rich. Arm’d as we are, let’s stay within 
this house. 

War. The bloody parliament shall this be 
call’d, 

Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be king, *o 

And bashful Henry depos’d, whose cowardice 

Hath made us by-words to our enemies. 

York. Then leave me not, my lords; be re¬ 
solute : 

I mean to take possession of my right, 









698 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


1. i. 


War. Neither the King, nor he that loves 
him best, « 

The proudest he that holds up Lancaster, 

Dares stir a wing, if Warwick shake his 
bells. 

I ’H plant Plantagenet, root him up who dares. 
Resolve thee, Richard; claim the English 
crown. [York takes the throne.'] 

Flourish. Enter King Henry, Clifford, 

Northumberland, Westmoreland, Exe¬ 
ter, and the rest [wearing red roses]. 

K. Hen. My lords, look where the sturdy 
rebel sits, _ so 

Even in the chair of state. Belike he means, 
Back’d by the power of Warwick, that false 
peer, 

To aspire unto the crown and reign as king. 
Earl of Northumberland, he slew thy father, 
And thine, Lord Clifford ; and you both have 
vow’d revenge cs 

On him, his sons, his favourites, and his 
friends. 

North. If I be not, heavens be reveng’d on 
me ! 

Clif. The hope thereof makes Clifford 
mourn in steel. 

West. What, shall we suffer this ? Let’s 
pluck him down. 

My heart for anger burns ; I cannot brook it. go 

K. Hen. Be patient, gentle Earl of West¬ 
moreland. 

Clif. Patience is for poltroons, such as he. 

He durst not sit there, had your father liv’d. 
My gracious lord, here in the parliament 
Let us assail the family of York. ec 

North. Well hast thou spoken, cousin ; be it 
so. 

K. Hen. Ah, know you not the city favours 
them, 

And they have troops of soldiers at their beck ? 

West. But when the Duke is slain, they ’ll 
quickly fly. 

K. Hen. Far be the thought of this from 
Henry’s heart, 70 

To make a shambles of the parliament-house ! 
Cousin of Exeter, frowns, words, and threats 
Shall be the war that Henry means to use. 
Thou factious Duke of York, descend my 
throne, 

And kneel for grace and mercy at my feet, to 
I am thy sovereign. 

York. I am thine. 

Exe. For shame, come down. He made thee- 
Duke of York. 

York. ’T was my inheritance, as the earldom 
was. 

Exe. Thy father was a traitor to the crown. 

War. Exeter, thou art a traitor to the 
crown so 

In following this usurping Henry. 

Clif. Whom should he follow but his natural 
king ? 

War. True, Clifford; and that’s Richard 
Duke of York. 

K. Hen. And shall I stand, and thou sit in 
my throne ? 


York. It must and shall be so. Content thy¬ 
self. 85 

War. Be Duke of Lancaster; let him be 
King. 

West. He is both King and Duke of Lan¬ 
caster ; 

And that the Lord of Westmoreland shall 
maintain. 

War. And Warwick shall disprove it. You 
forget 

That we are those which chas’d you from the 
field 90 

And slew your fathers, and with colours spread 
March’d through the city to the palace gates. 

North. No, Warwick, I remember it to my 
grief; 

And, by his soul, thou and thy house shall rue 
it. 

West. Plantagenet, of thee and these thy 
sons, os 

Thy kinsmen and thy friends, I ’ll have more 
lives 

Than drops of blood were in my father’s veins. 

Clif. Urge it no more; lest that, instead of 
words, 

I send thee, Warwick, such a messenger 
As shall revenge his death before I stir. 100 

War. Poor Clifford ! how I scorn his worth¬ 
less threats! 

York. Will you we show our title to the 
crown ? 

If not, our swords shall plead it in the field. 

K. Hen. What title hast thou, traitor, to the 
crown ? 

Thy father was, as thou art, Duke of York; ioo 
Thy grandfather, Roger Mortimer, Earl of 
March: 

I am the son of Henry the Fifth, 

Who made the Dauphin and the French to 
stoop 

And seiz’d upon their towns and provinces. 

War. Talk not of France, sith thou hast lost 
it all. no 

K. Hen. The Lord Protector lost it, and 
not I. 

When I was crown’d I was but nine months 
old. 

Rich. You are old enough now, and yet, me- 
thinks, you lose. 

Father, tear the crown from the usurper’s head. 

Edw. Sweet father, do so; set it on your 
head. 115 

Mont. Good brother, as thou lov’st and hon- 
ourest arms, 

Let’s fight it out and not stand cavilling thus. 

Rich. Sound drums and trumpets, and the 
King will fly. 

York. Sons, peace! 

K. Hen. Peace, thou! and give King Henry 
leave to speak. 120 

War. Plantagenet shall speak first. Hear 
him, lords; 

And be you silent and attentive too, 

For he that interrupts him shall not live. 

E. Hen. Think’st thou that I will leave my 
kingly throne, 

Wherein my grandsire and my father sat ? ns 





THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


I. i. 


No! First shall war unpeople this my realm ; 
Ay, and their colours, often borne in France, 
And now in England to our heart’s great 
sorrow, 

Shall be my winding-sheet. Why faint you, 
lords ? 

My title’s good, and better far than his. i 8 o 

War. Prove it, Henry, and thou shalt be 
King. 

K. Hen. Henry the Fourth by conquest got 
the crown. 

York. ’T was by rebellion against his king. 

K. Hen. [Aside.] I know not what to say; 
my title’s weak. — 

Tell me, may not a king adopt an heir ? 135 

York. What then? 

K. Hen. An if he may, then am I lawful 
king; 

For Richard, in the view of many lords. 
Resign’d the crown to Henry the Fourth, 
Whose heir my father was, and I am his. ho 

York. He rose against him, being his sov¬ 
ereign, 

And made him to resign his crown perforce. 

War. Suppose, my lords, he did it uncon¬ 
strain’d, 

Think you’t were prejudicial to his crown ? 

Exe. No; for he could not so resign his 
crown 145 

But that the next heir should succeed and 
reign. 

K. Hen. Art thou against us, Duke of 
Exeter ? 

Exe. His is the right, and therefore pardon 
me. 

York. Why whisper you, my lords, and an¬ 
swer not ? 

Exe. My conscience tells me he is lawful 
king. ho 

K. Hen. [Aside.] All will revolt from me, 
and turn to him. 

North. Plantagenet, for all the claim thou 
lay’st, 

Think not that Henry shall be so depos’d. 

War. Depos’d he shall be, in despite of all. 

North. Thou art deceiv’d. ’Tis not thy 
southern power, iss 

Of Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent, 

Which makes thee thus presumptuous and 
proud, 

Can set the Duke up in despite of me. 

Clif. King Henry, be thy title right or wrong, 
Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy defence, ico 
May that ground gape and swallow me alive, 
Where I shall kneel to him that slew my father ! 

K. Hen. 0 Clifford, how thy words revive 
my heart! 

York. Henry of Lancaster, resign thy crown. 
What mutter you, or what conspire vou, lords ? 

War. Do right unto this princely Duke of 
York, ico 

Or I will fill the house with armed men, 

And over the chair of state, where now he 
sits, 

Write up his title with usurping blood. 

[He stamps with his foot, and the 
Soldiers show themselves. 


6 99 


K. Hen. My Lord of Warwick, hear but one 
word. 170 

Let me for this my life-time reign as king. 

York. Confirm the crown to me and to mine 
heirs, 

And thou shalt reign in quiet while thou liv’st. 

King. I am content. Richard Plantagenet, 
Enjoy the kingdom after my decease. 175 

Clif. What wrong is this unto the Prince 
your son ! 

War. What good is this to England and 
himself ! 

West. Base, fearful, and despairing Henry ! 

Clif. How hast thou injur’d both thyself 
and us ! 

West. I cannot stay to hear these articles, iso 

North. Nor I. 

Clif. Come, cousin, let us tell the Queen 
these news. 

West. Farewell, faint-hearted and degener¬ 
ate king, 

In whose cold blood no spark of honour bides. 

North. Be thou a prey unto the house of 
York, is 5 

And die in bands for this unmanly deed ! 

Clif. In dreadful war mayst thou be over¬ 
come, 

Or live in peace abandon’d and despis’d ! 

[Exeunt North., Cliff., and West.] 

War. Turn this way, Henry, and regard 
them not. 

Exe. They seek revenge and therefore will 
not yield. i»o 

K. Hen. Ah, Exeter ! 

War. Why should you sigh, my lord ? 

K. Hen. Not for myself, Lord Warwick, 
but my son, 

Whom I unnaturally shall disinherit. 

But be it as it may. [ 2 ’o York. ] I here entail 
The crown to thee and to thine heirs for ever, 
Conditionally, that here thou take an oath ioe 
To cease this civil war, and, whilst I live, 

To honour me as thy king and sovereign, 

And neither by treason nor hostility 

To seek to put me down and reign thyself. 200 

York. This oath I willingly take and will 
perform. 

War. Long live King Henry ! Plantagenet, 
embrace him. 

K. Hen. And long live thou, and these thy 
forward sons ! 

York. Now York and Lancaster are recon¬ 
cil’d. 

Exe. Accurs’d be he that seeks to make 
them foes! 205 

[Sennet. Here they come down. 

York. Farewell, my gracious lord ; I ’ll to 
my castle. 

War. And I ’ll keep London with my soldiers. 

Norf. And I to Norfolk with my followers. 

Mont. And I unto the sea from whence I 
came. 

K. Hen. And I, with grief and sorrow, to 
the court. 2to 

[Exeunt York and his sons , War¬ 
wick, Norfolk , Montague, their 
Soldiers, and Attendants.] 




700 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


i. u. 


Enter Queen Margaret [and the Prince of 
Wales], 

Exe. Here comes the Queen, whose looks 
bewray her anger. 

I ’ll steal away. 

K. Hen. Exeter, so will I. 

Q. Mar. Nay, go not from me ; I will follow 
thee. 

K. Hen. Be patient, gentle queen, and I will 
stay. 

Q. Mar. Who can be patient in such ex¬ 
tremes ? 215 

Ah, wretched man! would I had died a maid, 
And never seen thee, never borne thee son, 
Seeing thou hast prov’d so unnatural a father ! 
Hath he deserv’d to lose his birthright thus ? 
Hadst thou but lov’d him half so well as I, 220 
Or felt that pain which I did for him once, 

Or nourish’d him as I did with my blood, 

Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart- 
blood there, 

Rather than have made that savage duke thine 
heir 

And disinherited thine only son. 225 

Prince. Father, you cannot disinherit me. 

If you be King, why should not I succeed ? 

K. Hen. Pardon me, Margaret ; pardon me, 
sweet son. 

The Earl of Warwick and the Duke enforc’d 
me. 

Q. Mar. Enforc’d thee ! art thou King, and 
wilt be forc’d ? 230 

I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous 
wretch! 

Thou hast undone thyself, thy son, and me ; 
And given unto the house of York such head 
As thou shalt reign but by their sufferance. 

To entail him and his heirs unto the crown, 235 
What is it, but to make thy sepulchre 
And creep into it far before thy time ? 
Warwick is chancellor and the lord of Calais ; 
Stern Falconbridge commands the narrow seas ; 
The Duke is made Protector of the realm ; 240 
And yet shalt thou be safe ? Such safety finds 
The trembling lamb environed with wolves. 
Had I been there, which am a silly woman. 
The soldiers should have toss’d me on their 
pikes 

Before I would have granted to that act. 245 
But thou preferr’st thy life before thine hon¬ 
our ; 

And seeing thou dost, I here divorce myself 
Both from thy table, Henry, and thy bed, 
Until that act of parliament be repeal’d 
Whereby my son is disinherited. 250 

The northern lords that have forsworn thy col¬ 
ours 

Will follow mine, if once they see them spread ; 
And spread they shall be, to thy foul disgrace 
And utter ruin of the house of York. 

Thus do I leave thee. Come, son, let’s away. 
Our army is ready ; come, we ’ll after them. 206 
K. Hen. Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me 
speak. 

Q. Mar. Thou hast spoke too much already; 
get thee gone. 


K. Hen. Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay 
with me ? 

Q. Mar. Ay, to be murder’d by his enemies. 

Prince. When I return with victory from the 
field _ 261 

I ’ll see your Grace ; till then I ’ll follow her. 

Q. Mar. Come, son, away; we may not 
linger thus. 

[.Exeunt Queen Margaret and the 
Prince .] 

K. Hen. Poor queen! how love to me and to 
her son 

Hath made her break out into terms of rage ! 
Reveng’d may she be on that hateful duke, 26« 
Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire, 

Will coast my crown, and like an empty eagle 
Tire on the flesh of me and of my son! 

The loss of those three lords torments my 
heart. 2 ?o 

I ’ll write unto them and entreat them fair. 
Come, cousin, you shall be the messenger. 

Exe. And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all. 

[Exeunt. 


[Scene II. Sandal Castle.] 

Enter Richard, Edward, and Montague. 

Rich. Brother, though I be youngest, give 
me leave. 

Edw. No, I can better play the orator. 

Mont. But I have reasons strong and forcible. 

Enter the Duke of York. 

York. Why, how now, sons and brother 1 at 
a strife ? 

What is your quarrel! How began it first ? 6 

Ediv. No quarrel, but a slight contention. 

York. About what? 

Rich. About that which concerns your Grace 
and us; 

The crown of England, father, which is yours. 

York. Mine, boy? Not till King Henry be 
dead. 10 

Rich. Your right depends not on his life or 
death. 

Edw. Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it 
now. 

By giving the house of Lancaster leave to 
breathe, 

It will outrun you, father, in the end. 

Y ork. I took an oath that he should quietly 
reign. 1* 

Edw. But for a kingdom any oath may be 
broken. 

I would break a thousand oaths to reign one 
year. 

Rich. No; God forbid your Grace should be 
forsworn. 

York. I shall be, if I claim by open war. 

Rich. I ’ll prove the contrary, if you ’ll hear 
me speak. 20 

York. Thou canst not, son ; it is impossible. 

Rich. An oath is of no moment, being not 
took 

Before a true and lawful magistrate, 

That hath authority over him that swears. 

Henry had none, but did usurp the place : 26 





THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


I. iii. 


Then, seeing ’twas he that made you to de¬ 
pose, 

Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous. 
Therefore, to arms ! And, father, do but think 
How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown, 
Within whose circuit is Elysium so 

And all that poets feign of bliss and joy. 

Why do we linger thus ? I cannot rest 
Until the white rose that I wear be dy’d 
Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry’s heart. 
York. Richard, enough; I will be King, or 
die. 36 

Brother, thou shalt to London presently, 

And whet on Warwick to this enterprise. 

Thou, Richard, shalt to the Duke of Norfolk, 
And tell him privily of our intent. 

You, Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham, 40 
With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise. 
Ir. them I trust; for they are soldiers, 

Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit. 

While you are thus employ’d, what restetli 
more 

But that I seek occasion how to rise, 46 

And yet the King not privy to my drift, 

Nor any of the house of Lancaster ? 

Enter [a Messenger]. 

But, stay, — What news ? Why com’st thou in 
such post ? 

[Mess.] The Queen with all the northern earls 
and lords 

Intend here to besiege you in your castle. eo 
She is hard by with twenty thousand men ; 
And therefore fortify your hold, my lord. 

York. Ay, with my sword. What! think’st 
thou that we fear them ? 

Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me ; 
My brother Montague shall post to London. 66 
Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest, 
Whom we have left protectors of the King, 
With powerful policy strengthen themselves, 
And trust not simple Henry nor his oaths. 
Mont. Brother, I go ; I ’ll win them, fear it 
not. 60 

A.nd thus most humbly I do take my leave. 

[Exit. 

Enter Sir John Mortimer and Sir Hugh 
Mortimer. 

York. Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer, 
mine uncles, 

You are come to Sandal in a happy hour ; 

The army of the Queen mean to besiege us. 

Sir John. She shall not need ; we ’ll meet her 
in the field. se 

York. What, with five thousand men ? 

Rich. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a 
need. 

A woman’s general; what should we fear ? 

[A march afar off. 
Edw. I hear their drums. Let’s set our men 
in order, 

And issue forth and bid them battle straight, to 
York. Five men to twenty! Though the odds 
be great, 

I doubt not, uncle, of our victory. 

Many a battle have I won in France 


701 


When as the enemy hath been ten to one ; 

Why should I not now have the like success ? ™ 

[Alarum. Exeunt. 

[Scene III. Field of battle betwixt Sandal Castle 
and Wakefield.] 

[Alarums.] Enter Rutland and his Tutor. 

Rut. Ah, whither shall I fly to scape their 
hands ? 

Ah, tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes! 
Enter Clifford [and Soldiers]. 

Clif. Chaplain, away ! thy priesthood saves 
thy life. 

As for the brat of this accursed duke, 

Whose father slew my father, he shall die. 6 
Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company. 
Clif. Soldiers, away with him ! 

Tut. Ah, Clifford, murder not this innocent 
child, 

Lest thou be hated both of God and man ! 

[Exit [dragged qff by soldiers ]. 
Clif. How now, is he dead already ? Or is it 
fear _ 10 

That makes him close his eyes ? I ’ll open 
them. 

Rut. So looks the pent-up lion o’er the wretch 
That trembles under his devouring paws ; 

And so he walks, insulting o’er his prey, 

And so he comes, to rend his limbs asunder, is 
Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, 
And not with such a cruel threat’ning look. 
Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die. 

I am too mean a subject for thy wrath. 

Be thou reveng’d on men, and let me live. 20 
Clif. In vain thou speak’st, poor boy ; my 
father’s blood 

Hath stopp’d the passage where thy words 
should enter. 

Rut. Then let my father’s blood open it 
again. 

He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him. 

Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives 
and thine 26 

Were not revenge sufficient for me ; 

No, if I digg’d up thy forefathers’ graves 
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains, 

It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart. 
The sight of any of the house of York 30 

Is as a fury to torment my soul; 

And till I root out their accursed line 
And leave not one alive, I live in hell. 
Therefore — [Lifting his hand.] 

Rut. 0 , let me pray before I take my death ! 
To thee I pray ; sweet Clifford, pity me ! 3 « 

Clif. Such pity as my rapier’s point affords. 
Rut. I never did thee harm ; why wilt thou 
slay me ? 

Clif. 'I'hy father hath. 

Rut. But’twas ere I was born. 

Thou hast one son ; for his sake pity me, 40 
Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just, 

He be as miserably slain as I. 

Ah, let me live in prison all my days ; 

And when I give occasion of offence, 

Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause. *6 





702 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


I. IV. 


Clif. No cause! 

Thy father slew my father ; therefore, die. 

# [Stabs him.] 

But. Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuce! 

[Dies.] 

Clif. Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet! 
And this thy son’s blood cleaving to my blade 
Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood, ei 
Congeal’d with this, do make me wipe olf both. 

[Exit. 

[Scene IV. Another part of the,field.] 
Alarum. Enter the Duke of York. 

York. The army of the Queen hath got the 
field. 

My uncles both are slain in rescuing me ; 

And all my followers to the eager foe 
Turn back and fly, like ships before the wind 
Or lambs pursu’d by hunger-starved wolves, e 
My sons, God knows what hath bechanced 
them; 

But this I know, they have demean’d them¬ 
selves 

Like men born to renown by life or death. 
Three times did Richard make a lane to me, 
And thrice cried, “ Courage, father ! fight it 
out! ” 10 

And full as oft came Edward to my side, 

With purple falchion, painted to the hilt 
In blood of those that had encount’red him. 
And when the hardiest warriors did retire, 
Richard cried, “Charge! and give no foot of 
ground! ” is 

And cried, “ A crown, or else a glorious tomb ! 
A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre ! ” 

With this, we charg’d again ; but, out, alas ! 
We budg’d again ; as I have seen a swan 
With bootless labour swim against the tide 20 
And spend her strength with over-matching 
waves. [A short alarum within. 

Ah, hark ! the fatal followers do pursue, 

And I am faint and cannot fly their fury ; 

And were I strong, I would not shun their fury. 
The sands are numb’red that makes up my 
life; * 25 

Here must I stay, and here my life must end. 

Enter Queen Margaret, Clifford, North¬ 
umberland, the young Prince, and Soldiers. 

Come bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, 
I dare your quenchless fury to more rage. 

I am your butt, and I abide your shot. 

North. Yield to our mercy, proud Planta¬ 
genet. 30 

Clif. Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm, 
With downright payment, show’d unto my 
father. 

Now Phaethon hath tumbled from his car, 

And made an evening at the noontide prick. 
York. My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring 
forth sfi 

A bird that will revenge upon you all; 

And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven, 
Scorning whate’er you can afflict me with. 
Why come you not ? What! multitudes, and 
fear? 


Clif. So cowards fight when they can fly no 
further; 40 

So doves do peck the falcon’s piercing talons ; 
So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives, 
Breathe out invectives ’gainst the officers. 

York. O Clifford, but bethink thee once 
again, 44 

And in thy thought o’er-run my former time ; 
And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face, 
And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with 
cowardice, 

Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere 
this ! 

Clif. I will not bandy with thee word for 
word, 

But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one. 

Q. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford ! for a thou¬ 
sand causes > C1 

I would prolong a while the traitor’s life. 
Wrath makes him deaf ; speak thou, North¬ 
umberland. 

North. Hold, Clifford ! do not honour him so 
much 

To prick thy finger, though to wound his 
heart. _ co 

What valour were it, when a cur doth grin, 

For one to thrust his hand between his teeth, 
When he might spurn him with his foot away ? 
It is war’s prize to take all vantages ; 

And ten to one is no impeach of valour. eo 
[They lay hands on York , who struggles .] 

Clif. Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with 
the gin. 

North. So doth the cony struggle in the net. 

York. So triumph thieves upon their con¬ 
quer’d booty; 

So true men yield, with robbers so o’ermatch’d. 

North. What would your Grace have done 
unto him now ? «s 

Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford and North¬ 
umberland, 

Come, make him stand upon this molehill here, 
That raught at mountains with outstretched 
arms, 

Yet parted but the shadow with his hand. 
What! was it you that would be England’s 
king ? 70 

Was ’t you that revell’d in our parliament, 

And made a preachment of your high descent ? 
Where are your mess of sons to back you now, 
The wanton Edward, and the lusty George ? 74 
And where’s that valiant crook-back prodigy, 
Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice 
Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies ? 

Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rut¬ 
land ? 

Look, York ! I stain’d this napkin with the 
blood 

That valiant Clifford, with his rapier’s point, so 
Made issue from the bosom of the boy ; 

And if thine eyes can water for his death, 

I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal. 

Alas, poor York ! but that I hate thee deadly, 
I should lament thy miserable state. ss 

I prithee, grieve, to make me merry, York. 
What, hath thy fiery heart so parch’d thine 
entrails 





THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


7 °3 


II. i. 


That not a tear can fall for Rutland’s death ? 
Why art thou patient, man? Thou shouldst 
be mad; 

And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus. «o 
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and 
dance. 

Thou wouldst be f ee’d, I see, to make me sport. 
York cannot speak, unless he wear a crown. 

A crown for York ! and, lords, bow low to him ; 
Hold you his hands, whilst I ao set it on. nc 
[Putting a paper crown on his head.] 
Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king ! 

Ay, this is he that took King Henry’s chair, 
And this is he was his adopted heir. 

But how is it that great Plantagenet 
Is crown’d so soon, and broke his solemn oath ? 
As I bethink me, you should not be King 101 
Till our King Henry had shook hands with 
death. 

And will you pale your head in Henry’s glory, 
And rob his temples of the diadem, 

Now in his life, against your holy oath ? 105 

O, ’t is a fault too too unpardonable ! 

Off with the crown; and, with the crown, his 
head; 

And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him 
dead. 

Clif. That is my office, for my father’s sake. 
Q. Mar. Nay, stay ; let’s hear the orisons 
he makes. no 

York. She-wolf of France, but worse than 
wolves of France, 

Whose tongue more poisons than the adder’s 
tooth ! 

How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex 
To triumph, like an Amazonian trull, 

Upon their woes whom fortune captivates ! us 
But that thy face is, visard-like, unchanging, 
Made impudent with use of evil deeds, 

I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush. 
To tell thee whence thou cam’st, of whom 
deriv’d, 

Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou 
not shameless. no 

Thy father bears the type of King of Naples, 
Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem, 

Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman. 

Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult ? 
It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud 

queen, ns 

Unless the adage must be verifi’d, 

That beggars mounted run their horse to death. 
’T is beauty that doth oft make women proud ; 
But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small. 
’Tis virtue that doth make them most ad¬ 
mir’d ; 130 

The contrary doth make thee wond’red at. 

’T is government that makes them seem divine ; 
The want thereof makes thee abominable. 
Thou art as opposite to every good 
As the Antipodes are unto us, ns 

Or as the south to the septentrion. 

O tiger’s heart wrapt in a woman’s hide ! 

How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the 
child, , , 

To bid the father wipe his eyes withal, 

And yet be seen to wear a woman’s face ? no 


Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible ; 
Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorse¬ 
less. 

Bid’st thou me rage ? Why, now thou hast 
thy wish. 

Wouldst have me weep? W T hy, now thou hast 
thy will; 

For raging wind blows up incessant showers, 145 
And when the rage allays, the rain begins. 
These tears are my sweet Rutland’s obsequies ; 
And every drop cries vengeance for his death 
’Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false 
Frenchwoman. 

North. Beshrew me, but his passion moves 
me so iso 

That hardly can I check my eyes from tears. 

York. That face of his the hungry cannibals 
Would not have touch’d, would not have stain’d 
with blood ; 

But you are more inhuman, more inexorable, 
O, ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania. iso 
See, ruthless queen, a hapless father’s tears ! 
This cloth thou dipp’dst in blood of my sweet 
boy. 

And I with tears do wash the blood away. 

Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this ; 
And if thou tell’st the heavy story right, ieo 
Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears; 

Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears, 
And say, “ Alas, it was a piteous deed ! ” 
There, take the crown, and, with the crown, 


my curse ; 

And in thy need such comfort come to thee ies 

As now I reap at. thy too cruel hand ! 

Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world. 

My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads ! 
North. Had he been slaughter-man to all my 
kin, 

I should not for my life but weep with him, no 

To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul. 

Q. Mar. What, weeping-ripe, my Lord 
Northumberland ? 

Think but upon the wrong he did us all, 

And that will quickly dry thy melting tears. 
Clif- Here’s for my oath, here’s for my 
father’s death. [&fa& 6 ingr him.] ns 

Q. Mar. And here’s to right our gentle- 
hearted king. [Stabbing him. 1 

York. Open Thy gate of m ercy, gracious God ! 

My soul flies through these wounds to seek out 
Thee. [Z>t«s.] 

Q. Mar. Off with his head, and set it on 
York gates ; 

So York may overlook the town of York. i*» 

[Flourish. Exeunt. 


[ACT II] 

[Scene I. A plain near Mortimer's Cross in 
Hereford shire.] 

A march. Enter Edward, Richard, and their 
power. 

Edw. I wonder how our princely father 
scap’d, 

Or whether he be scap’d away or no 





7°4 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


ii. i. 


From Clifford’s and Northumberland’s pursuit: 
Had he been ta’en, we should have heard the 
news ; 

Had he been slain, we should have heard the 
news; # 6 

Or had he scap’d, methinks we should have 
heard 

The happy tidings of his good escape. 

How fares my brother ? Why is he so sad ? 

Rich. I cannot joy, until I be resolv’d 
Where our right valiant father is become. 10 
I saw him in the battle range about, 

And watch’d him how he singled Clifford forth. 
Methought he bore him in the thickest troop 
As doth a lion in a herd of neat; 

Or as a bear, encompass’d round with dogs, is 
Who having pinch’d a few and made them cry, 
The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him. 

So far’d our father with his enemies ; 

So fled his enemies my warlike father. 
Methinks, ’t is prize enough to be his son. 20 
See how the morning opes her golden gates, 
And takes her farewell of the glorious sun ! 
How well resembles it the prime of youth, 
Trimm’d like a younker prancing to his love ! 
Edw. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three 
suns ? _ 26 

Rich. Three glorious suns, each one a per¬ 
fect sun, 

Not separated with the racking clouds, 

But sever’d in a pale clear-shining sky. 

See, see ! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss, 
As if they vow’d some league inviolable. 30 
Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun. 
In this the heaven figures some event. 

Edw. ’T is wondrous strange, the like yet 
never heard of. 

I think it cites us, brother, to the field, 

That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet, 35 
Each one already blazing by our meeds, 

Should notwithstanding join our lights together 
And over-shine the earth as this the world. 
Whate’er it bodes, henceforward will I bear 
Upon my target three fair-shining suns. *o 
Rich. Nay, bear three daughters ; by your 
leave I speak it, 

You love the breeder better than the male. 
Enter [a Messenger] blowing. 

But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell 
Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue ? 

Mess. Ah, one that was a woeful looker-on *5 
When as the noble Duke of York was slain, 
Your princely father and my loving lord ! 

Edw. O, speak no more, for I have heard too 
much. 

Rich. Say how he died, for I will hear it all. 
Mess. Environed he was with many foes, 60 
And stood against them, as the hope of Troy 
Against the Greeks that would have ent’red 
Troy. 

But Hercules himself must yield to odds ; 

And many strokes, though with a little axe, 
Hews down and fells the hardest-timber’d oak. 
By many hands your father was subdu’d ; 66 

But only slaughtered by the ireful arm 
Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen, 


Who crown’d the gracious duke in high de- 
spite, 

Laugh’d in his face; and when with grief he 
wept, t 60 

The ruthless queen gave him to dry his cheeks 
A napkin steeped in the harmless blood 
Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford 
slain. 

And after many scorns, many foul taunts, 64 
They took his head, and on the gates of York 
They set the same ; and there it doth remain, 
The saddest spectacle that e’er I view’d. 

Edw. Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean 
upon, 

Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay. 
0 Clifford, boist’rous Clifford ! thou hast slain 
The flower of Europe for his chivalry; _ n 

And treacherously hast thou vanquish’d him, 
For hand to hand he would have vanquish’d thee. 
Now my soul’s palace is become a prison ; 

Ah, would she break from hence, that this my 
body « 

Might in the ground be closed up in rest! 

For never henceforth shall I joy again, 

Never, O never, shall I see more joy ! 

Rich. I cannot weep, for all my body’s mois¬ 
ture 

Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning 
heart; so 

Nor can my tongue unload my heart’s great 
burden, 

For self-same wind that I should speak withal 
Is kindling coals that fires all my breast, 

And burns me up with flames that tears would 
quench. 

To weep is to make less the depth of grief. se 
Tears then for babes ; blows and revenge for me. 
Richard, I bear thy name ; I ’ll venge thy 
death. 

Or die renowned by attempting it. 

Edw. His name that valiant duke hath left 
with thee; 

His dukedom and his chair with me is left. 90 
Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle’s 
bird, 

Show thy descent by gazing ’gainst the sun ; 
For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom 
say, 

Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his. 

March. Enter Warwick, Marquess of Mon¬ 
tague, and their army. 

War. How now, fair lords! What fare ? 

What news abroad ? 96 

Rich. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should 
recount 

Our baleful news, and at each word’s deliver¬ 
ance 

Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told, 
The words would add more anguish than the 
wounds. 

0 valiant lord, the Duke of York is slain ! ioo 
Edw. O Warwick, Warwick ! that Plantage¬ 
net, 

Which held thee dearly as his soul’s redemp¬ 
tion, 

Is by the stern Lord Clifford don# to death. 




II. 1. 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


7°5 


War. Ten days ago I drown’d these news in 
tears ; 

And now, to add more measure to your woes, 

I come to tell you things sith then befallen. ioe 
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought, 
Where your brave father breath’d his latest 
. £ as P’ 

Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run, 
Were brought me of your loss and his depart. 

I, then in London, keeper of the King, 111 
Muster’d my soldiei 3 , gathered nocks of 
friends, 

[And very well appointed, as I thought,] 
March’d toward Saint Alban’s to intercept the 
Queen, 

Bearing the King in my behalf along ; 11s 

For by my scouts I was advertised 
That she was coming with a full intent 
To dash our late decree in parliament 
Touching King Henry’s oath and your succes¬ 
sion. 

Short tale to make, we at Saint Alban’s met, 
Our battles join’d, and both sides fiercely 
fought. 121 

But whether’t was the coldness of the King, 
Who look’d full gently on his warlike queen, 
That robb’d my soldiers of their heated spleen ; 
Or whether’t was report of her success ; 125 

Or more than common fear of Clifford’s rigour, 
Who thunders to his captives blood and death, 
I cannot judge ; but, to conclude with truth, 
Their weapons like to lightning came and went; 
Our soldiers’, like the night-owl’s lazy flight, 
Or like an idle thresher with a flail, 131 

Fell gently down, as if they struck their 
friends. 

I cheer’d them up with justice of our cause, 
With promise of high pay and great rewards. 
But all in vain ; they nad no heart to fight, las 
And we in them no hope to win the day, 

So that we fled; the King unto the Queen ; 
Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and my- 
self. 

In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you ; 
For in the marches here we heard you were, no 
Making another head to fight again. 

Edw. Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle 
Warwick ? 

And when came George from Burgundy to 
England? 

War. Some six miles off the Duke is with 
the soldiers: 

A»d for your brother, he was lately sent 
From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy, 
With aid of soldiers to this needful war. 

Rich. ’Twas odds, belike, when valiant 
Warwick fled. 

Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit, 

But ne’er till now his scandal of retire. iso 
War. Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost 
thou hear; 

For thou shalt know this strong right hand of 
mine 

Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry’s head, 
And wring the awful sceptre from his fist, 
Were he as famous and as bold in war i 56 

As he is famed for mildness, peace, and prayer. 


Rich. I know it well, Lord Warwick ; blame 
me not. 

’T is love I bear thy glories make me speak. 
But in this troublous time what’s to be done ? 
Shall we go throw away our coats of steel, ico 
And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns, 
Numb’ring our Ave-Maries with our beads? 

Or shall we on the helmets of our foes 
Tell our devotion with revengeful arms ? 

If for the last, say av, and to it, lords. ies 

War. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek 
you out; 

And therefore comes my brother Montague. 
Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen, 
With Clifford and the haught Northumber¬ 
land, 

And of their feather many moe proud birds, it* 
Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax. 
He swore consent to your succession, 

His oath enrolled in the parliament; 

And now to London all the crew are gone. 

To frustrate both his oath and what beside ns 
May make against the house of Lancaster. 
Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong. 
Now, if the help of Norfolk and myself, 

With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of 
March, 179 

Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure, 
Will but amount to five and twenty thousand, 
Why, Via I to London will we march, 

And once again bestride our foaming steeds, 
And once again cry “ Charge ! ” upon our foes, 

But never once again turn back and fly. im 

Rich. Ay, now methinks I hear great War¬ 
wick speak. 

Ne’er may he live to see a sunshine day, 

That cries “ Retire ! ” if Warwick bid him stay. 
Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I 
lean ; 

And when thou fail’st — as God forbid the 
hour ! — iso 

Must Edward fall, which peril Heaven forfend ! 
War. No longer Earl of March, but Duke of 
York ; 

The next degree is England’s royal throne, 

For King of England shalt thou be proclaim’d 
In every borough as we pass along; i»s 

And he that throws not up his cap for joy 
Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head. 
King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague, 
Stay we no longer, dreaming of renown, 

But sound the trumpets, and about our task. *00 
Rich. Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard 
as steel, 

As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds, 

I come topierce it, or to give thee mine. 

Edw. Then strike up drums. God and Saint 
George for us 1 

Enter a Messenger. 

War. How now ! what news ? 201? 

Mess. The Duke of Norfolk sends you word 
by me 

The Queen is coming with a puissant host; 
And craves your company for speedy counsel. 
War. Why then it sorts. Brave warriors, 
let’s away. [Exeunt. 








706 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


n. ii. 


[Scene II. Before York.] 

Flourish. Enter King Henry, Queen Mar¬ 
garet, the Prince of Wales, Clifford, 
and Northumberland, with drum and trum¬ 
pets. 

Q. Mar. Welcome, my lord, to this brave 
town of York. 

Yonder’s the head of that arch-enemy 
That sought to be encompass’d with your crown. 
Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord ? 
K. Hen. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that 
fear their wreck. e 

To see this sight, it irks my very soul. 
Withhold revenge, dear God !’t is not my fault, 
Nor wittingly have I infring’d my vow. 

Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity 
And harmful pity must be laid aside. 10 

To whom do lions cast their gentle looks ? 

Not to the beast that would usurp their den. 
Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick ? 
Not his that spoils her young before her face. 
Who scapes the lurking serpent’s mortal sting ? 
Not he that sets his foot upon her back. ia 
The smallest worm will turn being trodden on, 
And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood. 
Ambitious York did level at thy crown, 

Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows; 20 
He, but a duke, would have his son a king, 
And raise his issue, like a loving sire ; 

Thou, being a king, blest with a goodly son, 
Didst yield consent to disinherit him, 

Which argued thee a most unloving father. 25 
Unreasonable creatures feed their young; 

And though man’s face be fearful to their eyes, 
Yet, in protection of their tender ones, 

Who hath not seen them, even with those wings 
Which sometime they have us’d with fearful 
flight, 30 

Make war with him that climb’d unto their 
. nest, 

Offering their own lives in their young’s de¬ 
fence ? 

For shame, my liege, make them your prece¬ 
dent ! 

Were it not pity that this goodly boy 
Should lose his birthright by his father’s fault, 
And long hereafter say unto his child, 30 

“ What my great-grandfather and grandsire 
got 

My careless father fondly gave away ” ? 

Ah, what a shame were this ! Look on the 
boy; 

And let his manly face, which promiseth 40 
Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart 
To hold thine own and leave thine own with 
him. 

K. Hen. Full well hath Clifford play’d the 
orator, 

Inferring arguments of mighty force. 

But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear 45 
That things ill-got had ever bad success ? 

And happy always was it for that son 
Whose father for his hoarding went to hell ? 

I ’ll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind, 
And would my father had left me no more ! eo 
For all the rest is held at such a rate 


As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep 
Than in possession any jot of pleasure. 

Ah, cousin York! would thy best friends did 
know 

How it doth grieve me that thy head is here ! 

Q. Mar. My lord, cheer up your spirits! 
Our foes are nigh, ee 

And this soft courage makes your followers 
faint. 

You promis’d knighthood to our forward son. 
Unsheathe your sword, and dub him presently. 
Edward, kneel down. 60 

K. Hen. Edward Plantagenet, arise a 
knight; 

And learn this lesson, draw thy sword in right. 

Prince. My gracious father, by your kingly 
leave, 

I ’ll draw it as apparent to the crown, 

And in that quarrel use it to the death. 66 

Clif. Why, that is spoken like a toward • 
prince. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. Royal commanders, be in readiness ; 
For with a band of thirty thousand men 
Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York; 
And in the towns, as they do march along, 70 
Proclaims him king, and many fly to him. 
Darraign your battle, for they are at hand. 

Clif. I would your Highness would depart 
the field; 

The Queen hath best success when you are 
absent. 

Q. Mar. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to 
our fortune. 75 

K. Hen. Why, that’s my fortune too ; there¬ 
fore I ’ll stay. 

North. Be it with resolution then to fight. 

Prince. My royal father, cheer these noble 
lords 

And hearten those that fight in your defence. 
Unsheathe your sword, good father; cry 
“ Saint George ! ” so 

March. Enter Edward, George, Richard, 

Warwick, Norfolk, Montague, and Sol¬ 
diers. 

Edw. Now, perjur’d Henry ! wilt thou kneel 
for grace, 

And set thy diadem upon my head ; 

Or bide the mortal fortune of the field ? 

Q. Mar. Go, rate thy minions, proud insult¬ 
ing boy ! 

Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms 86 
Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king ? 

Edw. I am his king, and he should bow his 
knee. 

I was adopted heir by his consent; 

Since when, his oath is broke ; for, as I hear, 
You, that are king, though he do wear the 
crown, 9t> 

Have caus’d him, by new act of parliament, 

To blot out me, and put his own son in. 

Clif. And reason too. 

Who should succeed the father but the son ? 

Rich. Are you there, butcher? O, I cannot 
speak 1 96 





THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


707 


II. iii. 


Clif. Ay, crook-back, here I stand to answer 
thee, 

Or any he the proudest of thy sort. 

Rich. ’T was you that kill’d young Rutland, 
was it not ? 

Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied. 

Rich. For God’s sake, lords, give signal to 
the fight. 100 

War. What say’st thou, Henry, wilt thou 
yield the crown ? 

Q. Mar. Why, how now, long-tongu’d War¬ 
wick ! dare you speak ? 

When you and I met at Saint Alban’s last, 
Your legs did better service than your hands. 

War. Then’t was my turn to fly, and now 
’t is thine. 105 

Clif. You said so much before, and yet you 
fled. 

War. ’T was not your valour, Clifford, drove 
me thence. 

North. No, nor your manhood that durst 
make you stay. 

Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee rever¬ 
ently. 

Break off the parley ; for scarce I can refrain 
The execution of my big-swoln heart in 

Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer. 

Clif. I slew thy father, call’st thou him a 
child ? 

Rich. Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous 
coward, n* 

As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland; 
But ere sunset I ’ll make thee curse the deed. 

K. Hen. Have done with words, my lords, 
and hear me speak. 

Q. Mar. Defy them then, or else hold close 
thy lips. 

K. Hen. I prithee, give no limits to my 
tongue. 

I am a king, and privileg’d to speak. no 

Clif. My liege, the wound that bred this 
meeting here 

Cannot be cur’d by words ; therefore be still. 

Rich. Then, executioner, unsheathe thy 
sword. 

By Him that made us all, I am resolv’d 
That Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue, ne 

Edw. Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or 
no ? 

A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day, 
That ne’er shall dine unless thou yield the 
crown. 

War. If thou deny, their blood upon thy 
head ; 

For York in justice puts his armour on. iso 

Prince. If that be right which Warwick 
says is right, 

There is no wrong, but everything is right. 

Rich. Whoever got thee, there thy mother 
stands; 

For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother’s tongue. 

Q. Mar. But thou art neither like thy sire 
nor dam, _ _ 135 

But like a foul mis-shapen stigmatic, 

Mark’d by the destinies to be avoided 
As venom toads, or lizards’ dreadful stings. 

Rich. Iron of Naples hid with English gilt, 


Whose father bears the title of a king, — 140 

As if a channel should be call’d the sea — 
Sham’st thou not, knowing whence thou art 
extraught, 

To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart ? 

Edw. A wisp of straw were worth a thou¬ 
sand crowns 

To make this shameless callet know herself. i« 
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou, 
Although thy husband may be Menelaus ; 

And ne’er was Agamemnon’s brother wrong’d 
By that false woman, as this king by thee. 

His father revell’d in the heart of France, 150 
And tam’d the King, and made the Dauphin 
stoop ; 

And had he match’d according to his state, 

He might have kept that glory to this day ; 
But when he took a beggar to his bed, 

And grac’d thy poor sire with his bridal- 
day, 168 

Even then that sunshine brew’d a shower for 
him, 

That wash’d his father’s fortunes forth of 
France, 

And heap’d sedition on his crown at home. 

For what hath broach’d this tumult but thy 
pride ? 

Hadst thou been meek, our title still had 

slept; iso 

And we, in pity of the gentle king, 

Had slipp’d our claim until another age. 

Geo. But when we saw our sunshine made 
thy spring, 

And that thy summer bred us no increase, 

We set the axe to thy usurping root; 10s 

And though the edge hath something hit our¬ 
selves, 

Yet, know thou, since we have begun to strike, 
We’ll never leave till we have hewn thee 
down, 

Or bath’d thy growing with our heated bloods. 

Edw. And, in this resolution, I defy thee, no 
Not willing any longer conference. 

Since thou denied’st the gentle king to speak. 
Sound trumpets ! Let our bloody colours wave ! 
And either victory, or else a grave. 

Q. Mar. Stay, Edward. ns 

Edw. No, wrangling woman, we ’ll no longer 
stay. 

These words will cost ten thousand lives this 
day. [Exeunt. 

[Scene III. A field of battle between Towton 
and Saxton, in Yorkshire .] 

Alarum. Excursions. Enter Warwick. 

War. Forspent with toil, as runners with a 
race, 

I lay me down a little while to breathe ; 

For strokes receiv’d, and many blows repaid, 
Have robb’d my strong-knit sinews of their 
strength, 

And spite of spite needs must I rest a while, b 
E nter Edward, running. 

Edw. Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, un¬ 
gentle death I 





THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


II. V. 


708 


For this world frowns, and Edward’s sun is 
clouded. 

War. How now, my lord! what hap? 
What hope of good ? 

Enter George. 

Geo. Our hap is loss, our hope hut sad de¬ 
spair ; 

Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us. 10 
What counsel give you ? Whither shall we fly ? 
Edw. Bootless is flight, they follow us with 
wings; 

And weak we are and cannot shun pursuit. 
Enter Richard. 

Rich. Ah, Warwick, why hast thou with¬ 
drawn thyself ? 

Thy brother’s blood the thirsty earth hath 
drunk, # 16 

Broach’d with the steely point of Clifford’s 
lance ; 

And in the very pangs of death he cried, 

Like to a dismal clangor heard from far, 
“Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my 
death!” 

So, underneath the belly of their steeds, 20 
That stain’d their fetlocks in his smoking 
blood, 

The noble gentleman gave up the ghost. 

War. Then let the earth be drunken with 
our blood! 

I ’ll kill my horse, because I will not fly. 

Why stand we like soft-hearted women here, 2s 
Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage ; 
And look upon, as if the tragedy 
Were play’d in jest by counterfeiting actors ? 
Here on my knee I vow to God above, 

I ’ll never pause again, never stand still, 30 
Till either death hath clos’d these eyes of mine 
Or fortune given me measure of revenge. 

Edw. 0 Warwick, I do bend my knee with 
thine; 

And in this vow do chain my soul to thine ! 

— And, ere my knee rise from the earth’s cold 
face, ss 

I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, 
Thou setter up and plucker down of kings, 
Beseeching thee, if with thy will it stands 
That to my foes this body must be prey, 

Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope, 40 
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul! 
Now, lords, take leave until we meet again, 
Where’er it be, in heaven or in earth. 

Rich. Brother, give me thy hand; and, 
gentle Warwick, 

Let me embrace thee in my weary arms. « 
I, that did never weep, now melt with woe 
That winter should cut off our spring-time so. 
War. Away, away ! Once more, sweet lords, 
farewell. 

Geo. Yet let us all together to our troops, 
And give them leave to fly that will not stay, so 
And call them pillars that will stand to us ; 
And, if we thrive, promise them such rewards 
As victors wear at the Olympian games. 

This may plant courage in their quailing 
breasts; 


For yet is hope of life and victory. 65 

Forslow no longer, make we hence amain. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene IV. Another part of the field.] 
Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford. 

Rich. Now, Clifford, I have singled thee 
alone. 

Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York, 

Ancf this for Rutland ; both bound to revenge, 
Wert thou environ’d with a brazen wall. 

Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here 
alone. 6 

This is the hand that stabb’d thy father York ; 
And this the hand that slew thy brother Rut¬ 
land ; 

And here’s the heart that triumphs in their 
death 

And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and 
brother 

To execute the like upon thyself. 10 

And so, have at thee ! 

[They fight. Warwick comes; Clif¬ 
ford fiies. 

Rich. Nay, Warwick, single out some other 
chase; 

For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene V. Another part of the field.] 
Alarum. Enter King Henry alone. 

K. Hen. This battle fares like to the morn¬ 
ing’s war, 

When dying clouds contend with growing light, 
What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, 
Can neither call it perfect day nor night. 

Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea 5 
Forc’d by the tide to combat with the wind ; 
Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea 
Forc’d to retire by fury of the wind. 

Sometime the flood prevails, and then the 
wind; 

Now one the better, then another best; 10 

Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, 

Yet neither conqueror nor conquered ; 

So is the equal poise of this fell war. 

Here on this molehill will I sit me down. 

To whom God will, there be the victory! is 
For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, 

Have chid me from the battle ; swearing both 
They prosper best of all when I am thence. 
Would I were dead! if God’s good will were so ; 
For what is in this world but grief and woe ? 20 
0 God ! methinks it were a happy life, 

To be no better than a homely swain ; 

To sit upon a hill, as I do now, 

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, 
Thereby to see the minutes how they run, 2s 
How many makes the hour full complete, 

How many hours brings about the day, 

How many days will finish up the year, 

How many years a mortal man may live. 

When this is known, then to divide the times: 
So many hours must I tend my flock, si 

So many hours must I take my rest, 





II. V. 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


So many hours must I contemplate, 

So many hours must I sport myself ; 

So many days my ewes have been with young, ss 
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean, 

So many years ere I shall shear the fleece. 

So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, 
Pass’d over to the end tney were created, 
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. 40 
Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how 
lovelv! 

Gives not tne hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade 
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep, 

Than doth a rich embroider’d canopy 
To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery ? 45 
O, yes, it doth • a thousand-fold it doth. 

And to conclude, the shepherd’s homely curds, 
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, 
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade, 
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, so 
Is far beyond a prince’s delicates, — 

His viands sparkling in a golden cup, 

His body couched in a curious bed, 

When Care, Mistrust, and Treason waits on 
him. 

Alarum. Enter a Son that hath killed his father 
[i dragging in the dead body]. 

Son. Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. 
This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight, 
May be possessed with some store of crowns ; 57 
And I, that haply take them from him now, 
May yet ere night yield both my life and them 
To some man else, as this dead man doth me. eo 
Who’s this ? O God ! it is my father’s face, 
Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill’d. 

O heavy times, begetting such events ! 

From London by tne King was I press’d forth ; 
My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s man, 
Came on the part of York, press’d by his mas¬ 
ter ; os 

And I, who at his hands receiv’d my life, 
Have, by my hands, of life bereaved him. 
Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did ! 

And pardon, father, for I knew not thee ! 70 

My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks ; 
And no more words till they have flow’d their 
fill. 

K. Hen. 0 piteous spectacle ! O bloody 
times! 

Whiles lions war and battle for their dens, 

Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity. w 
Weep, wretched man, I’ll aid thee tear for 
tear; 

And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war, 

Be blind with tears, and break o’ercharg’d 
with grief. 

Enter a Father, bearing of his son. 

Fath. Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me, 
Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold, so 
For I have bought it with an hundred blows. 
But let me see : is this our foeman’s face ? 

Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son ! 

Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee, 

Throw up thine eye! See, see what showers 
arise, 88 

Blown with the windy tempest of my heart, 


7°9 


Upon thy wounds, that kills mine eye and 
heart 1 

O, pity, God, this miserable age ! 

What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly, 
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural, se 

This deadly quarrel daily doth beget! 

0 boy, thy father gave thee life too soon, 

And hath bereft thee of thy life too late ! 

K. Hen. Woe above woe ! grief more than 
common grief! 

0 that my death would stay these ruthful 
deeds! ss 

O, pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity! 

The red rose and the white are on his face, 

The fatal colours of our striving houses ; 

The one his purple blood right well resembles, 
The other his pale cheeks, methinks, present¬ 
ed. 100 

Wither one rose, and let the other flourish ; 

If you contend, a thousand lives must wither. 

Son. How will my mother for a father’s 
death 

Take on with me and ne’er be satisfi’d ! 

Fath. How will my wife for slaughter of my 
son 105 

Shed seas of tears and ne’er be satisfi’d! 

K. Hen. How will the country for these 
woeful chances 

Misthink the King and not be satisfi’d ! 

Son. Was ever son so ru’d a father’s death ? 

Fath. Was ever father so bemoan’d his son? 

K. Hen. Was ever king so griev’d for sub¬ 
jects’ woe ? 111 

Much is your sorrow ; mine ten times so much. 

Son. I ’ll bear thee hence, where I may weep 
my fill. [ Exit with the body. 

Fath. These arms of mine shall be thy 
winding-sheet; 

My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre, 115 
For from my heart thine image ne’er shall 

. so; 

My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell; 
And so obsequious will thy father be, 

E’en for the loss of thee, having no more, 

As Priam was for all his valiant sons. 120 

I ’ll bear thee hence ; and let them fight that 
will, 

For I have murdered where I should not kill. 

[Exit [with the body]. 

K. Hen. Sad-hearted men, much overgone 
with care, 

Here sits a king more woeful than you are. 

Alarums. Excursions. Enter Queen Mar¬ 
garet, the Prince, and Exeter. 

Prince. Fly, father, fly ! for all your friends 
are fled, 125 

And Warwick rages like a chafed bull. 

Away ! for death doth hold us in pursuit. 

Q. Mar. Mount you, my lord ; towards Ber¬ 
wick post amain. 

Edward and Richard, like a brace of grey¬ 
hounds 

Having the fearful flying hare in sight, 130 

With fiery eyes sparkling for very wrath, 

And bloody steel grasp’d in their ireful hands, 
Are at our backs ; and therefore hence amain. 




710 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


II. VL 


Exe. Away ! for vengeance comes along with 
them. 

Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed ; 135 

Or else come after. I ’ll away before. 

K. Hen. Nay, take me with thee, good sweet 
Exeter; 

Not that I fear to stay, but love to go 
Whither the Queen intends. Forward ; away ! 

[ Exeunt. 

[Scene VI. Another part of the,field.] 

A loud alarum. Enter Clifford, wounded. 

Clif. Here burns my candle out; ay, here it 
dies, 

Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light. 

O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow 

More than my body’s parting with my soul! 

My love and fear glu’d many friends to thee ; 6 
And, now I fall, thy tough commixtures melts. 
Impairing Henry, strength’ning misproud 
York, 

[The common people swarm like summer flies ;] 
And whither fly the gnats but to the sun ? 

And who shines now but Henry’s enemies ? 10 

O Phoebus, hadst thou never given consent 
That Phaethon should check thy fiery steeds, 
Thy burning car never had scorch’d the earth ! 
And, Henry, hadst thou sway’d as kings should 
do, 

Or as thy father and his father did, is 

Giving no ground unto the house of York, 
They never then had sprung like summer flies ; 
I and ten thousand in this luckless realm 
Had left no mourning widows for our death ; 
And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in 
peace. _ 20 

For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air ? 
And what makes robbers bold but too much 
lenity ? 

Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my 
wounds. 

No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight. 
The foe is merciless, and will not pity, 2c 

For at their hands I have deserv’d no pity. 

The air hath got into my deadly wounds, 

And much effuse of blood doth make me faint. 
Come, York and Richard, Warwick and the 
rest; 29 

I stabb’d your fathers’ bosoms, split my breast. 

[He faints .] 

Alarum and retreat. Enter Edward, George, 
Richard, Montague, Warwick, and Sol¬ 
diers. 

Edw. Now breathe we, lords ; good fortune 
bids us pause 

And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful 
looks. 

Some troops pursue the bloody-minded queen, 
That led calm Henry, though he were a king, 
As doth a sail, fill’d with a fretting gust, 35 
Command an argosy to stem the waves. 

But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with 
them ? 

War. No, ’t is impossible he should escape ; 
For, though before his face I speak the words, 


Your brother Richard mark’d him for the 
grave; 40 

And wheresoe’er he is, lie’s surely dead. 

[Clifford groans [and dies]. 

Rich. Whose soul is that which takes her 
heavy leave ? 

A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing. 
See who it is. 

Edw. And, now the battle’s ended, 

If friend or foe, let him be gently used. « 

Rich. Revoke that doom of mercy, for’t is 
Clifford; 

Who, not contented that he lopp’d the branch 
In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth, 
But set his murd’ring knife unto the root 
From whence that tender spray did sweetly 
spring, so 

I mean our princely father, Duke of York. 

War. From off the gates of York fetch down 
the head, 

Your father’s head, which Clifford placed 
there; 

Instead whereof let this supply the room. 
Measure for measure must be answered. es 

Edw. Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to 
our house, 

That nothing sung but death to us and ours. 
Now death shall stop his dismal threat’ning 
sound, 

And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak. 

War. I think his understanding is bereft. 60 
Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to 
thee ? 

Dark cloudy death o’ershades his beams of life, 
And he nor sees nor hears us what we say. 

Rich. 0 , would he did 1 and so perhaps he 
doth. 

’T is but his policy to counterfeit, 

Because he would avoid such bitter taunts 
Which in the time of death he gave our father. 

Geo. If so thou think’st, vex him with eager 
words. 

Rich. Clifford, ask mercy and obtain no 
grace. 

Edw. Clifford, repent in bootless penitence. 70 

War. Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults. 

Geo. While we devise fell tortures for thy 
faults. 

Rich. Thou didst love York, and I am son 
to York. 

Edw. Thou pitied’st Rutland; I will pity 
thee. 

Geo. Where’s Captain Margaret, to fence 
you now ? 75 

War. They mock thee, Clifford; swear as 
thou wast wont. 

Rich. What, not an oath? Nay, then the 
world goes hard 

When Clifford cannot spare his friends an 
oath. 

I know by that he’s dead ; and, by my soul. 

If this right hand would buy two hours’ life, so 
That I in all despite might rail at him, 

This hand should chop it off, and with the 
issuing blood 

Stifle the villain whose unstanched thirst 
York and young Rutland could not satisfy. 




III. 1. 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


War. Ay, but he’s dead. Off with the 
traitor’s head, se 

And rear it in the place your father’s stands. 
And now to London with triumphant march, 
There to be crowned England’s royal king ; 
From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to 
France, 

And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen. oo 

So shalt thou sinew both these lands together ; 
And, having France thy friend, thou slialt not 
dread 

The scatt’red foe that hopes to rise again ; 

For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt, 
Yet look to have them buzz to offend thine 
ears. 95 

First will I see the coronation ; 

And then to Brittany I ’ll cross the sea, 

To effect this marriage, so it please my lord. 
Edw. Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let 
it be; 

For in thy shoulder do I build my seat, 100 
And never will I undertake the thing 
Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting. 
Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester, 
And George, of Clarence. Warwick, as ourself, 
Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best. 105 
Rich. Let me be Duke of Clarence, George 
of Gloucester; 

For Gloucester’s dukedom is too ominous. 

War. Tut, that’s a foolish observation. 
Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to Lon¬ 
don, 

To see these honours in possession. [Exeunt, no 


[ACT III] 

[Scene I. A forest in the north of England .] 

Enter [two Keepers,] with cross-bows in their 
hands. 

[ 2 . Keep.] Under this thick-grown brake 
we ’ll shroud ourselves, 

For through this laund anon the deer will 
come ; 

And in this covert will we make our stand, 
Culling the principal of all the deer. 

[ 2 . Keep.] I ’ll stay above the hill, so both 
may shoot. 5 

1 . Keep. That cannot be ; the noise of thy 

cross-bow 

Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost. 
Here stand we both, and aim we at the best; 
And, for the time shall not seem tedious, 

I ’ll tell thee what befell me on a day 10 

In this self-place where now we mean to stand. 

2 . Keep. Here comes a man ; let’s stay till 

he be past. 

Enter King Henry [disguised], with a prayer- 
book. 

K. Hen. From Scotland am I stolen, even of 
pure love. 

To greet mine own land with my wishful sight. 
No, Harry, Harry, ’t is no land of thine ; is 
Thy place is fill’d, thy sceptre wrung from 
thee, 


7 11 


Thy balm wash’d off wherewith thou was 
anointed. 

No bending knee will call thee Caesar now, 

No humble suitors press to speak for right, 

No, not a man comes for redress of thee ; 2c 
For how can I help them, and not myself ? 

1 . Keep. Ay, here’s a deer whose skin’s a 

keeper’s fee. 

This is the quondam king; let’s seize upon him. 

K. Hen. Let me embrace thee, sour Adver- 
_ ?Ey, 

For wise men say it is the wisest course. 25 

2 . Keep. Why linger we ? Let us lay hands 

upon him. 

1 . Keep. Forbear a while ; we ’ll hear a little 

more. 

K. Hen. My queen and son are gone to 
France for aid; 

And, as I hear, the great commanding Warwick 
Is thither gone, to crave the French king’s 
sister 30 

To wife for Edward. If this news be true, 

Poor c^ueen and son, your labour is but lost; 
For W arwick is a subtle orator, 

And Lewis a prince soon won with moving 
words. 

By this account, then, Margaret may win him, 
For she’s a woman to be pitied much. 33 

Her sighs will make a battery in his breast; 
Her tears will pierce into a marble heart; 

The tiger will be mild whiles she doth mourn ; 
And Nero will be tainted with remorse, « 
To hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears. 
Ay, but she’s come to beg, Warwick, to give ; 
She, on his left side, craving aid for Henry, 

He, on his right, asking a wife for Edward. 

She weeps, and says her Henry is depos’d ; 45 

He smiles, and says his Edward is install’d ; 
That she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no 
more; 

Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the 
wrong, 

Inferreth arguments of mighty strength, 

And in conclusion wins the King from her, eo 
W ith promise of his sister, and what else, 

To strengthen and support King Edward’s 
place. 

0 Margaret, thus ’t will be; and thou, poor 
soul, 

Art then forsaken, as thou went’st forlorn ! 

2 . Keep. Say, what art thou that talk’st of 

kings and queens ? 55 

K. Hen. More than I seem, and less than I 
was born to. 

A man at least, for less I should not be ; 

And men may talk of kings, and why not I ? 

2 . Keep. Ay, but thou talk’st as if thou wert 
a king. 

K. Hen. Why, so I am, in mind ; and that’s 
enough. sr 

2 . Keep. But, if thou be a king, where is 
thy crown ? 

K. Hen. My crown is in my heart, not on my 
head; 

Not deck’d with diamonds and Indian stones, 
Nor to be seen. My crown is called content; 

A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy. 6 * 





712 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


hi. ii. 


2 . Keep. Well, if you be a king crown’d with 
content, 

Your crown content and you must be contented 
To go along with us ; for, as we think, 

You are the king King Edward hath depos’d ; 
And we his subjects sworn in all allegiance to 
W ill apprehend you as his enemy. 

K. Hen. But did you never swear and break 
an oath ? 

2 . Keep. No, never such an oath; nor will 
not now. 

K. Hen. Where did you dwell when I was 
King of England ? 

2 . Keep. Here in this country, where we now 
remain. . . ts 

K. Hen. I was anointed king at nine months 
old; 

My father and my grandfather were kings, 

And you were sworn true subjects unto me ; 
And tell me, then, have you not broke your 
oaths ? 

1 . Keep. No; so 

For we were subjects but while you were king. 

K. Hen. Why, am I dead ? Do I not breathe 
a man ? 

Ah, simple men, you know not what you swear ! 
Look, as I blow this feather from my face, 

And as the air blows it to me again, so 

Obeying with my wind when I do blow, 

And yielding to another when it blows, 
Commanded always by the greater gust; 

Such is the lightness of you common men. 

But do not break your oaths ; for of that sin 9 o 
My mild entreaty shall not make you guilty. 

Go where you will, the King shall be com¬ 
manded ; 

And be you kings, command, and I ’ll obey. 

1 . Keep. We are true subjects to the King, 
King Edward. 

K. Hen. So would you be again to Henry, ss 
If he were seated as King Edward is. 

1 . Keep. We charge you, in God’s name, and 
the King’s 

To go with us unto the officers. 

K. Hen. In God’s name, lead; your king’s 
name be obey’d. 

And what God will, that let your king per¬ 
form ; ioo 

And what He will, I humbly yield unto. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. London. The palace.'] 

Enter King Edward, Gloucester, Clar¬ 
ence, and Lady Grey. 

K. Edw. Brother of Gloucester, at Saint Al¬ 
ban’s field 

This lady’s husband, Sir Richard Grey, was 
slain, 

His land then seiz’d on by the conqueror. 

Her suit is now to repossess those lands ; 

Which we in justice cannot well deny, b 

Because in quarrel of the house of York 
The worthy gentleman did lose his life. 

Glou. Your Highness shall do well to grant 
her suit. 

It were dishonour to deny it her. 


K. Edw. It were no less; but yet I ’ll make 
a pause. io 

Glou. [Aside to Clar.] Yea, is it so ? 

I see the lady hath a thing to grant, 

Before the King will grant her humble suit. 
Clar. [Aside to Glou.] He knows the game ; 

how true he keeps the wind ! 

Glou. [Aside to Clar.] Silence ! is 

Ii. Edw. Widow, we will consider of your 
suit; 

And come some other time to know our mind. 
[L. Grey.] Right gracious lord, I cannot 
brook delay. 

May it please your Highness to resolve me 
now; 

And what your pleasure is, shall satisfy me. 20 
Glou. [Aside to Clar.] Ay, widow? Then 
I ’ll warrant you all your lands, 

An if what pleases him shall pleasure you. 
Fight closer, or, good faith, you ’ll catch a 
blow. 

Clar. [Aside to Glou.] I fear her not, unless 
she chance to fall. 

Glou. [Aside to Clar.] God forbid that! for 
he ’ll take vantages. 26 

K. Edw. How many children hast thou, 

widow ? Tell me. 

Clar. [Aside to Glou.] I think he means to 
beg a child of her. 

Glou. [ Aside to Clar.] Nay, then whip me ; 
he ’ll rather give her two. 

L. Grey. Three, my most gracious lord. 

Glou. [Aside to Clar.] You shall have four, 

if you ’ll be rul’d by him. 30 

K. Edw. ’T were pity they should lose their 
father’s lands. 

L. Grey. Be pitiful, dread lord, and grant it 

then. 

K. Edw. Lords, give us leave. I ’ll try this 
widow’s wit. 

Glou. [Aside to Clar.] Ay, good leave have 
you ; for you will have leave, 

Till youth take leave and leave you to the 
crutch. [Glou. and Clar. retire.] sb 

K. Edw. Now tell me, madam, do you love 

your children ? 

L. Grey. Ay, full as dearly as I love myself. 

K. Edw. And would you not do much to do 
them good ? 

L. Grey. To do them good, I would sustain 

some harm. 

K. Edw. Then get your husband’s lands, to 

do them good. 40 

L. Grey. Therefore I came unto your Maj¬ 

esty. 

K. Edw. I ’ll tell you how these lands are to 

be got. 

L. Grey. So shall you bind me to your High¬ 

ness’ service. 

K. Edw. What service wilt thou do me, if I 
give them ? 

L. Grey. What you command, that rests in 

me to do. 46 

K. Edw. But you will take exceptions to my 

boon. 

L. Grey. No, gracious lord, except I cannot 

do it. 






III. 11. 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


7i3 


K. Edw. Ay, but thou canst do what I mean 

to ask. 

L. Grey. Why, then I will do what your 

Grace commands. 

Glou. [Aside to Clar .] He plies her hard; 

and much rain wears the marble. so 
Clar. [Aside to Glou.] As red as fire! Nay, 
then her wax must melt. 

L. Grey. Why stops my lord ? Shall I not 
hear my task ? 

K. Edw. An easy task; ’t is but to love a 
king. 

L. Grey. That’s soon perform’d, because I 

am a subject. 

K. Edw. Why, then, thy husband’s lands I 

freely give thee. m 

L. Grey. I take my leave with many thou¬ 

sand thanks. 

Glou. [Aside to Clar.] The match is made ; 
she seals it with a curtsy. 

K. Edw. But stay thee, ’t is the fruits of 

love I mean. 

L. Grey. The fruits of love I mean, my loving 

liege. 

K. Edw. Ay, but, I fear me, in another 

sense. «> 

What love, think’st thou, I sue so much to get ? 

L. Grey. My love till death, my humble 
thanks, my prayers; 

That love which virtue begs and virtue grants. 
K Edw. No, by my troth, I did not mean 
such love. 

L. Grey. Why, then you mean not as I 
thought you did. « 

K. Edw. But now you partly may perceive 

my mind. 

L. Grey. My mind will never grant what I 

perceive 

Your Highness aims at, if I aim aright. 

K. Edw. To tell thee plain, I aim to lie with 

thee. 

L. Grey. To tell you plain, I had rather lie in 

prison. ™ 

K. Edw. Why, then thou shalt not have thy 
husband’s lands. 

L. Grey. Why, then mine honesty shall be 

my dower ; 

For by that loss I will not purchase them . 

K. Edw. Therein thou wrong’st thy children 
mightily. 

L. Grey. Herein your Highness wrongs both 

them and me. _ _ 70 

But, mighty lord, this merry inclination 
Accords not with the sadness of my suit. 

Please you dismiss me, either with ay or no. 

K. Edw. Ay, if thou wilt say ay to my re¬ 
quest ; 

No, if thou dost say no to my demand. *0 

L. Grey. Then, no, my lord. My suit is at an 

end. 

Glou. [Aside to Clar.] The widow likes him 
not, she knits her brows. 

Clar. [Aside to Glou.] He is the bluntest 
wooer in Christendom. 

K. Edw. [Aside.] Her looks doth argue her 
replete with modesty; 

Her words doth show her wit incomparable ; ss 


All her perfections challenge sovereignty. 

One way or other, she is for a king; 

And she shall be my love, or else my queen. — 
Say that King Edward take thee for his queen ? 

L. Grey. ’T is better said than done, my 
gracious lord. »o 

I am a subject fit to jest withal, 

But far unfit to be a sovereign. 

K. Edw. Sweet widow, by my state I swear 

to thee 

I speak no more than what my soul intends; 
And that is, to enjoy thee for my love. so 

L. Grey. And that is more than I will yield 

unto. 

I know I am too mean to be your queen, 

And yet too good to be your concubine. 

K. Edw. You cavil, widow. I did mean, my 
queen. 

L. Grey. ’T will grieve your Grace my sons 

should call you father. 100 

K. Edw. No more than when my daughters 
call thee mother. 

Thou art a widow, and thou hast some children ; 
And, by God’s mother, I, being but a bachelor, 
Have other some. Why, ’t is a happy thing 
To be the father unto many sons. 106 

Answer no more, for thou shalt be my queen. 

Glou. [Aside to Clar.] The ghostly father 
now hath done his shrift. 

Clar. [Aside to Glou.] When he was made 
a shriver, ’twas for shift. 

K. Edw. Brothers, you muse what chat we 
two have had. 

Glou. The widow likes it not, for she looks 
very sad. no 

K. Edw. You’d think it strange if I should 
marry her. 

Clar. To who, my lord ? 

K. Edw. Why, Clarence, to myself. 

Glou. That would be ten days’ wonder at 
the least. 

Clar. That’s a day longer than a wonder 
lasts. 

Glou. By so much is the wonder in ex¬ 
tremes. ns 

K. Edw. Well, jest on, brothers. I can tell 
you both 

Her suit is granted for her husband’s lands. 

Enter a Nobleman. 

Nob. My gracious lord, Henry your foe is 
taken, 

And brought your prisoner to your palace gate. 

K. Edw. See that he be convey’d unto the 
Tower; ne 

And go we, brothers, to the man that took 
him, 

To question of his apprehension. 

Widow, go you along. Lords, use her honour¬ 
ably. [Exeunt all but Gloucester. 

Glou. Ay, Edward will use women honour¬ 
ably. 

Would he were wasted, marrow, bones, and 
all, ns 

That from his loins no hopeful branch may 
spring, 

To cross me from the golden time I look for 1 






7i4 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


hi. in. 


And yet, between my soul’s desire and me — 
The lustful Edward’s title buried — 

Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Ed¬ 
ward, _ 130 

And all the unlook’d for issue of their bodies 
To take their rooms, ere I can place myself: 

A cold premeditation for my purpose ! 

Why, then, I do but dream on sovereignty, 
Like one that stands upon a promontory 135 
And spies a far-off shore where he would tread, 
Wishing his foot were equal with his eye, 

And chides the sea that sunders him from 
thence, 

Saying, he ’ll lade it dry to have his way. 

So do I wish the crown, being so far off; no 
And so I chide the means that keeps me from it; 
And so I say, I ’ll cut the causes off, 

Flattering me with impossibilities. 

My eye’s too quick, my heart o’erweens too 
much, 

Unless my hand and strength could equal 
them. nc 

Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard ; 
What other pleasure can the world afford ? 

I ’ll make my heaven in a lady’s lap, 

And deck my body in gay ornaments, 

And witch sweet ladies with my words and 
looks. _ no 

O miserable thought! and more unlikely 
Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns ! 
Why, love forswore me in my mother’s womb ; 
And, for I should not deal in her soft laws, 

She aid corrupt frail nature with some bribe, 155 
To shrink mine arm up like a wither’d shrub ; 
To make an envious mountain on my back, 
Where sits deformity to mock my body; 

To shape my legs of an unequal size; 

To disproportion me in every part, ieo 

Like to a chaos, or an unlick’d bear-whelp 
That carries no impression like the dam. 

And am I then a man to be belov’d ? 

0 monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought! 
Then, since this earth affords no joy to me, ies 
But to command, to check, to o’erbear such 
As are of better person than myself, 

I ’ll make my heaven to dream upon the crown, 
And, whiles I live, to account this world but 
hell, 

Until my mis-shap’d trunk that bears this 
head ito 

Be round impaled with a glorious crown. 

And yet I know not how to get the crown, 

For many lives stand between me and home ; 
And I, — like one lost in a thorny wood, 

That rends the thorns and is rent with the 
thorns, 175 

Seeking a way and straying from the way, 

Not knowing how to find the open air, 

But toiling desperately to find it out, — 
Torment myself to catch the English crown ; 
And from that torment I will free myself, iso 
Or hew my way out with a bloody axe. 

Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile, 
And cry “ Content ” to that which grieves my 
heart, 

And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, 

And frame my face to all occasions. is b 


I ’ll drown more sailors than the mermaid 
shall; 

I ’ll slay more gazers than the basilisk ; 

I ’ll play the orator as well as Nestor, 

Deceive more slily than Ulysses could, 

And, like a Sinon, take another Troy. wo 

I can add colours to the chameleon, 

Change shapes with Proteus for advantages, 
And set the murderous Machiavel to school. 
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown ? 

Tut, were it farther off, I ’ll pluck it down. 195 

[Exit. 

[Scene III. France. The King's palace.] 

Flourish. Enter Lewis the French King , his 
sister Bona, his Admiral , call'd Bourbon : 
Prince Edward, Queen Margaret, and 
the Earl of Oxford. Lewis sits , and riseth 
up again. 

K. Lew. Fair Queen of England, worthy 
Margaret, 

Sit down with us. It ill befits thy state 
And birth, that thou shouldst stand while Lewis 
doth sit. 

Q. Mar. No, mighty King of France ; now 
Margaret 

Must strike her sail and learn a while to serve e 
Where kings command. I was, I must confess, 
Great Albion’s queen in former golden days ; 
But now mischance hath trod my title down, 
And with dishonour laid me on the ground, 
Where I must take like seat unto my fortune, 
And to my humble seat conform myself. 11 
K. Lew. Why, say, fair queen, whence 
springs this deep despair ? 

Q. Mar. From such a cause as fills mine 
eyes with tears 

And stops my tongue, while heart is drown’d in 
cares. 

K. Lew. Whate’er it be, be thou still like 
thyself, _ is 

And sit thee by our side. ( Seats her by him.) 
Yield not thy neck 

To fortune’s yoke, but let thy dauntless mind 
Still ride in triumph over all mischance. 

Be plain, Queen Margaret, and tell thy grief ; 
It shall be eas’d, if France can yield relief. 20 
Q. Mar. Those gracious words revive my 
drooping thoughts 

And give my tongue-tied sorrows leave to 
speak. 

Now, therefore, be it known to noble Lewis, 
That Henry, sole possessor of my love, 

Is of a king become a banish’d man, 25 

And forced to live in Scotland a forlorn ; 

While proud ambitious Edward, Duke of York, 
Usurps the regal title and the seat 
Of England’s true-anointed lawful king. 

This is the cause that I, poor Margaret, 30 
With this my son,Prince Edward, Henry’s heir, 
Am come to crave thy just and lawful aid ; 
And if thou fail us, all our hope is done. 
Scotland hath will to help, but cannot help. 
Our people and our peers are both misled, 35 
Our treasure seiz’d, our soldiers put to flight, 
And, as thou see’st, ourselves in heavy plight. 




THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


in. in. 


K. Lew. Renowned queen, with patience 
calm the storm, 

While we bethink a means to break it off. 

Q. Mar. The more we stay, the stronger 
grows our foe. 40 

K. Lew. The more I stay, the more I ’ll suc¬ 
cour thee. 

Q. Mar. 0 , but impatience waiteth on true 
sorrow. 

And see where comes the breeder of my sor¬ 
row ! 

Enter Warwick. 

K. Lew. What’s he approacheth boldly to 
our presence ? 

Q. Mar. Our Earl of Warwick, Edward’s 
greatest friend. 45 

K. Lew. Welcome, brave Warwick ! What 
brings thee to France? 

[He descends. She ariseth. 

Q. Mar. Ay, now begins a second storm to 
rise ; 

For this is he that moves both wind and tide. 

War. From worthy Edward, King of Al¬ 
bion, 

My lord and sovereign, and thy vowed friend, 

I come, in kindness and unfeigned love, si 

First, to do greetings to thy royal person ; 

And then to crave a league of amity ; 

And lastly, to confirm that amity 
With nuptial knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant 
That virtuous Lady Bona, thy fair sister, 66 
To England’s king in lawful marriage. 

Q. Mar. [Aside.] If that go forward, 
Henry’s hope is done. 

War. {To Bona.) And, gracious madam, in 
our king’s behalf, 59 

I am commanded, with your leave and favour, 
Humbly to kiss your hand and with my tongue 
To tell the passion of my sovereign’s heart; 
Where fame, late entering at his heedful ears 
Hath plac’d thy beauty’s image and thy virtue. 

Q. Mar. King Lewis and Lady Bona, hear 
me speak so 

Before you answer Warwick. His demand 
Springs not from Edward’s well-meant honest 
love, 

But from deceit bred by necessity; 

For how can tyrants safely govern home, 

Unless abroad they purchase great alliance ? 10 
To prove him tyrant this reason may suffice, 
That Henry liveth still; but were he dead, 

Yet here Prince Edward stands, King Henry’s 
son. 

Look, therefore, Lewis, that by this league and 
marriage 

Thou draw not on thy danger and dishonour ; to 
F or though usurpers sway the rule a while, 

Yet heavens are just, and time suppresseth 
wrongs. 

War. Injurious Margaret! 

Prince. And why not queen ? 

War. Because thy father Henry did usurp ; 
And thou no more art prince than she is queen. 

Oxf. Then Warwick disannuls great John of 
Gaunt, 81 

Which did subdue the greatest part of Spain ; 


7*5 


And, after John of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth, 
Whose wisdom was a mirror to the wisest; 
And, after that wise prince, Henry the Fifth, 
Who by his prowess conquered all France. so 
From these our Henry lineally descends. 

War. Oxford, how haps it, in this smooth 
discourse, 

You told not how Henry the Sixth hath lost 
All that which Henry the Fifth had gotten ? 90 
Methinks these peers of France should smile at 
that. 

But for the rest, you tell a pedigree 
Of threescore and two years ; a silly time 
To make prescription for a kingdom’s worth. 

Oxf. Why, Warwick, canst thou speak 
against thy liege, 96 

Whom thou obeyed’st thirty and six years, 

And not bewray thy treason with a blush ? 

War. Can Oxford, that did ever fence the 
right, 

Now buckler falsehood with a pedigree ? 

For shame ! Leave Henry, and call Edward 
king. 100 

Oxf. Call him my king by whose injurious 
doom 

My elder brother, the Lord Aubrey Vere, 

Was done to death? and more than so, my 
father, 

Even in the downfall of his mellow’d years, 
When nature brought him to the door of 
death ? 105 

No, Warwick, no; while life upholds this arm, 
This arm upholds the house of Lancaster. 

War. And I the house of York. 

K. Lew. Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, 
and Oxford, 

Vouchsafe, at our request, to stand aside, no 
While I use further conference with Warwick. 

[ They stand aloof. 

Q. Mar. Heavens grant that Warwick’s 
words bewitch him not! 

K. Lew. Now, Warwick, tell me, even upon 
thy conscience, 

Is Edward your true king ? for I were loath 
To link with him that were not lawful chosen. 

War. Thereon I pawn my credit and mine 
honour. no 

K. Lew. But is he gracious in the people’s 
eye? 

War. The more that Henry was unfortunate. 

K. Lew. Then further, all dissembling set 
aside, 

Tell me for truth the measure of his love 120 
Unto our sister Bona. 

War. Such it seems 

As may beseem a monarch like himself. 

Myself have often heard him say and swear 
That this his love was an eternal plant, 
Whereof the root was fix’d in virtue’s ground, 
The leaves and fruit maintain’d with beauty’s 
sun, _ _ i2« 

Exempt from envy, but not from disdain, 
Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain. 

K. Lew. Now, sister, let us hear your firm 
resolve. 

Bona. Your grant, or your denial, shall be 
mine; 130 






716 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


nr. iii. 


Yet I confess that often ere this day, [ ToWar. 
When I have heard your king’s desert re¬ 
counted, 

Mine ear hath tempted judgement to desire. 

K. Lew. Then, Warwick, thus : our sister 
shall be Edward’s ; 

And now forthwith shall articles be drawn ibb 
T ouching the jointure that your king must 
make, 

Which with her dowry shall be counterpois’d. 
Draw near, Queen Margaret, and be a wit¬ 
ness 

That Bona shall be wife to the English king. 

Prince. To Edward, but not to the English 
king. 140 

Q. Mar. Deceitful Warwick! it was thy 
device 

By this alliance to make void my suit. 

Before thy coming Lewis was Henry’s friend. 

K. Lew. And still is friend to him and Mar¬ 
garet. 

But if your title to the crown be weak, us 
As may appear by Edward’s good success, 

Then ’t is but reason that I be releas’d 
From giving aid which late I promised. 

Yet shall you have all kindness at my hand 
That your estate requires and mine can yield. 

War. Henry now lives in Scotland at his 
ease, i 6 i 

Where having nothing, nothing can he lose. 
And as for you yourself, our quondam queen, 
You have a father able to maintain you ; 

And better ’twere you troubled him than 
France. i 66 

Q. Mar. Peace, impudent and shameless 
Warwick, peace, 

Proud setter up and puller down of kings ! 

I will not hence, till, with my talk and tears, 
Both full of truth, I make King Lewis behold 
Thy sly conveyance and thy lord’s false love ; 

[Posi blows a horn within. 
For both of you are birds of self-same feather. 

K. Lew. Warwick, this is some post to us 
or thee. 102 

Enter a Post. 

Post. My lord ambassador, these letters are 
for you, [To War. 

Sent from your brother, Marquess Montague : 
These from our king unto your Majesty: ies 

[To Lewis. 

And, madam, these for you ; from whom I 
know not. [To Margaret. 

[They all read their letters. 

Oxf. I like it well that our fair queen and 
mistress 

Smiles at her news, while Warwick frowns at 
his. 

Prince. Nay, mark how Lewis stamps, as he 
were nettled. 

I hope all’s for the best. 170 

K. Lew. Warwick, what are thy news? and 
yours, fair queen ? 

Q. Mar. Mine, such as fill my heart with 
unhop’d joys. 

War. Mine, full of sorrow and heart’s dis¬ 
content. 


K. Lew. What! has your king married the 
Lady Grey ? 

And now, to soothe your forgery and his, ns 
Sends me a paper to persuade me patience ? 

Is this the alliance that he seeks with France ? 
Dare he presume to scorn us in this manner ? 

Q. Mar. I told your Majesty as much before. 
This proveth Edward’s love and Warwick’s 
honesty. . i»o 

War. King Lewis, I here protest, in sight 
of heaven, 

And by the hope I have of heavenly bliss, 

That I am clear from this misdeed of Edward’s, 
No more my king, for he dishonours me, 

But most himself, if he could see his shame. 
Did I forget that by the house of York 180 
My father came untimely to his death ? 

Did I let pass the abuse done to my niece ? 

Did I impale him with the regal crown ? 

Did I put Henry from his native right ? iso 
And am I guerdon’d at the last with shame ? 
Shame on himself ! for my desert is honour ; 
And to repair my honour lost for him, 

I here renounce him and return to Henry. 

My noble queen, let former grudges pass, job 
A nd henceforth I am thy true servitor. 

I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona 
And replant Henry in his former state. 

Q. Mar. Warwick, these words have turn’d 
my hate to love ; 

And I forgive and quite forget old faults, 200 
And joy that thou becom’st King Henry’s friend. 
War. So much his friend, ay, his unfeigned 
friend, 

That, if King Lewis vouchsafe to furnish us 
With some few bands of chosen soldiers, 

I ’ll undertake to land them on our coast 20s 
And force the tyrant from his seat by war. 

’T is not his new-made bride shall succour him; 
And as for Clarence, as my letters tell me, 

He’s very likely now to fall from him 
For matching more for wanton lust than hon¬ 
our, 210 

Or than for strength and safety of our country. 
Bona. Dear brother, how shall Bona be re¬ 
veng’d 

But by thy help to this distressed queen ? 

Q. Mar. Renowned prince, how shall poor 
Henry live, 

Unless thou rescue him from foul despair ? 215 
Bona. My quarrel and this English queen’s 
are one. 

War. And mine, fair Lady Bona, joins with 
yours. 

K. Lew. And mine with hers, and thine, and 
Margaret’s. 

Therefore at last I firmly am resolv’d 
You shall have aid. 220 

Q. Mar. Let me give humble thanks for all 
at once. 

K. Lew. Then, England’s messenger, return 
in post, 

And tell false Edward, thy supposed king, 
That Lewis of France is sending over masquers 
To revel it with him and his new bride. 22s 
Thou seest what’s past, go fear thy king 
withal. 




iv. i. 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


Bona. Tell him, in hope he ’ll prove a 
widower shortly, 

I wear the willow garland for his sake. 

Q. Mar. Tell him, my mourning weeds are 
laid aside, 

And I am ready to put armour on. 230 

War. Tell him from me that he hath done 
me wrong, 

And therefore I ’ll uncrown him ere’t he long. 
There’s thy reward ; be gone. [Exit Post. 

K. Lew. But, Warwick, 

Thou and Oxford, with five thousand men, 
Shall cross the seas, and bid false Edward 
battle; 235 

And, as occasion serves, this noble queen 
And prince shall follow with a fresh supply. 
Yet, ere thou go, but answer me one doubt, 
What pledge have we of thy firm loyalty ? 239 
War. This shall assure my constant loyalty, 
That if our queen and this young prince agree, 
I ’ll join mine eldest daughter and my joy 
To him forthwith in holy wedlock bands. 

Q. Mar. YeSj I agree, and thank you for 
your motion. 

Son Edward, she is fair and virtuous, 243 

Therefore delay not, give thy hand to War¬ 
wick ; 

And, with thy hand, thy faith irrevocable, 
That only Warwick’s daughter shall be thine. 
Prince. Yes, I accept her, for she well de¬ 
serves it; 

And here, to pledge my vow, I give my hand. 2B0 
[He gives his hand to Warwick. 
K. Lew. Why stay we now ? These soldiers 
shall be levied, 

And thou, Lord Bourbon, our high admiral, 
Shall waft them over with our royal fleet. 

I long till Edward fail by war’s mischance, 

For mocking marriage with a dame of France. 255 
[Exeunt all but Warwick. 
War. I came from Edward as ambassador, 
But I return his sworn and mortal foe. 

Matter of marriage was the charge he gave me, 
But dreadful war shall answer his demand. 
Had he none else to make a stale but me ? 260 

Then none but I shall turn his jest to sorrow. 

I was the chief that rais’d him to the crown, 
And I ’ll be chief to bring him down again; 

Not that I pity Henryks misery, 

But seek revenge on Edward’s mockery. 205 

[Exit. 

[ACT IV] 

[Scene I. London. The palace.] 

Enter Gloucester, Clarence, Somerset, 
and Montague. 

Glou. Now tell me, brother Clarence, what 
think you 

Of this new marriage with the Lady Grey ? 
Hath not our brother made a worthy choice ? 
Clar. Alas, you know, ’tis far from hence 
to France; 

How could he stay till Warwick made return ? 5 
Som. My lords, forbear this talk ; here comes 
the King. 


7*7 


Flourish. Enter King Edward [attended], 
Lady Grey [as Queen 1 , Pembroke, Staf¬ 
ford, Hastings [and others]. Four stand on 
one side, and four on the other. 

Glou. And his well-chosen bride. 

Clar. I mind to tell him plainly what I think. 
K. Edw. Now, brother of Clarence, how like 
you our choice, 

That you stand pensive, as half malcontent ? 10 
Clar. As well as Lewis of France, or the 
Earl of Warwick, 

Which are so weak of courage and in judgement 
That they ’ll take no offence at our abuse. 

K. Edw. Suppose they take offence without 
a cause, 

They are but Lewis and Warwick. I am 
Edward, is 

Your king and Warwick’s, and must have my 
will. 

Glou. And shall have your will, because our 
king. 

Yet hasty marriage seldom proveth well. 

K. Edw. Yea, brother Kichard, are you 
offended too? 

Glou. Not I. 20 

No, God forbid that I should wish them sever’d 
Whom God hath join’d together; ay, and 
’t were pity 

To sunder them that yoke so well together. 

K. Edw. Setting your scorns and your mis- 
like aside. 

Tell me some reason why the Lady Grey 25 

Should not become my wife and England’s 
queen. 

And you too, Somerset and Montague, 

Speak freely what you think. 

Clar. Then this is mine opinion: that King 
Lewis 

Becomes your enemy, for mocking him 30 

About the marriage of the Lady Bona. 

Glou. And Warwick, doing what you gave 
in charge, 

Is now dishonoured by this new marriage. 

K. Edw. What if both Lewis and Warwick 
be appeas’d 

By such invention as I can devise ? « 

Mont. Yet, to have join’d with France in 
such alliance 

Would more have strength’ned this our com¬ 
monwealth 

’Gainst foreign storms than any home-bred 
marriage. 

Hast. Why, knows not Montague that of 
itself 

England is safe, if true within itself ? 40 

Mont. But the safer when’tis back’d with 
France. 

Hast. ’T is better using France than trusting 
France. 

Let us be back’d with God and with the seas 
Which He hath given for fence impregnable, 
And with their helps only defend ourselves. 4c 
In them and in ourselves our safety lies. 

Clar. For this one speech Lord Hastings 
well deserves 

To have the heir of the Lord Hungerford. 




718 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


IV. L 


K. Edw. Ay, what of that ? It was my will 
and grant; 

And for this once my will shall stand for law. so 

Glou. And yet methinks your Grace hath not 
done well 

To give the heir and daughter of Lord Scales 
Unto the brother of your loving bride. 

She better would have fitted me or Clarence ; 
But in your bride you bury brotherhood. ss 

Clar. Or else you would not have bestow’d 
the heir 

Of the Lord Bonville on your new wife’s son, 
And leave your brothers to go speed elsewhere. 

K. Edw. Alas, poor Clarence ! is it for a wife 
That thou art malcontent ? I will provide thee. 

Clar. In choosing for yourself, you show’d 
your judgement, si 

Which being shallow, you shall give me leave 
To play the broker in mine own behalf ; 

And to that end I shortly mind to leave you. 

K. Edw. Leave me or tarry, Edward will 
be king, > 65 

And not be tied unto his brother’s will. 

Q. Eliz. My lords, before it pleas’d his Maj¬ 
esty 

To raise my state to title of a queen, 

Do me but right, and you must all confess 
That I was not ignoble of descent; 

And meaner than myself have had like fortune. 
But as this title honours me and mine, 

So your dislikes, to whom I would be pleasing, 
Doth cloud my joys with danger and with sor¬ 
row. 

K. Edw. My love, forbear to fawn upon their 
frowns. is 

What danger or what sorrow can befall thee, 
So long as Edward is thy constant friend, 

And their true sovereign, whom they must obey ? 
Nay, whom they shall obey, and love thee too, 
Unless they seek for hatred at my hands; so 
Which if they do, yet will I keep thee safe, 
And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath. 

Glou. I hear, yet say not much, but think 
the more. [Aside.] 

Enter a Post. 

K. Edw. Now, messenger, what letters or 
what news 

From France ? sr. 

Post. My sovereign liege, no letters ; and few 
words, 

But such as I, without your special pardon, 
Dare not relate. 

K. Edw. Go to, we pardon thee ; therefore, 
in brief, 

Tell me their words as near as thou canst guess 
them. oo 

What answer makes King Lewis unto our let¬ 
ters ? 

Post. At my depart, these were his very 
words: 

“ Go tell false Edward, the supposed king, 
That Lewis of France is sending over masquers 
To revel it with him and his new bride.” 05 

K. Edw. Is Lewis so brave ? Belike he 
thinks me Henry. 

But what said Lady Bona to my marriage ? 


Post. These were her words, utt’red with 
mild disdain: 

“Tell him, in hope he’ll prove a widower 
shortly, 

I ’ll wear the willow garland for his sake.” 100 

K. Edw. I blame not her, she could say 
little less; 

She had the wrong. But what said Henry’s 
queen ? 

For I have heard that she was there in place. 

Post. “Tell him,” quoth she, “my mourn¬ 
ing weeds are done, 

And I am ready to put armour on.” 105 

K. Edw. Belike she minds to play the Ama¬ 
zon. 

But what said Warwick to these injuries ? 

Post. He, more incens’d against your Maj- 
esty 

Than all the rest, discharg’d me with these 
words: ioa 

“ Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong, 
And therefore I ’ll uucrown him ere’t be long.” 

K. Edw. Ha! durst the traitor breathe out 
so proud words ? 

Well, I will arm me, being thus forewarn’d. 
They shall have wars and pay for their pre¬ 
sumption. 

But say, is Warwick friends with Margaret ? ms 

Post. Ay, gracious sovereign; they are so 
link’d in friendship, 

That young Prince Edward marries Warwick’s 
daughter. 

Clar. Belike the elder; Clarence will have 
the younger. 

Now, brother king, farewell, and sit you fast, 
For I will hence to Warwick’s other daughter ; 
That, though I want a kingdom, yet in mar¬ 
riage 121 

I may not prove inferior to yourself. 

You that love me and Warwick, follow me. 

[Exit Clarence , ana Somerset fol¬ 
lows. 

Glou. [Asicte.] Not I; 

My thoughts aim at a further matter. I 126 
Stay not for the love of Edward, but the crown. 

K. Edw. Clarence and Somerset both gone to 
Warwick ! 

Yet am I arm’d against the worst can happen ; 
And haste is needful in this desperate case. 
Pembroke and Stafford, you in our behalf 13# 
Go levy men, and make prepare for war ; 

They are already, or quickly will be landed. 
Myself in person will straight follow you. 

[Exeunt Pembroke and Stafford. 
But, ere I go, Hastings and Montague, 134 
Resolve my doubt. You twain, of all the rest, 
Are near to Warwick by blood and by alliance. 
Tell me if you love Warwick more than me ? 

If it be so, then both depart to him ; 

I rather wish you foes than hollow friends. 

But if you mind to hold your true obedience, ho 
Give me assurance with some friendly vow, 
That I may never have you in suspect. 

Mont. So God help Montague as he proves 
true! 

Hast. And Hastings as he favours Edward’s 
cause! 




IV. iii. 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


719 


K. Edw. Now, brother Richard, will you 
stand by us ? 146 

Glou. Ay, in despite of all that shall with¬ 
stand you. 

K. Edw. Why, so! then am I sure of vic¬ 
tory. 

Now therefore let us hence ; and lose no hour, 
Till we meet Warwick with his foreign power. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. A plain in Warwickshire .] 

Enter Warwick and Oxford, with French 
soldiers. 

War. Trust me, my lord, all hitherto goes 
well; 

The common people by numbers swarm to us. 
Enter Clarence and Somerset. 

But see where Somerset and Clarence comes ! 
Speak suddenly, my lords, are we all friends ? 
Clar. Fear not that, my lord. 5 

War . Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto 
Warwick, 

And welcome, Somerset! I hold it cowardice 
To rest mistrustful where a noble heart 
Hath pawn’d an open hand in sign of love ; 
Else might I think that Clarence, Edward’s 
brother, 10 

Were but a feigned friend to our proceedings. 
But welcome, sweet Clarence ; my daughter 
shall be thine. 

And now what rests but, in night’s coverture, 
Thy brother being carelessly encamp’d, 

His soldiers lurking in the towns about, is 
And but attended by a simple guard, 

We may surprise and take him at our plea¬ 
sure ? 

Our scouts have found the adventure very easy, 
That as Ulysses and stout Diomede 
With sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus’ 
tents . 20 

And brought from thence the Thracian fatal 
steeds, 

So we, well cover’d with the night’s black 
mantle, 

At unawares may beat down Edward’s guard 
And seize himself; I say not, slaughter him, 
For I intend but only to surprise him. 2« 

You that will follow me to this attempt, 
Applaud the name of Henry with your leader. 

[They all cry , “ Hem-y ! ” 
Why, then, let’s on our way in silent sort. 

For Warwick and his friends, God and Saint 
George! [Exeunt. 

[Scene III. Edward's camp , near Warwick .] 
Enter three Watchmen, to guard the King's tent. 

1 . Watch. Come on, my masters, each man 

take his stand. 

The King by this is set him down to sleep. 

2 . Watch. What, will he not to bed ? 

1 . Watch. Why, no; for he hath made a 
solemn vow 

Never to lie and take his natural rest « 

Till Warwick or himself be quite suppress’d. 


2 . Watch. To-morrow then belike shall be 

the day, 

If Warwick be so near as men report. 

3 . Watch. But say, I pray, what nobleman 

is that 

That with the King here resteth in his tent? i« 

1 . Watch. ’T is the Lord Hastings, the 

King’s chiefest friend. 

3 . Watch. 0 , is it so? But why commands 
the King 

That liis chief followers lodge in towns about 
him, 

While he himself keeps in the cold field ? 

2 . Watch. ’T is the more honour, because 

more dangerous. is 

3 . Watch. Ay, but give me worship and 

quietness; 

I like it better than a dangerous honour. 

If Warwick knew in what estate he stands, 

’T is to be doubted he would waken him. 

1 . Watch. Unless our halberds did shut up 

his passage. 20 

2 . Watch. Ay, wherefore else guard we his 

royal tent 

But to defend his person from night-foes ? 

Enter Warwick, Clarence, Oxford, Somer¬ 
set, and French soldiers, silent all. 

W ar. This is his tent; and see where stand 
his guard. 

Courage, my masters ! honour now or never ! 
But follow me, and Edward shall be ours. 25 

1 . Watch. Who goes there ? 

2 . Watch. Stay, or thou diest! 

[ Warwick and the rest cry all , 
“ Warwick ! Warwick ! ” ana 
set upon the Guard , who fly, 
crying , “ Arm ! arm ! ” War¬ 
wick and the rest following 
them. 

The drum playing and trumpet sounding , re-enLr 
Warwick, Somerset, and the rest , bringing 
the King out in his gown , sitting in a chair. 
Richard and Hastings fly over the stage. 

Som. What are they that fly there ? 

War. Richard and Hastings. Let them go ; 
here is 
The Duke. 

K. Edw. The Duke ! Why, Warwick, when 
we parted, 30 

Thou call’dst me king. 

War. Ay, but the case is alter’d. 

When you disgrac’d me in my embassade, 

Then I degraded you from being king. 

And come now to create you Duke of York. 
Alas ! how should you govern any kingdom, as 
That know not how to use ambassadors, 

Nor how to be contented with one wife, 

Nor how to use your brothers brotherly, 

Nor how to study for the people’s welfare, 

Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies ? «« 

K. Edw. Yea, brother of Clarence, art thou 
here too ? 

Nay, then I see that Edward needs must down. 
Yet, Warwick, in despite of all mischance, 

Of thee thyself and all thy complices, 




/20 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


IV. V. 


Edward will always bear himself as king. 45 
Though Fortune’s malice overthrow ray state, 
My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel. 
War. Then, for his mind, be Edward Eng¬ 
land’s king: [Takes off'his crown. 

But Henry now shall wear the English crown 
And be true king indeed, thou but the shadow. 
My Lord of Somerset, at my request, si 

See that forthwith Duke Edward be convey’d 
Unto my brother, Archbishop of York. 

When 1 have fought with Pembroke and his 
fellows, 

I ’ll follow you, and tell what answer es 

Lewis and the Lady Bona send to him. 

Now, for a while farewell, good Duke of York. 

[They lead him out forcibly. 
K. Edw. What fates impose, that men must 
needs abide; 

It boots not to resist both wind and tide. 

[Exit [guarded ]. 
Oxf. What now remains, my lords, for us to 
do 60 

But march to London with our soldiers ? 

War. Ay, that’s the first thing that we have 
to do; 

To free King Henry from imprisonment 
And see him seated in the regal throne. 

[ Exeunt. 


[Scene IV. London. The palace.] 
Enter Queen Elizabeth and Riveks. 


Riv. Madam, what makes you in this sud¬ 
den change ? 

Q. Eliz. Why, brother Rivers, are you yet 
to learn 

What late misfortune is befallen King Edward ? 

Riv. What! loss of some pitch’d battle 
against Warwick ? 

Q. Eliz. No, but the loss of his own royal 


person. s 

Riv. Then is my sovereign slain ? 

Q. Eliz. Ay, almost slain, for he is taken 
prisoner, 

Either betray’d by falsehood of his guard 
Or by his foe surpris’d at unawares ; 

And, as I further have to understand, 10 

Is new committed to the Bishop of York, 

Fell Warwick’s brother and by that our foe. 
Riv. These news I must confess are full of 
grief; 

Yet, gracious madam, bear it as you may. 
Warwick may lose, that now hath won the 
day. is 

Q. Eliz. Till then fair hope must hinder 
life’s decay; 

And I the rather wean me from despair 
For love of Edward’s offspring in my womb. 
This is it that makes me bridle passion 
And bear with mildness my misfortune’s cross ; 
Ay, ay, for this I draw in many a tear 21 

And stop the rising of blood-sucking sighs, 

Lest with my sighs or tears I blast or drown 
King Edward’s fruit, true heir to the English 
crown. 

Riv. But, madam, where is Warwick then 
become ? 25 


Q. Eliz. I am inform’d that he comes towards 
London 

To set the crown once more on Henry’s head. 
Guess thou the rest; King Edward’s friends 
must down, 

But, to prevent the tyrant’s violence, — 

For trust not him that hath once broken 
faith, — 3 « 

I ’ll hence forthwith unto the sanctuary, 

To save at least the heir of Edward’s right; 
There shall I rest secure from force and fraud. 
Come, therefore, let us fly while we may fly ; 

If Warwick take us we are sure to die. 35 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene V. A park near Middleham Castle in 
Yorkshire .] 

Enter Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and Sir 
William Stanley. 

Glou. Now, my Lord Hastings and Sir Wil¬ 
liam Stanley, 

Leave off to wonder why I drew you hither 
Into this chiefest thicket of the park. 

Thus stands the case : you know our king, my 
brother, 

Is prisoner to the Bishop here, at whose hands b 
H e hath good usage and great liberty; 

And, often but attended with weak guard, 
Comes hunting this way to disport himself. 

I have advertis’d him by secret means 
That if about this hour he make this way 10 
Under the colour of his usual game, 

He shall here find his friends with horse and men 
To set him free from his captivity. 

Enter King Edward and a Huntsman with 
him. 

Hunt. This way, my lord ; for this way lies 
the game. 

K. Edw. Nay, this way, man ; see where the 
huntsmen stand. 15 

Now, brother of Gloucester, Lord Hastings, 
and the rest, 

Stand you thus close, to steal the Bishop’s 
deer ? 

Glou. Brother, the time and case requireth 
haste. 

Your horse stands ready at the park-corner. 

K. Edw. But whither shall we then ? 

Hast. To Lynn, my lord, 

And, shipp’d from thence, to Flanders. 21 

Glou. Well guess’d, believe me; for that 
was my meaning. 

K. Edw. Stanley, I will requite thy forward¬ 
ness. 

Glou. But wherefore stay we ? ’T is no time 
to talk. 

K. Edw. Huntsman, whatsay’stthou? Wilt 
thou go along ? 20 

Hunt. Better do so than tarry and be bang’d. 

Glou. Come then, away; let’s ha’ no more 
ado. 

K. Edw. Bishop, farewell! Shield thee from 
Warwick’s frown, 

And pray that I may repossess the crown. 

[Exeunt. 




IV. VI. 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


721 


[Scene VI. London. The Tower.] 

Flourish. Enter King Henry, Clarence, 
Warwick, Somerset, young Richmond, 
Oxford, Montague, and Lieutenant of 
the Tower. 

K. Hen. Master lieutenant, now that God 
and friends 

Have shaken Edward from the regal seat, 

And turn’d my captive state to liberty, 

My fear to hope, my sorrows unto ioys, 

At our enlargement what are thy due fees ? 0 

Lieu. Subjects may challenge nothing of 
their sovereigns ; 

But if an humble prayer may prevail, 

I then crave pardon of your Majesty. 

K. Hen. For what, lieutenant r For well 
using me ? 

Nay, be thou sure, I ’ll well requite thy kind¬ 
ness, 10 

For that it made my imprisonment a pleasure ; 
Ay, such a pleasure as incaged birds 
Conceive when, after many moody thoughts, 
At last by notes of household harmony 
They quite forget their loss of liberty. ie 

But, Warwick, after God, thou set’st me free, 
And chiefly therefore I thank God and thee. 
He was the author, thou the instrument. 
Therefore, that I may conquer Fortune’s spite 
By living low, where Fortune cannot hurt me, 
And that the people of this blessed land 21 
May not be punish’d with my thwarting stars, 
Warwick, although my head still wear the 
crown, 

I here resign my government to thee, 

For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds. 2s 
War. Your Grace hath still been fam’d for 
virtuous ; 

And now may seem as wise as virtuous, 

By spying and avoiding Fortune’s malice, 

For few men rightly temper with the stars. 

Yet in this one thing let me blame your Grace, 
For choosing me when Clarence is in place, si 
Clar. No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the 
sway, 

To whom the heavens in thy nativity 
Adjudg’d an olive branch and laurel crown, 

As likely to be blest in peace and war ; 35 

And therefore I yield thee my free consent. 
War. And I choose Clarence only for Pro¬ 
tector. 

K. Hen. Warwick and Clarence, give me 
both your hands. 

Now join your hands, and with your hands 
your hearts, 

That no dissension hinder government. *0 

I make you both Protectors of this land, 

While I myself will lead a private life 
And in devotion spend my latter days, 

To sin’s rebuke and my Creator’s praise. 

War. What answers Clarence to his sover¬ 
eign’s will ? 46 

Clar. That he consents, if Warwick yield 
consent; 

For on t hy f ortune I repose myself. 

War. Why, then, though loath, yet must I 
be content. 


We ’ll yoke together, like a double shadow 
To Henry’s body, and supply his place ; m 
I mean, in bearing weight of government, 
While he enjoys the honour and his ease. 

And, Clarence, now then it is more than need¬ 
ful 

Forthwith that Edward be pronounc’d a trai¬ 
tor, 

And all his lands and goods be confiscate. 55 

Clar. What else ? and that succession be de¬ 
termined. 

War. Ay, therein Clarence shall not want 
his part. 

K. Hen. But, with the first of all your chief 
affairs, 

Let me entreat, for I command no more, «9 
That Margaret your queen and my son Edward 
Be sent for, to return from France with speed ; 
For, till I see them here, by doubtful fear 
My ioy of liberty is half eclips’d. 

Clar. It shall be done, my sovereign, with 
all speed. 

K. Hen. My Lord of Somerset, what youth 
is that, se 

Of whom you seem to have so tender care ? 

Som. My liege, it is young Henry, Earl of 
Richmond. 

K. Hen. Come hither, England’s hope. 
(Lays his hand on his head.) If secret 
powers 

Suggest but truth to my divining thoughts, 
This pretty lad will prove our country’s bliss. 
His looks are full of peaceful majesty, n 

His head by nature fram’d to wear a crown, 
His hand to wield a sceptre, and himself 
Likely in time to bless a regal throne. 

Make much of him, my lords, for this is he ™ 
Must help you more than you are hurt by me. 

Enter a Post. 

War. What news, my friend ? 

Post. That Edward is escaped from your 
brother, 

And fled, as he hears since, to Burgundy. 

War. Unsavoury news! but how made he 
escape ? so 

Post. He was convey’d by Richard Duke of 
Gloucester 

And the Lord Hastings, who attended him 
In secret ambush on the forest side 
And from the Bishop’s huntsmen rescu’d him ; 
For hunting was his daily exercise. «s 

War. My brother was too careless of his 
charge. 

But let us hence, my sovereign, to provide 
A salve for any sore that may betide. 

[Exeunt all but Somerset, Richmond , 
and Oxford. 

Som. My lord, I like not of this flight of 
Edward’s; 

For doubtless Burgundy will yield him help, 90 
And we shall have more wars before’t be long. 
As Henry’s late presaging prophecy 
Did glad my heart with hope of this young 
Richmond, 

So doth my heart misgive me, in these conflicts 
What may befall him to his harm and ours. 




722 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


IV. Vll. 


Therefore, Lord Oxford, to prevent the worst, 
Forthwith we ’ll send him hence to Brittany, 
Till storms be past of civil enmity. 

Oxf. Ay, for if Edward repossess the crown, 
’Tis like that Richmond with the rest shall 
down. 100 

Som. It shall be so ; lie shall to Brittany. 
Come, therefore, let’s about it speedily. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene YII. Before York.'] 

Flourish. Enter King Edward, Gloucester, 
Hastings, and Soldiers. 

K. Edw. Now, brother Richard, Lord Hast¬ 
ings, and the rest, 

Yet thus far Fortune maketh us amends, 

And says that once more I shall interchange 
My waned state for Henry’s regal crown. 

Well have we pass’d and now repass’d the 
seas o 

And brought desired help from Burgundy. 
What then remains, we being thus arriv’d 
From Ravenspurgh haven before the gates of 
York, 

But that we enter, as into our dukedom ? 

Glou. The gates made fast! Brother, I like 
not this ; io 

For many men that stumble at the threshold 
Are well foretold that danger lurks within. 

K. Edw. Tush, man, abodements must not 
now affright us. 

By fair or foul means we must enter in, 

For hither will our friends repair to us. is 

Hast. My liege, I’ll knock once more to 
summon them. 

Enter , on the walls , the Mayor of York, and 
his Brethren. 

May. My lords, we were forewarned of your 
coming, 

And shut the gates for safety of ourselves, 

For now we owe allegiance unto Henry. 

K. Edw. But, master mayor, if Henry be 
your king, 20 

Yet Edward at the least is Duke of York. 

May. True, my good lord; I know you for 
no less. 

K. Edw. Why, and I challenge nothing but 
my dukedom, 

As being well content with that alone. 

Glou. [Aside.] But when the fox hath once 
got in his nose, 25 

He’ll soon find means to make the body fol¬ 
low. 

Hast. Why, master mayor, why stand you in 
a doubt ? 

Open the gates ; we are King Henry’s friends. 

May. Ay, say you so ? The gates shall then 
be opened. [They descend. 

Glou. A wise stout captain, and soon per¬ 
suaded ! 30 

Hast. The good old man would fain that all 
were well, 

So’t were not long of him ; but being ent’red, 

I doubt not, I, but we shall soon persuade 
Both him and all his brothers unto reason. 


Enter the Mayor and two Aldermen, below. 

K. Edw. So, master mayor; these gates 
must not be shut 35 

But in the night or in the time of war. 

What! fear not, man, but yield me up the 
keys : [ Takes his keys. 

For Edward will defend the town and thee, 
And all those friends that deign to follow me. 

March. Enter Montgomery, with drum and 
Soldiers. 

Glou. Brother, this is Sir John Montgomery, 
Out trusty friend, unless I be deceiv’d. 41 

K. Edw. Welcome, Sir John! But why 
come you in arms ? 

Mont. To help King Edward in his time of 
storm, 

As every loyal subject ought to do. 

K. Edw. Thanks, good Montgomery; but 
we now forget 45 

Our title to the crown and only claim 
Our dukedom till God please to send the rest.. 

Mont. Then fare you well, for I will hence 
again; 

I came to serve a king and not a duke. 
Drummer, strike up, and let us march away. r>« 
[The drum begins to march. 

K. Edw. Nay, stay, Sir John, a while, and 
we ’ll debate 

By what safe means the crown may be re¬ 
cover’d. 

Mont. What talk you of debating? In few 
words, 

If you ’ll not here proclaim yourself our king, 

I ’ll leave you to your fortune and be gone r >5 
To keep them back that come to succour you. 
Why shall we fight, if you pretend no title ? 

Glou. Why, brother, wherefore stand you on 
nice points ? 

K. Edw. When we grow stronger, then 
we ’ll make our claim. 

Till then, ’tis wisdom to conceal our mean¬ 
ing. 00 

Hast. Away with scrupulous wit l Now arms 
must rule. 

Glou. And fearless minds climb soonest unto 

crowns. 

Brother, we will proclaim you out of hand ; 

The bruit thereof will bring you many friends. 

K. Edw. Then be it as you will; for ’t is my 
right, on 

And Henry but usurps the diadem. 

Mont. Ay, now my sovereign speaketh like 
himself; 

And now will I be Edward’s champion. 

Hast. Sound trumpet; Edward shall be here 
proclaim’d. 

Come, fellow-soldier, make thou proclama¬ 
tion. [Giving him a paper.] Flourish. 70 

Sold. [Reads.] “ Edward the Fourth, by the 
grace of God, King of England and France, and 
Lord of Ireland,” etc. 

Mont. And whosoe’er gainsays King Ed¬ 
ward’s right, 

By this I challenge him to single fight. 75 

[Throws down his gauntlet. 




THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


7 2 3 


v. i. 


All. Long live Edward the Fourth ! 

K. Edw. Thanks, brave Montgomery, and 
thanks unto you all. 

If fortune serve me, I ’ll requite this kindness. 
Now, for this night, let’s harbour here in 
York ; 

And when the morning sun shall raise his car so 
Above the border of this horizon, 

We’ll forward towards Warwick and his 
mates; 

For well I wot that Henry is no soldier. 

Ah, f roward Clarence! how evil it beseems 
thee, 

To flatter Henry and forsake thy brother ! ss 
Yet, as we may, we ’ll meet both thee and 
Warwick. 

Come on, brave soldiers ! doubt not of the day, 
And, that once gotten, doubt not of large 
pay. [Exeunt. 

[Scene VIII. London. The palace .] 

Flourish. Enter King Henry, Warwick, 

Montague, Clarence, [Exeter,] and Ox¬ 
ford. 

War. What counsel, lords? Edward from 
Belgia, 

With hasty Germans and blunt Hollanders, 
Hath pass’d in safety through the narrow seas, 
And with his troops doth march amain to 
London ; 

And many giddy people flock to him. s 

K. Hen. Let’s levy men, and beat him back 
again. 

Clar. A little fire is quickly trodden out, 
Which, being suffer’d, rivers cannot quench. 

War. In Warwickshire I have true-hearted 
friends, 

Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in war ; 10 

Those will I muster up ; and thou, son Clar¬ 
ence, 

Shalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk, and in Kent, 
The knights and gentlemen to come with thee. 
Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham, 
Northampton, and in Leicestershire, shalt 
find is 

Men well inclin’d to hear what thou com¬ 
mand’s! ; 

And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well be- 
lov’d, 

In Oxfordshire shalt muster up thy friends. 

My sovereign, with the loving citizens, 

Like to his island girt in with the ocean, 20 
Or, modest Dian, circled with her nymphs, 
Shall rest in London till we come to him. 

Fair lords, take leave and stand not to reply. 
Farewell, my sovereign. 

K. Hen. Farewell, my Hector, and my 
Troy’s true hope. 2s 

Clar. In sign of truth, I kiss your Highness’ 
hand. 

K. Hen. Well-minded Clarence, be thou 
fortunate ! 

Mont. Comfort, my lord! and so I take my 
leave. 

Oxf. And thus [kissing Henry's hand] I seal 
my truth, and bid adieu. 


K. Hen. Sweet Oxford, and my loving Mon¬ 
tague, 3 « 

And all at once, once more a happy farewell. 

War. Farewell, sweet lords! Let’s meet at 
Coventry. 

[Exeunt [all hut King Henry and 
Exeter ]. 

K. Hen. Here at the palace will I rest a 
while. 

Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your lordship ? 
Methinks the power that Edward hath in 
field 35 

Should not be able to encounter mine. 

Exe. The doubt is that he will seduce the 
rest. 

K. Hen. That’s not my fear; my meed 
hath got me fame. 

I have not stopp’d mine ears to their demands, 
Nor posted off their suits with slow delays. 40 
My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds, 
My mildness hath allay’d their swelling griefs, 
My mercy dried their water-flowing tears. 

I have not been desirous of their wealth, 

Nor much oppress’d them with great subsidies, 
Nor forward of revenge, though they much 
err’d. « 

Then why should they love Edward more than 
me ? 

No, Exeter, these graces challenge grace ; 

And when the lion fawns upon the lamb, 

The lamb will never cease to follow him. so 

[Shout within , “A Lancaster! A 
Lancaster! ” 

Exe. Hark, hark, my lord ! what shouts are 
these ? 

Enter King Edward, [Gloucester,] and sol¬ 
diers. 

K. Edw. Seize on the shame-fac’d Henry, 
bear him hence; 

And once again proclaim us King of England. 
You are the fount that makes small brooks to 
flow; 

Now stops thy spring, my sea shall suck them 
dry, 55 

And swell so much the higher by their ebb. 
Hence with him to the Tower, let him not 
speak. [Exeunt some with King Henry. 
And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our 
course, 

Where peremptory Warwick now remains. 

The sun shines hot; and, if we use delay, et 
Cold biting winter mars our hop’d-for hay. 

Glou. Away betimes, before his forces join, 
And take the great-grown traitor unawares. 
Brave warriors, march amain towards Coven¬ 
try. [Exeunt. 

[ACT V] 

[Scene I. Coventry.] 

Enter Warwick, the Mayor of Coventry, two 
Messengers, and others upon the walls. 

War. Where is the post that came from val¬ 
iant Oxford ? 

How far hence is thy lord, mine honest fellow ? 





724 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


v. L 


[l.] Mess. By this at Dunsmore, marching 
hitherward. 

War. How far off is our brother Montague ? 
Where is the post that came from Montague ? s 

[, 2 .] Mess. By this at Daintry with a puissant 
troop. 

Enter Sir John Somerville. 

War. Say, Somerville, what says my loving 
son ? 

And, by thy guess, how nigh is Clarence now ? 

Sotn. At Southam I did leave him with his 
forces, 

And do expect him here some two hours hence. 

[Drum heard.] 

War. Then Clarence is at hand; I hear his 
drum. 11 

Som. It is not his, my lord ; here Southam 
lies. 

The drum your honour hears marcheth from 
Warwick. 

War. Who should that be? Belike unlook’d- 
for friends. 

Som. They are at hand, and you shall quickly 
know. is 

March. Flourish. Enter King Edward, 
Gloucester, and soldiers. 

K. Edw. Go, trumpet, to the walls, and 
sound a parle. 

Glou. See how the surly Warwick mans the 
wall! 

War. O unbid spite! is sportful Edward 
come ? 

Where slept our scouts, or how are they seduc’d 
That we could hear no news of his repair ? 20 

K. Edw. Now, Warwick, wilt thou ope the 
city gates, 

Speak gentle words and humbly bend thy knee, 
Call Edward king, and at his hands beg mercy, 
A.nd he shall pardon thee these outrages. 

War. Nay, rather, wilt thou draw thy forces 
hence, 25 

Confess who set thee up and pluck’d thee down, 
Call Warwick patron, and be penitent, 

And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York. 

Glou. I thought, at least, he would have said 
the King ; 

Or did he make the jest against his will ? so 

War. Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift ? 

Glou. Ay, by my faith, for a poor earl to 
give. 

I ’ll do thee service for so good a gift. 

War. ’T was I that gave the kingdom to thy 
brother. 

K. Edw. Why then ’t is mine, if but by War¬ 
wick’s gift. 35 

War. Thou art no Atlas for so great a 
weight; 

And, weakling, Warwick takes his gift again, 
And Henry is my king, Warwick his subject. 

K. Edw. But Warwick’s king is Edward’s 
prisoner. 

And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this: 40 
What is the body when the head is off ? 

Glou. Alas, that Warwick had no more fore¬ 
cast, 


But, whiles he thought to steal the single ten, 
The king was slily finger’d from the deck ! 

You left poor Henry at the Bishop’s palace, 45 
And, ten to one, you ’ll meet him in the Tower. 

K. Edw. ’T is even so; yet you are Warwick 
still. 

Glou. Come, Warwick, take the time ; kneel 
down, kneel down. 

Nay, when ? strike now, or else the iron cools. 

War. I had rather chop this hand off at a 
blow, < 60 

And with the other fling it at thy face, 

Than bear so low a sail, to strike to thee. 

K. Edw. Sail how thou canst, have wind and 
tide thy friend, 

This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black 
hair, 54 

Shall, whiles thy head is warm and new cut off, 
Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood: 
“ Wind-changing Warwick now can change no 
more.” 

Enter Oxford, with drum and colours. 

War. 0 cheerful colours ! see where Oxford 
comes! 

Oxf. Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster ! 

[He and his forces enter the city.] 

Glou. The gates are open, let us enter too. go 

E. Edw. So other foes may set upon our 
backs. 

Stand we in good array • for they no doubt 
Will issue out again and bid us battle. 

If not, the city being but of small defence, 

We ’ll quickly rouse the traitors in the same, gb 

War. O, welcome, Oxford! for we want thy 
help. 

Enter Montague, with drum and colours. 

Mont. Montague, Montague, for Lancaster ! 

[He and his forces enter the city.] 

Glou. Thou and thy brother both shall buy 
this treason 

Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear. 

K. Edw. The harder match’d, the greater 
victory. t 

My mind presageth happy gain and conquest. 

Enter Somerset, with drum and colours. 

Som. Somerset, Somerset, for Lancaster! 

[He and his forces enter the city.] 

Glou. Two of thy name, both Dukes of 
Somerset, 

Have sold their lives unto the house of York ; 74 
And thou shalt be the third, if this sword hold. 

Enter Clarence, with drum and colours. 

War. And lo, where George of Clarence 
sweeps along, 

Of force enough to bid his brother battle ; 

With whom an upright zeal to right prevails 
More than the nature of a brother’s love ! 
Come, Clarence, come; thou wilt, if Warwick 
call. so 

Clar. Father of Warwick, know you what 
this means ? 

[Taking his red rose out of his hel¬ 
met.] 




THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


7 2 5 


v. iii. 


Look here, I throw my infamy at thee. 

I will not ruinate my father’s house, 

Who gave his blood to lime the stones together, 
And set up Lancaster. Why, trow’st thou, 
Warwick, 85 

That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt, unnatural, 
To bend the fatal instruments of war 
Against his brother and his lawful king ? 
Perhaps thou wilt object my holy oath. 

To keep that oath were more impiety 00 

Than Jephthah’s when he sacrific’d his daugh¬ 
ter. 

I am so sorry for my trespass made 
That, to deserve well at my brother’s hands, 

I here proclaim myself thy mortal foe. 

With resolution, wheresoe’er I meet tnee— »s 
As I will meet thee, if thou stir abroad — 

To plague thee for thy foul misleading me. 
And so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee, 
And to my brother turn my blushing cheeks. 
Pardon me, Edward, I will make amends ; 100 

And, Richard, do not frown upon my faults, 
For I will henceforth be no more unconstant. 
K. Edw. Now welcome more, and ten times 
more belov’d, 

Than if thou never hadst deserv’d our hate. 
Glou. Welcome, good Clarence ; this is bro- 
ther-like. 105 

War. 0 passing traitor, perjur’d and uniust! 
K. Edw. What, Warwick, wilt thou leave 
the town and fight ? 

Or shall we beat the stones about thine ears ? 
War. Alas, I am not coop’d here for de¬ 
fence ! 

I will away towards Barnet presently, no 

And bid thee battle, Edward, if thou dar’st. 

K. Edw. Yes, Warwick, Edward dares, and 
leads the way. 

Lords, to the field ! Saint George and victory ! 

[Exeunt [King Edward and his 
company ]. March. Warwick 
and his company follow. 

[Scene II. Afield of battle near Barnet .] 

Alarum and excursions. Enter King Edward, 
bringing forth Warwick wounded. 

K. Edw. So, lie thou there. Die thou, and 
die our fear; 

For Warwick was a bug that fear’d us all. 
Now, Montague, sit fast; I seek for thee. 

That Warwick’s bones may keep thine com¬ 
pany. [ Exit. 

War. Ah, who is nigh ? Come to me, friend 
or foe, > e 

And tell me who is victor, York or War¬ 
wick ? 

Why ask I that ? My mangled body shows, 

My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart 
shows 

That I must yield my body to the earth 
And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. 10 
Thus yields the cedar to the axe’s edge, 

Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, 
Under whose shade the ramping lion slept, 
Whose top-branch overpeer’d Jove’s spreading 
tree 


And kept low shrubs from winter’s powerful 
wind. is 

These eyes, that now are dimm’d with death’s 
black veil, 

Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun 

To search the secret treasons of the world. 

The wrinkles in my brows, now fill’d with 
blood, 

Were lik’ned oft to kingly sepulchres ; 20 

For who liv’d king, but I could dig his grave ? 

And who durst smile when Warwick bent his 
brow ? 

Lo, now my glory smear’d in dust and blood ! 

My parks, my walks, my manors that I had, 

Even now forsake me, and of all my lands 26 

Is nothing left me but my body’s length. 

Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and 
dust ? 

And, live we how we can, yet die we must. 

Enter Oxford and Somerset. 


Som. Ah, Warwick, Warwick ! wert thou 


as we are, 

We might recover all our loss again. 30 

The Queen from France hath brought a puis¬ 
sant power; 

Even now we heard the news. Ah, couldst thou 
fly! 

War. Why, then I would not fly. Ah, Mon¬ 


tague, 

If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand, 
And with thy lips keep in my soul a while ! 35 
Thou lov’st me not; for, brother, if thou didst, 
Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood 
That glues my lips and will not let me speak. 
Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead. 

Som. Ah, Warwick! Montague hath 

breath’d his last; 40 

And to the latest gasp cried out for Warwick, 
And said, “ Commend me to my valiant 
brother.” 

And more he would have said, and more he 
spoke, 

Which sounded like a clamour in a vault, 

That might not be distinguish’d ; but at last 45 
I well might hear, delivered with a groan, 

“ O, farewell, Warwick ! ” 

War. Sweet rest his soul! Fly, lords, and 
save yourselves; 

For Warwick bids you all farewell, to meet in 
heaven. [Dies.] 

Oxf. Away, away, to meet the Queen’s great 
power! bo 

[Here they bear away his body. 

Exeunt. 


[Scene III. Another part of the field.] 

Flourish. Enter King Edward in triumph ; 
with Gloucester, Clarence, and the rest. 

K. Edw. Thus far our fortune keeps an up¬ 
ward course, 

And we are grac’d with wreaths of victory. 
But, in the midst of this bright-shining day, 

I spy a black, suspicious, threat’ning cloud, 
That will encounter with our glorious sun, e 
Ere he attain his easeful western bed. 




726 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


v. iv. 


I mean, my lords, those powers that the Queen 
Hath rais’d in Gallia have arriv’d our coast 
And, as we hear, march on to fight with us. 

Clar. A little gale will soon disperse that 
cloud 10 

And blow it to the source from whence it came. 
The very beams will dry those vapours up, 

For every cloud engenders not a storm. 

Glou. The Queen is valued thirty thousand 
strong, 

And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her. ie 

If she have time to breathe, be well assur’d 
Her faction will be full as strong as ours. 

K. Edw. We are advertis’d by our loving 
friends 

That they do hold their course toward Tewks¬ 
bury. 

We, having now the best at Barnet field, 20 
Will thither straight, for willingness rids way ; 
And, as we march, our strength will be aug¬ 
mented 

In every county as we go along. 

Strike up the drum! Cry, ‘‘Courage! ” and 
away. [ Exeunt. 


[Scene IV. Plains near Tewksbury.] 

March. Enter Queen Margaret, Prince 
Edward, Somerset, Oxford, and soldiers. 

Q. Mar. Great lords, wise men ne’er sit and 
wail their loss, 

But cheerly seek how to redress their harms. 
What though the mast be now blown overboard, 
The cable broke, the holding-anchor lost, 

And half our sailors swallow’d in the flood ? b 
Y et lives our pilot still. Is’t meet that he 
Should leave the helm and like a fearful lad 
With tearful eyes add water to the sea 
And give more strength to that which hath too 
much, _ 9 

Whiles, in his moan, the ship splits on the rock. 
Which industry and courage might have sav’d ? 
Ah, what a shame ! ah, what a fault were this ! 
Say Warwick was our anchor ; what of that ? 
And Montague our topmast; what of him ? 

Our slaught’red friends the tackles; what of 
these ? is 

Why, is not Oxford here another anchor ? 

And Somerset another goodly mast ? 

The friends of France our shrouds and tac- 
klings ? 

And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I 
For once allow’d the skilful pilot’s charge ? 20 

We will not from the helm to sit and weep, 
But keep our course, though the rough wind 
say no, 

From shelves and rocks that threaten us with 
wreck. 

As good to chide the waves as speak them fair. 
And what is Edward but a ruthless sea ? 25 

What Clarence but a quicksand of deceit? 

And Richard but a ragged fatal rock ? 

All these the enemies to our poor bark. 

Say you can swim ; alas, ’tis but a while ! 
Tread on the sand ; why, there you quickly 
sink. _ so 

Bestride the rock ; the tide will wash you off, 


Or else you famish ; that’s a threefold death. 
This speak I, lords, to let you understand, 

If case some one of you would fly from us, 
That there’s no hop’d-for mercy with the 
brothers # 36 

More than with ruthless waves, with sands and 

rocks. 

Why, courage then ! What cannot be avoided 
’T were childish weakness to lament or fear. 

Prince. Methinks a woman of this valiant 
spirit 

Should, if a coward heard her speak these 
words, *0 

Infuse his breast with magnanimity 
And make him, naked, foil a man at arms. 

I speak not this as doubting any here ; 

For did I but suspect a fearful man, 

He should have leave to go away betimes, « 

Lest in our need he might infect another 
And make him of like spirit to himself. 

If any such be here — as God forbid ! — 

Let him depart before we need his help. 

Oxf. Women and children of so high a cour¬ 
age,. 60 

And warriors faint! Why, ’t were perpetual 
shame. 

0 brave young prince ! thy famous grandfather 
Doth live again in thee. Long may’st thou live 
To bear his image and renew his glories ! 

Som. And he that will not fight for such a 
hope 66 

Go home to bed, and like the owl by day, 

If he arise, be mock’d and wond’red at. 

Q. Mar. Thanks, gentle Somerset ; sweet 
Oxford, thanks. 

Prince. And take his thanks that yet hath 
nothing else. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. Prepare you, lords, for Edward is at 
hand, eo 

Ready to fight; therefore be resolute. 

Oxf. I thought no less. It is his policy 
To haste thus fast, to find us unprovided. 

Som. But he’s aeceiv’d ; we are in readiness. 

Q. Mar. This cheers my heart, to see your 
forwardness. es 

Oxf. Here pitch our battle; hence we will 
not budge. 

Flourish and march. Enter King Edward, 
Gloucester, Clarence, and soldiers. 

K. Edtv. Brave followers, yonder stands the 
thorny wood, 

Which, by the heavens’ assistance and your 
strength, 

Must by the roots be hewn up yet ere night. 

I need not add more fuel to your fire, 70 

For well I wot ye blaze to burn them out. 

Give signal to the fight, and to it, lords ! 

Q. Mar. Lords, knights, and gentlemen, 

what I should say 

My tears gainsay ; for, every word I speak, 

Ye see, I drink the water of my eye. 75 

Therefore, no more but this: Henry, your 
sovereign 

Is prisoner to the foe ; his state usurp’d, 




V. V. 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


727 


His realm a. slaughter-house, his subjects slain, 

His statutes cancell’d, and his treasure spent; 

And yonder is the wolf that makes this spoil. 

You fight in justice; then, in God’s name, 
lords, si 

Be valiant and give signal to the fight. 

[Alarum. Retreat. Excursions. 

Exeunt. 

[Scene Y. Another part of the field .] 

Flourish. Enter King Edward, Gloucester, 

Clarence, [ and soldiers; with ] Queen Mar¬ 
garet, Oxford, and Somerset [ prisoners ]. 

K. Edw. Now here a period of tumultuous 
broils. 

Away with Oxford to Hames Castle straight; 

For Somerset, off with his guilty head. 

Go, bear them hence; I will not hear them 
speak. 

Oxf. For my part, I ’ll not trouble thee with 
words. 5 

Som. Nor I, but stoop with patience to my 
fortune. 

[Exeunt [Oxford and Somerset , 
guarded ]. 

Q. Mar. So part we sadly in this troublous 
world. 

To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem. 

K. Edw. Is proclamation made, that who 
finds Edward 

Shall have a high reward, and he his life ? 10 

Glou. It is ; and lo, where youthful Edward 
comes! 

Enter [soldiers, with ] Prince Edward. 

K. Edw. Bring forth the gallant, let us hear 
him speak. 

What! can so young a thorn begin to prick ? 

Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make 

For bearing arms, for stirring up my sub¬ 
jects, ' is 

And all the trouble thou hast turn’d me to ? 

Prince. Speak like a subject, proud am¬ 
bitious York! 

Suppose that I am now my father’s mouth ; 

Resign thy chair, and where I stand kneel 
thou, 

Whilst I propose the self-same words to 
thee, 20 

Which, traitor, thou wouldst have me answer 
to. 

Q. Mar. Ah, that thy father had been so 
resolv’d! 

Glou. That you might still have worn the 
petticoat, 

And ne’er have stolen the breech from Lan¬ 
caster. 

Prince. Let iEsop fable in a winter’s 
night; 26 

His currish riddles sorts not with this place. 

Glou. By heaven, brat, I ’ll plague ye for 
that word. 

Q. Mar. Ay, thou wast born to be a plague 
to men. 

Glou. For God’s sake, take away this cap¬ 
tive scold. 


Prince. Nay, take away this scolding crook¬ 
back rather. 30 

K. Edw. Peace, wilful boy, or I will charm 
your tongue. 

Clar. Untutor’d lad, thou art too malapert. 

Prince. I know my duty ; you are all undu- 
tiful. 

Lascivious Edward, and thou perjur’d George, 
And thou mis-shapen Dick, I tell ye all 35 
I am your better, traitors as ye are ; 

And thou usurp’st my father’s right and mine. 

K. Edw. Take that, thou likeness of this 

railer here. [Stabs him. 

Glou. Sprawl’st thou ? Take that, to end 

thy agony. [Stafis him. 

Clar. And there’s for twitting me with 
perjury. [Slabs him. 40 

Q. Mar. 0 , kill me too ! 

Glou. Marry, and shall. [Offers to hill her. 

K. Edw. Hold, Richard, hold ; for we have 
done too much. 

Glou. Why should she live, to fill the world 
with words ? 

K. Edw. What, doth she swoon ? Use means 
for her recovery. 45 

Glou. Clarence, excuse me to the King my 
brother; 

I ’ll hence to London on a serious matter. 

Ere ye come there, be sure to hear some news. 

Clar. What ? what ? 

Glou. The Tower, the Tower. [Exit, so 

Q. Mar. 0 Ned, sweet Ned! speak to thy 
mother, boy! 

Canst thou not speak ? 0 traitors ! murder¬ 
ers ! 

They that stabb’d Caesar shed no blood at 
all, 

Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame, 

If this foul deed were by to equal it. 55 

He was a man ; this, in respect, a child. 

And men ne’er spend their fury on a child. 
What’s worse than murderer, that I may name 
it? 

No, no, my heart will burst, an if I speak ; 

And I will speak, that so my heart may 
burst. 60 

Butchers and villains ! bloody cannibals ! 

How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp’d ! 
You have no children, butchers ! if you had, 
The thought of them would have stirr’d up re¬ 
morse ; 

But if you ever chance to have a child, 60 

Look in his youth to have him so cut off 
As, deathsmen, you have rid this sweet young 
prince! 

K. Edw. Away with her! Go, bear her 
hence perforce. 

Q. Mar. Nay, never bear me hence, dis¬ 
patch me here; 

Here sheathe thy sword, I ’ll pardon thee my 
death. ™ 

What, wilt thou not? Then, Clarence, do it 
thou. 

Clar. By heaven, I will not do thee so much 
ease. 

Q. Mar. Good Clarence, do ; sweet Clarence, 
do thou do it. 





728 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


V. VI. 


Clar. Didst thou not hear me swear I would 
not do it ? 

Q. Mar. Ay, but thou usest to forswear 

thyself; 76 

’T was sin before, but now’t is charity. 

What, wilt thou not? Where is that devil’s 
butcher, Richard, 

Hard-favour’d Richard ? Richard, where art 
thou ? 

Thou art not here. Murder is thy alms-deed ; 

Petitioners for blood thou ne’er put’st hack, so 

K. Edw. Away, I say; I charge ye, bear 
her hence. 

Q. Mar. So come to you and yours, as to 
this prince ! [Exit [led out forcibly], 

K. Edw. Where’s Richard gone ? 

Clar. To London, all in post; and, as I 
guess, 

To make a bloody supper in the Tower. ss 

K. Edw. He’s sudden, if a thing comes in 
his head. 

Now march we hence. Discharge the common 
sort 

With pay and thanks, and let’s away to Lon¬ 
don 

And see our gentle queen how well she fares. 

By this, I hope, she hath a son for me. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene VI. London. The Tower.] 

Enter King Henry and Gloucester, with the 
Lieutenant, on the walls. 

Glou. Good day, my lord. What, at your 
hook so hard ? 

K. Hen. Ay, my good lord: — my lord, I 
should say rather. 

’Tis sin to flatter; “good” was little better. 

“Good Gloucester” and “good devil” were 
alike, 

And both preposterous; therefore, not “good 
lord.” 5 

Glou. Sirrah, leave us to ourselves. We 
must confer. [ Exit Lieutenant. 

K. Hen. So flies the reckless shepherd from 
the wolf ; 

So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece 

And next his throat unto the butcher’s knife. 

What scene of death hath Roscius now to act ? 

Glou. Suspicion always haunts the guilty 
mind. 11 

The thief doth fear each bush an officer. 

K. Hen. The bird that hath been limed in a 
hush, 

With trembling wings misdouhteth every hush ; 

And I, the hapless male to one sweet bird, is 

Have now the fatal object in my eye 

Where my poor young was lim’d, was caught, 
and kill’d. 

Glou. Why, what a peevish fool was that of 
Crete, 

That taught his son the office of a fowl! 

And yet, for all his wings, the fool was 
drown’d. 20 

K. Hen. I, Daedalus ; my poor boy, Icarus ; 

Thy father, Minos, that denied our course ; 

The sun that sear’d the wings of my sweet boy, 


Thy brother Edward ; and thyself, the sea 
Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life. » 
Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words ! 
My breast can better brook thy dagger’s point 
Than can my ears that tragic history. 

But wherefore dost thou come ? Is’t for my 
iife? 

Glou. Think’st thou I am an executioner ? 30 
K. Hen. A persecutor, I am sure, thou art. 

If murdering innocents be executing, 

Why, then thou art an executioner. 

Glou. Thy son I kill’d for his presumption. 
K. Hen. Hadst thou been kill’d when first 
thou didst presume, 36 

Thou hadst not liv’d to kill a son of mine. 

And thus I prophesy, that many a thousand, 
Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear, 

And many an old man’s sigh and many a 
widow’s, 

And many an orphan’s water-standing eye — *0 
Men for their sons, wives for their husbands, 
And orphans for their parents’ timeless death — 
Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born. 
The owl shriek’d at thy birth, an evil sign ; 

The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time ; « 
Dogs howl’d, and hideous tempest shook down 
trees; 

The raven rook’d her on the chimney’s top, 

And chattering pies in dismal discords sung. 
Thy mother felt more than a mother’s pain, 
And yet brought forth less than a mother’s 
hope, 60 

To wit, an indigested and deformed lump, 

Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree. 

Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast 
born, 

To signify thou cam’st to bite the world ; 

And, if the rest he true which I have heard, bs 
Thou cam’st — 

Glou. I ’ll hear no more ; die, prophet, in thy 
speech. [Stabs him. 

For this, amongst the rest, was I ordain’d. 

K. Hen. Ay, and for much more slaughter 
after this. 

0 , God forgive my sins, and pardon thee ! so 

[Dies. 

Glou. What, will the aspiring blood of Lan¬ 
caster 

Sink in the ground ? I thought it would have 
mounted. 

See how my sword weeps for the poor king’s 
death! 

0 , may such purple tears be alway shed 
From those that wish the downfall of our 
house! 66 

If any spark of life he yet remaining, 

Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee 
thither, _ [Stabs him again. 

I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear. 
Indeed, ’tis true that Henry told me of ; 

For I have often heard my mother say 70 

I came into the world with my legs forward. 
Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste, 
And seek their ruin that usurp’d our right ? 
The midwife wonder’d and the women cried, 

“ 0 , Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth ! ” 78 
And so I was ; which plainly signified 






v. vii. 


THE THIRD PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH 


That I should snarl and bite and play the 
dog. 

Then, since the heavens have shap’d my body 
so, 

Let hell make crook’d my mind to answer it. 

I have no brother, I am like no brother; so 
And this word “love,” which greybeards call 
divine, 

Be resident in men like one another 
And not in me. I am myself alone. 

Clarence, beware ! Thou keep’st me from the 
light, 

But I will sort a pitchy day for thee ; 85 

For I will buzz abroad such prophecies 
That Edward shall be fearful of his life, 

And then, to purge his fear, I ’ll be thy death. 
King Henry and the Prince his son are gone. 
Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest, bo 
Counting myself but bad till I be best. 

I ’ll throw thy body in another room 
And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom. 

[Exit [with the body], 

[Scene VII. London. The palace .] 

Flourish. King Edward, [upon the throne ;] 
Queen Elizabeth, Clarence, Glouces¬ 
ter, Hastings, a Nurse [with the young 
Prince ,] and Attendants. 

K. Edw. Once more we sit in England’s 
royal throne, 

He-purchas’d with the blood of enemies. 

What valiant foemen, like to autumn’s corn, 
Have we mow’d down in tops of all their pride ! 
Three Dukes of Somerset, threefold renown’d s 
For hardy and undoubted champions ; 

Two Cliffords, as the father and the son, 

And two Nortnumberlands ; two braver men 
Ne’er spurr’d their coursers at the trumpet’s 
sound; 

With them, the two brave bears, Warwick and 
Montague, 10 

That in their chains fetter’d the kingly lion 
And made the forest tremble when they roar’d. 
Thus have we swept suspicion from our seat 
And made our footstool of security. 


729 


Come hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy. is 
Young Ned, for thee, thine uncles and myself 
Have in our armours watch’d the winter’s 
night, 

Went all afoot in summer’s scalding heat, 

That thou mightst repossess the crown in peace ; 
And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain. 20 
Glou: [Aside.] I ’ll blast his harvest, if your 
head were laid, 

For yet I am not look’d on in the world. 

This shoulder was ordain’d so thick to heave ; 
And heave it shall some weight, or break my 
back. 

Work thou the way, —and thou shalt execute. 
K. Edw. Clarence and Gloucester, love my 
lovely queen ; 20 

And kiss your princely nephew, brothers both. 

Clar. The duty that I owe unto your Majesty 
I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe. 

[Q. Eliz.] Thanks, noble Clarence ; worthy 
brother, thanks. 30 

Glou. And, that I love the tree from whence 
thou sprang’st, 

Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit. 
[Aside.] To say the truth, so Judas kiss’d his 
master, 

And cried, “ All hail! ” when as he meant all 
harm. 

K. Edw. Now am I seated as my soul de¬ 
lights, 36 

Having my country’s peace and brothers’ loves. 
Clar. What will your Grace have done with 
Margaret ? 

Reignier, her father, to the King of France 
Hath pawn’d the Sicils and Jerusalem, 

And hither have they sent it for her ransom. «o 
K. Edw. Away with her, and waft her hence 
to France. 

And now what rests but that we spend the 
time 

With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows, 
Such as befits the pleasure of the court ? 

Sound drums and trumpets! Farewell sour 
annoy! # « 

For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy. 

[Exeunt. 





THE TRAGEDY OF RICHARD THE THIRD 


The only external evidence for the date of Richard III is the publication of the First Quarto 
in 1597 . The marks of Shakespeare’s early style, and especially of the influence of Marlowe, 
are, however, so pronounced as to have led to a general agreement that the play was composed 
some years before that date, probably about 1593 . 

The Quarto of 1597 was reprinted in 1598 , with the name of Shakespeare on the title-page, 
but without further change. Other quartos appeared in 1602 , 1605 , 1612 , 1622 , 1629 , and 1634 , 
but all derive ultimately from the text of 1597 . The version in the First Folio is independent, 
and differs widely in detail from the text of the Quartos. The question of the comparative 
authority of these texts is exceedingly complicated. Each contains passages essential to the 
context but lacking in the other. The Folio has besides many additions quite apposite and in 
the manner of Shakespeare, though the corresponding place in the Quarto shows no lacuna. The 
difficulty is thus to determine which goes back to the earlier original, and whether Shake¬ 
speare himself is responsible for the variations. Opinions still differ widely on these points, but 
are for the most part agreed that the Folio is to be regarded as the more authentic version ; and 
it is, accordingly, made the basis of the present text. A striking peculiarity of the case is that 
the variations are too numerous to be plausibly accounted for as mistakes of copyist or printer, 
and are often so slight in their effect on meaning or rhythm that it is hard to believe them the 
result of conscious revision. They are very frequently such differences as might be explained 
by lapse of memory ; and it is probable that in the First Quarto we have an exceptionally correct 
short-hand writer’s report of the play, the variations being largely due to the slips of the actors. 

The chief basis of the action is, as usual, Holinshed, who, in dealing with the events of Acts 
i, H, ill, and part of iv, follows the history of the reigns of Edward V and Richard III ascribed 
to Sir Thomas More, as it had been transmitted in the Chronicles of Hardyng and Halle ; and 
who, in the story corresponding to the rest of Act iv and to Act v, follows Halle. But before 
Shakespeare’s there had been two, if not more, dramatic treatments of the theme. The Rich- 
ardus Tertius of Dr. Legge is a Latin chronicle play written, perhaps as early as 1573 , for per¬ 
formance at the University of Cambridge. The True Tragedie of Richard III is anonymous and 
of uncertain date, but was apparently a sequel to 3 Henry VI. Both of these contributed to 
the dramatic tradition of Richard, but whether they affected Shakespeare directly or through 
a lost intermediary remains to be proved. Details seem also to have been gathered from such 
narratives as those in The Mirror for Magistrates. 

But it was the Chronicles of Holinshed or Halle which supplied almost all the episodes and 
the outlines of most of the characters, especially the men. These outlines, however, are in every 
case filled in by Shakespeare, whose imagination caught up and vitalized the merest hints of 
character. Most of the famous speeches are purely the invention of the dramatist. The open¬ 
ing soliloquy, the wooing of Anne, the two great cursing scenes in which Margaret of Anjou 
plays the chief part, the dream and the murder scene of Clarence, and the exchange of repartee 
between Gloucester and the little Duke of York, are all without foundation in Holinshed. 
Gloucester’s hypocritical pre-occupation with holy exercises on the occasion of the visit of the 
Mayor and Buckingham with the offer of the crown, is based on the parenthetical phrase, 
“ with a bishop on every hand of him.” The substance and tone of the addresses of the rival 
leaders to their armies in v. iii. are suggested by the Chronicle. 

The historical accuracy, in its main lines, of the portrait of Richard is still a matter of dispute 
among historians. But the falsification, if such there be, is only in a small degree due to Shake¬ 
speare ; it had already occurred in the authorities from whom he drew the facts for which he 
supplied a plausible psychological explanation. 


THE TRAGEDY OF RICHARD THE THIRD 


[DRAMATIS PERSON/E 


sons to 
the King. 

brothers to 
the King. 


Kino Edward IY. 

Edward, Prince of Wales, afterwards 
King Edward Y, 

Richard, duke of York, 

George, duke of Clarence, 

Richard, duke of Gloucester, afterwards 
King Richard III, 

A young son of Clarence. 

Henry, earl of Richmond, afterwards King Henry VII. 
Cardinal Bourchier, archbishop of Canterbury. 
Thomas Rotherham, archbishop of York. 

John Morton, bishop of Ely. 

Duke of Buckingham. 

Duke of Norfolk. 

Earl of Surrey, his son. 

Earl Rivers, brother to Elizabeth. 

Marquis of Dorset, 1 sons to 
Lord Grey, { Elizabeth. 

Earl of Oxford. 

Lord Hastings. 

Lord Stanley, called also Earl of Derby. 

Lord Lovel. 


Sir Thomas Vaughan. 

Sir Richard Ratcliff. 

Sir William Catesby. 

Sir James Tyrrel. 

Sir James Blunt. 

Sir Walter Herbert. 

Sir Robert Brakenbury, lieutenant of the Tower. 
Christopher Urswick, a priest. 

Another Priest. 

Tressel and Berkeley, gentlemen attending on the 
Lady Anne. 

Lord Mayor of London. 

Sheriff of Wiltshire. 

Elizabeth, queen to King Edward IV. 

Margaret, widow of King Henry VI. 

Duchess of York, mother to King Edward IV. 

Lady Anne, widow of Edward Prince of Wales, son to 
King Henry VI ; afterwards married to Richard. 

A young Daughter of Clarence (Margaret Planta- 
genet). 


Ghosts of those murdered by Richard III; Lords and other Attendants; a Pursuivant, Scrivener, Citizens, 

Murderers, Messengers, Soldiers, etc. 


Scene : England. ] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [ London. A street .] 

Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester, solus. 

Glou. Now is the winter of our discontent 
Made glorious summer by this sun of York ; 
And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house 
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. 

Now are our brows bound with victorious 
wreaths; e 

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments ; 
Our stern alarums chang’d to merry meetings, 
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. 
Grim-visag’d War hath smooth’d his wrinkled 
front; 

And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds 10 
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, 

He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber 
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. 

But I, that am not shap’d for sportive tricks, 
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass ; is 
I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s 
majesty 

To strut before a wanton ambling nymph ; 

I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion, 
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, 
Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time 20 
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, 
And that so lamely and unfashionable 
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them ; 

Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, 


Have no delight to pass away the time, 26 

Unless to see my shadow in the sun 
And descant on mine own deformity. 

And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover 
To entertain these fair well-spoken days, 

I am determined to prove a villain 80 

And hate the idle pleasures of these days. 

Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, 

By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams, 

To set iny brother Clarence and the King 
In deadly hate the one against the other; 35 

And if King Edward be as true and just 
As I am subtle, false, and treacherous, 

This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up 
About a prophecy, which says that G 
Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be. 40 
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul; here Clarence 
comes. 

Enter Clarence, guarded , and Brakenbury. 

Brother, good day. What means this armed 
guard 

That waits upon your Grace ? 

Clar. His Majesty, 

Tend’ring my person’s safety, hath appointed 
This conduct to convey me to the Tower. 45 
Glou. Upon what cause ? 

Clar. Because my name is George. 

Glou. Alack, my lord, that fault is none of 
yours ; 

He should, for that, commit your godfathers. 
0 , belike his Majesty hath some intent 




732 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


I. i. 


That you should be new christ’ned in the 
Tower. «o 

But what’s the matter, Clarence ? May I 
know ? 

Clar. Yea, Richard, when I know, for I pro¬ 
test 

As yet I do not; but, as I can learn, 

He hearkens after prophecies and dreams, 

And from the cross-row plucks the letter G, es 
And says a wizard told him that by G 
His issue disinherited should be ; 

And, for my name of George begins with G, 

It follows in his thought that I am he. 

These, as I learn, and such like toys as these «o 
Have mov’d his Highness to commit me now. 
Glou. Why, this it is, when men are rul’d by 
women. 

’T is not the King that sends you to the Tower; 
My Lady Grey his wife, Clarence, ’t is she 
That tempts him to this harsh extremity. es 
Was it not she and that good man of worship, 
Anthony Woodville, her brother there, 

That made him send Lord Hastings to the 
Tower, 

From whence this present day he is delivered ? 
We are not safe, Clarence ; we are not safe, to 
Clar. By heaven, I think there is no man 
secure 

But the Queen’s kindred, and night-walking 
heralds 

That trudge betwixt the King and Mistress 
Shore. 

Heard you not what an humble suppliant 
Lord Hastings was to her for his delivery ? 75 

Glou. Humbly complaining to her deity 
Got my Lord Chamberlain his liberty. 

I ’ll tell you what; I think it is our way, 

If we will keep in favour with the King, 

To be her men and wear her livery. so 

The jealous o’erworn widow and herself, 

Since that our brother dubb’d them gentle¬ 
women, 

Are mighty gossips in our monarchy. 

Brak. I beseech your Graces both to pardon 
me ; 

His Majesty hath straitly given in charge ss 
That no man shall have private conference, 

Of what degree soever, with your brother. 

Glou. Even so ? An’t please your worship, 
Brakenbury, 

You may partake of anything we say. 

We speak no treason, man. We say the King 
Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen 91 
Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous ; 

We say that Shore’s wife hath a pretty foot, 

A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing 
tongue; 

And that the Queen’s kindred are made gentle¬ 
folks. 95 

How say you, sir ? Can you deny all this ? 
Brak. With this, my lord, myself have 
nought to do. 

Glou. Naught to do with Mistress Shore ! I 
tell thee, fellow, 

He that doth naught with her, excepting one, 
Were best to do it secretly, alone. 100 

Brak. What one, my lord ? 


Glou. Her husband, knave. Wouldst thou 
betray me ? 

Brak. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me, 
and withal 

Forbear your conference with the noble Duke. 
Clar. We know thy charge, Brakenbury, 
and will obey. 106 

Glou. We are the Queen’s abjects, and must 
obey. 

Brother, farewell! I will unto the King; 

And whatsoe’er you will employ me in, 

Were it to call King Edward’s widow sister, 

I will perform it to enfranchise you. no 

Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood 
Touches me deeper than you can imagine. 

Clar. I know it pleaseth neither of us well. 
Glou. Well, your imprisonment shall not be 
long; 

I will deliver you, or else lie for you. ub 

Meantime, have patience. 

Clar. I must perforce. Farewell. 

[Exeunt Clarence [ Brakenbury , and 
Guard], 

Glou. Go, tread the path that thou shalt 
ne’er return, 

Simple, plain Clarence ! I do love thee so, 

That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven, 

If heaven will take the present at our hands. 
But who comes here ? The new-delivered 
Hastings ? m 

Enter Lord Hastings. 

Hast. Good time of day unto my gracious 
lord ! 

Glou. As much unto my good Lord Cham¬ 
berlain ! 

Well are you welcome to the open air. 

How hath your lordship brook’d imprisonment ? 
Hast. With patience, noble lord, as prisoners 
must; i2« 

But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks 
That were the cause of my imprisonment. 

Glou. No doubt, no doubt; and so shall 
Clarence too; 

For they that were your enemies are his, 130 
And have prevail’d as much on him as you. 
Hast. More pity that the eagles should be 
mew’d, 

Whiles kites and buzzards play at liberty. 

Glou. What news abroad ? 

Hast. No news so bad abroad as this at 
home: 135 

The King is sickly, weak, and melancholy, 

And his physicians fear him mightily. 

Glou. Now, by Saint John, that news is bad 
indeed. 

0 , he hath kept an evil diet long, 

And overmuch consum’d his royal person. no 
’T is very grievous to be thought upon. 

Where is he ? In his bed ? 

Hast. He is. 

Glou. Go you before, and I will follow you. 

[Exit Hastings. 

He cannot live, I hope ; and must not die ns 
Till George be pack’d with post-horse up to 
heaven. 

I ’ll in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence 




RICHARD THE THIRD 


733 


i. ii. 


With lies well steel’d with weighty arguments ; 
And, if I fail not in my deep intent, 

Clarence hath not another day to live ; ibo 
W hich done, God take King Edward to his 
mercy, 

And leave the world for me to bustle in I 
For then I ’ll marry Warwick’s youngest 
daughter. 

What though I kill’d her husband and her 
father ? 

The readiest way to make the wench amends 
Is to become her husband and her father ; ise 
The which will I ; not all so much for love 
As for another secret close intent, 

By marrying her which I must reach unto. 

But yet 1 run before my horse to market. ieo 
Clarence still breathes ; Edward still lives and 
reigns; 

When they are gone, then must I count my 
gains. [Exit. 

Scene II. [The same. Another street.'] 

Enter the corpse o/King Henry VI, [Gentle¬ 
men] with halberds to guard it , [among them 
Tressel and Berkeley ;] Lady Anne 
being the mourner. 

Anne. Set down, set down your honourable 
load, 

If honour may be shrouded in a hearse, 

Whilst I a while obsequiously lament 
The untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster. 

[The coffin is set down.] 
Poor key-cold figure of a holy king! 6 

Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster ! 

Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood ! 
Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost 
To hear the lamentations of poor Anne, 

Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaught’red son, io 
Stabb’d by the self-same hand that made these 
wounds! 

Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life, 

I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes. 

0 cursed be the hand that made these holes ! 
Cursed the heart that had the heart to do 
it! is 

Cursed the blood that let this blood from 
hence! 

More direful hap betide that hated wretch 
That makes us wretched by the death of 
thee, 

Than I can wish to wolves, to spiders, toads, 
Or any creeping venom’d thing that lives ! 20 

If ever he have child, abortive be it, 
Prodigious, and untimely brought to light, 
Whose ugly and unnatural aspect 
May fright the hopeful mother at the view; 
And that be heir to his unhappiness ! 26 

If ever he have wife, let her be made 
More miserable by the death of him 
Than I am made by my young lord and thee ! 
Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy 
load, 

Taken from Paul’s to be interred there ; so 
And still, as you are weary of this weight, 

Best you, whiles I lament King Henry’s corse. 

[The bearers take up the coffin.] 


Enter Gloucester. 

Glou. Stay, you that bear the corse, and set 
it down. 

Anne. What black magician conjures up this 
fiend 

To stop devoted charitable deeds ? 35 

Glou. Villains, set down the corse; or, by 
Saint Paul, 

I ’ll make a corse of him that disobeys. 

Gent. My lord, stand back, and let the coffin 
pass. 

Glou. Unmanner’d dog! stand thou, when I 
command. 

Advance thy halberd higher than my breast, 40 
Or, by Saint Paul, I ’ll strike thee to my foot, 
And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness. 

[The coffin is set down again.] 

Anne. What, do you tremble ? Are you all 
afraid ? 

Alas, I blame you not, for you are mortal, 

And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil. 45 
Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell! 

Thou hadst but power over his mortal body, 
His soul thou canst not have; therefore, be 
gone. 

Glou. Sweet saint, for charity, be not so 
curst. 

Anne. Foul devil, for God’s sake, hence, and 
trouble us not; bo 

For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell, 
Fill’d it with cursing cries and deep exclaims. 
If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds, 
Behold this pattern of thy butcheries. 

O, gentlemen, see, see ! dead Henry’s wounds be 
Open their congeal’d mouths and bleed afresh ! 
Blush, bhish, thou lump of foul deformity ; 

For ’tis thy presence that exhales this blood 
From cold and empty veins, where no blood 
dwells. 

Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural, 00 

Provokes this deluge most unnatural. 

0 God, which this blood mad’st, revenge his 
death ! 

0 earth, which this blood drink’st, revenge his 
death! 

Either heaven with lightning strike the mur¬ 
derer dead, 

Or earth gape open wide and eat him quick, es 
As thou dost swallow up this good king’s blood, 
Which his hell-govern’d arm hath butchered! 

Glou. Lady, you know no rules of charity, 
Which renders good for bad, blessings for 
curses. 

Anne. Villain, thou know’st nor law of God 
nor man. 70 

No beast so fierce but knows some touch of 
pity. 

Glou. But I know none, and therefore am 
no beast. 

Anne. O wonderful, when devils tell the 
truth! 

Glou. More wonderful, when angels are so 
angry. 

Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman, 75 

Of these supposed crimes, to give me leave 
By circumstance but to acquit myself. 





RICHARD THE THIRD 


m 


Anne. Vouchsafe, defus’d infection of a 
man, 

For these known evils, but to give me leave, 
By circumstance, to curse thy cursed self. so 

Glou. Fairer than tongue can name thee, let 
me have 

Some patient leisure to excuse myself. 

Anne. Fouler than heart can think thee, 
thou canst make 

No excuse current but to hang thyself. 

Glou. By such despair I should accuse my¬ 
self. _ 85 

Anne. And by despairing shalt thou stand 
excus’d 

For doing worthy vengeance on thyself. 

That didst unworthy slaughter upon others. 

Glou. Say that I slew them not ? 

Anne. Then say they were not slain. 

But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by 
thee. oo 

Glou. I did not kill your husband. 

Anne. Why, then he is alive. 

Glou. Nay, lie is dead; and slain by Ed¬ 
ward’s hands. 

Anne. In thy foul throat thou liest! Queen 
Margaret saw 

Thy murderous falchion smoking in his blood ; 
The which thou once didst bend against her 
breast, es 

But that thy brothers beat aside the point. 

Glou. I was provoked by her slanderous 
tongue, 

That laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoul¬ 
ders. 

Anne. Thou wast provoked by thy bloody 
mind, 

That never dreamst on aught but butcher¬ 
ies. 100 

Didst thou not kill this king ? 

Glou. I grant ye. 

Anne. Dost grant me, hedgehog ? Then, 
God grant me too 

Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed ! 
O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous! 

Glou. The better for the King of heaven, 
that hath him. ioc 

Anne. He is in heaven, where thou shalt 
never come. 

Glou. Let him thank me, that holp to send 
him thither; 

For he was fitter for that place than earth. 

Anne. And thou unfit for any place but 
hell. 

Glou. Yes, one place else, if you will hear me 
name it. no 

Anne. Some dungeon. 

Glou. Your bed-chamber. 

Anne. Ill rest betide the chamber where 
thou liest! 

Glou. So will it, madam, till I lie with you. 

Anne. I hope so. 

Glou. I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne, 
To leave this keen encounter of our wits ns 

And fall something into a slower method, 

Is not the causer of the timeless deaths 
Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward, 

As blameful as the executioner ? 


i. ii. 


Anne. Thou wast the cause, and most ac- 
curs’d effect. 120 

Glou. Your beauty was the cause of that 
effect; 

Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep 
To undertake the death of all the world, 

So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom. 

Anne. If I thought that, I tell thee, homi¬ 
cide, 126 

These nails should rend that beauty from my 
cheeks. 

Glou. These eyes could not endure that 
beauty’s wreck ; 

You should not blemish it, if I stood by. 

As all the world is cheered by the sun, 

So I by that; it is my day, my life. iao 

Anne. Black night o’ershade thy day, and 
death thy life! 

Glou. Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou 
art both. 

Anne. I would I were, to be reveng’d on 
thee. 

Glou. It is a quarrel most unnatural, 

To be reveng’d on him that lovetli thee. iss 

Anne. It is a quarrel just and reasonable, 

To be reveng’d on him that kill’d my husband. 

Glou. He that bereft thee, lady, of thy hus¬ 
band, 

Did it to help thee to a better husband. 

Anne. His better doth not breathe upon the 
earth. wo 

Glou. He lives that loves thee better than 
he could. 

Anne. Name him. 

Glou. Plantagenet. 

Anne. Why, that was he. 

Glou. The self-same name, but one of better 
nature. 

Anne. Where is he ? 

Glou. Here. (She spits at him.) Why 

dost thou spit at me ? ws 

Anne. Would it were mortal poison for thy 
sake! 

Glou. Never came poison from so sweet a 
place. 

Anne. Never hung poison on a fouler toad. 
Out of ray sight! Thou dost infect mine eyes. 

Glou. Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected 
mine. iso 

Anne. Would they were basilisks, to strike 
thee dead! 

Glou. I would they were, that I might die 
at once; 

For now they kill me with a living death. 
Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt 
tears, 

Sham’d their aspects with store of childish 
drops. iss 

These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear, 
No, when my father York and Edward wept 
To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made 
When black-fac’d Clifford shook his sword at 
him; 

Nor when thy warlike father, like a child, 160 
Told the sad story of my father’s death, 

And twenty times made pause to sob and weep, 
That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks, 




RICHARD THE THIRD 


735 


I. iii. 


Like trees bedash’d with rain, — in that sad 
time 

My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear ; 

And what these sorrows could not thence ex¬ 
hale, 

Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with 
weeping. 

I never sued to friend nor enemy ; 

My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing 
words; 

But, now thy beauty is propos’d my fee, no 
My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to 
speak. [SAe looks scornfully at him. 

Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made 
For kissing, lady, not for such contempt. 

If thy revengeful heqrt cannot forgive, 174 
Lo, here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword ; 
Which if thou please to hide in this true breast, 
And let the soul forth that adoreth thee, 

I lay it naked to the deadly stroke, 

And humbly beg the death upon my knee. 

[He lays his breast open : she offers 
at it with his sword. 

Nay, do not pause ; for I did kill King Henry, 
But’t was thy beauty that provoked me. 1*1 
Nay, now dispatch; ’t was I that stabb’d 
young Edward, 

But ’twas thy heavenly face that set me on. 

[SAe falls the sword. 

Take up the sword again, or take up me. 

Anne. Arise, dissembler ! Though I wish 
thy death, iss 

I will not be thy executioner. 

Glou. Then bid me kill myself, and I will do 
it. 

Anne. I have already. 

Glou. That was in thy rage. 



love. 

Shall for thy love kill a far truer love ; m 
To both their deaths shalt thou be accessary. 
Anne. I would I knew thy heart. 

Glou. ’T is figur’d in my tongue. 

Anne. I fear me both are false. im 

Glou. Then never man was true. 

Anne. Well, well, put up your sword. 

Glou. Say, then, my peace is made. 

Anne. That shalt thou know hereafter. 

Glou. But shall I live in hope ? 200 

Anne. All men, I hope, live so. 

Glou.] Vouchsafe to wear this ring. 

Anne. To take is not to give.] 

[Puts on the ring.] 
Glou. Look, how my ring encompasseth thy 
finger, 

Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart. 20s 
Wear both of them, for both of them are thine. 
And if thy poor devoted servant may 
But beg one favour at thy gracious hand, 

Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever. 
Anne. What is it? 210 

Glou. That it may please you leave these sad 
designs 

To him that hath most cause to be a mourner, 
And presently repair to Crosby House ; 

WTiere, after I have solemnly interr’d 


At Chertsey monastery this noble king, 21s 
And wet his grave with my repentant tears, 

I will with all expedient duty see you. 

For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you, 
Grant me this boon. 

Anne. With all my heart; and much it joys 
me too, 226 

To see you are become so penitent. 

Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me. 

Glou. Bid me farewell. 

Anne. ’T is more than you deserve ; 

But since you teach me how to flatter you, 
Imagine I have said farewell already. 225 

[Exeunt Lady Anne, Tressel , and 
Berkeley. 

[Glou. Sirs, take up the corse.] 

Gent. Towards Chertsey, noble lord ? 

Glou. No, to White-Friars ; there attend my 
coming. [Exeunt all but Gloucester. 

Was ever woman in this humour woo’d ? 

Was ever woman in this humour won ? 

I ’ll have her; but I will not keep her long. 230 
What! I, that kill’d her husband and his father, 
To take her in her heart’s extremest hate, 
With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes, 
The bleeding witness of my hatred by ; 

Having God, her conscience, and these bars 
against me, 23B 

And I no friends to back my suit withal 
But the plain devil and dissembling looks, 

And yet to win her, all the world to nothing ! 
Ha! 

Hath she forgot already that brave prince, 240 
Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months 
since, 

Stabb’d in my angry mood at Tewksbury ? 

A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman, 

Fram’d in the prodigality of nature, 

Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal, 
The spacious world cannot again afford. 246 
And will she yet abase her eyes on me, 

That cropp’d the golden prime of this sweet 
prince, 

And made her widow to a woeful bed ? 

On me, whose all not equals Edward’s moiety ? 
On me, that halts and am misshapen thus ? 261 
My dukedom to a beggarly denier, 

I do mistake my person all this while. 

Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot, 
Myself to be a marvellous proper man. 268 
I ’ll be at charges for a looking-glass, 

And entertain a score or two of tailors, 

To study fashions to adorn my body. 

Since I am crept in favour with myself, 

I will maintain it with some little cost. 260 
But first I ’ll turn yon fellow in his grave ; 

And then return lamenting to my love. 

Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass, 
That I may see my shadow as I pass. [Exit. 

Scene III. [The palace.] 

Enter Queen Elizabeth, Lord Rivers, and 
Lord Grey. 

Riv. Have patience, madam; there’s no 
doubt his Majesty 

Will soon recover his accustom’d health. 




73^ 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


i. iii. 


Grey. In that you brook it ill, it makes him 
worse; 

Therefore, for God’s sake, entertain good com¬ 
fort, 

And cheer his Grace with quick and merry eyes. 

Q. Eliz. If he were dead, what would betide 
on me ? 6 

Grey. No other harm but loss of such a lord. 

Q. Eliz. The loss of such a lord includes all 
harms. 

Grey. The heavens have bless’d you with a 
goodly son 

To be your comforter when he is gone. 10 

Q. Eliz. Ah, he is young, and his minority 
Is put unto the trust of Richard Gloucester, 

A man that loves not me, nor none of you. 

Riv. Is it concluded he shall be Protector ? 

Q. Eliz. It is determin’d, not concluded yet; 
But so it must be, if the King miscarry. ie 

Enter Buckingham and Derby. 

Grey. Here comes the lords of Buckingham 
and Derby. 

Buck. Good time of day unto your royal 
Grace! 

Der. God make your Majesty joyful as you 
have been! 

Q. Eliz. The Countess Richmond, good my 
Lord of Derby, 20 

To your good prayer will scarcely say amen. 
Yet, Derby, notwithstanding she’s your wife, 
And loves not me, be you, good lord, assur’d 
I hate not you for her proud arrogance. 

Der. I do beseech you, either not believe 25 
The envious slanders of her false accusers ; 

Or, if she be accus’d on true report, 

Bear with her weakness, which, I think, pro¬ 
ceeds 

From wayward sickness, and no grounded mal¬ 
ice. 

Q. Eliz. Saw you the King to-day, my Lord 
of Derby? s° 

Der. But now the Duke of Buckingham 
and I • 

Are come from visiting his Majesty. 

Q. Eliz. What likelihood of his amendment, 
lords? 

Buck. Madam, good hope ; his Grace speaks 
cheerfully. 

Q. Eliz. God grant him health ! Did you 
confer with him ? 35 

Buck. Ay, madam. He desires to make 
atonement 

Between the Duke of Gloucester and your 
brothers, 

And between them and my Lord Chamber- 
lain ; 

And sent to warn them to his royal presence. 

Q. Eliz. Would all were well! but that will 
never be. <o 

I fear our happiness is at the height. 

Enter Gloucester [Hastings, and Dorset]. 

Glou. They do me wrong, and I will not en¬ 
dure it. 

Who is it that complains unto the King 
That I, forsooth, am stern and love them not ? 


By holy Paul, they love his Grace but lightly « 
That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours. 
Because I cannot flatter and look fair, 

Smile in men’s faces, smooth, deceive, and 
cog, 

Duck with French nods and apish courtesy, 

I must be held a rancorous enemy. bo 

Cannot a plain man live and think no harm, 
But thus his simple truth must be abus’d 
With silken, sly, insinuating Jacks ? 

Grey. To who in all this presence speaks 
your Grace ? 

Glou. To thee, that hast nor honesty nor 
grace. 56 

When have I injur’d thee ? When done thee 
wrong ? 

Or thee ? or thee ? or any'of your faction ? 

A plague upon you all! His royal Grace, — 
Whom God preserve better than you would 
wish! — 

Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing-while, so 
But you must trouble him with lewd com¬ 
plaints. 

Q. Eliz. Brother of Gloucester, you mistake 
the matter. 

The King, on his own royal disposition, 

And not provok’d by any suitor else, 

Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred, 65 
That in your outward action shows itself 
Against my children, brothers, and myself, 
Makes him to send that he may learn the 
ground. 

Glou. I cannot tell. The world is grown so 
bad 7 « 

That wrens make prey where eagles dare not 
perch. 

Since every Jack became a gentleman. 

There’s many a gentle person made a Jack. 

Q. Eliz. Come, come, we know your mean¬ 
ing, brother Gloucester; 

You envy my advancement and my friends’. n> 
God grant we never may have need of you ! 

Glou. Meantime, God grants that I have 
need of you. 

Our brother is imprison’d by your means, 
Myself disgrac’d, and the nobility 
Held in contempt; while great promotions so 
Are daily given to ennoble those 
That scarce, some two days since, were worth a 
noble. 

Q. Eliz. By Him that rais’d me to this care¬ 
ful height 

From that contented hap which I enjoy’d, 

I never did incense his Majesty 85 

Against the Duke of Clarence, but have been 
An earnest advocate to plead for him. 

My lord, you do me shameful injury, 

Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects. 

Glou. You may deny that you were not the 
mean 90 

Of my Lord Hastings’ late imprisonment. 

Riv. She may, my lord, for — 

Glou. She may, Lord Rivers! Why, who 
knows not so ? 

She may do more, sir, than denying that. 

She may help you to many fair preferments, 95 
And then deny her aiding hand therein, 






RICHARD THE THIRD 


737 


I. iii. 


And lay those honours on your high desert. 
What may she not ? She may, ay, marry, may 
she,— 

Biv. What, marry, may she ? 

Glou. What, marry, may she ! Marry with a 
king, 100 

A bachelor, and a handsome stripling too. 

I wis your grandam had a worser match. 

Q. Eliz. My Lord of Gloucester, I have too 
long borne 

Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs. 
By heaven, I will acquaint his Majesty ios 
Of those gross taunts that oft I have endur’d. 

I had rather be a country servant-maid 
Than a great queen, with this condition, 

To be thus baited, scorn’d, and stormed at. 
Small joy have I in being England’s Queen, no 

Enter old Queen Margaret. 


Q. Mar. And less’ned be that small, God I 
beseech Him 1 

Thy honour, state, and seat is due to me. 

Glou. What! threat you me with telling of 
the King ? 

[Tell him, and spare not. Look, what I have 
said] 

I will avouch’t in presence of the King. us 
I dare adventure to be sent to the Tower. 

’T is time to speak ; my pains are quite forgot. 

Q. Mar. Out, devil! I do remember them 
too well: 

Thou kill’dst my husband Henry in the Tower, 
And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury, no 

Glou. Ere you were queen, ay, or your hus¬ 
band king, 

I was a pack-horse in his great affairs ; 

A weeder-out of his proud adversaries, 

A liberal rewarder of his friends. 

To royalize his blood I spent mine own. ns 

Q. Mar. Ay, and much better blood than his 
or thine. 

Glou. In all which time you and your hus¬ 
band Grey 

Were factious for the house of Lancaster; 
And, Rivers, so were you. Was not your hus¬ 
band 

In Margaret’s battle at Saint Alban’s slain? no 
Let me put in your minds, if you forget, 

What you have been ere this, and what you are ; 
Withal, what I have been, and what I am. 

Q. Mar. A murderous villain, and so still 
thou art. 

Glou. Poor Clarence did forsake his father, 
Warwick; _ ns 

Ay, and forswore himself, — which Jesu par¬ 
don ! — 

Q. Mar. Which God revenge ! 

Glou. To fight on Edward’s party for the 
crown; 

And for his meed, poor lord, he is mewed up. 

I would to God my heart were flint, like Ed¬ 
ward’s ; .... 140 

Or Edward’s soft and pitiful, like mine. 

I am too childish-foolish for this world. 

Q. Mar. Hie thee to hell for shame, and 
leave this world, 

Thou cacodemon ! there thy kingdom is. 


Biv. My Lord of Gloucester, in those busy 
days ns 

Which here you urge to prove us enemies, 

We follow’d then our lord, our sovereign king. 
So should we you, if you should be our king. 

Glou. If I should be! I had rather be a 
pedlar. 

Far be it from my heart, the thought thereof ! 

Q. Eliz. As little joy, my lord, as you sup¬ 
pose 161 

You should enjoy, were you this country’s king, 
As little joy you may suppose in me, 

That I enjoy, beinj* the <jueen thereof. 

Q. Mar. A little joy enjoys the queen thereof; 
For I am she, and altogether joyless. ne 

I can no longer hold me patient. [ Advancing .] 
Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out 
In sharing that which you have pill’d from 
me! 

Which of you trembles not that looks on me ? i«o 
If not that I am queen, you bow like subjects, 
Yet that by you depos’d, you quake like rebels ? 
Ah, gentle villain, do not turn away ! 

Glou. Foul wrinkled witch, what mak’st 
thou in my sight ? 

Q. Mar. But repetition of what thou hast 
marr’d; ies 

That will I make before I let thee go. 

Glou. Wert thou not banished on pain of 
death ? 

Q. Mar. I was; but I do find more pain in 
banishment 

Than death can yield me here by my abode. 

A husband and a son thou ow’st to me ; no 
And thou a kingdom ; all of you allegiance. 
This sorrow that I have, by right is yours, 

And all the pleasures you usurp are mine. 

Glou. The curse my noble father laid on 
thee, 

When thou didst crown his warlike brows with 
paper. ns 

And with tny scorns drew’st rivers from his 
eyes, 

And then, to dry them, gav’st the Duke a clout 
Steep’d in the faultless blood of pretty Rut¬ 
land, — 

His curses, then from bitterness of soul 
Denounc’d against thee, are all fallen upon 
thee; i*o 

And God, not we, hath plagu’d thy bloody 
deed. 

Q. Eliz. So just is God, to right the inno¬ 
cent. 

Hast. O, ’t was the foulest deed to slay that 
babe, 

And the most merciless that e’er was heard of! 

Biv. Tyrants themselves wept when it was 
reported. iss 

Dor. No man but prophesied revenge for it. 

Buck. Northumberland, then present, wept 
to see it. 

Q. Mar. What! were you snarling all before 
I came, 

Ready to catch each other by the throat, 

And turn you all your hatred now on me ? uw 
Did York’s dread curse prevail so much with 
heaven 






73» 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


I. iii. 


That Henry’s death, my lovely Edward’s 
death, 

Their kingdom’s loss, my woeful banishment, 
Should all but answer for that peevish brat ? 
Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven ? 
Why, then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick 
curses! i »6 

Though not by war, by surfeit die your king, 
As ours bv murder to make him a king ! 
Edward thy son, that now is Prince of Wales, 
For Edward our son, that was Prince of Wales, 
Die in his youth by like untimely violence ! 201 
Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen, 
Outlive thy glory, like my wretched Self ! 

Long mayst thou live to wail thy children’s 
death, 

And see another, as I see thee now, 20c 

Deck’d in thy rights, as thou art stall’d in 
mine! 

Long die thy happy days before thy death, 
And, after many length’ned hours of grief, 

Die neither mother, wife, nor England’s Queen ! 
Kivers and Dorset, you were standers by, 210 
And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my son 
Was stabb’d with bloody daggers : God I pray 
him, 

That none of you may live his natural age, 

But by some unlook’d accident cut off ! 

Glou. Have done thy charm, thou hateful 
wither’d hag! 215 

Q. Mar. And leave out thee ? Stay, dog, for 
thou shalt hear me. 

If heaven have any grievous plague in store 
Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee, 

O, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe, 

And then hurl down their indignation 220 

On thee, the troubler of the poor world’s peace ! 
The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul! 
Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou 
liv’st, 

And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends ! 
No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine, 225 
Unless it be while some tormenting dream 
Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils ! 

Thou elvish-mark’d, abortive, rooting hog! 
Thou that wast seal’d in thy nativity 
The slave of nature and the son of hell! 230 

Thou slander of thy heavy mother’s womb ! 
Thou loathed issue of thy father’s loins ! 

Thou rag of honour 1 thou detested — 

Glou. Margaret. 

Q. Mar. Richard! 

Glou. Ha! 

. Mar. I call thee not. 

lou. I cry thee mercy then, for I did think 
That thou hadst call’d me all these bitter 
names. 230 

Q. Mar. Why, so I did; but look’d for no 
reply. 

0 , let me make the period to my curse ! 

Glou. ’Tis done by me, and ends in “Mar¬ 
garet.” 

Q. Eliz. Thus have you breath’d your curse 
against yourself. 240 

Q. Mar. Poor painted queen, vain flourish 
of my fortune! 

Why strew’st thou sugar on that bottl’d spider, 


Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about ? 

Fool, fool! thou whet’st a knife to kill thy¬ 
self. 

The day will come that thou shalt wish fqr 
me 245 

To help thee curse this poisonous bunch-back’d 
toad. 

Hast. False-boding woman, end thy frantic 
curse, 

Lest to thy harm thou move our patience. 

Q. Mar. Foul shame upon you ! you have all 
mov’d mine. 

Riv. Were you well serv’d, you would be 
taught your duty. * 6 c 

Q. Mar. To serve me well, you all should do 
me duty, 

Teach me to be your queen, and you my sub¬ 
jects. 

0 , serve me well, and teach yourselves that 
duty! 

Dor. Dispute not with her ; she is lunatic. 

Q. Mar. Peace, master marquess, you are 
malapert; 255 

Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce cur¬ 
rent. 

0 , that your young nobility could judge 
What’t were to lose it, and be miserable ! 

They that stand high have many blasts to 
shake them ; 

And if they fall, they dash themselves to 
pieces. 200 

Glou. Good counsel, marry; learn it, learn it, 
marquess. 

Dor. It touches you, my lord, as much as me. 

Glou. Ay, and much more ; but I was born 
so high, 

Our aery buildeth in the cedar’s top, 

And dallies with the wind and scorns the sun. 

Q. Mar. And turns the sun to shade ; alas ! 
alas! 2cc 

Witness my son, now in the shade of death, 
Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy 
wrath 

Hath in eternal darkness folded up. 

Your aery buildeth in our aery’s nest. 270 

0 God, that seest it, do not suffer it! 

As it is won with blood, lost be it so ! 

Buck. Peace, peace! for shame, if not for 
charity. 

Q. Mar. Urge neither charity nor shame to 
me. 

Uncharitably with me have you dealt, 275 

And shamefully my hopes by you are butcher’d. 
My charity is outrage, life my shame ; 

And in that shame still live my sorrow’s rage ! 

Buck. Have done, have done. 

Q. Mar. 0 princely Buckingham, I ’ll kiss 
thy hand, 200 

In sign of league and amity with thee. 

Now fair befall thee and thy noble house ! 

Thy garments are not spotted with our blood, 
Nor thou within the compass of my curse. 

Buck. Nor no one here; for curses never 
paSS 286 

The lips of those that breathe them in the air. 

Q. Mar. I will not think but they ascend the 
sky, 




I. IV. 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


739 


And there awake God’s gentle-sleeping peace. 
[Asidq to Buck, .] 0 Buckingham, take heed of 
yonder dog! 

Look, when he fawns, he bites; and when he 
bites, . 290 

His venom tooth will rankle to the death. 
Have not to do with him, beware of him ; 

Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on 
him, 

And all their ministers attend on him. 

Glou. What doth she say, my Lord of Buck¬ 
ingham ? 295 

Buck. Nothing that I respect, my gracious 
lord. 

Q. Mar. What, dost thou scorn me for my 
gentle counsel. 

And soothe the devil that I warn thee from ? 

0 , but remember this another day, 

When he shall split thy very heart with sorrow, 
And say poor Margaret was a prophetess 1 soi 
Live each of you the subjects to his hate, 

And he to yours, and all of you to God’s ! 

[Exit. 

Buck. My hair doth stand on end to hear her 
curses. 

Biv. And so doth mine. I muse why she’s 
at liberty. 305 

Glou. I cannot blame her. By God’s holy 
mother, 

She hath had too much wrong; and I repent 
My part thereof that I have done to her. 

Q. Eliz. I never did her any, to my know¬ 
ledge. 

Glou. Yet you have all the vantage of her 
wrong. 3 to 

I was too hot to do somebody good, 

That is too cold in thinking of it now. 

Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid ; 

He is frank’d up to fatting for his pains. 

God pardon them that are the cause thereof! 315 

Biv. A virtuous and a Christian-like conclu¬ 
sion, 

To pray for them that have done scath to us. 

Glou. So do I ever, being well advis’d. 

[Speaks to himself. 

For had I curs’d now, I had curs’d myself. 

Enter Catesby. 

Cates. Madam, his Majesty doth call for 
you; 320 

And for your Grace ; and yours, my noble lord. 

Q. Eliz. Catesby, I come. Lords, will you 
go with me ? 

Biv. We wait upon your Grace. 

[Exeunt all but Gloucester. 

Glou. I do the wrong, and first begin to 
brawl. 

The secret mischiefs that I set abroach 325 

I lay unto the grievous charge of others. 
Clarence, who I, indeed, have cast in darkness, 

I do beweep to many simple gulls, 

Namely, to Derby, Hastings, Buckingham ; 
And tell them ’tis the Queen and her allies 330 
That stir the King against the Duke my 
brother. 

Now, they believe it; and withal whet me 
To be reveng’d on Rivers, Dorset, Grey. 


But then I sigh ; and, with a piece of scripture, 
Tell them that God bids us do good for evil; 335 
And thus I clothe my naked villainy 
With odd old ends stolen forth of holy writ, 
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil. 

Enter two Murderers. 

But, soft! here come my executioners. 

How now, my hardy, stout, resolved mates ! s« 
Are you now going to dispatch this thing ? 

1 . Murd. VVc are, my lord ; and come to 
have the warrant, 

That we may.be admitted where he is. 

GIvjl. Well thought upon; I have it here 
about me. [ Gives the ivarrant .] 

When you have done, repair to Crosby Place. 345 
But, sirs, be sudden in the execution, 

Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead ; 

For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps 
May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him. 
1. Murd. Tut, tut, my lord, we will not 
stand to prate. 350 

Talkers are no good doers ; be assur’d 
We go to use our hands and not our tongues. 
Glou. Your eyes drop millstones, when fools’ 
eyes fall tears. 

I like you, lads ; about your business straight. 
Go, go, dispatch. 

1 . Murd. We will, my noble lord. 36 « 

[Exeunt.] 

Scene IY. [ London. The Tower.] 

Enter Clarence and Keeper. 

Keep. Why looks your Grace so heavily to¬ 
day ? 

Clar. O, I have pass’d a miserable night, 

So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, 

That, as I am a Christian faithful man, 

I would not spend another such a night, s 

Though ’t were to buy a world of happy days, 
So full of dismal terror was the time. 

Keep. What was your dream, my lord ? I 
pray you, tell me. 

Clar. Methoughts that I had broken from 
the Tower, 

And was embark’d to cross to Burgundy ; 10 

And, in my company, my brother Gloucester, 
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk 
Upon the hatches. There we look’d toward 
England, 

And cited up a thousand heavy times, 

During the wars of York and Lancaster is 
That had befallen us. As wc pac’d along 
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, 
Methought that Gloucester stumbled, and, in 
falling, 

Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard, 
Into the tumbling billows of the main. 20 

0 Lord! methought, what pain it was to 
drown! 

What dreadful noise of water in mine ears ! 
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes ! 
Methoughts I saw a thousand fearful wrecks; 
A thousand men that fishes gnaw’d upon ; 2 1 

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, 
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels. 




740 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


I. 1V„ 


All scattered in tlie bottom of the sea. 

Some lay in dead men’s skulls; and, in the 
holes 

Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept, 
As ’t were in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems, 31 
That woo’d the slimy bottom of the deep, 

And mock’d the dead bones that lay scatt’red 
by. 

Keep. Had you such leisure in the time of 
death 

To gaze upon these secrets of the deep ? sb 
C lar. Methought I had. And often did I 
strive 

To yield the ghost; but still the envious flood 
Stopp’d in my soul, and would not let it forth 
To find the empty, vast, and wandering air ; 
But smother’d it within my panting bulk, *o 
Who almost burst to belch it in the sea. 

Keep. Awak’d you not in this sore agony ? 
Clar. No, no, my dream was lengthen’d after 
life. 

O, then began the tempest to my soul. 

I pass’d, methought, the melancholy flood, « 
With that sour ferryman which poets write of, 
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. 

The first that there did greet my stranger soul 
Was my great father-in-law, renowned War¬ 
wick ; 

Who spake aloud, “ What scourge for perjury bo 
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clar¬ 
ence ? ”. 

And so he vanish’d. Then came wand’ring by 
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair 
Dabbl’d in blood ; and lie shriek’d out aloud, 

“ Clarence is come; false, fleeting, perjur’d 
Clarence, bb 

That stabb’d me in the field by Tewksbury. 
Seize on him, Furies, take him unto torment! ” 
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends 
Environ’d me, and howled in mine ears 
Such hideous cries, that with the very noise eo 
I trembling wak’d, and for a season after 
Could not believe but that I was In hell, 

Such terrible impression made my dream. 

Keep. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted 
you; 

I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it. «> 
Clar. Ah! Keeper, Keeper, I have done 
these things 

That now give evidence against my soul 
For Edward’s sake ; and see how he requites 
me! 

O God ! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee, 
But thou wilt he aveng’d on my misdeeds, 70 
Yet execute thy wrath in me alone ! 

0 , spare my guiltless wife and my poor chil¬ 
dren ! 

Keeper, I prithee, sit by me a while. 

Mysoul is heavy, and I fain would sleep. 

Keep. I will, my lord. God give your Grace 
good vest! [Clarence sleeps .] 75 

Enter Brakenbury, the Lieutenant. 

BraJc. Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing 
hours, 

Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide 
night. 


Princes have but their titles for their glories, 
An outward honour for an inward toil; . 

And, for unfelt imaginations, *' 

They often feel a world of restless cares, 

So that, between their titles and low name, 
There’s nothing differs but the outward fame. 

Enter the two Murderers. 


1 . Murd. Ho ! who’s here ? 

BraJc. What wouldst thou, fellow, and how 
cam’st thou hither ? as 

2 . Murd. I would speak with Clarence, and I 
came hither on my legs. 

BraJc. What, so brief ? 

1 . Murd. ’T is better, sir, than to he tedious. 
Let him see our commission, and talk no 
more. [Bra/cenbury reads it. 91 

BraJc. I am, in this, commanded to deliver 
The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands. 

I will not reason what is meant hereby, 

Because I will be guiltless from the meaning. 
There lies the Duke asleep, and there the keys. 
I ’ll to the King, and signify to him 
That thus I have resign’d to you my charge. 

[Exit [with Keeper ]. 

1 . Murd. You may, sir, ’tis a point of wis¬ 
dom. Fare you well. 100 

2 . Murd. What, shall we stab him as he 
sleeps ? 

1 . Murd. No ; he ’ll say’t was done cowardly, 
when he wakes. 

2 . Murd. Why, he shall never wake until 

the great judgement-day. ios 

1 . Murd. Why, then he ’ll say we stabb’d 
him sleeping. 

2 . Murd. The urging of that word “judge¬ 
ment ” hath bred a kind of remorse in me. no 

1 . Murd. What, art thou afraid ? 

2 . Murd. Not to kill him, having a warrant; 
but to be damn’d for killing him, from the 
which no warrant can defend me. 

1 . Murd. I thought thou hadst been reso¬ 
lute. 116 

2 . Murd. So I am, to let him live. 

1 . Murd. I ’ll back to the Duke of Gloucester 
and tell him so. 


2 . Murd. Nay, I prithee, stay a little. I hope 
this passionate humour of mine will change. It 
was wont to hold me but while one tells 
twenty. 122 

1 . Murd. How dost thou feel thyself now ? 

2 . Murd. Some certain dregs of conscience 
are yet within me. 

1 . Murd. Remember our reward, when the 
deed’s done. 

2 . Murd. ’Zounds, he dies! I had forgot the 

reward. 129 

1 . Murd. Where’s thy conscience now ? 

2 . Murd. O, in the Duke of Gloucester’s 
purse. 

1 . Murd. When he opens his purse to give us 
our reward, thy conscience flies out. 

2 . Murd. ’T is no matter; let it go. There’s 

few or none will entertain it. is* 

1 . Murd. What if it come to thee again ? 

2 . Murd. I ’ll not meddle with it; [it is a 
dangerous thing 5] it makes a ■ man 9 eoward. 




I. iv. 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


74i 


A man cannot steal, but it accuseth him; a man 
cannot swear, but it checks him ; a man cannot 
lie with his neighbour’s wife, but it detects [no 
him. ’Tis a blushing shamefac’d spirit that 
mutinies in a man’s bosom. It fills a man full of 
obstacles. It made me once restore a purse of 
gold that by chance I found. It beggars any 
man that keeps it. It is turn’d out of towns [ns 
and cities for a dangerous thing; and every 
man that means to live well endeavours to trust 
to himself and live without it. [’Zounds,] ’tis 
even now at my elbow, persuading me not to 
kill the Duke. iso 


[7.] Murd. Take the devil in thy mind, and 
believe him not; he would insinuate with thee 
but to make thee sigh. 

[2.] Murd. I am strong-fram’d, he cannot 
prevail with me. iss 

[2.] Murd. Spoke like a tall man that respects 
thy reputation. Come, shall we fall to work ? 

[2.] Murd. Take him on the costard with the 
hilts of thy sword, and then throw him into 
the mahnsey-butt in the next room. iei 

7.] Murd. 0 excellent device! and make a 
sop of him. 

2. Murd. Soft! He wakes. 

1. Murd. Strike ! 

2. J Murd. No, we ’ll reason with him. 166 
Clar. Where art thou, Keeper ? Give me a 

cup of wine. 

[2.] Murd. You shall have wine enough, my 
lord, anon. 

Clar. In God’s name, what art thou ? 

[2.] Murd. A man, as you are. no 

Clar. But not, as I am, royal. 

[2.] Murd. Nor you, as we are, loyal. 

Clar. Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks 
are humble. 

[2.] Murd. My voice is now the King’s, my 
looks mine own. 

Clar. How darkly and how deadly dost thou 
speak! ns 

Your eyes do menace me. Why look you pale ? 
Who sent you hither ? Wherefore do you come ? 
2. Murd. To, to, to — 

Clar. To murder me ? 

Both. Ay, ay. 

Clar. You scarcely have the hearts to tell me 
so, no 

And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it. 
Wherein, my friends, have I offended you ? 

7. Murd. Offended us you have not, but the 
King. 

Clar. I shall be reconcil’d to him again. 

2. Murd. Never, my lord ; therefore prepare 
to die. 185 

Clar. Are you drawn forth among a world of 
men 

To slay the innocent ? What is my offence ? 
Where is the evidence that doth accuse me ? 
What lawful quest have given their verdict 
up I 89 

Unto the frowning judge ? or who pronounc’d 
The bitter sentence of poor Clarence’ death ? 
Before I be convict by course of law, 

To threaten me with death is most unlawful. 

I charge you, as you hope [to have redemption 


By Christ’s dear blood shed for our grievous 
sins,] i9s 

That you depart and lay no hands on me. 

The deed you undertake is damnable. 

2. Murd. What we will do, we do upon com¬ 
mand. 

2. Murd. And he that hath commanded is 
our King. 

Clar. Erroneous vassals ! the great King of 
kings 200 

Hath in the table of his law commanded 
That thou shalt do no murder. Will you, then, 
Spurn at His edict and fulfil a man’s ? 

Take heed ; for He holds vengeance in His 
hand, 204 

To hurl upon their heads that break His law. 

2. Murd. And that same vengeance doth He 
hurl on thee 

For false forswearing and for murder too. 

Thou didst receive the sacrament to fight 
In quarrel of the house of Lancaster. 

7. Murd. And, like a traitor to the name of 
God, 2 i# 

Didst break that vow ; and with thy treacher¬ 
ous blade 

Unripp’d’st the bowels of thy sovereign’s son. 

2. Murd. Whom thou wast sworn to cherish 
and defend. 

7. Murd. How canst thou urge God’s dread¬ 
ful law to us, 

When thou hast broke it in such dear degree ? 

Clar. Alas! for whose sake did I that ill 
deed ? 216 

For Edward, for my brother, for his sake. 

He sends you not to murder me for this, 

For in that sin he is as deep as I. 2*0 

If God will be avenged for the deed, 

O, know you yet, He doth it publicly. 

Take not the quarrel from His powerful arm ; 

He needs no indirect or lawless course 

To cut off those that have offended Him. 225 

7. Murd. Who made thee, then, a bloody 
minister, 

When gallant-springing brave Plantagenet, 
That princely novice, was struck dead by thee ? 

Clar. My brother’s love, the devil, and my 
rage. 

7. Murd. Thy brother’s love, our duty, and 
thy faults **> 

Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee. 

Clar. If you do love my brother, hate not me ! 
I am his brother, and I love him well. 

If you are hir’d tor meed, go back again, 

And I will send you to my brother Gloucester, 
Who shall reward you better for my life 236 
Than Edward will for tidings of my death. 

2. Murd. You are deceiv’d. Your brother 
Gloucester hates you. 

Clar. 0, no, he loves me, and he holds me 
dear. 

Go you to him from me. 

7 . Murd. Ay, so we will. 240 

Clar. Tell him, when that our princely father 
York 

Bless’d his three sons with his victorious arm, 
[And charg’d us from his soul to love each 
other,] 








742 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


ii. i. 


He little thought of this divided friendship. 
Bid Gloucester think on this, and he will weep. 
1. Murd. Ay, millstones ; as he lesson’d us to 
weep. 246 

Clar. 0, do not slander him, for he is kind. 
1. Murd. Right; as snow in harvest. 

Come, you deceive yourself ; 

’T is he that sends us to destroy you here. 250 
Clar. It cannot he; for he bewept my for¬ 
tune 

And hugg’d me in his arms, and swore with 
sobs 

That he would labour my delivery. 

1. Murd. Why, so he doth, when he delivers 

you 

From this earth’s thraldom to the joys of 
heaven. 255 

2. Murd. Make peace with God, for you 

must die, my lord. 

Clar. Have you that holy feeling in your 
souls, 

To counsel me to make my peace with God, 
And are you yet to your own souls so blind, 
That you will war with God by murd’ring 
me ? 260 

O, sirs, consider, they that set you on 
To do this deed will hate you for the deed. 

2. Murd. What shall Ave do ? 

Clar. Relent, and save your souls. 

1 . Murd. Relent ! No! ’t is cowardly and 

womanish. 

Clar. Not to relent is beastly, savage, 
devilish. 265 

Which of you, if you were a prince’s son, 

Being pent from liberty, as I am now, 

If two such murderers as yourselves came to 
you, 

Would not entreat for life ? 

My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks. 270 
0 , if thine eye be not a flatterer, 

Come thou on my side, and entreat for me, 

As you Avould beg, Avere you in my distress. 

A begging prince what beggar pities not ? 

2. Murd. Look behind you, my lord. 275 

1. Murd. Take that, and that. If all this 

will not do, [Stabs him. 

I ’ll drown you in the malmsey-butt within. 

[Exit [with the body]. 

2. Murd. A bloody deed, and desperately 

dispatch’d! 

Hoav fain, like Pilate, would I Avash my hands 
Of this most grievous murder ! 280 

Be-enter First Murderer. 

1. Murd. How now ! what mean’st thou, that 

thou help’st me not ? 

By heaven, the Duke shall know how slack 
you have been ! 

2. Murd. I would he knew that I had sav’d 

his brother! 

Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say ; 
For I repent me that the Duke is slain. 285 

[Exit. 

1. Murd. So do not I. Go, coward as thou 
art. 

Well, I ’ll go hide the body in some hole 
Till that the Duke give order for his burial; 


And when I have my meed, I will away ; 

For this will out, and then I must not stay. 290 

[Exit. 

ACT II 

Scene I. [London. The palace.] 

Flourish. Enter King Edward sick , Queen 
Elizabeth, Dorset, Rivers, Hastings, 
Buckingham, Woodville [Grey, and 
others ]. 

E. Edw. Why, so: now have I done a good 
day’s work. 

You peers, continue this united league. 

I every day expect an embassage 
From my Redeemer to redeem me hence ; * 

And more in peace my soul shall part to heaven, 
Since I have made my friends at peace on earth. 
Hastings and Rivers, take each other’s hand ; 
Dissemble not your hatred, swear your love. 
Biv. By heaven, my soul is purg’d from 
grudging hate; » 

And with my hand I seal my true heart’s love. 
Hast. So thrive I, as I truly swear the like ! 
K. Edw. Take heed you dally not befor® 
your king, 

Lest He that is the supreme King of kings 
Confound your hidden falsehood, and award 
Either of you to be the other’s end. is 

Hast. So prosper I, as I swear perfect love! 
Biv. And I, as I love Hastings with my 
heart! 

K. Edw. Madam, your self is not exempt 
from this, 

Nor you, son Dorset, Buckingham, nor you ; 
You have been factious one against the other. 
Wife, love Lord Hastings, let him kiss your 
hand; 21 

And what j t ou do, do it unfeignedly. 

Q. Eliz. There, Hastings ; I will never more 
remember 

Our former hatred, so thrive I and mine ! 

K. Edw. Dorset, embrace him ; Hastings, 
love lord marquess. 26 

Lor. This interchange of love, I here protest, 
Upon my part shall be inviolable. 

Hast. And so swear I. [They embrace.] 

K. Edw. Now, princely Buckingham, seal 
thou this league 

With thy embracements to my wife’s allies, so 
And make me happy in your unity. 

Buck. Whenever Buckingham doth turn his 
hate 

Upon your Grace [ta the Queen], but with all 
duteous love 

Doth cherish you and yours, God punish me 
With hate in those Avhere I expect most love ! 
When I have most need to employ a friend, 3e 
And most assured that he is a friend, 

Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile 
Be he unto me ! This do 1 beg of Heaven, 
When I am cold in love to you or yours. 4« 

[They embrace. 

K. Edw. A pleasing cordial, princely Buck¬ 
ingham, 

Is this thy vow unto my sickly heart. 




RICHARD THE THIRD 


743 


ii. i. 


There wanteth now our brother Gloucester 
here, 

To make the blessed period of this peace. 

Buck. And, in good time, 45 

Here comes Sir Richard Ratcliff and the Duke. 

Enter Gloucester and Ratcliff. 

Glou. Good morrow to my sovereign king 
and queen; 46 

And, princely peers, a happy time of day ! 

K. Edw. Happy, indeed, as we have spent 
the day. 

Gloucester, we have done deeds of charity; 
Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate, bo 
Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers. 

Glou. A blessed labour, my most sovereign 
lord. 

Among this princely heap, if any here, 

By false intelligence, or wrong surmise, 

Hold me a foe ; bs 

If I unwittingly, or in my rage, 

Have aught committed that is hardly borne 
By any in this presence, I desire 
To reconcile me to his friendly peace. 

’T is death to me to be at enmity ; eo 

I hate it, and desire all good men’s love. 

First, madam, I entreat true peace of you, 
Which I will purchase with my duteous ser¬ 
vice ; 

Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham, 

If ever any grudge were lodg’d between us ; «b 
O f you and you, Lord Rivers and of Dorset; 
That all without desert have frown’d on me; 
Of you, Lord Woodville, and, Lord Scales, of 
you; 

Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen ; indeed, of all. 
I do not know that Englishman alive 
With whom my soul is any jot at odds to 

More than the infant that is born to-night. 

I thank my God for my humility. 

Q. Eliz. A holy day shall this be kept here¬ 
after. 

I would to God all strifes were well com¬ 
pounded. 

My sovereign lord, I do beseech your High¬ 
ness 7 ® 

To take our brother Clarence to your grace. 

Glou. Why, madam, have I off’red love for 
this, 

To be so flouted in this royal presence ? 

Who knows not that the gentle Duke is dead ? 

[They all start. 

You do him injury to scorn his corse. so 

K. Edw. \Vho knows not he is dead ! Who 
knows he is ? 

Q. Eliz. All-seeing Heaven, what a world is 
this! 

Buck. Look I so pale, Lord Dorset, as the 
rest ? 

Dor. Ay, my good lord ; and no man in the 
presence 

But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks. »g 

K. Edw. Is Clarence dead ? The order was 
revers’d. 

Glou. But he, poor man, by your first order 
died, 

And that a winged Mercury did bear; 


Some tardy cripple bare the countermand, 
That came too lag to see him buried. so 

God grant that some, less noble and less loyal, 
Nearer in bloody thoughts, but not in blood, 
Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence 
did, 

And yet go current from suspicion 1 
Enter Derby. 

Der. A boon, my sovereign, for my service 
done! [Kneels.] »b 

K. Edw. I prithee, peace ; my soul is full of 
sorrow. 

Der. I will not rise, unless your Highness 
hear me. 

K. Edw. Then say at once what is it thou 
requests. 

Der. The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant’s 
life, 

Who slew to-day a riotous gentleman 100 

Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolk. 

K. Edw. Have I a tongue to doom my 
brother’s death, 

And shall that tongue give pardon to a slave ? 
My brother kill’d no man; his fault was 
thought, 

And yet his punishment was bitter death. 105 
Who sued to me for him ? Who, in my wrath, 
Kneel’d at my feet, and bid me be advis’d ? 
Who spoke of brotherhood ? Who spoke of 
love ? 

Who told me how the poor soul did forsake 
The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me ? «« 
Who told me, in the field at Tewksbury, 

When Oxford had me down, he rescuea me, 
And said, “ Dear brother, live, and be a 
king ” ? 

Who told me, when we both lay in the field 
Frozen almost to death, how lie did lap me 
Even in his garments, and did give himself, 

All thin and naked, to the numb cold night? 
All this from my remembrance brutish wrath 
Sinfully pluck’d, and not a man of you 
Had so much grace to put it in my mind. 120 
But when your carters or your waiting-vassals 
Have done a drunken slaughter, and defac’d 
The precious image of our dear Kedeemer, 

You straight are on your knees for pardon, par¬ 
don ; 

And I, unjustly too, must grant it you. _ 125 

[Derby rises.] 

But for my brother not a man would speak, 
Nor I, ungracious, speak unto myself 
For him, poor soul. The proudest of you all 
Have been beholding to him in his life ; 

Yet none of you would once beg for his life. 130 
O God, I fear thy justice will take hold 
On me, and you, and mine, and yours for this ! 
Come, blastings, help me to my closet. Ah, 
poor Clarence! 

[Exeunt some with King and Queen. 
Glou. This is the fruit of rashness 1 Mark’d 
you not 

How that the guilty kindred of the Queen ise 
L ook’d pale when they did hear of Clarence’ 
death ? 

0 , they did urge it still unto the King ! 








744 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


II. iu 


God will revenge it. Come, lords, will you go 
To comfort Edward with our company. 

Buck. We wait upon your Grace. wo 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [The palace.] 

Enter the old Duchess of York, with the two 
Children of Clarence. 

Boy. Goodgrandam, tell us, is our father dead? 
Duch. No, boy. 

Girl. Why do you weep so oft, and beat your 
breast, 

And cry, “ 0 Clarence, my unhappy son ! ” 

Boy. Why do you look on us, and shake 
your head, e 

And call us .orphans, wretches, castaways, 

If that our noble father were alive ? 

Duch. My pretty cousins, you mistake me 
both. 

I do lament the sickness of the King. 

As loath to lose him, not your fathers death ; 
It were lost sorrow to wail one that’s lost. n 
Boy. Then you conclude, my grandam, he is 
dead. 

The King mine uncle is to blame for it. 

God will revenge it, whom I will importune 
With earnest prayers all to that effect. is 

Girl. And so will I. 

Duch. Peace, children, peace ! the King doth 
love you well. 

Incapable and shallow innocents, 

You cannot guess who caus’d your father’s 
death. 

Boy. Grandam, we can; for my good uncle 
Gloucester 20 

Told me the King, provok’d to it by the Queen, 
Devis’d impeachments to imprison him. 

And when my uncle told me so, he wept, 

And pitied me, and kindly kiss’d my cheek ; 
Bade me rely on him as on my father, sr, 

And he would love me dearly as a child. 

Duch. Ah, that deceit should steal such 
gentle shape, 

And with a virtuous vizor hide deep vice ! 

He is my son, ay, and therein my shame ; 

Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit. 30 
Boy. Think you my uncle did dissemble, 
grandam ? 

Duch. Ay, boy. 

Boy. I cannot think it. Hark ! what noise is 
this? 

Enter Queen Elizabeth, with her hair about 
her ears; Rivers and Dorset after her. 

Q. Eliz. Ah, who shall hinder me to wail 
and weep, 

To chide my fortune, and torment myself ? 35 

I ’ll join with black despair against my soul, 
And to myself become an enemy. 

Duch. What means this scene of rude impa¬ 
tience ? 

Q. Eliz. To make an act of tragic violence. 
Edward, my lord, thy son, our king, is dead. 40 
Why grow the branches when the root is gone ? 
Why wither not the leaves that want their sap ? 
If you will live, lament; if die, be brief, 


That our swift-winged souls may catch the 
King’s; 

Or, like obedient subjects, follow him « 

To his new kingdom of ne’er-changing night. 
Duch. Ah, so much interest have 1 in thy 
sorrow 

As I had title in thy noble husband ! 

I have bewept a worthy husband’s death, 

And liv’d with looking on his images ; 00 

But now two mirrors of his princely semblance 
Are crack’d in pieces by malignant death, 

And I for comfort have but one false glass. 
That grieves me when I see my shame in him. 
Thou art a widow ; yet thou art a mother, 56 
And hast the comfort of thy children left: 

But death hath snatch’d my husband from 
mine arms, 

And pluck’d two crutches from my feeble 
hands, 

Clarence and Edward. 0 , what cause have I, 
Thine being but a moiety of my moan, eo 

To overgo thy woes and drown thy cries ! 

Boy. Ah ! aunt, you wept not for our father’s 
death; 

How can we aid you with our kindred tears ? 
Girl. Our fatherless distress was left un¬ 
moan’d ; 

Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept! «b 
Q. Eliz. Give me no help in lamentation, 

I am not barren to bring forth complaints. 

All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes, 
That I, being govern’d by the watery moon, 
May send forth plenteous tears to drown the 
world! to 

Ah for my husband, for my dear lord Edward ! 
Chil. Ah for our father, for our dear lord 
Clarence! 

Duch. Alas for both, both mine, Edward and 
Clarence! 

Q. Eliz. What stay had I but Edward ? and 
he’s gone. 

Chil. What stay had we but Clarence ? and 
he’s gone. 75 

Duch. What stays had I but they ? and they 
are gone. 

Q. Eliz. Was never widow had so dear a loss I 
Chil. Were never orphans had so dear a loss! 
Duch. Was never mother had so dear a loss ! 
Alas, I am the mother of these griefs ! so 

Their woes are parcell’d, mine is general. 

She for an Edward weeps, and so do I; 

I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she ; 

These babes for Clarence weep, [and so do I; 

I for an Edward weep,] so do not they. ss 

Alas, you three, on me, threefold distress’d, 
Pour all your tears ! I am your sorrow’s nurse, 
And I will pamper it with lamentation. 

Dor. Comfort, dear mother. God is much 
displeas’d 

That you take with unthankfulness His doing. 90 
In common worldly things, ’tis call’d ungrateful, 
With dull unwillingness to repay a debt 
Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent; 
Much more to be thus opposite with heaven, 
For it requires the royal debt it lent you. 95 
Biv. Madam, bethink you, like a careful 
mother, 




RICHARD THE THIRD 


745 


ii. iii. 


Of the young prince your son. Send straight for 
him; 

Let him be crown’d ; in him your comfort lives. 
Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward’s 
grave, 

And plant your joys in living Edward’s throne. 

Enter Gloucester, Buckingham, Derby, 
Hastings, and Ratcliff. 

Glou. Sister, have comfort. All of us have 
cause 101 

To wail the dimming of our shining star ; 

But none can help our harms by wailing them. 
Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy ; 

I did not see your Grace. Humbly on my knee 
I crave your blessing. ioe 

Duck. God bless thee ; and put meekness in 
thy breast, 

Love, charity, obedience, and true duty! 

Glou. [Aside.] Amen; and make me die a 
good old man ! 

That is the butt-end of a mother’s blessing, no 
I marvel that her Grace did leave it out. 

Buck. You cloudy princes and heart-sorrow¬ 
ing peers, 

That bear this heavy mutual load of moan, 
Now cheer each other in each other’s love. 
Though we have spent our harvest of this king, 
We are to reap the harvest of his son. no 

The broken rancour of your high-swoln hates, 
But lately splinter’d, knit, and join’d together, 
Must gently be preserv’d, cherish’d, and kept. 
Me seemeth good, that, with some little train, 
Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be 
fet 121 

Hither to London, to be crown’d our king. 

Riv. Why with some little train, my Lord 
of Buckingham ? 

Buck. Marry, my lord, lest, by a multitude, 
The new-heal’d wound of malice should break 
out; i 25 

Which would be so much the more dangerous, 
By how much the estate is green and yet un¬ 
govern’d. 

Where every horse bears his commanding rein 
A.nd may direct his course as please himself, 

As well the fear of harm, as harm apparent, 130 
In my opinion, ought to be prevented. 

Glou. I hope the King made peace with all 
of us ; 

And the compact is firm and true in me. 

Riv. And so in me ; and so, I think, in all. 
Yet, since it is but green, it should be put 135 
To no apparent likelihood of breach, 

Which haply by much company might be urg’d ; 
Therefore I say with noble Buckingham, 

That it is meet so few should fetch the Prince. 
Hast. And so say I. i*o 

Glou. Then be it so ; and go we to determine 
Who they shall be that straight shall post to 
Ludlow. 

Madam, and you, my sister, will you go 
To rive your censures in this business ? 

Wuch* 2 ' | our hearts.] us 

[Exeunt all but Buckingham and 
Gloucester. 


Buck. My lord, whoever journeys to the 
Prince, 

For God’s sake, let not us two stay at home ; 
For, by the way, I ’ll sort occasion, 

As index to the story we late talk’d of, 

To part the Queen’s proud kindred from the 
Prince. iso 

Glou. My other self, my counsel’s consistory, 
My oracle, my prophet, my dear cousin, 

I, as a child, will go by thy direction. 

Toward Ludlow then, for we’ll not stay be¬ 
hind. [Exeunt. 

Scene III. [London. A street.] 

Enter one Citizen at one door< and another at 
the other. 

1. Cit. Good morrow, neighbour; whither 

away so fast ? 

2. Cit. I promise you, I scarcely know myself. 
Hear you the news abroad ? 

1. Cit. Yes, that the King is dead. 

2. Cit. Ill news, by ’r lady; seldom comes 

the better. 

I fear, I fear’t will prove a giddy world. b 
Enter another Citizen. 

3. Cit. Neighbours, God speed ! 

1. Cit. Give you good morrow, sir. 

3. Cit. Doth the news hold of good King 

Edward’s death ? 

2. Cit. Ay, sir, it is too true; God help the 

while! 

3. Cit. Then, masters, look to see a troublous 

world. 

1. Cit. No, no ; by God’s good grace his son 

shall reign. io 

3. Cit. Woe to that land that’s govern’d by 
a child! 

2. Cit. In him there is a hope of government, 
That in his nonage, council under him, 

And in his full and ripened years himself, 

No doubt, shall then and till then govern well. 
1. Cit. So stood the state when Henry the 
Sixth ia 

Was crown’d in Paris but at nine months old. 

3. Cit. Stood the state so ? No, no, good 

friends, God wot; 

For then this land was famously enrich’d 
With politic grave counsel; then the King 20 
Had virtuous uncles to protect his Grace. 

1. Cit. Why, so hath this, both by his father 

and mother. 

2. Cit. Better it were they all came by his 

father, 

Or by his father there were none at all ; 

For emulation, who shall now be nearest, 26 
Will touch us all too near, if God prevent not. 
O, full of danger is the Duke of Gloucester, 
And the Queen’s sons and brothers haught and 
proud! 

And were they to be rul’d, and not to rule, 
This sickly land might solace as before. *0 
1. Cit. Come, come, we fear the worst; all 
will be well. 

3. Cit. When clouds are seen, wise men put 

on their cloaks ; 





746 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


II. IV. 


When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand ; 
When the sun sets, who doth not look for 
night ? 

Untimely storms makes men expect a dearth. 35 
All may be well; but, if God sort it so, 

’T is more than we deserve, or I expect. 

2. Cit. Truly, the hearts of men are full of 

fear. 

You cannot reason almost with a man 
That looks not heavily and full of dread. 40 

3. Cit. Before the days of change, still is it 

so. 

By a divine instinct men’s minds mistrust 
Ensuing danger ; as, by proof, we see 
The water swell before a boisterous storm. 

But leave it all to God. Whither away ? 45 

2. Cit. Marry, we were sent for to the jus¬ 

tices. 

3. Cit. And so was I. I ’ll bear you company. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [ London. The palace.] 

Enter the Archbishop of York, the young 
Duke of York, Queen Elizabeth, and the 
Duchess of York. 

Arch. Last night, I heard, they lay at 
Northampton ; 

At Stony-Stratford they do rest to-night. 
To-morrow, or next day, they will be here. 
Duch. I long with all my heart to see the 
Prince. 

I hope he is much grown since last I saw him. 5 
Q. Eliz. But I hear, no ; they say my son of 
York 

Has almost overta’en him in his growth. 

York. Ay, mother; but I would not have it 
so. 

Duch. Why, my good cousin, it is good to 

gTOW. 

York. Grandam, one night, as we did sit at 
supper, 10 

My uncle Rivers talk’d how I did grow 
More than my brother. “ Ay,” quoth my uncle 
Gloucester, 

“ Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow 
apace; ” 

And since, methinks I would not grow so fast, 
Because sweet flowers are slow and weeds 
make haste. 15 

Duch. Good faith, good faith, the saying did 
not hold 

In him that did object the same to thee. 

He was the wretched’st thing when he was 
young, 

So long a-growing and so leisurely, 

That, if his rule were true, he should be gra¬ 
cious. 20 

[Arch.] And so, no doubt, he is, my gracious 
madam. 

Duch. I hope he is; but yet let mothers 
doubt. 

York. Now, by my troth, if I had been re- 
memb’red, 

I could have given my uncle’s Grace a flout. 

To touch his growth nearer than he toucn’d 
mine. 2s 


Duch. How, my young York ? I prithee, let 
me hear it. 

York. Marry, they say my uncle grew so 
fast 

That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old ; 
’T was full two years ere I could get a tooth. 
Grandam, this would have been a biting jest. 30 
Duch. I prithee, pretty York, who told thee 
this ? 

York. Grandam, his nurse. 

Duch. His nurse! why, she was dead ere 
thou wast born. 

York. If ’t were not she, I cannot tell who 
told me. 

Q. Eliz. A parlous boy! Go to, you are too 
shrewd. 86 

Duch. Good madam, be not angry with the 
child. 

Q. Eliz. Pitchers have ears. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Arch. Here comes a messenger. What news ? 
Mess. Such news, my lord, as grieves me to 
report. 

Q. Eliz. How doth the Prince? 

Mess. Well, madam, and in health. 

Duch. What is thy news ? « 

Mess. Lord Rivers and Lord Grey are sent 
to Pomfret, 

With them Sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners. 
Duch. Who hath committed them ? 

Mess. The mighty dukes 

Gloucester and Buckingham. 

Arch. For what offence ? 45 

Mess. The sum of all I can, I have disclos’d. 
Why or for what the nobles were committed 
Is all unknown to me, my gracious lord. 

Q. Eliz. Ay me, I see the ruin of my house ! 
The tiger now hath seiz’d the gentle hind ; eo 
Insulting tyranny begins to jut 
Upon the innocent and aweless throne. 
Welcome, destruction, blood, and massacre ! 

I see, as in a map, the end of all. 

Duch. Accursed and unquiet wrangling days, 
How many of you have mine eyes beheld ! eo 
My husband lost his life to get the crown, 

And often up and down my sons were toss’d 
For me to joy and weep their gain and loss ; 
And being seated, and domestic broils eo 

Clean over-blown, themselves, the conquerors, 
Make war upon themselves, brother to brother, 
Blood to blood, self against self. O, preposter¬ 
ous 

And frantic outrage, end thy damned spleen ; 
Or let me die, to look on earth no more ! 65 

Q. Eliz. Come, come, my boy; we will to 
sanctuary. 

Madam, farewell. 

Duch. Stay, I will go with you. 

Q. Eliz. You have no cause. 

Arch. [To the Queen.] My gracious lady, go ; 
And thither bear your treasure and your goods. 
For my part, I ’ll resign unto your Grace 70 
The seal I keep ; and so betide to me 
As well I tender you and all of yours ! 

Go, I ’ll conduct you to the sanctuary. 

[Exeunt. 




hi. i. 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


747 


ACT III 

Scene I. [London. A street.] 

The trumpets sound. Enter the young Prince, 
the Dukes of Gloucester and Bucking¬ 
ham, Cardinal [Bourchier, Catesby,] 
and others. 

Buck. Welcome, sweet prince, to London, to 
your chamber. 

Glou. Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts’ 
sovereign. 

The weary way hath made you melancholy. 
Prince. No, uncle ; but our crosses on the 
way 

Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy, s 
I want more uncles here to welcome me. 

Glou. Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of 
your years 

Hath not yet div’d into the world’s deceit. 

No more can you distinguish of a man 
Than of his outward show ; which, God he 
knows, 10 

Seldom or never jumpeth with the heart. 

Those uncles which you want were dangerous; 
Your Grace attended to their sug’red words, 
But look’d not on the poison of their hearts. 
God keep you from them, and from such false 
friends 1 i« 

Prince. God keep me from false friends ! but 
they were none. 

Glou. My lord, the Mayor of London comes 
to greet you. 

Enter the Lord Mayor [and his train]. 

May. God bless your Grace with health and 
happy days! 

Prince. I thank you, good my lord; and 
thank you all. [Mayor and train retire.] 
I thought my mother and my brother York 20 
Would long ere this have met us on the way. 
Fie, what a slug is Hastings, that he comes not 
To tell us whether they will come or no ! 

Enter Lord Hastings. 

Buck. And, in good time, here comes the 
sweating lord. 

Prince. Welcome, my lord. What, will our 
mother come ? 25 

Hast. On what occasion, God he knows, not I, 
The Queen your mother, and your brother 
York, 

Have taken sanctuary. The tender prince 
Would fain have come with me to meet your 
Grace, 

But by his mother was perforce withheld. 30 
Buck. Fie, what an indirect and peevish 
course 

Is this of hers ! Lord Cardinal, will your Grace 
Persuade the Queen to send the Duke of York 
Unto his princely brother presently ? 

If she deny, Lord Hastings, go with him, 35 
And from her jealous arms pluck him per¬ 
force. 

Card. My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak 
oratory 

Can from his mother win the Duke of York, 


Anon expect him here ; but if she be obdurate 
To mild entreaties, God [in heaven] forbid 40 
We should infringe the holy privilege 
Of blessed sanctuary ! Not for all this land 
Would I be guilty of so great a sin. 

Buck. You are too senseless-obstinate, my 
iord, 

Too ceremonious and traditional. 45 

Weigh it but with the grossness of this age, 
You break not sanctuary in seizing him. 

The benefit thereof is always granted 
To those whose dealings have deserv’d the 
place, 

And those who have the wit to claim the place. 
This prince hath neither claim’d it nor deserv’d 
it, 51 

And therefore, in mine opinion, cannot have it. 
Then, taking him from thence that is not there, 
You break no privilege nor charter there. 

Oft have I heard of sanctuary men, 55 

But sanctuary children ne’er till now. 

Card. My lord, you shall o’er-rule my mind 
for once. 

Come on, Lord Hastings, will you go with me ? 
Hast. I go, my lord. 

Prince. Good lords, make all the speedy 
haste you may. bo 

[Exeunt Cardinal and Hastings. 
Say, uncle Gloucester, if our brother come, 
Where shall we sojourn till our coronation? 
Glou. Where think’st best unto your royal 
self. 

If I may counsel you, some day or two 
Your Highness shall repose you at the Tower; 
Then where you please, and shall be thought 
most fit 06 

For your best health and recreation. 

Prince. I do not like the Tower, of any 
place. 

Did Julius Caesar build that place, my lord ? 
Buck. He did, my gracious lord, begin that 
place; 70 

Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edifi’d. 

Prince. Is it upon record, or else reported 
Successively from age to age, he built it ? 
Buck. Upon record, my gracious lord. 
Prince. But say, my lord, it were not reg- 
ist’red, 75 

Methinks the truth should live from age to age, 
As’t were retail’d to all posterity, 

Even to the general all-ending day. 

Glou. [Aside.] So wise so young, they say, 
do never live long. 

Prince. What say you, uncle ? so 

Glou. I say, without characters, fame lives 
long. 

i Aside.] Thus, like the formal vice, Iniquity, 
moralize two meanings in one word. 

Prince. That Julius Caesar was a famous 
man; 

With what his valour did enrich his wit, ss 
His wit set down to make his valour live. 
Death makes no conquest of this conqueror ; 
For now he lives in fame, though not in life. 

I ’ll tell you what, my cousin Buckingham, — 
Buck. What, my gracious lord ? »« 

Prince. An if I live until I be a man, 





748 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


III. 1. 


I ’ll win our ancient right in France again, 

Or die a soldier, as I liv’d a king. 

Glou. [Aside.] Short summers lightly have 
a forward spring. 

Enter young York, Hastings, and the Car¬ 
dinal. 

Buck. Now, in good time, here comes the 
Duke of York. as 

Prince. Richard of York! how fares our 
noble brother ? 

York. Well, my dread lord ; so must I call 
you now. 

Prince. Ay, brother, to our grief, as it is 
yours. 

Too late he died that might have kept that 
title, 

Which by his death hath lost much majesty. 100 
Glou. How fares our cousin, noble Lord of 
York? 

York. I thank you, gentle uncle. 0 , my lord, 

You said that idle weeds are fast in growth : 

The Prince my brother hath outgrown me far. 
Glou. He hath, my lord. 

York. And therefore is he idle ? uxs 

Glou. 0 , my fair cousin, I must not say so. 
York. Then is he more beholding to you 
than I. 

Glou. He may command me as my sovereign ; 

But you have power in me as in a kinsman. 
York. I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger. 
Glou. My dagger, little cousin? With all my 
heart. m 

Prince. A beggar, brother ? 

York. Of my kind uncle, that I know will 
give; 

And being but a toy, which is no grief to 
give. 

Glou. A greater gift than that I ’ll give my 
cousin. ns 

York. A greater gift! 0 , that’s the sword 
to it. 

Glou. Ay, gentle cousin, were it light enough. 
York. 0 , then, I see, you will part but with 
light gifts; 

In weightier things you ’ll say a beggar nay. 
Glou. It is too weighty for your Grace to 
wear. 120 

York. I weigh it lightly, were it heavier. 
Glou. What, would you have my weapon, 
little lord ? 

York. I would, that I might thank you as 
you call me. 

Glou. How ? 

York. Little. _ . 125 

Prince. My Lord of York will still be cross 
in talk. 

Uncle, your Grace knows how to hear with him. 
York. You mean, to hear me, not to bear 
with me. 

Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me. 

Because that I am little, like an ape, 130 

He thinks that you should bear me on your 
shoulders. 

Buck. [Aside to Hastings.] With what a 
sharp-provided wit he reasons ! 

To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle, 


He prettily and aptly taunts himself. 

So cunning and so young is wonderful. 135 

Glou. My lord, will’t please you pass along ? 
Myself and my good cousin Buckingham 
Will to your mother, to entreat of her 
To meet you at the Tower and welcome you. 
York. What, will you go unto the Tower, my 
lord ? t 140 

Prince. My Lord Protector needs will have 
it so. 

York. I shall not sleep in quiet at the 
Tower. 

Glou. Why, what should you fear ? 

York. Marry, my uncle Clarence’ angry 
ghost. 

My grandam told me he was murder’d there, we 
Prince. I fear no uncles dead. 

Glou. Nor none that live, I hope. 

Prince. An if they live, I hope I need not 
fear. 

But come, my lord ; and with a heavy heart, 
Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower. iso 
[A Sennet. Exeunt all but Glouces¬ 
ter , Buckingham , and Catesby. 
Buck. Think you, my lord, this little prating 
York 

Was not incensed by his subtle mother 
To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously ? 
Glou. No doubt, no doubt. 0 , ’t is a perilous 
boy; 

Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable. is* 
He is all the mother’s, from the top to toe. 
Buck. Well, let them rest. Come hither, 
Catesby. 

Thou art sworn as deeply to effect what we in¬ 
tend 

As closely to conceal what we impart. 159 

Thou know’st our reasons urg’d upon the 
way; 

What tliink’st thou ? Is it not an easy matter 
To make William Lord Hastings of our mind, 
For the instalment of this noble duke 
In the seat royal of this famous isle ? 

Cate. He for his father’s sake so loves the 
Prince, i «6 

That he will not be won to aught against him. 
Buck. What think’st thou, then, of Stanley ? 
Will not he ? 

Cate. He will do all in all as Hastings doth. 
Buck. Well, then, no more but this: go, 
gentle Catesby, 

And, as it were far off, sound thou Lord Hast¬ 
ings, 170 

How he doth stand affected to our purpose ; 
And summon him to-morrow to the Tower, 

To sit about the coronation. 

If thou dost find him tractable to us, 
Encourage him, and tell him all our reasons, iib 
I f he be leaden, icy-cold, unwilling, 

Be thou so too ; and so break off the talk, 

And give us notice of his inclination; 

For we to-morrow hold divided councils, 
Wherein thyself shalt highly be employ’d, iso 
Glou. Commend me to Lord William. Tell 
him, Catesby, 

His ancient knot of dangerous adversaries 
I To-morrow are let blood at Pomfret Castle; 





III. 11. 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


749 


And bid my lord, for joy of this good news, 
Give Mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more. 
Buck. Good Catesby, go, effect this business 
soundly. ise 

Cate. My good lords both, with all the heed 
I can. 

Glou. Shall we hear from you, Catesby, ere 
we sleep ? 

Cate. You shall, my lord. 

Glou. At Crosby House, there shall you find 
us both. [Exit Catesby. i»o 

Buck. Now, my lord, what shall we do, if 
we perceive 

Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots ? 
Glou. Chop off his head ; something we will 
determine. 

And, look, when I am king, claim thou of me 
The earldom of Hereford, and all the movables 
Whereof the King my brother was possess’d. 
Buck. I ’ll claim that promise at your Grace’s 
hand. i»t 

Glou. And look to have it yielded with all 
kindness. 

Come, let us sup betimes, that afterwards 
We may digest our complots in some form. 200 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. Before Lord Hastings' house. 
Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. My lord ! my lord! 

Hast, r Within.] Who knocks ? 

Mess. One from the Lord Stanley. 

Hast. [Within.] What is’t o’clock ? 

Mess. Upon the stroke of four. 5 

Enter Lord Hastings. 

Hast. Can’t my lord Stanley sleep these 
tedious nights ? 

Mess. So it appears by that I have to say. 

• First, he commends him to your noble self. 
Hast. What then ? 

Mess. Then certifies your lordship that this 
night 10 

He dreamt the boar had razed off his helm. 
Besides, he says there are two councils kept; 
And that may be determin’d at the one 
Which may make you and him to rue at the 
other. 

Therefore he sends to know your lordship’s 
pleasure, 

If you will presently take horse with him, 

And with all speed post with him toward the 
north, 

To shun the danger that his soul divines. 

Hast. Go, fellow, go, return unto thy lord ; 
Bid him not fear the separated councils. 20 
His honour and myself are at the one, 

And at the other is my good friend Catesby; 
Where nothing can proceed that toucheth us 
Whereof I shall not have intelligence. 

Tell him his fears are shallow, without in¬ 
stance ; 26 

And for his dreams, I wonder he’s so simple 
To trust the mockery of unquiet slumbers. 

To fly the boar before the boar pursues, 

Were to incense the boar to follow us 


And make pursuit where he did mean no chase. 
Go, bid thy master rise and come to me ; si 
And we will both together to the Tower, 
Where, he shall see, the boar will use us kindly. 
Mess. I'll go, my lord, and tell him what 
you say. [Exit. 

Enter Catesby. 

Cate. Many good morrows to my noble lord ! 
Hast. Good morrow, Catesby ; you are early 
stirring. 36 

What news, what news, in this our tott’ring 
state ? 

Cate. It is a reeling world, indeed, my lord, 
And, I believe, will never stand upright 
Till Richard wear the garland of the realm. 40 
Hast. How ! wear the garland! Dost thou 
mean the crown ? 

Cate. Ay, my good lord. 

Hast. I ’ll have this crown of mine cut from 
my shoulders 

Before I ’ll see the crown so foul misplac’d. 

But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it ? 45 
Cate. Ay, on my life ; and hopes to find you 
forward 

Upon his party for the gain thereof ; 

And thereupon he sends you this good news, 
That this same very day your enemies, 

The kindred of the Queen, must die at Pom- 
fret. BO 

Hast. Indeed, I am no mourner for that 
news, 

Because they have been still my adversaries ; 
But, that I ’ll give my voice on Richard’s side, 
To bar my master’s heirs in true descent, 

God knows I will not do it. to the death. bs 
Cate. God keep your lordship in that gracious 
mind! 

Hast. But I shall laugh at this a twelve- 
month hence, 

That they which brought me in my master’s 
hate, 

I live to look upon their tragedy. bs 

Well, Catesby, ere a fortnight make me older, 
I ’ll send some packing that yet think not on’t. 
Cate. ’Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious 
lord, 

When men are unprepar’d and look not for 
it. 86 

Hast. 0 monstrous, monstrous ! and so falls 
it out 

With Rivers, Vaughan, Grey ; and so ’twill do 
With some men else, that think themselves as 
safe 

As thou and I; who, as thou know’st, are dear 
To princely Richard and to Buckingham. 70 
Cate. The Princes both make high account 
of you, 

[Aside.] For they account his head upon the 
bridge. 

Hast. I know they do ; and I have well de¬ 
serv’d it. 

Enter Lord Stanley. 

— Come on, come on [to Stanley] ; where is your 
boar-spear, man ? 

Fear you the boar, and go so unprovided ? 76 




75° 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


III. IV. 


Stan. My lord, good morrow ; good morrow, 
Catesby. 

You may jest on, but, by the holy rood, 

I do not like these several councils, I. 

Hast. My lord, I hold my life as dear as 
yours; 8 « 

And never in my days, I do protest, 

Was it so precious to me as ’t is now. 

Think you, but that I know our state secure, 

I would be so triumphant as I am ? 

Stan. The lords at Pomfret, when they rode 
from London, 85 

Were jocund, and suppos’d their states were 
sure, 

And they indeed had no cause to mistrust; 

But yet, you see, how soon the day o’ercast. 
This sudden stab of rancour I misdoubt. 

Pray God, I say, I prove a needless coward ! 90 
What, shall we toward the Tower? The day 
is spent. 

Hast. Come, come, have with you. Wot you 
what, my lord ? 

To-day the lords you talk of are beheaded. 

Stan. They, for their truth, might better 
wear their heads 

Than some that have accus’d them wear their 
hats. 

But come, my lord, let us away. 

Enter a Pursuivant. 

Hast. Go on before ; I ’ll talk with this good 
fellow. [ Exeunt Stanley and Catesby. 
How now, sirrah ! how goes the world with 
thee ? 

Purs. The better that your lordship please 
to ask. 

Hast. I tell thee, man, ’t is better with me 
now loo 

Than when thou met’st me last where now we 
meet. 

Then was I going prisoner to the Tower 
By the suggestion of the Queen’s allies ; 

But now, I tell thee —keep it to thyself — 
This day those enemies are put to death, ios 

And I in better state than e’er I was. 

Purs. God hold it, to your honour’s good 
content! 

Hast. Gramercy, fellow. There, drink that 
for me. [ Throws him his purse. 

Purs. I thank your honour. [Exit. 

Enter a Priest. 

Priest. Well met, my lord ; I am glad to see 
your honour. no 

Hast. I thank thee, good Sir John, with all 
my heart. 

I am in your debt for your last exercise ; 

Come the next Sabbath, and I will content 
you. 

Priest. I ’ll wait upon your lordship. 

Enter Buckingham. 

Buck. What, talking with a priest, Lord 
Chamberlain ? 

Your friends at Pomfret, they do need the 
priest; u 5 

Your honour hath no shriving work in hand. 


Hast. Good faith, and when I met this holy 
man, 

The men you talk of came into my mind. 
What, go you toward the Tower ? 

Buck. I do, my lord ; but long I cannot stay 
there. 120 

I shall return before your lordship thence. 
Hast. Nay, like enough, for I stay dinner 
there. 

Buck. [Aside.] And supper too, although 
thou know’st it not. 

Come, will you go ? 

Hast. I ’ll wait upon your lordship. 125 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. Pomfret [Castle]. 

Enter Sir Richard Ratcliff, with halberds , 
carrying Rivers, Grey, ana Vaughan to 
death. 

[Bat. Come, bring forth the prisoners.] 

Biv. Sir Richard Ratcliff, let me tell thee 
this: 

To-day shalt thou behold a subject die 
For truth, for duty, and for loyalty. 

Grey. God bless the Prince from all the pack 
of you! 6 

A knot you are of damned blood-suckers. 

Vaug. You live that shall cry woe for this 
hereafter. 

Bat. Dispatch ; the limit of your lives is out. 
Biv. 0 Pomfret, Pomfret! 0 thou bloody 
prison, 

Fatal and ominous to noble peers ! 10 

Within the guilty closure of thy walls 
Richard the Second here was hack’d to death ; 
And, for more slander to thy dismal seat, 

We give to thee our guiltless blood to drink. 
Grey. Now Margaret’s curse is fall’n upon 
our heads, is 

When she exclaim’d on Hastings, you, and I 
For standing by when Richard stabb’d her son. 
Biv. Then curs’d she Richard, then curs’d 
she Buckingham, 

Then curs’d she Hastings. 0 , remember, God, 
To hear her prayer for them, as now for us ! 
And for my sister and her princely sons, 20 
Be satisfi’d, dear God, with our true blood, 
Which, as thou know’st, unjustly must be spilt. 
Bat. Make haste; the hour of death is ex¬ 
piate. 

Biv. Come, Grey, come, Vaughan, let us 
here embrace. 

Farewell, until we meet again in heaven. 25 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [The Tower of London.] 

Enter Buckingham, Derby, Hastings, the 
Bishop of Ely, Ratcliff, Lovel, with 
others , [and take their seats] at a table. 

Hast. Now, noble peers, the cause why we 
are met 

Is, to determine of the coronation. 

In God’s name speak, when is the royal day ? 
Buck. Is all things ready for the royal time ? 
Der. It is, and wants but nomination. 5 




III. iv. 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


75* 


Ely. To-morrow, then, I judge a happy day. 
Buck. Who knows the Lord Protector’s 
mind herein ? 

Who is most inward with the royal Duke ? 

Ely. Your Grace, we think, should soonest 
know his mind. 

Buck. [Who, I, my lord ?] 10 

We know each other’s faces ; for our hearts, 
He knows no more of mine than I of yours, 

Or I of his, my lord, than you of mine. 

Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love. 
Hast. I thank his Grace, I know he loves 
me well; is 

But, for his purpose in the coronation, 

I have not sounded him, nor he deliver’d 
His gracious pleasure any way therein t 
But you, my honourable lords, may name the 
time; 

And in the Duke’s behalf I ’ll give my voice, 20 
Which, I presume, he ’ll take in gentle part. 

Enter Gloucester. 

Ely. In happy time, here comes the Duke 
himself. 

Glou. My noble lords and cousins all, good 
morrow. 

I have been long a sleeper; but, I trust, 

My absence doth neglect no great design 25 
Which by my presence might have been con¬ 
cluded. 

Buck. Had not you come upon your cue, my 
lord, 

William Lord Hastings had pronounc’d your 
part, — 

I mean, your voice, — for crowning of the King. 
Glou. Than my Lord Hastings no man might 
be bolder; 30 

His lordship knows me well, and loves me well. 
[Hast. I thank your Grace-.l 
Glou. My Lord of Ely! 

[Ely. My lord?] 

Glou. When I was last in Holborn, 

I saw good strawberries in your garden there. 

I do beseech you send for some of them. ss 
Ely. Marry, and will, my lord, with all my 
heart. [Exit. 

Glou. Cousin of Buckingham, a word with 
you. [Drawing him aside.] 

Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our busi¬ 
ness, 

And finds the testy gentleman so hot 
That he will lose his head ere give consent *0 
His master’s child, as worshipfully he terms it, 
Shall lose the royalty of England’s throne. 
Buck. Withdraw yourself a while; I’ll go 
with you. 

[Exeunt [Gloucester and Bucking¬ 
ham]. 

Der. We have not yet set down this day of 
triumph. 

To-morrow, in my judgement, is too sudden ; 
For I myself am not so well provided 46 

As else I would be, were the day prolong’d. 

Re-enter Bishop of Ely. 

Ely. Where is my Lord, the Duke of 
Gloucester ? I have sent for these strawberries. 


Hast. His Grace looks cheerfully and smooth 
this morning. so 

There’s some conceit or other likes him well 
When that he bids good morrow with such 
spirit. 

I think there’s never a man in Christendom 
Can lesser hide his love or hate than he ; 

For by his face straight shall you know his 
heart. so 

Der. What of his heart perceive you in his 
face 

By any likelihood he show’d to-day ? 

Hast. Marry, that with no man here he is 
offended ; 

For, were he, he had shown it in his looks. 

[Der. I pray God he be not, I say.] 6 o 

Re-enter Gloucester and Buckingham. 

Glou. I pray you all, tell me what they de¬ 
serve 

That do conspire my death with devilish plots 
Of damned witchcraft, and that have pre¬ 
vail’d 

Upon my body with their hellish charms ? 

Hast. The tender love I bear your Grace, 
my lord, _ ee 

Makes me most forward in this princely 
presence 

To doom the offenders, whosoe’er they be. 

I say, my lord, they have deserved death. 

Glou. Then be your eyes the witness of their 
evil. 

Look how I am bewitch’d ; behold mine arm 
Is, like a blasted sapling, wither’d up. ti 

And this is Edward’s wife, thafc monstrous 
witch, 

Consorted with that harlot strumpet Shore, 
That by their witchcraft thus have marked 
me. 

Hast. If they have done this deed, my noble 
lord, — 75 

Glou. If! Thou protector of this damned 
strumpet, 

Talk’st thou to me of “ifs”? Thou art a 
traitor! 

Off with his head ! Now, by Saint Paul I swear, 
I will not dine until I see the same. 

Lovel and Ratcliff, look that it be done. so 
The rest, that love me, rise and follow me. 

[Exeunt all but Hastings , Ratcliff , 
and Lovel. 

Hast.. Woe, woe for England ! not a whit for 
me; 

For I, too fond, might have prevented this. 
Stanley did dream the boar did raze our helms, 
And I did scorn it and disdain to fly. ss 

Three times to-day my foot-cloth horse did 
stumble, 

And started, when he look’d upon the Tower, 
As loath to bear me to the slaughter-house. 

0 , now I need the priest that spake to me ; 

I now repent I told the pursuivant, so 

As too triumphing, how mine enemies 
To-day at Pomfret bloodily were butcher’d, 
And I myself secure in grace and favour. 

0 Margaret, Margaret, now thy heavy curse 
Is lighted on poor Hastings’ wretched head ! ss 






75 2 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


III. V. 


Bat. Come, come, dispatch ; the Duke would 
be at dinner. 

Make a short shrift; he longs to see your head. 

Hast. O momentary grace of mortal men, 
Which we more hunt for than the grace of God ! 
Who builds his hope in air of your good looks, 
Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, 101 

Ready, with every nod, to tumble down 
Into the fatal bowels of the deep. 

Lov. Come, come, dispatch ; ’t is bootless to 
exclaim. 

Hast. O bloody Richard! miserable Eng¬ 
land ! 106 

I prophesy the fearfull’st time to thee 
That ever wretched age hath look’d upon. 
Come, lead me to the block ; bear him my 
head. 

They smile at me who shortly shall be dead. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene V. The Tower-walls.\ 

Enter Gloucester and Buckingham, in rot¬ 
ten armour, marvellous ill-favoured. 

Glou. Come, cousin, canst thou quake, and 
change thy colour, 

Murder thy breath in middle of a word, 

And then again begin, and stop again, 

As if thou were distraught and mad with ter¬ 
ror ? 

Buck. Tut, I can counterfeit the deep trage¬ 
dian ; e 

Speak and look back, and pry on every side, 
Tremble and start at wagging of a straw, 
Intending deep suspicion. Ghastly looks 
Are at my service, like enforced smiles ; 

And both are ready in their offices, 10 

At any time, to grace my stratagems. 

But what, is Catesby gone ? 

Glou. He is; and, see, he brings the Mayor 
along. 

Enter the Mayor and Catesby. 

Buck. Lord Mayor, — 

Glou. Look to the drawbridge there! is 

Buck. Hark ! a drum. 

Glou. Catesby, o’erlook the walls. 

Buck. Lord Mayor, the reason we have sent — 
Glou. Look back, defend thee, here are ene¬ 
mies. 

Buck. God and our innocency defend and 
guard us! 20 

Enter Lovel and Ratcliff, with Hastings' 
head. 

Glou. Be patient, they are friends, Ratcliff 
and Lovel. 

Lov. Here is the head of that ignoble traitor, 
The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings. 
Glou. So dear I lov’d the man, that I must 
weep. 

I took him for the plainest harmless creature 26 
That breath’d upon the earth a Christian; 
Made him my book, wherein my soul recorded 
The history of all her secret thoughts. 

So smooth he daub’d his vice with show of 
virtue 


That, his apparent open guilt omitted, so 

I mean his conversation with Shore’s wife, 

He liv’d from all attainder of suspects. 

Buck. Well, well, he was the covert’st shel- 
t’red traitor 
That ever liv’d. 

Would you imagine, or almost believe, sc 

Were ’t not that, by great preservation, 

We live to tell it, that the subtle traitor 
This day had plotted, in the council-house 
To murder me and my good lord of Gloucester ? 
May. Had he done so ? 40 

Glou. What, think you we are Turks or in¬ 
fidels? 

Or that we would, against the form of law, 
Proceed thus rashly in the villain’s death, 

But that the extreme peril of the case, 

The peace of England, and our persons’ safety 
Enforc’d us to this execution ? 46 

May. Now, fair befall you! he deserv’d his 
death; 

And your good Graces both have well pro¬ 
ceeded 

To warn false traitors from the like attempts. 

I never look’d for better at his hands, 50 

After he once fell in with Mistress Shore. 

Glou. Yet had we not determin’d he should 
die, 

Until your lordship came to see his end ; 

Which now the loving haste of these our friends, 
Something against our meanings, have pre¬ 
vented ; 65 

Because, my lord, I would have had you heard 
The traitor speak, and timorously confess 
The manner and the purpose of his treasons; 
That you might well have signified the same 
Unto the citizens, who haply may co 

Misconstrue us in him and wail his death. 

May. But, my good lord, your Grace’s words 
shall serve 

As well as I had seen and heard him speak ; 
And do not doubt, right noble princes both, 
That I ’ll acquaint our duteous citizens ee 

With all your just proceedings in this case. 
Glou. And to that end we wish’d your lord- 
ship here, 

To avoid the censures of the carping world. 
Buck. But since you come too late of our 
intent, 

Yet witness what you hear we did intend. 70 
And so, my good Lord Mayor, we bid farewell. 

[Exit Mayor. 

Glou. Go, after, after, cousin Buckingham. 
The mayor towards Guildhall hies him in all 
post. 

There, at your meetest vantage of the time, 
Infer the bastardy of Edward’s children. 75 
Tell them how Edward put to death a citizen, 
Only for saying he would make his son 
Heir to the crown ; meaning indeed his house, 
Which, by the sign thereof, was termed so. 
Moreover, urge his hateful luxury, 8 * 

And bestial appetite in change of lust; 

Which stretch’d unto their servants, daughters, 
wives, 

Even where his raging eye or savage heart, 
Without control, lusted to make a prey. 




III. vii. 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


753 


Nay, for a need, thus far come near my per¬ 
son : . 

Tell them, when that my mother went with 
child se 

Of that insatiate Edward, noble York 
My princely father then had wars in France ; 
And, by true computation of the time, 

Found that the issue was not his begot; »o 
Which well appeared in his lineaments, 

Being nothing like the noble Duke my father. 
Yet touch this sparingly, as ’t were far olf ; 
Because, my lord, you know my mother lives. 
Buck. Doubt not, my lord, I’ll play the 
orator »s 

As if the golden fee for which I plead 
Were for myself ; and so, my lord, adieu. 

Glou. If you thrive well, bring them to Bay- 
nard’s Castle, 

Where you shall find me well accompanied 
With reverend fathers and well-learned bishops. 
Buck. I go; and towards three or four 
o’clock 101 

Look for the news that the Guildhall affords. 

[Exit. 

Glou. Go, Lovel, with all speed to Doctor 
Shaw ; 

[To Cate. 1 Go thou to Friar Penker; bid them 
both 

Meet me within this hour at Baynard’s Castle. 

[Exeunt [all but Gloucester ]. 

Now will I go to take some privy order, ioe 

To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight; 
And to give notice, that no manner person 
Have any time recourse unto the princes. 

[Exit. 

[Scene VI. The same. A street .] 

Enter a Scrivener with a paper in his hand. 

Scriv. Here is the indictment of the good 
Lord Hastings, 

Which in a set hand fairly is engross’d, 

That it may be to-day read o’er in Paul’s. 

And mark how well the sequel hangs together: 
Eleven hours I’ve spent to write it over, b 
For yesternight by Catesby was it sent me; 

The precedent was full as long a-doing ; 

And yet within these five hours Hastings liv’d, 
Untainted, unexamin’d, free, at liberty. 

Here’s a good world the while! Who is so 
gross io 

That cannot see this palpable device ? 

Yet who so bold, but says he sees it not ? 

Bad is the world ; and all will come to nought, 
When such ill dealing must be seen in thought. 

[Exit. 

[Scene VII. Baynard's Castle.] 

Enter Gloucester and Buckingham, at 
several doors. 

Glou. How now, how now, what say the 
citizens ? 

Buck. Now, by the holy mother of our Lord, 
The citizens are mum, say not a word. 

Glou. Touch’d you the bastardy of Edward’s 
children ? 


Buck. I did ; with his contract with Lady 
Lucy, 6 

And his contract by deputy in France ; 

The unsatiate greediness of his desire, 

And his enforcement of the city wives ; 

His tyranny for trifles ; his own bastardy, 

As being got, your father then in France, io 
And his resemblance, being not like the Duke. 
Withal I did infer your lineaments, 

Being the right idea of your father, 

Both in your form and nobleness of mind ; 

Laid open all your victories in Scotland, « 

Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace, 

Your bounty, virtue, fair humility ; 

Indeed, left nothing fitting for your purpose 
Untouch’d or slightly handled in discourse. 
And when my oratory drew toward end, 20 
I bid them that did love their country’s good 
Cry, “God save Richard, England’s royal 
king! ” 

Glou. And did they so ? 

Buck. No, so God help me, they spake not a 
word; 

But, like dumb statues or breathing stones, 25 
Star’d each on other, and look’d deadly pale; 
Which when I saw, I reprehended them, 

And ask’d the Mayor what meant this wilful 
silence. 

His answer was, the people were not used 
To be spoke to but by the Recorder. 30 

Then he was urg’d to tell my tale again, 

“ Thus saith the Duke, thus hath the Duke in- 
ferr’d; ” 

But nothing spoke in warrant from himself. 
When he had done, some followers of mine 
own, 

At the lower end of the hall, hurl’d up their 
caps, 36 

And some ten voices cried, “ God save King 
Richard! ” 

And thus I took the vantage of those few, 

“ Thanks, gentle citizens and friends,” quoth I; 
“ This general applause and cheerful shout 
Argues your wisdom and your love to Rich¬ 
ard : ” 40 

And even here brake off, and came away. 

Glou. What tongueless blocks were they! 
Would they not speak ? 

[Buck. No, by my troth, my lord.] 

Glou. Will not the Mayor then and his 
brethren come ? 

Buck. The Mayor is here at hand. Intend 
some fear; 46 

Be not you spoke with, but by mighty suit; 
And look you get a prayer-book in your hand, 
And stand between two churchmen, good my 
lord, — 

For on that ground I ’ll make a holy descant — 
And be not easily won to our requests. so 

Play the maid’s part, still answer nay, and take 

it. 

Glou. I go; and if you plead as well for 
them 

As I can say nay to thee for myself, 

No doubt we ’ll bring it to a happy issue. 

Buck. Go, go up to the leads; the Lord 
Mayor knocks. [Exit [Gloucester], bb 




754 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


III. V1L 


Enter the Mayor and Citizens. 

Welcome, my lord ! I dance attendance here ; 

I think the Duke will not be spoke withal. 

Enter Catesby [ from the castle]. 

[Here comes his servant.] 

Now, Catesby, what says your lord to my re¬ 
quest ? 

Cate. He doth entreat your Grace, my noble 
lord, 

To visit him to-morrow or next day. 60 

He is within, with two right reverend fathers, 
Divinely bent to meditation ; 

And in no worldly suits would he he mov’d, 

To draw him from his holy exercise. 

Buck. Return, good Catesby, to the gracious 
Duke; 65 

Tell him, myself, the Mayor and Aldermen, 

In deep designs, in matter of great moment, 

No less importing than our general good, 

Are come to have some conference with his 
Grace. 

Cate. I ’ll signify so much unto him straight. 

[Exit. 

Buck. Ah, ha, my lord, this prince is not an 
Edward! n 

He is not lolling on a lewd love-hed, 

But on his knees at meditation ; 

Not dallying with a brace of courtezans, 

But meditating with two deep divines ; 76 

Not sleeping, to engross his idle body, 

But praying, to enrich his watchful soul. 
Happy were England, would this virtuous 
prince 

Take on his Grace the sovereignty thereof ; 
But, sure, I fear, we shall not win him to it. so 
May. Marry, God defend his Grace should 
say us nay! 

Buck. I fear he will. Here Catesby comes 
again. 

Be-enter Catesby. 

Now, Catesby, what says his Grace ? 

Cate. [My lord,] 

He wonders to what end you have assembled 
Such troops of citizens to come to him, so 

His Grace not being warn’d thereof before. 

He fears, my lord, you mean no good to him. 

Buck. Sorry I am my noble cousin should 
Suspect me, that I mean no good to him. 

By heaven, we come to him in perfect love ; »o 
And so once more return and tell his Grace. 

[Exit Catesby. 

When holy and devout religious men 
Are at their beads, ’t is much to draw them 
thence, 

So sweet is zealous contemplation. 

Enter Gloucester aloft , between two Bishops. 
[Catesby returns.] 

May. See, where his Grace stands ’tween 
two clergymen ! 95 

Buck. Two props of virtue for a Christian 
prince, 

To stay him from the fall of vanity ; 

And, see, a book of prayer in his hand, 


True ornaments to know a holy man. 

Famous Plantagenet, most gracious prince, 100 
Lend favourable ear to our requests ; 

And pardon us the interruption 

Of thy devotion and right Christian zeal. 

Glou. My lord, there needs no such apology. 
I do beseech your Grace to pardon me, 105 
Who, earnest in the service of ray God, 

Deferr’d the visitation of my friends. 

But, leaving this, what is your Grace's plea¬ 
sure ? 

Buck. Even that, I hope, which pleasetli God 
above, 

And all good men of this ungovern’d isle. no 
Glou. I do suspect I have done some offence 
That seems disgracious in the city’s eye, 

And that you come to reprehend my ignorance. 
Buck. You have, my lord. Would it might 
please your Grace, 

On our entreaties, to amend your fault! ns 
Glou. Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian 
land? 

Buck. Know then, it is your fault that you 
resign 

The supreme seat, the throne majestical, 

The scep’tred office of your ancestors, 

Your state of fortune, and your due of birth, 
The lineal glory of your royal house, 121 

To the corruption of a blemish’d stock ; 

Whiles, in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts, 
Which here we waken to our country’s good, 
The noble isle doth want his proper limbs ; 125 

His face defac’d with scars of infamy, 

His royal stock graft with ignoble plants, 

And almost should’red in the swallowing gulf 
Of dark forgetfulness and deep oblivion. 

Which to recure, we heartily solicit 130 

Your gracious self to take on you the charge 
And kingly government of this your land, 

Not as protector, steward, substitute, 

Or lowly factor for another’s gain ; 

But as successively from blood to blood, 135 
Your right of birth, your empery, your own. 
For this, consorted with the citizens, 

Your very worshipful and loving friends, 

And by their vehement instigation, 

In this just cause come I to move your Grace. 140 
Glou. I cannot tell if to depart in silence, 

Or bitterly to speak in your reproof, 

Best fitteth my degree or your condition. 

If not to answer, you might haply think 
Tongue-ti’d ambition, not replying, yielded i« 
To bear the golden yoke of sovereignty, 

Which fondly you would here impose on me. 

If to reprove you for this suit of yours, 

So season’d with your faithful love to me, 
Then, on the other side, I check’d my friends. 
Therefore, to speak, and to avoid the first, isi 
And then, in speaking, not to incur the last, 
Definitively thus I answer you : 

Your love deserves my thanks ; hut my desert 
Unmeritable shuns your high request. ice 

First, if all obstacles were cut away, 

And that my path were even to the crown, 

As my right revenue and due of birth ; 

Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, 

So mighty and so many my defects, iao 





IV. 1. 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


755 


That I would rather hide me from my great¬ 
ness, 

Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, 

Than in my greatness covet to be hid, 

And in the vapour of my glory smother’d. 

But, God be thank’d, there is no need of me. 
And much I need to help you, were there 
need. i66 

The royal tree hath left us royal fruit, 

Which, mellow’d bv the stealing hours of time, 
Will well become the seat of majesty. 

And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign. 170 
On him I lay that you would lay on me, 

The right and fortune of his happy stars, 
Which God defend that I should wring from 
him! 

Buck. My lord, this argues conscience in 
your Grace ; 

But the respects thereof are nice and trivial, 175 
All circumstances well considered. 

You say that Edward is your brother’s son: 

So say we too, but not by Edward’s wife ; 

For first was he contract to Lady Lucy — 

Your mother lives a witness to his vow — iso 
And afterward by substitute betroth’d 
To Bona, sister to the King of France. 

These both put off, a poor petitioner, 

A care-craz’d mother to a many sons, 

A beauty-waning and distressed widow, we 
Even in the afternoon of her best days, 

Made prize and purchase of his wanton eye, 
Seduced the pitch and height of his degree 
To base declension and loath’d bigamy. 

By hei\ in his unlawful bed, he got 190 

This Edward, whom our manners call the 
Prince. 

More bitterly could I expostulate, 

Save that, for reverence to some alive, 

I give a sparing limit to my tongue. 

Then, good my lord, take to your royal self 19s 
This proffer’d benefit of dignity ; 

If not to bless us and the land withal, 

Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry 
From the corruption of abusing times, 

Unto a lineal true-derived course. 200 

May. Do, good my lord, your citizens entreat 
you. 

Buck. Refuse not, mighty lord, this proffer’d 
love. 

Cate. 0, make them joyful, grant their law¬ 
ful suit! 

Glou. Alas, why would you heap this care on 
me ? 

I am unfit for state and majesty. 205 

I do beseech you, take it not amiss ; 

I cannot nor I will not yield to you. 

Buck. If you refuse it, — as, in love and zeal, 
Loath to depose the child, your brother’s 
son; 

As well we know your tenderness of heart 210 
And gentle, kind, effeminate remorse, 

Which we have noted in you to your kindred, 
And equally indeed to all estates, — 

Yet know, whe’er you accept our suit or no, 
Your brother’s son shall never reign our king; 
But we will plant some other in the throne, 21a 
To the disgrace and downfall of your house; 


And in this resolution here we leave you. — 
Come, citizens! [’Zounds !] we ’ll entreat no 
more. 

[Glou. 0, do not swear, my Lord of Buck¬ 
ingham.] 22# 

[Exit Buckingham [with the Citi¬ 
zens ]. 

Cate. Call them again, sweet prince, accept 
their suit. 

If you deny them all the land will rue it. 

Glou. Will you enforce me to a world of 
cares ? 

Call them again. [Catesby goes to the Mayor , and 
exit.] I am not made of stones, 

But penetrable to your kind entreaties, 226 
Albeit against my conscience and my soul. 

Re-enter Buckingham, [Catesby] and the rest. 

Cousin of Buckingham, and sage, grave men, 
Since you will buckle Fortune on my back, 

To bear her burden, whe’er I will or no, 

I must have patience to endure the load. 230 
But if black scandal or foul-fac’d reproach 
Attend the sequel of your imposition, 

Your mere enforcement shall acquittance me 
From all the impure blots and stains thereof; 
For God doth know, and you may partly see, 235 
How far I am from the desire of this. 

May. God bless your Grace ! we see it, and 
will say it. 

Glou. In saying so, you shall but say the 
truth. 

Buck. Then I salute you with this royal title : 
Long live King Richard, England’s worthy 
king! 240 

All. Amen. 

Buck. To-morrow may it please you to be 
crown’d ? 

Glou. Even when you please, for you will 
have it so. 

Buck. To-morrow, then, we will attend your 
Grace; 

And so most joyfullv we take our leave. 245 

Glou. [To the Bishops .] Come, let us to our 
holy work again. 

Farewell, my cousins ; farewell, gentle friends. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT IV 


Scene I. [Before the Tower.] 


Enter Queen Elizabeth, the Duchess of 
York, and. Marquess of Dorset at one 
door; Anne, Duchess of Gloucester, 
[leading Lady Margaret Plantagenet, 
Clarence's young Daughter] at another door. 


Duch. Who meets us here ? My niece Plan- 
tagenet 

Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Glouces¬ 
ter ? 

Now, for my life, she’s wandering to the 
Tower, 

On pure heart’s love to greet the tender prince. 
Daughter, well met. 

Anne. God give your Graces both 

A happy and a joyful time of day ! « 





7S 6 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


IV. 1. 


Q. Eliz. As much to you, good sister! 
Whither away ? 

Anne. No farther than the Tower ; and, as I 
guess, 

Upon the like devotion as yourselves, 

To gratulate the gentle princes there. 10 

Q. Eliz. Kind sister, thanks ; we ’ll enter all 
together. 

Enter the lieutenant [Brakenbury]. 

And, in good time, here the lieutenant comes. 
Master lieutenant, pray you, by your leave, 
How doth the Prince, and my young son of 
York? 

BraJc. Right well, dear madam. By your 

patience, > is 

I may not suffer you to visit them ; 

The King hath strictly charg’d the contrary. 

Q. Eliz. The King! Who’s that ? 

BraJc. [I cry you mercy !] I mean the Lord 
Protector. 

Q. Eliz. The Lord protect him from that 

kingly title! 20 

Hath he set bounds between their love and me ? 
I am their mother; who shall bar me from 
them ? 

Buch. I am their father’s mother; I will see 
them. 

Anne. Their aunt I am in law, in love their 
mother; 

Then bring me to their sights. I ’ll bear thy 
blame _ 25 

And take thy office from thee, on my peril. 

BraJc. No, madam, no; I may not leave 
it so. 

I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me. 

[Exit. 

Enter Lord Stanley. 

Stan. Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour 
hence, 

And I ’ll salute your Grace of York as mother 
And reverend looker on of two fair queens. 31 
[To Anne. ] Come, madam, you must straight 
to Westminster, 

There to be crowned Richard’s royal queen. 

Q. Eliz. 0, cut my lace asunder, that my 
pent heart 

May have some scope to beat, or else I swoon 35 
With this dead-killing news! 

Anne. Despiteful tidings! O unpleasing 
news! 

Bor. Be of good cheer. Mother, how fares 
your Grace ? 

Q. Eliz. O Dorset, speak not to me, get thee 
gone! 

Death and destruction dogs thee at thy heels ; 
Thy mother’s name is ominous to children. 41 
If thou wilt outstrip death, go cross the seas, 
And live with Richmond, from the reach of hell. 
Go, hie thee, hie thee from this slaughter-house, 
Lest thou increase the number of the dead ; *5 
And make me die the thrall of Margaret’s curse, 
Nor mother, wife, nor England’s counted queen. 

Stan. Full of wise care is this your counsel, 
madam. 

Take all the swift advantage of the hours ; 


You shall have letters from me to my son so 
In your behalf, to meet you on the way. 

Be not ta’en tardy by unwise delay. 

Buck. O ill-dispersing wind of misery ! 

0 my accursed womb, the bed of death ! 

A cockatrice hast thou hatch’d to the world, ec 
Whose unavoided eye is murderous. 

Stan. Come, madam, come; I in all haste 
was sent. 

Anne. And I with all unwillingness will go. 
0, would to God that the inclusive verge 
Of golden metal that must round my brow so 
Were red-hot steel, to sear me to the brains ! 
Anointed let me be with deadly venom. 

And die, ere men can say, “God save the 
Queen! ” 

Q. Eliz. Go, go, poor soul, I envy not thy 
glory; 

To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm. 6s 

Anne. No! why? When he that is my hus¬ 
band now 

Came to me, as I follow’d Henry’s corse, 

When scarce the blood was well wash’d from 
his hands 

Which issued from my other angel husband 
And that dear saint which then I weeping fol¬ 
low’d ; to 

O, when, I say, I look’d on Richard’s face, 

This was my wish : “ Be thou,” quoth I, “ac- 
curs’d, 

For making me, so young, so old a widow ! 
And, when thou wed’st, let sorrow haunt thy 
bed; 

And be thy wife — if any be so mad — 75 

More miserable by the life of thee 
Than thou hast made me by my dear lord’s 
death! ” 

Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again, 

Within so small a time, my woman’s heart 
Grossly grew captive to his honey words so 
And prov’d the subject of mine own soul’s 
curse, 

Which hitherto hath held mine eyes from rest; 
For never yet one hour in his bed 
Did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep, 

But with his timorous dreams was still awak’d. 
Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick ; 86 
And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me. 

Q. Eliz. Poor heart, adieu ! I pity thy com¬ 
plaining. 

Anne. No more than with my soul I mourn 
for yours. 

Bor. Farewell, thou woeful welcomer of 
glory ! < 90 

Anne. Adieu, poor soul, that tak’st thy leave 
of it! 

Buch. [To Bor set.] Go thou to Richmond, 
and good fortune guide thee ! 

[To Anne.] Go thou to Richard, and good 
angels tend thee ! 

[To Queen Eliz.] Go thou to sanctuary, and 
good thoughts possess thee ! 

I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with 
me! os 

Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen, 

And each hour’s joy wreck’d with a week of 
teen. 





IV. 11. 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


757 


Q. Eliz. Stay, yet look back with me unto 
the Tower. 

Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes 
Whom envy hath immur’d within your walls ! 
Rough cradle for such little pretty ones! 101 

Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow 
For tender princes, use my babies well! 

So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewell. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [London. The palace.] 

Sennet. Enter Richard, in »om», crowned; 

Buckingham, Catesby [a Page, and 

others ]. 

K. Rich. Stand all apart. Cousin of Buck¬ 
ingham ! 

Buck. My gracious sovereign ? 

K. Rich. Give me thy hand. ( Here he as- 
cendeth the throne. Sound.) Thus high, 
by thy advice 

And thy assistance, is King Richard seated ; 
But shall we wear these glories for a day ? s 
Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them ? 

Buck. Still live they, and for ever let them 
last! 

K. Rich. Ah, Buckingham, now do I play 
the touch, 

To try if thou be current gold indeed. 

Young Edward lives : think now what I would 
speak. 10 

Buck. Say on, my loving lord. 

K. Rich. Why, Buckingham, I say, I would 
be king. 

Buck. Why, so you are, my thrice renowned 
lord. 

K. Rich. Ha ! am I king ? ’T is so : but Ed¬ 
ward lives. 

Buck. True, noble prince. 

K. Rich. O bitter consequence, 

That Edward still should live! “True, noble 
prince!” ie 

Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull. 

Shall I be plain ? I wish the bastards dead ; 
And I would have it suddenly perform’d. 

What say’st thou now ? Speak suddenly; be 
brief. 20 

Buck. Your Grace may do your pleasure. 

K. Rich. Tut, tut, thou art all ice, thy kind¬ 
ness freezes. 

Say, have I thy consent that they shall die ? 

Buck. Give me some little breath, some 
pause, dear lord, 

Before I positively speak in this. 2s 

I will resolve you herein presently. [Exit. 

Cate. [Aside to a stander by.] The King is 
angry: see, he gnaws his lip. 

K. Rich. I will converse with iron-witted 
fools 

And unrespective boys ; none are for me 
That look into me with considerate eyes. so 
High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect. 
Boy! 

Page. My lord ? 

K. Rich. Know’st thou not any whom cor¬ 
rupting gold 

Will tempt unto a close exploit of death ? m 


Page. I know a discontented gentleman, 
Whose humble means match not his haughty 
spirit. 

Gold were as good as twenty orators, 

And will, no doubt, tempt him to anything. 

K. Rich. What is his name ? 

Page. His name, my lord, is Tyrrel. 

K. Rich. I partly know the man ; go, call 
him hither. [Exit Page. « 

The deep-revolving witty Buckingham 
No more shall be the neighbour to my coun¬ 
sels. 

Hath he so long held out with me untir’d, 

And stops he now for breath ? Well, be it so. 

Enter Stanley. 

How now, Lord Stanley, what’s the news ? 4s 
Stan. Know, my loving lord, 

The Marquis Dorset, as 1 hear, is fled 
To Richmond, in the parts where he abides. 

[Stands apart.] 
K. Rich. Come hither, Catesby. Rumour 
it abroad _ ei 

That Anne, my wife, is very grievous sick ; 

I will take order for her keeping close. 

Inquire me out some mean poor gentleman, 
Whom I will marry straight to Clarence’ daugh¬ 
ter ; ee 

The boy is foolish, and I fear not him. 

Look, how thou dream’st! I say again, give out 
That Anne my queen is sick and like to die. 
About it; for it stands me much upon 
To stop all hopes whose growth may damage 
me. [Exit Catesby .] 

I must be married to my brother’s daughter, «i 
Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass. 
Murder her brothers, and then marry her! 
Uncertain way of gain ! But I am in 
So far in blood that sin will pluck on sin! « 

Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye. 

Re-enter [Page, with Sir James] Tyrrel. 

Is thy name Tyrrel ? 

Tyr. James Tyrrel, and your most obedient 
subject. 

K. Rich. Art thou, indeed ? 

Tyr. Prove me, my gracious lord. 

K. Rich. Dar’st thou resolve to kill a friend 
of mine ? ™ 

Tyr. Please you; 

But I had rather kill two enemies. 

K. Rich. Why, there thou hast it; two deep 
enemies, 

Foes to my rest and my sweet sleep’s disturb¬ 
ers 

Are they that I would have thee deal upon. t» 
Tyrrel, I mean those bastards in the Tower. 
Tyr. Let me have open means to come to 
them, 

And soon I ’ll rid you from the fear of them. 

K. Rich. Thou sing’st sweet music. Hark, 
come hither, Tyrrel. 

Go, by this token. Rise, and lend thine ear. 

[ Whispers. 

There is no more but so ; say it is done, « 
And I will love thee and prefer thee for it. 

Tyr. I will despatch it straight. 





75» 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


iv. iii. 


[K. Rich. Shall we hear from thee, Tyrrel, 
ere we sleep ? 

Tyr. Ye shall, my lord.] [Exit, ss 

Re-enter Buckingham. 

Buck. My lord, I have consider’d in my 
mind 

The late request that you did sound me in. 

K. Rich. Well, let that rest. Dorset is fled 
to Richmond. 

Buck. I hear the news, my lord. 

K. Rich. Stanley, he is your wife’s son: well, 
look unto it. so 

Buck. My lord, I claim the gift, my due by 
promise, 

For which your honour and your faith is 
pawn’d; 

The earldom of Hereford and the movables 
Which you have promised I shall possess. 

K. Rich. Stanley, look to your wife. If she 
convey so 

Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it. 

Buck. What says your Highness to my just 
request ? 

K. Rich. I do remember me, Henry the Sixth 
Did prophesy that Richmond should be king, 
When Richmond was a little peevish boy. 100 
A king, perhaps, [perhaps, — 

Buck. My lord! 

K. Rich. How chance the prophet could not 
at that time 

Have told me, I being by, that I should kill 
him ? 

Buck. My lord, your promise for the earl¬ 
dom, — iso 

K. Rich. Richmond ! When last I was at 
Exeter, 

The mayor in courtesy show’d me the castle, 
And call’d it Rougemont; at which name I 
started, 

Because a bard of Ireland told me once, 

I should not live long after I saw Richmond, no 

Buck. My lord! 

K. Rich. Ay, what’s o’clock ? 

Buck. I am thus bold to put your Grace in 
mind 

Of what you promis’d me. 

K. Rich. Well, but what’s o’clock ? 

Buck. Upon the stroke of ten. 

K. Rich. Well, let it strike. 

Buck. Why let it strike ? no 

K. Rich. Because that, like a Jack, thou 
keep’st the stroke 

Betwixt thy begging and my meditation. 

I am not in the giving vein to-day. 

Buck. Why, then resolve me whether you 
will or no. no 

K. Rich. Tut, tut,] 

Thou troublest me ; 1 am not in the vein. 

[Exeunt all but Buckingham. 

Buck. And is it thus ? Repays he my deep 
service 

With such contempt ? Made I him king for 
this? 

O, let me think on Hastings, and be gone 120 
To Brecknock, while my fearful head is on ! 

[Exit. 


[Scene III. The same.} 

Enter Tyrrel. 

Tyr. The tyrannous and bloody act is done, 
The most arch deed of piteous massacre 
That ever yet this land was guilty of. 

Dighton and Forrest, who I did suborn 
To do this piece of ruthless butchery, e 

Albeit they were flesh’d villains, bloody dogs, 
Melted with tenderness and mild compas- 
sion, 

Wept like two children in their death’s sad 
story. 

“0, thus,” quoth Dighton, “lay the gentle 
babes;” 

“Thus, thus,” quoth Forrest, “girdling one 
another 10 

Within their alabaster innocent arms. 

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, 
Which in their summer beauty kiss’d each 
other. 

A book of prayers on their pillow lay ; 

Which once,” quoth Forrest, “ almost chang’d 
my mind; 16 

But O ! the devil ” — there the villain stopp’d ; 
When Dighton thus told on: “We smothered 
The most replenished sweet work of Nature, 
That from the prime creation e’er she framed.” 
Hence both are gone with conscience and re¬ 
morse ; 20 

They could not speak ; and so I left them 
both, 

To bear this tidings to the bloody King. 

Enter King Richard. 

And here he comes. All health, my sovereign 
lord! 

K. Rich. Kind Tyrrel, am I happy in thy 
news ? 

Tyr. If to have done the thing you gave in 
charge 25 

Beget your happiness, be happy then, 

For it is done. 

K. Rich. But didst thou see them dead ? 

Tyr. I did, my lord. 

K. Rich. And buried, gentle Tyrrel? 

Tyr. The chaplain of the Tower hath buried 
them ; 

But where, to say the truth, I do not know, so 

E. Rich. Come to me, Tyrrel, soon at after¬ 
supper, 

When thou shalt tell the process of their death. 
Meantime, but think how I may do thee good, 
And be inheritor of thy desire. 

Farewell till then. 35 

Tyr. I humbly take my leave. [Exit. 

K. Rich. The son of Clarence have I pent up 
close ; 

His daughter meanly have I match’d in mar¬ 
riage ; 

The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham’s bosom, 
And Anne my wife hath bid this world good¬ 
night. 

Now, for I know the Breton Richmond aims 
At young Elizabeth, my brother’s daughter, « 
And, by that knot, looks proudly on the crown, 
To her go I, a jolly thriving wooer. 





iv. iv. 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


759 


Enter Ratcliff. 

Rat. My lord ! 

K. Rich. Good or bad news, that thou com’st 
in so bluntly ? 45 

Rat. Bad news, my lord. Morton is fled to 
Richmond; 

And Buckingham, back’d with the hardy 
Welshmen, 

Is in the field, and still his power increaseth. 
K. Rich. Ely with Richmond troubles me 
more near 49 

Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength. 
Come, I have learn’d that fearful commenting 
Is leaden servitor to dull delay ; 

Delay leads impotent and snail-pac’d beggary. 
Then fiery expedition be my wing, 

Jove’s Mercury, and herald for a king ! «e 
Go, muster men ! My counsel is my shield ; 

We must be brief when traitors brave the field. 

[Exeunt. 


Scene [IV. Before the palace .] 

Enter old Queen Margaret. 

Q. Mar. So, now prosperity begins to mellow 
And drop into the rotten mouth of death. 

Here in these confines slily have I lurk’d, 

To watch the waning of mine enemies. 

A dire induction am I witness to, s 

And will to France, hoping the consequence 
Will prove as bitter, black, and tragical. 
Withdraw thee, wretched Margaret; who comes 
here ? [Retires.] 

Enter Queen Elizabeth and the Duchess of 
York. 


Q. Eliz. Ah, my poor princes! ah, my tender 
babes! 

My unblown flowers, new-appearing sweets ! 10 
If yet your gentle souls fly in the air 
And be not fix’d in doom perpetual, 

Hover about me with your airy wings 
And hear your mother’s lamentation ! 

Q. Mar. Hover about her; say, that right 
for right is 

Hath dimm’d your infant morn to aged night. 

Duch. So many miseries have craz’d my voice, 
That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute. 
Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead ? 

Q. Mar. Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet. 
Edward for Edward pays a dying debt. 21 
Q. Eliz. Wilt thou, 0 God, fly from such 
gentle lambs, 

And throw them in the entrails of the wolf ? 
When didst thou sleep when such a deed was 
done ? 

Q. Mar. When holy Harry died, and my 
sweet son. _ 25 

Duch. Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal 
living ghost, 

Woe’s scene, world’s shame, grave’s due by life 
usurp’d, 

Brief abstract and record of tedious days, 

Rest thy unrest on England’s lawful earth, 

[Sitting down.] 

Unlawfully made drunk with innocent blood! 30 


Q. Eliz. Ah, that thou wouldst as soon afford 
a grave 

As thou caust yield a melancholy seat! 

Then would I hide my bones, not rest them 
here. 

Ah, who hath any cause to mourn but we ? 

[Sitting down by her.] 
Q. Mar. [Coming forward.] If ancient sorrow 
be most reverend, 36 

Give mine the benefit of seniory, 

And let my griefs frown on the upper hand. 

If sorrow can admit society, 

[Sitting down with them.] 
[Tell o’er your woes again by viewing mine.] 

I had an Edward, till a Richard kill’d him ; 40 
I had a Harry, till a Richard kill’d him : 

Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard kill’d 
him; 

Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard kill’d him. 
Duch. I had a Richard too, and thou didst 
kill him; 

I had a Rutland too, thou holp’st to kill him. *6 
Q. Mar. Thou hadst a Clarence too, and 
Richard kill’d him. 

From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept 
A hell-hound that doth hunt us all to death. 
That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes 
To worry lambs and lap their gentle blood, so 
That foul defacer of God’s handiwork, 

That excellent grand tyrant of the earth 
That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls, 
Thy womb let loose, to chase us to our graves. 

O upright, just, and true-disposing God, 6« 
How do I thank thee, that this carnal cur 
Preys on the issue of his mother’s body, 

And makes her pew-fellow with others’ moan ! 
Duch. 0 Harry’s wife, triumph not in my 
woes! 

God witness with me, I have wept for thine. «o 
Q. Mar. Bear with me ; I am hungry for re¬ 
venge, 

And now I cloy me with beholding it. 

Thy Edward he is dead, that kill’d my Edward ; 
The other Edward dead, to quit my Edward ; 
Young York he is but boot, because both they 
Match not the high perfection of my loss: m 

Thy Clarence he is dead that stabb’d my 
Edward; 

And the beholders of this frantic play, 

The adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, 
Grey, 

Untimely smother’d in their dusky graves, w 
Richard yet lives, hell’s black intelligencer, 
Only reserv’d their factor, to buy souls 
And send them thither; but, at hand, at hand, 
Ensues his piteous and unpitied end. 

Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray, 
To have him suddenly convey’d from hence, « 
Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray, 

That I may live to say, The dog is dead ! 

Q. Eliz. O, thou didst prophesy the time 
would come 

That I should wish for thee to help me curse so 
That bottl’d spider, that foul bunch-back’d 
toad! 

Q. Mar. I call’d thee then vain flourish of 
my fortune ; 





760 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


IV. IV. 


I call’d thee then poor shadow, painted queen ; 
The presentation of but what I was ; 

The flattering index of a direful pageant; as 
One heav’d a-high, to be hurl’d down below ; 

A mother only mock’d with two fair babes ; 

A dream of what thou wast; a garish flag 
To he the aim of every dangerous shot; 

A sign of dignity, a breath, a bubble ; 

A queen in jest, only to fill the scene. 

Where is thy husband now ? Where be thy 
brothers ? 

Where be thy two sons? Wherein dost thou 
joy? 

Who sues, and kneels, and says, God save the 
Queen ” ? 

Where be the bending peers that flattered thee ? 
Where be the thronging troops that followed 
thee ? . 

Decline all this, and see what now thou art: 
For happy wife, a most distressed widow ; 

For joyful mother, one that wails the name ; 
For queen, a very caitiff crown’d with care ; 100 
For one being sued to, one that humbly sues ; 
For one that scorn’d at me, now scorn’d of me ; 
For one being fear’d of all, now fearing one ; 
For one commanding all, obey’d of none. 

Thus hath the course of justice whirl’d about, 
And left thee but a very prey to time ; ioe 

Having no more but thought of what thou wast, 
To torture thee the more, being what thou 
art. 

Thou didst usurp my place, and dost thou not 
Usurp the just proportion of my sorrow ? no 
Now thy proud neck bears half my burden’d 
yoke, 

From which even here I slip my wearied head, 
And leave the burden of it all on thee. 
Farewell, York’s wife, and queen of sad mis¬ 
chance ; 

These English woes shall make me smile in 
France. . . ns 

Q. Eliz. 0 thou well skill’d in curses, stay 
a while, 

And teach me how to curse mine enemies ! 

Q. Mar. Forbear to sleep the night, and fast 
the day; 

Compare dead happiness with living woe ; 
Think that thy babes were sweeter than they 
were, 120 

And he that slew them fouler than he is. 
Bett’ring thy loss makes the bad causer worse ; 
Revolving this will teach thee how to curse. 

Q. Eliz. My words are dull; 0 , quicken 
them with thine! 

Q. Mar. Thy woes will make them sharp, 
and pierce like mine.. [Exit. 12s 

Duck. Why should calamity be full of words ? 

Q. Eliz. Windy attorneys to their client 
woes, 

Airy succeeders of intestate joys, 

Poor breathing orators of miseries, 

Let them have scope! though what they will 
impart 130 

Help nothing else, yet do they ease the heart. 

Duch. If so, then be not tongue-ti’d ; go with 
me, 

And in the breath of bitter words let’s smother 


My damned son, that thy two sweet sons smoth¬ 
er’d. 

The trumpet sounds ; be copious in exclaims, ise 

Enter King Richard and his train , marching , 
with drums and trumpets. 

E. Bich. Who intercepts me in my expedi¬ 
tion ? 

Duch. O, she that might have intercepted 
thee, 

By strangling thee in her accursed womb, 

From all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast 
done! 

Q. Eliz. Hid’st thou that forehead with a 
golden crown, 140 

Where should be branded, if that right were 
right, 

The slaughter of the prince that ow’d that 
crown, 

And the dire death of my poor sons and bro¬ 
thers ? 

Tell me, thou villain slave, where are my chil¬ 
dren ? 

Duch. Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy 
brother Clarence ? 145 

And little Ned Plantagenet, his son ? 

Q. Eliz. Where is the gentle Rivers, 
Vaughan, Grey? 

Duch. Where is kind Hastings ? 

K. Bich. A flourish, trumpets ! strike alarum, 
drums! 

Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women 
Rail on the Lord’s anointed. Strike, I say ! 

[Flourish. Alarums. 
Either be patient, and entreat me fair, isi 
Or with the clamorous report of war 
Thus will I drown your exclamations. 

Duch. Art thou my son ? 

K. Bich. Ay, I thank God, my father, and 
yourself. u» 

Duch. Then patiently hear my impatience. 

E. Bich. Madam, I have a touch of your 
condition, 

That cannot brook the accent of reproof. 

Duch. O, let me speak ! 

E. Bich. Do then ; but I ’ll not hear. 

Duch. I will be mild and gentle in my words. 

E. Bich. And brief, good mother ; for I am 
in haste. wi 

Duch. Art thou so hasty ? I have stay’d for 
thee, 

God knows, in torment and in agony. 

E. Bich. And came I not at last to comfort 
you? 

Duch. No, by the holy rood, thou know’st it 

Well, 166 

Thou cam’st on earth to make the earth my hell. 
A grievous burden was thy birth to me ; 
Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy ; 

Thy school-days frightful, desperate, Avild, and 
furious, 

Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and ven¬ 
turous, 170 

Thy age confirm’d, proud, subtle, sly, and 
bloody, 

More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in 
hatred. 




IV. IV. 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


761 


Wliat comfortable hour canst thou name 
That ever grac’d me with thy company ? 

K. Rich. Faith, none, but Humphrey Hour, 
that call’d your Grace 175 

To breakfast once forth of my company. 

If I he so disgracious in your eye. 

Let me march on, and not offend you, madam. 
Strike up the drum. 

Duch. I prithee, hear me speak. 

K. Rich. You speak too bitterly. 

Duch. Hear me a word, 

For I shall never speak to thee again. m 

K. Rich. So. 

Duch. Either thou wilt die by God’s just 
ordinance, 

Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror, 

Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish i 8 e 
And never more behold thy face again. 
Therefore take with thee my most grievous 
curse. 

W T hich, in the day of battle, tire thee more 
Than all the complete armour that thou 
wear’st! 

My prayers on the adverse party fight; 100 

Ana there the little souls of Edward’s chil¬ 
dren 

Whisper the spirits of thine enemies 
And promise them success and victory. 

Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end ; 

Shame serves thy life and doth thy death 
attend. [Exit, we 

Q. Eliz. Though far more cause, yet much 
less spirit to curse 
Abides in me ; I say amen to her. 

K. Rich. Stay, madam ; I must talk a word 
with you. 

Q. Eliz. I have no more sons of the royal 
blood 

For thee to slaughter ; for my daughters, Rich¬ 
ard, 200 

They shall be praying nuns, not weeping 
queens; 

And therefore level not to hit their lives. 

K. Rich. You have a daughter call’d Eliza¬ 
beth, 

Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious. 

Q. Eliz. And must she die for this ? 0 , let 
her live, 205 

And I ’ll corrupt her manners, stain her 
beauty, 

Slander myself as false to Edward’s bed, 
Throw over her the veil of infamy. 

So she may live unscarr’d of bleeding slaughter, 
I will confess she was not Edward’s daughter. 

K. Rich. Wrong not her birth, she is a royal 
princess. _ . 211 

Q. Eliz. To save her life, I ’ll say she is not 
so. 

K. Rich. Her life is safest only in her birth. 

Q. Eliz. And only in that safety died her 
brothers. 

K. Rich. Lo, at their birth good stars were 
opposite. < 215 

Q. Eliz. No, to their lives ill friends were 
contrary. 

K. Rich. All unavoided is the doom of 
destiny. 


Q. Eliz.' True, when avoided grace makes 
destiny. 

My babes were destin’d to a fairer death. 

If grace had bless’d thee with a fairer life. 220 

K. Rich. You speak as if that I had slain 
my cousins. 

Q. Eliz. Cousins, indeed ; and by their uncle 
cozen’d 

Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life. 
Whose hand soever lanc’d their tender hearts, 
Thy head, all indirectly, gave direction. 225 
No doubt the murderous knife was dull and 
blunt 

Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart 
To revel in the entrails of my lambs. 

But that still use of grief makes wild grief 
tame, 

My tongue should to thy ears not name my 
boys 230 

Till that my nails were anchor’d in thine eyes ; 
And I, in such a desperate bay of death, 

Like a poor bark, of sails and tackling reft, 
Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom. 

K. Rich. Madam, so thrive I in my enter¬ 
prise 235 

And dangerous success of bloody wars, 

As I intend more good to you and yours 
Than ever you or yours by me were harm’d ! 

Q. Eliz. What good is cover’d with the face 
of heaven. 

To be discover’d, that can do me good ? 240 

K. Rich. The advancement of your children, 
gentle lady. 

Q. Eliz. Up to some scaffold, there to lose 
their heads ? 

K. Rich. Unto the dignity and height of for¬ 
tune, 

The high imperial type of this earth’s glory. 

Q. Eliz. Flatter my sorrow with report of 
it ; 245 

Tell me what state, what dignity, what honour, 
Canst thou demise to any child of mine ? 

K. Rich. Even all 1 have ; ay, and myself 
and all 

Will I withal endow a child of thine ; 

So in the Lethe of thy angry soul 250 

Thou drown the sad remembrance of those 
wrongs 

Which thou supposest I have done to thee. 

Q. Eliz. Be brief, lest that the process of 
thy kindness 

Last longer telling than thy kindness’ date. 

K. Rich. Then know, that from my soul I 
love thy daughter. 255 

Q. Eliz. My daughter’s mother thinks it 
with her soul. 

K. Rich. What do you think ? 

Q. Eliz. That thou dost love my daughter 
from thy soul. 

So from thy soul’s love didst thou love her 
brothers, 

And from my heart’s love I do thank thee for 
it. 260 

K. Rich. Be not so hasty to confound my 
meaning. 

I mean, that with my soul I love thy daughter, 
And do intend to make her Queen of England. 




762 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


IV. IV. 


Q. Eliz. Well then, who dost thou mean shall 
be her king ? 

K. Rich. Even he that makes her queen. 

Who else should be ? 266 

Q. Eliz. What, thou ? 

K. Rich. Even so. How think you of it ? 

Q. Eliz. How canst thou woo her ? 

K. Rich. That I would learn of you, 

As one being best acquainted with her humour. 
Q. Eliz. And wilt thou learn of me ? 

K. Rich. Madam, with all my heart. 

Q. Eliz. Send to her, by the man that slew 
her brothers, an 

A pair of bleeding hearts ; thereon engrave 
Edward and York ; then haply will she weep. 
Therefore present to her, — as sometime Mar¬ 
garet 274 

Did to thy father, steep’d in Rutland’s blood, — 
A handkerchief ; which, say to her, did drain 
The purple sap from her sweet brother’s body ; 
And bid her wipe her weeping eyes withal. 

If this inducement move her not to love, 

Send her a letter of thy noble deeds. 280 

Tell her thou mad’st away her uncle Clarence, 

Her uncle Rivers ; ay, and, for her sake, 
Mad’st quick conveyance with her good aunt 
Anne. 

K. Rich. You mock me, madam ; this is not 
the way 284 

To win your daughter. 

Q. Eliz. There is no other way ; 

Unless thou couldst put on some other shape, 
And not be Richard that hath done all this. 

K. Rich. Say that I did all this for love of 
her. 

Q. Eliz. Nay, then indeed she cannot choose 
but hate thee, 

Having bought love with such a bloody spoil. 
K. Rich. Look, what is done cannot be now 
amended. 201 

Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes, 

Which after hours gives leisure to repent. 

If I did take the kingdom from your sons, 

To make amends, I ’ll give it to your daughter. 
If I have kill’d the issue of your womb, 296 
To quicken your increase, I will beget 
Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter. 
A grandam’s name is little less in love 
Than is the doting title of a mother ; 300 

They are as children but one step below, 

Even of your mettle, of your very blood ; 

Of all one pain, save for a night of groans 
Endur’d of her, for whom you bid like sor¬ 
row. 

Your children were vexation to your youth, 305 
But mine shall be a comfort to your age. 

The loss you have is but a son being king, 

And by that loss your daughter is made queen. 
I cannot make you what amends I would, 
Therefore accept such kindness as I can. sio 

Dorset your son, that with a fearful soul 
Leads discontented steps in foreign soil, 

This fair alliance quickly shall call home 
To high promotions and great dignity. 

The King, that calls your beauteous daughter 
wife, 3 i 5 

Familiarly shall call thy Dorset brother; 


Again shall you be mother to a king, 

And all the ruins of distressful times 
Repair’d with double riches of content. 

What! we have many goodly days to see. 820 
The liquid drops of tears that you have shed 
Shall come again 2 transform’d to orient pearl, 
Advantaging their loan with interest 
Of ten times double gain of happiness. 

Go, then, my mother, to thy daughter go; 325 

Make bold her bashful years with your experi¬ 
ence ; 

Prepare her ears to hear a wooer’s tale; 

Put in her tender heart the aspiring flame 
Of golden sovereignty; acquaint the princess 
With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys ; 
And when this arm of mine hath chastised 331 
The petty rebel, dull-brain’d Buckingham, 
Bound with triumphant garlands will I come 
And lead thy daughter to a conqueror’s bed ; 
To whom I will retail my conquest won, 335 
And she shall be sole victress, Csesar’s Caesar. 

Q. Eliz. What were I best to say ? Her 
father’s brother 

Would be her lord ? Or shall I say, her uncle ? 
Or, he that slew her brothers and her uncles ? 
Under what title shall I woo for thee, 340 

That God, the law, my honour, and her love, 
Can make seem pleasing to her tender years ? 

K. Rich. Infer fair England’s peace by this 
alliance. 

Q. Eliz : Which she shall purchase with still 
lastingwar. 

K. Rich. Tell her the King, that may com¬ 
mand, entreats. 345 

Q. Eliz. That at her hands which the King’s 
king forbids. 

K. Rich. Say she shall be a high and mighty 
queen. 

Q. Eliz. To wail the title, as her mother 
doth. 

K. Rich. Say, I will love her everlastingly. 

Q. Eliz. But how long shall that title 
“ever” last? 350 

K. Rich. Sweetly in force unto her fair life’s 
end. 

Q. Eliz. But how long fairly shall her sweet 
life last ? 

K. Rich. As long as heaven and nature 
lengthens it. 

Q. Eliz. As long as hell and Richard likes 
of it. 

E. Rich. Say, I, her sovereign, am her sub¬ 
ject low. 355 

Q. Eliz. But she, your subject, loathes such 
sovereignty. 

K. Rich. Be eloquent in my behalf to her. 

Q. Eliz. An honest tale speeds best being 
plainly told. 

K. Rich. Then plainly to her tell my loving 
tale. 

Q. Eliz. Plain and not honest in too harsh a 
style. 3 go 

K. Rich. Your reasons are too shallow and 
too quick. 

Q. Eliz. 0 no, my reasons are too deep and 
dead; 

Too deep and dead, poor infants, in their graves, 





IV. iv. 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


763 


Eliz. 
Rich. 
Eliz. 
Rich. 
Eliz. 
Rich. 
Q. Eliz. 


K. Rich. Harp not on that string, madam ; 
th%t is past. 

Q. Eliz. Harp on it still shall I till heart¬ 
strings break. 305 

K. Rich. Now, by my George, my Garter, 
and my crown, — 

Q. Eliz. Profan’d, dishonour’d, and the 
third usurp’d. 

K. Rich. I swear — 

Q. Eliz. By nothing ; for this is no oath. 
Thy George, profan’d, hath lost his lordly 
honour; 

Thy Garter, blemish’d, pawn’d his knightly 
virtue; 370 

Thy crown, usurp’d, disgrac’d his kingly glory. 
If something thou wouldst swear to be be¬ 
liev’d, 

Swear then by something that thou hast not 
wrong’d. 

K. Rich. Now, by the world — 

’T is full of thy foul wrongs. 
My father’s death — 

Thy life hath it dishonour’d. 375 
Then, by myself — 

Q. Eliz. Thyself thyself misusest. 

It. Rich. Why then, by God — 

God’s wrong is most of all. 
If thou did’st fear to break an oath with Him, 
The unity the King my husband made 
Thou hadst not broken, nor my brothers died. 
If thou hadst fear’d to break an oath by Him, 381 
The imperial metal, circling now thy head, 
Had grac’d the tender temples of my child, 
And both the Princes had been breathing here, 
Which now, two tender bedfellows for dust, 335 
Thy broken faith hath made the prey for 
worms. 

What canst thou swear by now ? 

K. Rich. The time to come. 

Q. Eliz. That thou hast wronged in the 
time o’erpast; 

For I myself have many tears to wash 
Hereafter time, for time past wrong’d by thee. 
The children live, whose fathers thou hast 
slaughter’d, 391 

Ungovern’d youth, to wail it with their age; 
The parents live, whose children thou hast 
butcher’d, 

Old barren plants, to wail it with their age. 
Swear not by time to come; for that thou 
hast 

Misus’d ere us’d, by times ill-us’d o’erpast. 39s 
K. Rich. As I intend to prosper and repent, 
So thrive I in my dangerous affairs 
Of hostile arms ; myself myself confound ; 
Heaven and fortune bar me happy hours ; 400 

Day, yield me not thy light, nor, night, thy 
rest; 

Be opposite all planets of good luck 

To my proceeding, if, with dear heart’s love, 

Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts, 

I tender not thy beauteous princely daughter ! 
In her consists my happiness and thine ; 400 

YVithout her, follows to myself and thee, 
Herself, the land, and many a Christian soul, 
Death, desolation, ruin, and decay. 

It cannot be avoided but by this ; 410 


It will not be avoided but by this. 

Therefore, dear mother, — I must call you 

so — 

Be the attorney of my love to her. 

Plead what I will be, not what I have been ; 
Not my deserts, but what I will deserve. 415 
Urge the necessity and state of times, 

And be not peevish-fond in great designs. 

Q. Eliz. Shall I be tempted of the devil 
thus ? 

K. Rich. Ay, if the devil tempt you to do 
good. 

Q. Eliz. Shall I forget myself to be my¬ 
self ? 

K. Rich. Ay, if yourself’s remembrance 
wrong yourself. 421 

Q. Eliz. Yet thou didst kill my children. 

K. Rich. But in your daughter’s womb I 
bury them; 

Where in that nest of spicery they will breed 
Selves of themselves, to your recomforture. 425 

Q. Eliz. Shall I go win my daughter to thy 
will? 

K. Rich. And be a happy mother by the 
deed. 

Q. Eliz. I go. Write to me very shortly, 
And you shall understand from me her mmd. 

K. Rich. Bear her my true love’s kiss ; and 
so, farewell. [Exit Queen Elizabeth. 430 
Relenting fool, and shallow changing woman 1 


Enter Ratcliff [Catesby following]. 

How now ! what news ? 

Rat. Most mighty sovereign, on the western 
coast 

Rideth a puissant navy : to our shores 

Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends, 

Unarm’d, and unresolv’d to beat them back. 436 

’T is thought that Richmond is their admiral; 

And there they hull, expecting but the aid 

Of Buckingham to welcome them ashore. 

K. Rich. Some light-foot friend post to the 
Duke of Norfolk ; 440 

Ratcliff, thyself, or Catesby ; where is he ? 

Cate. Here, my good lord. 

K. Rich. Catesby, fly to the Duke. 443 8 

Cate. I will, my lord, with all convenient 
haste. 442 b 

K. Rich. [Ratcliff], come hither. Post to 
Salisbury. 

When thou com’st thither, — [To Catesby .] Dull 
unmindful villain, 

Why stay’st thou here, and go’st not to the 
Duke ? 445 

Cate. First, mighty liege, tell me your High¬ 
ness’ pleasure, 

What from your Grace I shall deliver to him. 

K. Rich. O, true, good Catesby. Bid him 
levy straight 

The greatest strength and power that he can 
make, 

And meet me suddenly at Salisbury. 

Cate. I go. [Exit. 

Rat. What, may it please you, shall I do at 
Salisbury ? 

K. Rich. Why, what wouldst thou do there 
before I go ? 





764 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


IV. IV. 


Rat. Your Highness told me I should post 
before. 456 

K. Rich. My mind is chang’d. 

Enter Lord Stanley. 


Stanley, what news with you ? 

Stan. None good, my liege, to please you 
with the hearing; 

Nor none so bad, but may well he reported. 

K. Rich. Hoyday, a riddle! neither good nor 
bad! # 460 

What need’st thou run so many miles about 

When thou mayst tell thy tale the nearest 
way ? 

Once more, what news ? 

Stan. Richmond is on the seas. 

K. Rich. There let him sink, and be the seas 
on him! 

White-liver’d runagate, what doth he there ? 465 

Stan. I know not, mighty sovereign, but by 
guess. 

E. Rich. Well, as you guess ? 

Stan. Stirr’d up by Dorset, Buckingham, and 
Morton, 

He makes for England, here to claim the 


crown. 

K. Rich. Is the chair empty ? Is the sword 
unsway’d ? 470 

Is the King dead ? the empire unpossess’d ? 
What heir of York is there alive but we ? 

And who is England’s king but great York’s 
heir ? 

Then, tell me, what makes he upon the seas ? 

Stan. Unless for that, my liege, I cannot 
gUeSS. 476 

K. Rich. Unless for that he comes to be your 
liege, 

You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman 
comes ? 

Thou wilt revolt, and fly to him, I fear. 

Stan. No, my good lord, therefore mistrust 
me not. 

K. Rich. Where is thy power, then, to beat 
him back ? 4 so 

Where be thy tenants and thy followers ? 

Are they not now upon the western shore, 
Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships ? 

Stan. No, my good lord, my friends are in 
the north. 

K. Rich. Cold friends to me ! What do they 
in the north, 435 

When they should serve their sovereign in the 
west? 

Stan. They have not been commanded, 
mighty King. 

Pleaseth your Majesty to give me leave, 

I ’ll muster up my friends, and meet your Grace 
Where and what time your Majesty shall please. 

K. Rich. Ay, ay, thou wouldst be gone to join 
with Richmond; 491 

But I ’ll not trust thee. 

Stan. Most mighty sovereign, 

You have no cause to hold my friendship doubt¬ 
ful. 

I never was nor never will be false. 

K. Rich. Go, then, and muster men; but 
leave behind 406 


Your son, George Stanley. Look your heart be 
firm, 

Or else his head’s assurance is but frail. 

Stan. So deal with him as I prove true to 
you. [Exit. 

Enter a Messenger. 

1. Mess. My gracious sovereign, now in De¬ 

vonshire, BOO 

As I by friends am well advertised, 

Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty prelate 
Bishop of Exeter, his elder brother, 

With many moe confederates, are in arms. 

Enter another Messenger. 

2. Mess. In Kent, my liege, the Guildfords 

are in arms ; bob 

And every hour more competitors 
Flock to the rebels, and their power grows 
strong. 

Enter another Messenger. 

3. Mess. My lord, the army of great Buck¬ 

ingham — 

E. Rich. Out on ye, owls ! nothing but songs 
of death ? . [He striketh him. 

There, take thou that, till thou bring better 
news. bio 

3. Mess. The news I have to tell your Maj¬ 
esty 

Is that by sudden floods and fall of waters, 
Buckingham’s army is dispers’d and scatter’d ; 
And he himself wand’red away alone, 

No man knows whither. 

E. Rich. I cry thee mercy ; bib 

There is my purse to cure that blow of thine. 
Hath any well-advised friend proclaim’d 
Reward to him that brings the traitor in? 

3. Mess. Such proclamation hath been made, 

my lord. 

Enter another Messenger. 

4. Mess. Sir Thomas Lovel and Lord Mar¬ 

quis Dorset, 620 

’T is said, my liege, in Yorkshire are in arms. 
But this good comfort bring I to your Highness, 
The Breton navy is dispers’d by tempest. 
Richmond, in Dorsetshire, sent out a boat 
Unto the shore, to ask those on the banks 626 
If they were his assistants, yea or no ; 

Who answer’d him, they came from Bucking¬ 
ham 

Upon his party. He, mistrusting them, 

Hois’d sail and made his course again for Brit¬ 
tany. 

E. Rich. March on, march on, since we are 
up in arms ; B 3 « 

If not to fight with foreign enemies, 

Yet to beat down these rebels here at home. 

Re-enter Catesby. 

Cate. My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is 
taken; 

That is the best news. That the Earl of Rich¬ 
mond 

Is with a mighty power landed at Milford, «sb 
Is colder news, but yet they must be told. 





RICHARD THE THIRD 


76s 


v. iii. 


K. Rich. Away towards Salisbury ! While 
we reason here, 

A royal battle might be won and lost. 

Some one take order Buckingham be brought 
To Salisbury ; the rest march on with me. 640 

[. Flourish. Exeunt. 

Scene [V. Lord Derby's house.] 

Enter Derby and Sir Christopher [Urs- 
wick], 

Der. Sir Christopher, tell Richmond this 
from me, 

That in the sty of the most deadly boar 
My son George Stanley is frank’d up in hold ; 

If I revolt, off goes young George’s head. 

The fear of that holds off my present aid. 5 
So get thee gone; commend me to thy lord. 
Withal say that the Queen hath heartily con¬ 
sented 

He should espouse Elizabeth her daughter. 
But, tell me, where is princely Richmond now ? 
Chris. At Pembroke, or at Ha’rford-west, 
in Wales. 10 

Dei\ What men of name resort to him ? 
Chris. Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned 
soldier; 

Sir Gilbert Talbot, Sir William Stanley, 
Oxford, redoubted Pembroke, Sir James Blunt, 
And Rice ap Thomas, with a valiant crew, ie 
And many other of great name and worth ; 
And towards London do they bend their power, 
If by the way they be not fought withal. 

Der. Well, hie thee to thy lord ; I kiss his 
hand. 

My letter will resolve him of my mind. 20 

Farewell. [Gives letter , and] exeunt. 


ACT V 

Scene I. [Salisbury. An open plate.] 

Enter [the Sheriff, and] Buckingham, with 
halberds , led to execution. 

Buck. Will not King Richard let me speak 
with him ? 

Sher. No,Tny good lord; therefore be patient. 
Buck. Hastings, and Edward’s children, 
Grey and Rivers, 

Holy King Henry and thy fair son Edward, 
Vaughan, and all that have miscarried 0 

By underhand corrupted foul injustice, 

If that your moody discontented souls 
Do through the clouds behold this present hour, 
Even for revenge mock my destruction ! 

This is All-Souls’ day, fellow, is it not ? 10 

Sher. It is [my lord]. 

Buck. Why, then All-Souls’ day is my body’s 
doomsday. 

This is the day which, in King Edward’s time, 
I wish’d might fall on me, when I was found 
False to his children and his wife’s allies ; « 

This is the day wherein I wish’d to fall 
By the false faith of him whom most I trusted ; 
This, this All-Souls’ day to my fearful soul 
Is the determin’d respite of my wrongs. 


That high All-Seer, which I dallied with, 20 
Hath turn’d my feigned prayer on my head 
And given in earnest what I begg’d in jest; 
Thus doth He force the swords of wicked men 
To turn their own points in their masters’ 
bosoms. 

Now Margaret’s curse falls heavy on my neck : 
“ When he,” quoth she, “ shall split thy heart 
with sorrow, 28 

Remember Margaret was a prophetess.” 

Come, lead me, officers, to the block of shame ; 
Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of 
blame. [Exeunt. 

Scene H. [The camp near Tamworth.] 

Enter Richmond, Oxford, Blunt, Herbert, 
and others , with drum and colours. 

Richm. Fellows in arms, and my most loving 
friends, 

Bruis’d underneath the yoke of tyranny, 

Thus far into the bowels of the land 
Have we march’d on without impediment; 

And here receive we from our father Stanley e 
Lines of fair comfort and encouragement. 

The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar, 

That spoil’d your summer fields and fruitful 
vines, 

Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes 
his trough 

In your embowell’d bosoms, this foul swine 10 
Is now even in the centre of this isle, 

Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn. 
From Tamworth thither is but one day’s march. 
In God’s name, cheerly on, courageous friends. 
To reap the harvest of perpetual peace 1* 

By this one bloody trial of sharp war. 

Oxf. Every man’s conscience is a thousand 
men, 

To fight against this guilty homicide. 

Herb. I doubt not but his friends will turn 
to us. 

Blunt. He hath no friends but what are 
friends for fear, 20 

Which in his dearest need will fly from him. 

Richm. All for our vantage. Then, in 
God’s name, march! 

True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s 
wings; 

Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures 
kings. [Exeunt. 

[Scene III. Bosworth Field.] 

Enter King Richard, in arms , with Norfolk, 
the Earl of Surrey, Ratcliff [and others], 

K. Rich. Here pitch our tent, even here in 
Bosworth field. 

My Lord of Surrey, why look you so sad ? 

Sur. My heart is ten times lighter than my 
looks. 

K. Rich. My Lord of Norfolk, — 

Nor. Here, most gracious liege. 

K. Rich. Norfolk, we must have knocks; 
ha ! must we not ? # » 

Nor. We must both give and take, my loving 
lord. 




766 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


v. iii. 


E. Rich. Up with my tent! Here will I lie 
to-night; 

But where to-morrow? Well, all’s one for 
that. 

Who hath descried the number of the traitors ? 
Nor. Six or seven thousand is their utmost 
power. 10 

K. Rich. Why, our battalia treble that ac¬ 
count ; 

Besides, the King’s name is a tower of strength, 
Which they upon the adverse faction want. 

Up with the tent! Come, noble gentlemen, 

Let us survey the vantage of the ground. is 

Call for some men of sound direction ; 

Let’s lack no discipline, make no delay ; 

For, lords, to-morrow is a busy day. [ Exeunt. 

Enter [on the other side of the field] Richmond, 
Sir William Brandon, Oxford, Dorset 
[Blunt, and others. Some of the Soldiers pitch 
Richmond's tent]. 

Richm. The weary sun hath made a golden 
set, 

And, by the bright track of his fiery car, 20 
Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow. 

Sir William Brandon, you shall bear my stan¬ 
dard. 

Give me some ink and paper in my tent ; 

I ’ll draw the form and model of our battle, 
Limit each leader to his several charge, 25 

And part in just proportion our small power. 
My Lord of Oxford, you, Sir William Brandon, 
And you, Sir Walter Herbert, stay with me. 
The Earl of Pembroke keeps his regiment; 
Good Captain Blunt, bear my good-night to 
him, 30 

And by the second hour in the morning 
Desire the Earl to see me in my tent. 

Yet one thing more, good captain, do for me : 
Where is Lord Stanley quarter’d, do you know ? 
Blunt. Unless I have mista’en his colours 
much, 35 

Which well I am assur’d I have not done, 

His regiment lies half a mile at least 
South from the mighty power of the King. 

Richm. If without peril it be possible, 

Sweet Blunt, make some good means to speak 
with him, 40 

And give him from me this most needful note. 
Blunt. Upon my life, my lord, I ’ll undertake 

it; 

And so, God give you quiet rest to-night! 
Richm. Good-night, good Captain Blunt. 
Come, gentlemen, [Exit Blunt.] 

Let us consult upon to-morrow’s business. 46 
Into my tent; the dew is raw and cold. 

[They withdraw into the tent. 

Enter [to his tent] King Richard, Norfolk, 
Ratcliff, Catesby [and others], 

K. Rich. What is’t o’clock ? 

Cate. It’s supper-time, my lord ; 

It’s nine o’clock. 

K. Rich. I will not sup to-night. 

Give me some ink and paper. 

What, is my beaver easier than it was, 60 

And all my armour laid into my tent ? 


Cate. It is, my liege ; and all things are in 
readiness. 

E. Rich. Good Norfolk, hie thee to thy 
charge; 

Use careful watch, choose trusty sentinels. 
Nor. I go, my lord. 66 

K. Rich. Stir with the lark to-morrow, gentle 
Norfolk. 

Nor. I warrant you, my lord. [Exit. 

K. Rich. [Catesby! 

Cate.] My lord ? 

K. Rich. Send out a pursuivant at arms 
To Stanley’s regiment; bid him bring his power 
Before sunrising, lest his son George fall ei 
Into the blind cave of eternal night. 

[Exit Catesby.] 

Fill me a bowl of wine. Give me a watch. 
Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow. 
Look that my stages be sound, and not too 
heavy. «5 

Ratcliff! 

Rat. My lord ? 

K. Rich. Saw’st the melancholy Lord North¬ 
umberland ? 

Rat. Thomas the Earl of Surrey, and him¬ 
self, 

Much about cock-shut time, from troop to troop 
Went through the army, cheering up the sol¬ 
diers. 71 

K. Rich. So, I am satisfied. Give me a bowl 
of wine. 

I have not that alacrity of spirit, 

Nor cheer of mind, that I was wont to have. 

Set it down. Is ink and paper ready ? 73 

Rat. It is, my lord. 

E. Rich. Bid my guard watch ; leave me. 
Ratcliff, about the mid of night come to my 
tent 

And help to arm me. Leave me, I say. 

[Exeunt Ratcliff [and the other At¬ 
tendants. Richard sleeps]. 

Enter Derby to Richmond in his tent. [Lords 
and others attending.] 

Der. Fortune and victory sit on thy helm ! 
Richm. All comfort that the dark night can 
afford 8# 

Be to thy person, noble father-in-law ! 

Tell me, how fares our loving mother ? 

Der. I, by attorney, bless thee from thy 
mother, 

Who prays continually for Richmond’s good. 

So much for that. The silent hours steal on, se 
And flaky darkness breaks within the east. 

In brief, — for so the season bids us be, — 
Prepare thy battle early in the morning, 

And put thy fortune to the arbitrement 
Of bloody strokes and mortal-staring war. oo 
I, as I may — that which I would I cannot,— 
With best advantage will deceive the time, 

And aid thee in this doubtful shock of arms ; 
But on thy side I may not be too forward, 

Lest, being seen, thy brother, tender George, 96 
Be executed in his father’s sight. 

Farewell! The leisure and the fearful time 
Cuts off the ceremonious vows of love 
And ample interchange of sweet discourse, 




RICHARD THE THIRD 


767 


V. iii. 


Which so long sund’red friends should dwell 
upon. 100 

God give us leisure for these rites of love ! 
Once more, adieu ! Be valiant, and speed well! 

Richm. Good lords, conduct him to his regi¬ 
ment. 

I ’ll strive with troubled thoughts, to take a 
nap, 104 

Lest leaden slumber peise me down to-morrow, 

Wlien I should mount with wings of victory. 
Once more, good-night, kind lords and gentle¬ 
men. [Exeunt all but Richmond. 

O Thou, whose captain I account myself, 

Look on my forces with a gracious eye ! 109 

Put in their hands thy bruising irons of wrath, 
That they may crush down with a heavy fall 
The usurping helmets of our adversaries ! 

Make us thy ministers of chastisement 
That we may praise Thee in the victory ! 

To Thee I do commend my watchful soul ne 
Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes. 
Sleeping and waking, O, defend me still! 

[Sleeps. 

Enter the Ghost of Prince Edward, son to 
Henry the Sixth. 

Ghost. (To Richard.) Let me sit heavy on 
thy soul to-morrow ! 

Think, how thou stabb’dst me in my prime of 
youth 

At Tewksbury. Despair, therefore, and die ! 
(To Richmond.) Be cheerful, Richmond ; for 
the wronged souls 121 

Of butcher’d princes fight in thy behalf. 

King Henry’s issue, Richmond, comforts thee. 

Enter the Ghost of Henry the Sixth. 

Ghost. (To Richard.) When I was mortal, 
my anointed body 

By thee was punched full of deadly holes. 125 
Think on the Tower and me. Despair, and die ! 
Harry the Sixth bids thee despair and die. 

(To Richmond.) Virtuous and holy, be thou 
conqueror ! 

Harry, that prophesied thou shouldst be king, 
Doth comfort thee in sleep. Live, and flourish ! 

Enter the Ghost of Clarence. 

Ghost. [To Richard .] Let me sit heavy in thy 
soul to-morrow ! 131 

I, that was wash’d to death with fulsome wine, 
Poor Clarence, by thy guile betray’d to death ! 
To-morrow in the battle think on me, 

And fall thy edgeless sword. Despair, and 
die ! 

(To Richmond.) Thou offspring of the house of 
Lancaster, ise 

The wronged heirs of York do pray for thee. 
Good angels guard thy battle! Live, and 
flourish! 

Enter the Ghosts of Rivers, Grey, and 
Vaughan. 

Ghost of R. [To Richard.] Let me sit heavy 
in thy soul to-morrow, 

Rivers, that died at Pomfret! Despair, and 
die I 140 


Ghost of G. [To Richard.] Think upon Grey, 
and let thy soul despair ! 

Ghost of V. [To Richard.] Think upon 
Vaughan, and with guilty fear 
Let fall thy lance. Despair, and die ! 

All. (To Richmond.) Awake, and think our 
wrongs in Richard’s bosom 
Will conquer him ! Awake, and win the day ! 

Enter the Ghost of Hastings. 

Ghost. [To Richard .] Bloody and guilty, 
guiltily awake, i 4 « 

And in a bloody battle end thy days ! 

Think on Lord Hastings. Despair, and die ! 

(To Richmond.) Quiet untroubled soul, awake, 
awake! 

Arm, fight, and conquer, for fair England’s 
sake! iso 

Enter the Ghosts of the two young Princes. 

Ghosts. (To Richard.) Dream on thy cousins 
smothered in the Tower. 

Let us be lead within thy bosom, Richard, 

And weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and 
death! 

Thy nephews’ souls bid thee despair and die ! 
(To Richmond.) Sleep, Richmond, sleep in 
peace, and wake in joy ; 155 

Good angels guard thee from the boar’s annoy ! 
Live, and beget a happy race of kings ! 
Edward’s unhappy sons do bid thee flourish. 

Enter the Ghost of Lady Anne. 

Ghost. (To Richard.) Richard, thy wife, 
that wretched Anne thy wife, 

That never slept a quiet hour with thee, ie* 
Now fills thy sleep with perturbations. 
To-morrow in the battle think on me, 

And fall thy edgeless sword. Despair, and die ! 
(To Richmond.) Thou quiet soul, sleep thou a 
quiet sleep; 

Dream of success and happy victory ! 10* 

Thy adversary’s wife doth pray for thee. 

Enter the Ghost of Buckingham. 

Ghost. (To Richard.) The first was I that 
help’d thee to the crown ; 

The last was I that felt thy tyranny. 

O, in the battle think on Buckingham, 

And die in terror of thy guiltiness ! 120 

Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and 
death; 

Fainting, despair ; despairing, yield thy breath ! 
( To Richmond.) I died for hope ere I could 
lend thee aid ; 

But cheer thy heart, and be thou not dismay’d. 
God and good angels fight on Richmond’s side, 
And Richard fall in height of all his pride ! 12c 
[The Ghosts vanish. King] Richard 
starts out of his dream. 

K. Rich. Give me another horse! Bind up 
my wounds! 

Have mercy, Jesu ! — Soft! I did but dream. 

0 coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me ! 
The lights burn blue. It is now dead mid¬ 
night. i»» 

Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. 





768 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


v. iii. 


What! do I fear myself ? There’s none else 
by. 

Richard loves Richard ; that is, I am I. 

Is there a murderer here ? No. Yes, I am. 
Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason 
why, 186 

Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself ? 
Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? For any 
good 

That I myself have done unto myself ? 

O, no ! alas, I rather hate myself 

For hateful deeds committed by myself! wo 

I am a villain: yet I lie, I am not. 

Fool, of thyself speak well; fool, do not flat¬ 
ter. 

My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, 
And every tongue brings in a several tale, 

And every tale condemns me for a villain, we 
Perjury, perjury, in the high’st degree ; 
Murder, stern murder, in the dir’st degree ; 

All several sins, all us’d in each degree, 

Throng to the bar, crying all, Guilty ! guilty ! 

I shall despair. There is no creature loves me ; 
And if I die, no soul shall pity me. 201 

Nay, wherefore should they, since that I my¬ 
self 

Find in myself no pity to myself ? 

Methought the souls of all that I had mur¬ 
der’d 

Came to my tent; and every one did threat 205 
To-morrow’s vengeance on the head of Richard. 

Enter Ratcliff. 

Rat. My lord! 

K. Rich. [’Zounds !] who’s there ? 

Rat. Ratcliff, my lord; ’tis I. The early 
village-cock 

Hath twice done salutation to the morn ; 210 

Your friends are up, and buckle on their 
armour. 

K. Rich. [0 Ratcliff, I have dream’d a fear¬ 
ful dream! 

What thinkest thou, will our friends prove all 
true ? 

Rat. No doubt, my lord.] 

K. Rich. 0 Ratcliff, I fear, 1 fear, — 

Rat. Nay, good my lord, be not afraid of 
shadows. 215 

K. Rich. By the apostle Paul, shadows to¬ 
night 

Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard 
Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers 
Armed in proof, and led by shallow Richmond. 
It is not yet near day. Come, go with me ; 220 

Under our tents I ’ll play the eaves-dropper, 

To hear if any mean to shrink from me. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter the Lords to Richmond, sitting in his 
tent. 

Lords. Good morrow, Richmond! 

Richm. Cry mercy, lords and watchful gen¬ 
tlemen, 

That you have ta’en a tardy sluggard here. 226 
Lords. How have you slept, my lord ? 
Richm. The sweetest sleep and fairest-bod¬ 
ing dreams 


That ever ent’red in a drowsy head 
Have I since your departure had, my lords. 
Methought their souls, whose bodies Richard 
murder’d, _ 230 

Came to my tent, and cried on victory. 

I promise you, my heart is very jocund 
In the remembrance of so fair a dream. 

How far into the morning is it, lords ? 

Lords. Upon the stroke of four. 235 

Richm. Why, then ’tis time to arm and give 
direction. 

His oration to his soldiers. 

More than I have said, loving countrymen, 

The leisure and enforcement of the time 
Forbids to dwell upon ; yet remember this, 

God and our good cause fight upon our side ; 240 
The prayers of holy saints and wronged souls, 
Like high-rear’d bulwarks, stand before our 
faces. 

Richard except, those whom we fight against 
Had rather have us win than him they fol¬ 
low. 

For what is he they follow ? Truly, gentlemen., 
A bloody tyrant and a homicide ; 246 

One rais’d in blood, and one in blood estab- 
lish’d; 

One that made means to come by what he 
hath, 

And slaughter’d those that were the means to 
help him; 

A base foul stone, made precious by the foil 200 
Of England’s chair, where he is falsely set; 

One that hath ever been God’s enemy. 

Then, if you fight against God’s enemy, 

God will in justice ward you as his soldiers ; 

If you do sweat to put a tyrant down, 206 

You sleep in peace, the tyrant being slain ; 

If you do fight against your country’s foes, 
Your country’s fat shall pay your pains the 
hire; 

If you do fight in safeguard of your wives, 

Your wives shall welcome home the conquer¬ 
ors ; 260 

If you do free your children from the sword, 
Your children’s children quits it in your age. 
Then, in the name of God and all these rights, 
Advance your standards, draw your willing 
swords. 

For me, the ransom of my bold attempt 26r> 
Shall be this cold corpse on the earth’s cold 
face; 

But if I thrive, the gain of my attempt 
The least of you shall share his part thereof. 
Sound drums and trumpets boldly and cheer¬ 
fully ; 269 

God and Saint George ! Richmond and victory ! 

[Exeunt. 

Re-enter King Richard, Ratcliff, Catesby 
[Attendants and Forces ]. 

E. Rich. What said Northumberland as 
touching Richmond ? 

Rat. That he was never trained up in 
arms. 

K. Rich. He said the truth; and what said 
Surrey then ? 





V. IV. 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


769 


Bat. He smil’d and said, “The better for 
oiir purpose.” 

K. Bich. He was in the right; and so indeed 
it is. [Clock strikes. 275 

Tell the clock there. Give me a calendar. 

Who saw the sun to-day ? 

Bat. Not I, my lord. 

K. Bich. Then he disdains to shine, for by 
the book 

He should have brav’d the east an hour ago. 

A black day will it be to somebody. 280 

Ratcliff! 

Bat. My lord ? 

K. Bich. The sun will not be seen to-day ; 
The sky doth frown and lour upon our army. 

I would these dewy tears were from the ground. 
Not shine to-day ! Why, what is that to me 285 
More than to Richmond ? for the self-same 
heaven 

That frowns on me looks sadly upon him. 
Enter Norfolk. 


Nor. Arm, arm, my lord ; the foe vaunts in 
the field. 

K. Bich. Come, bustle, bustle ; caparison 
my horse. 

Call up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power. 
I will lead forth my soldiers to the plain, 201 
And thus my battle shall be ordered : 

My foreward shall be drawn out all in length, 
Consisting equally of horse and foot; 

Our archers shall be placed in the midst; 205 

•John Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Earl of Sur¬ 
rey, 

Shall have the leading of this foot and horse. 
They thus directed, we will follow 
In the main battle, whose puissance on either 
side 

Shall be well winged with our chiefest horse. 
This, and Saint George to boot! What think’st 
thou, Norfolk ? soi 

Nor. A good direction, warlike sovereign. 
This found I on my tent this morning. 

[He sheweth him a paper. 
[K. Bich. Beads.] “Jockey of Norfolk, be 
not so bold, 

For Dickon thy master is bought and sold.” 305 
A thing devised by the enemy. 

Go, gentlemen, every man to his charge. 

Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls, 
For conscience is a word that cowards use, 
Devis’d at first to keep the strong in awe ; sio 
Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our 
law. 

March on, join bravely, let us to’t pell-mell; 

If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell. 

His oration to his Army. 

What shall I say more than I have inferr’d ? 
Remember whom you are to cope withal; 316 

A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and runaways, 

A scum of Bretons, and base lackey peasants, 
Whom their o’er-cloyed country vomits forth 
To desperate ventures and assur’d destruction. 
You sleeping safe, they bring you to unrest; 320 
You having lands, and blest with beauteous 
wives, 




They would restrain the one, distain the other. 
And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow. 
Long kept in Bretagne at our mother’s cost ? 

A milk-sop, one that never in his life 3 m 

Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow ? 

Let’s whip these stragglers o’er the seas again ; 
Lash hence these overweening rags of France, 
These famish’d beggars, weary of their lives ; 
AVho, but for dreaming on this fond exploit, 330 
For want of means, poor rats, had hang’d them¬ 
selves. 

If we be conquered, let men conquer us, 

And not these bastard Bretons; whom our 
fathers 

Have in their own land beaten, bobb’d, and 
thump’d, 

And on record, left them the heirs of shame. 
Shall these enjoy our lands? lie with our 
wives ? 330 

Ravish our daughters ? ( Drum afar off.) Hark! 
I hear their drum. 

Fight, gentlemen of England ! fight, bold yeo¬ 
men! 

Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head ! 
Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in 
blood; 34a 

Amaze the welkin with your broken staves! 

Enter a Messenger. 

What says Lord Stanley? Will he bring hi? 
power ? 

Mess. My lord, he doth deny to come. 

K. Bich. Off with his son George’s head ! 

Nor. My lord, the enemy is past the marsh; 
After the battle let George Stanley die. 348 

K. Bich. A thousand hearts are great within 
my bosom. 

Advance our standards, set upon our foes ; 

Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George, 
Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons! 3eo 
Upon them ! Victory sits on our helms. 

[Exeunt.] 

[Scene IV. Another part of the field.] 

Alarum. Excursions. Enter [Norfolk and 
forces fighting ; to him] Catesby. 

Cate. Rescue, my Lord of Norfolk, rescue, 
rescue ! 

The King enacts more wonders than a man, 
Daring an opposite to every danger. 

His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights, 
Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death. * 
Rescue, fair lord, or elso the day is lost! 

Alarums. Enter King Richard. 

K. Bich. Ahorse! ahorse! my kingdom for 
a horse ! 

Cate./ Withdraw, my lord; I’ll help you to 
a horse. 

K. Bich. Slave, I have set my life upon a 
cast, 

And I will stand the hazard of the die. i« 

I think there be six Richmonds in the field ; 
Five have I slain to-day instead of him. 

A horse ! a horse ! my kingdom for a horse! 

[Exeunt.] 




770 


RICHARD THE THIRD 


V. V. 


[Scene V. Another part of the field.'] 

Alarum. Enter Richard and Richmond; they 

fight; Richard is slain. Retreat and flourish. 

Re-enter Richmond, Derby, bearing the 

crown , with divers other Lords. 

Richm. God and your arms be prais’d, vic¬ 
torious friends; 

The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead. 

Her. Courageous Richmond, well hast thou 
acquit thee. 

Lo, here, these long-usurped royalties 

From the dead temples of this bloody wretch s 

Have I pluck’d off, to grace thy brows withal. 

Wear it, [enjoy it,l and make much of it. 

Richm. Great God of heaven, say amen to 
all! 

But, tell me, is young George Stanley living ? 

Der. He is, my lord, and safe in Leicester 
town; 10 

Whither, if it please you, we may now with¬ 
draw us. 

Richm. What men of name are slain on either 
side ? 

Der. John Duke of Norfolk, Walter Lord 
Ferrers, 

Sir Robert Brakenbury, and Sir William Bran¬ 
don. 

Richm. Inter their bodies as become their 
births. is 

Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fled 


That in submission will return to us ; 

And then, as we have ta’en the sacrament, 

We will unite the white rose and the red. 

Smile heaven upon this fair conjunction, 20 
That long have frown’d upon their enmity ! 
What traitor hears me, and says not amen ? 
England hath long been mad, and scarr’d her¬ 
self ; 

The brother blindly shed the brother’s blood, 
The father rashly slaughtered his own son, 25 
The son, compell’d, been butcher to the sire. 
All this divided York and Lancaster, 

Divided in their dire division, 

0 , now, let Richmond and Elizabeth, 

The true succeeders of each royal house, so 
By God’s fair ordinance conjoin together ! 

And let their heirs, God, if thy will be so, 
Enrich the time to come with smooth-fac’d 
Peace, 

With smiling Plenty and fair prosperous days! 
Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord, 35 
That would reduce these bloody days again, 
And make poor England weep in streams of 
blood! 

Let them not live to taste this land’s increase 
That would with treason wound this fair land’s 
peace! 

Now civil wounds are stopp’d, Peace lives 
again; 

That she may long live here, God say amen ! 41 

[Exeunt. 




THE LIFE OF HENRY THE EIGHTH 


A play called Henry VIII or All is True was being 1 played in the Globe Theatre on June 29 , 
1613 , when the theatre caught fire and was burned down. Contemporary descriptions of this 
piece fit the present history so exactly that there remains little doubt that the Shakespearean 
drama is meant. We have here, then, a later limit for its composition. Wotton, writing of the 
burning of the Globe, calls All is True “ a new play.” The chief reason urged against taking this 
literally lies in the reference to Elizabeth in in. ii. 50 - 52 , and in the eulogy in y. v. 18 - 39 , 58 - 63 , 
to which the praise of James may have been added later. But eulogies of the great queen did 
not cease with her death ; and there is much in the treatment of her parents that could hardly 
have been pleasing to her. In the style and metre of the undoubted Shakespearean part of the 
drama we find nothing pointing to a date before 1603 , but much to the latest years of his 
activity ; and it is a fairly safe conclusion that in the parts of the present play written by him 
we have the last of his extant work. 

No edition of Henry VIII appeared till it was published in the First Folio, and on that version 
the present text is based. 

The chief historical basis for the play is Holinshed’s Chronicles. Some details seem to have 
come direct from Halle; and the scenes presenting the attempt to crush Cranmer (v. i., ii., iii.) 
are taken from Foxe’s Actes and Monuments., better known as The Book of Martyrs. These sources 
are followed at times almost slavishly, much of the actual diction being derived from the prose 
narratives. Yet with all this borrowing of detail, much freedom is used in the selection and 
arrangement of incident, historical time is disregarded, and even the identity of personages is 
confused. 

The characterization of Queen Katherine alone shows any great creative imagination. Though 
all her acts and much of her language are taken from the Chronicles, the dramatist has be¬ 
stowed on her a pathetic dignity which elevates her to such a pitch that in spite of her passive role 
she stands out as the real heroine of the play. Wolsey’s farewell speech (except m. ii. 455 - 457 ) is 
also invented; but his other important utterances and almost all his actions are based directly 
on Holinshed, who here drew from a variety of sources varying much in their estimate of the 
Cardinal. Some details seem to have been suggested by Samuel Rowley’s When You See Me You 
Know Me (printed 1605 ). The low comedy scenes in the palace yard and Cranmer’s closing 
prophecies are, of course, without historical basis. 

This drama is singularly lacking in unity. The material is simply translated into dialogue or 
pageant; and there results a succession of brilliant stage pictures, sketches of character, and fine 
speeches, entirely without dramatic coherence. Buckingham, Katherine, the King, Wolsey, and 
Cranmer hold in succession the centre of the stage, but no causal connection is apparent in 
the sequence ; nor is there consistency in the demand for sympathy with men or factions. This 
fragmentary quality alone is sufficient to suggest a doubt as to unity of authorship; and exami¬ 
nation of the technical qualities of style and metre has confirmed this suspicion. It is now fairly 
generally, though not universally, conceded that the greater number of scenes are to be credited 
to John Fletcher, and to Shakespeare only I. i., ii.; n. iii., iv.; in. ii. 1-203 ; and with less 
assurance of purity, V. i. 

Attempts have been made to deny to Shakespeare any share in the authorship, and to assign 
it to other authors, especially to Massinger. But various internal reasons, besides the unchal¬ 
lenged appearance of the play in the First Folio, prevent the acceptance of this extreme view. 

No speculation on the method of collaboration has resulted in anything more than mere con¬ 
jecture. 

The pronunciation of “Abergavenny” is indicated by the spelling found in the Folio, 
“ Aburgany.” 


THE LIFE OF HENRY THE EIGHTH 


[DRAMATIS PERSONS 


King Henry VIII. 

Cardinal Wolsey. 

Cardinal Campeius. 

Capucius, ambassador from the Emperor Charles V. 
Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury. 

Duke of Norfolk. 

Duke of Buckingham. 

Duke of Suffolk. 

Earl of Surrey. 

Lord Chamberlain. 

Lord Chancellor. 

Gardiner, bishop of Winchester. 

Bishop of Lincoln. 

Lord Abergavenny. 

Lord Sandys (called also Sir William Sandys). 

Sir Henry Guildford. 

Sir Thomas Lovell. 

Sir Anthony Denny. 

Sir Nicholas Vaux. 


Cromwell, servant to Wolsey. 

Secretaries to Wolsey. 

Griffith, gentleman usher to Queen Katherine. 

Three Gentlemen. 

Doctor Butts, physician to the King. 

Garter King-at-Arms. 

Surveyor to the Duke of Buckingham. 

Brandon, and a Sergeant-at-Arms. 

Door-keeper of the Council-chamber. Porter, and his 
Man. 

Page to Gardiner. A Crier. 

Queen Katherine, wife to King Henry, afterwards 
divorced. 

Anne Bullen, her Maid of Honour, afterwards Queen. 
An old Lady, friend to Anne Bullen. 

Patience, woman to Queen Katherine. 

Spirits. 


Several Lords and Ladies in the Dumb Shows ; Women attending upon the Queen ; Scribes, Officers, Guards, and 

other Attendants. ' 

Scene: London; Westminster; Kimbolton.] 


THE PROLOGUE 

I come no more to make you laugh : things 
now, 

That hear a weighty and a serious brow, 

Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe, 
Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow, 

We now present. Those that can pity, here e 
May, if they think it well, let fall a tear ; 

The subject will deserve it. Such as give 
Their money out of hope they may believe, 

May here find truth too. Those that come to 
see 

Only a show or two, and so agree 10 

The play may pass, if they he still and willing, 
I ’ll undertake may see away their shilling 
Richly in two short hours. Only they 
That come to hear a merry bawdy play, 

A noise of targets, or to see a fellow is 

In a long motley coat guarded with yellow, 
Will be deceiv’d ; for, gentle hearers, know, 
To rank our chosen truth with such a show 
As fool and fight is, beside forfeiting 
Our own brains, and the opinion that we bring 
To make that only true we now intend, 21 
Will leave us never an understanding friend. 
Therefore, for goodness’ sake, and as you are 
known 

The first and happiest hearers of the town, 

Be sad, as we would make ye ; think ye see 25 
The very persons of our noble story 
As they were living ; think you see them great, 
And follow’d with the general throng and sweat 
Of thousand friends ; then, in a moment, see 
How soon this mightiness meets misery ; so 


And, if you can be merry then, I ’ll say 
A man may weep upon his wedding-day. 


ACT I 

Scene I. [London. An ante-chamber in the 
palace.] 

Enter the Duke of Norfolk at one door; at 
the other , the Duke of Buckingham and the 
Lord Abergavenny. 

Buck. Good morrow, and well met. How 
have ye done 

Since last we saw in France ? 

Nor. I thank your Grace, 

Healthful; and ever since a fresh admirer 
Of what I saw there. 

Buck. An untimely ague 

Stay’d me a prisoner in my chamber when s 
Those suns of glory, those two lights of men, 
Met in the vale of Andren. 

Nor. ’Twixt Guynes and Arde. 

I was then present, saw them salute on horse¬ 
back ; 

Beheld them, when they lighted, how they clung 
In their embracement, as they grew together ; 
Which had they, what four thron’d ones could 
have weigh’d u 

Such a compounded one ? 

Buck. All the whole time 

I was my chamber’s prisoner. 

Nor. Then you lost 

The view of earthly glory. Men might say, u 
Till this time pomp was single, but now married 





HENRY THE EIGHTH 


773 


i. i. 


To one above itself. Each following day 
Became the next day’s master, till the last 
Made former wonders its. To-day the French, 
All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods, 
Shone down the English; and, to-morrow, 
they _ 20 

Made Britain India: every man that stood 
Show’d like a mine. Their dwarfish pages 
were 

As cherubins, all gilt; the madams too. 

Not us’d to toil, did almost sweat to bear 
The pride upon them, that their very labour 26 
Was to them as a painting. Now this masque 
Was crfed incomparable ; and the ensuing night 
Made it a fool and beggar. The two kings, 
Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst, 

As presence did present them ; him in eye, 30 
Still him in praise ; and, being present both, 

’T was said they saw but one; and no dis- 
cerner 

Durst wag his tongue in censure. When these 
suns — 

For so they phrase ’em — by their heralds 
challeng’d 

The noble spirits to arms, they did perform 35 
Beyond thought’s compass, tnat former fabu¬ 
lous story, 

Being now seen possible enough, got credit, 
That Bevis was believ’d. 

Buck. O, you go far. 

Nor. As I belong to worship and affect 
In honour honesty, the tract of everything « 
Would by a good discourser lose some life, 
Which action’s self was tongue to. All was 
royal; 

To the disposing of it nought rebell’d, 

Order gave each thing view ; the office did 
Distinctly his full function. 

Buck. y T ho did guide, « 

I mean, who set the body ana the limbs 
Of this great sport together, as you guess ? 

Nor. One, certes, that promises no element 
In such a business. 

Buck. I pray you, who, my lord ? 

Nor. All this was ord’red by the good dis¬ 
cretion 60 

Of the right reverend Cardinal of York. 

Buck. The devil speed him ! no man’s pie is 
freed 

From his ambitious finger. What had he 
To do in these fierce vanities ? I wonder 
That such a keech can with his very bulk 65 
Take up the rays o’ the beneficial sun 
And keep it from the earth. 

Nor. Surely, sir, 

There’s in him stuff that puts him to these 
ends; 

For, being not propp’d by ancestry, whose grace 
Chalks successors their way, nor call’d upon co 
For high feats done to the crown; neither al¬ 
lied 

To eminent assistants ; but, spider-like, 

Out of his self-drawing web, he gives us note, 
The force of his own merit makes his way ; 

A gift that heaven gives for him, which buys «6 
A place next to the King. 

Aber. I cannot tell 


What heaven hath given him, — let some graver 
eye 

Pierce into that; but I can see his pride 
Peep through each part of him. Whence has he 
that ? 

If not from hell, the devil is a niggard, t 

Or has given all before, and he begins 
A new hell in himself. 

Buck. Why the devil, 

Upon this French going out, took he upon him, 
Without the privity o’ the King, to appoint 
Who should attend on him ? He makes up the 
file 75 

Of all the gentry, for the most part such 
To whom as great a charge as little honour 
He meant to lay upon ; and his own letter, 

The honourable board of council out, 

Must fetch him in he papers. 

Aber. I do know so 

Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that have 
By this so sicken’d their estates, that never 
They shall abound as formerly. 

Buck. O, many 

Have broke their backs with laying manors on 
’em 

For this great journey. What did this vanity so 
But minister communication of 
A most poor issue ? 

Nor. Grievingly I think 

The peace between the French and us not values 
The cost that did conclude it. 

Buck. Every man, 

After the hideous storm that follow’d, was so 
A thing inspir’d ; and, not consulting, broke 
Into a general prophecy, that this tempest, 
Dashing the garment of this peace, aboded 
The sudden breach on’t. 

Nor. Which is budded out; 

For France hath flaw’d the league, and hath 
attach’d 95 

Our merchants’ goods at Bourdeaux. 

Aber. Is it therefore 

The ambassador is silenc’d ? 

Nor. Marry, is’t. 

Aber. A proper title of a peace, and purchas’d 
At a superfluous rate! 

Buck. Why, all this business 

Our reverend Cardinal carried. 

Nor. Like it your Grace, 100 

The state takes notice of the private differ¬ 
ence 

Betwixt you and the Cardinal. I advise you — 
And take it from a*heart that wishes towards 
you 

Honour and plenteous safety — that you read 
The Cardinal’s malice and his potency 10c 

Together, to consider further that 
What his high hatred would effect wants not 
A minister in his power. You know his nature, 
That he’s revengeful, and I know his sword 
Hath a sharp edge; it’s long, and, ’t may be 
said, no 

It reaches far, and where’t will not extend, 
Thither he darts it. Bosom up my counsel, 
You ’ll find it wholesome. Lo, where comes 
that rock 

That I advise your shunnine- 





774 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


i. i. 


Enter Cardinal Wolsey, the purse borne before 
him , certain of the Guard, and two Secre¬ 
taries, with papers. The Cardinal in his 
passage Jixeth his eye on Buckingham , and 
Buckingham on him , both full of disdain. 

Wol. The Duke of Buckingham’s surveyor, 
ha ? us 

Where’s his examination ? 

1 . Seer. Here, so please you. 

Wol. Is he in person ready ? 

1 . Seer. Ay, please your Grace. 

Wol. Well, we shall then know more ; and 
Buckingham 
Shall lessen this big look. 

[Exeunt Wolsey and his train. 
Buck. This butcher’? cur is venom-mouth’d, 
and I 120 

Have not the power to muzzle him ; therefore 
best 

Not wake him in his slumber. A beggar’s book 
Outworths a noble’s blood. 

Nor. What, are you chaf’d ? 

Ask God for temperance ; that’s the appliance 
only 

Which your disease requires. 

Buck. I read in’s looks 

Matter against me, and his eye revil’d 126 

Me as his abject object. At this instant 
He bores me with some trick. He’s gone to the 
King; 

I ’ll follow and outstare him. 

Nor. Stay, my lord, 129 

And let your reason with your choler question 
What’t is you go about. To climb steep hills 
Requires slow pace at first. Anger is like 
A full hot horse, who being allow’d his way, 
Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England 
Can advise me like you ; be to yourself 135 
As you would to your friend. 

Buck. I ’ll to the King ; 

And from a mouth of honour quite cry down 
This Ipswich fellow’s insolence, or proclaim 
There’s difference in no persons. 

Nor. Be advis’d; 

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot no 

That it do singe yourself. We may outrun, 

By violent swiftness, that which we run at, 
And lose by over-running. Know you not, 

The fire that mounts the liquor till ’t run 
o’er, 

In seeming to augment it wastes it? Be ad¬ 
vis’d. * 145 

I say again, there is no English soul 
More stronger to direct you than yourself, 

If with the sap of reason you would quench, 

Or but allay, the fire of passion. 

Buck. Sir, 

I am thankful to you; and I ’ll go along ibo 
B y your prescription; but this top-proud fel¬ 
low, 

Whom from the flow of gall I name not, but 
From sincere motions, by intelligence, 

And proofs as clear as founts in July when 
We see each grain of gravel, I do know iss 
To be corrupt and treasonous. 

Nor. Say not “ treasonous.” 


Buck. To the King I ’ll say’t, and make my 
vouch as strong 

As shore of rock. Attend. This holy fox, 

Or wolf, or both, —for he is equal ravenous 
As he is subtle, and as prone to mischief ieo 
As able to perform’t; his mind and place 
Infecting one another, yea, reciprocally — 

Only to show his pomp as well in France 
As here at home, suggests the King our master 
To this last costly treaty, the interview, iss 
That swallowed so much treasure, and like a 
glass 

Did break i’ the rinsing. 

Nor. Faith, and so it did. 

Buck. Pray, give me favour, sir. This cun¬ 
ning Cardinal 

The articles o’ the combination drew 
As himself pleas’d ; and they were ratified 120 
As he cried, “ Thus let be,” to as much end 
As give a crutch to the dead. But our count- 
cardinal 

Has done this, and’t is well; for worthy Wol¬ 
sey, 

Who cannot err, he did it. Now this follows, — 
Which, as I take it, is a kind of puppy ns 
To the old dam, treason, — Charles the Em¬ 
peror, 

Under pretence to see the Queen his aunt, — 
For ’twas indeed his colour, but he came 
To whisper Wolsey, — here makes visitation. 
His fears were, that the interview betwixt i»« 
England and France might, through their 
amity, 

Breed him some prejudice; for from this 
league 

Peep’d harms that menac’d him. He privily 
Deals with our Cardinal; and, as I trow, — 
Which I do well, for I am sure the Emperor iss 
Paid ere he premis’d, whereby his suit was 
granted 

Ere it was ask’d — but when the way was made, 
And pav’d with gold, the Emperor thus de¬ 
sir’d, 

That he would please to alter the King’s course, 
And break the foresaid peace. Let the King 
know, 190 

As soon he shall by me, that thus the Cardinal 
Does buy and sell his honour as he pleases 
And for his own advantage. 

Nor. I am sorry 

To hear this of him ; and could wish he were 
Something mistaken in’t. 

Buck. ' No, not a syllable: 

I do pronounce him in that very shape m 
He shall appear in proof. 

Enter Brandon, a Sergeant-at-arms before 
him, and two or three of the Guard. 

Bran. Your office, sergeant; execute it. 
Serg. Sir, 

My lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earl 
Of Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I 200 
Arrest thee of high treason, in the name 
Of our most sovereign king. 

Buck. Lo, you, my lord. 

The net has fall’n upon me ! I shall perish 
Under device and practice. 




I. 11. 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


775 


Sr an. I am sorry 

To see you ta’en from liberty^ to look on 205 
The business present. ’T is his Highness’ plea¬ 
sure 

You shall to the Tower. 

Buck. It will help me nothing 

To plead mine innocence; for that dye is on 
me 

Which makes my whit’st part black. The will 
of Heaven 

Be done in this and all things! I obey. 210 
0 my Lord Abergavenny, fare you well! 

Bran. Nay, he must bear you company. 
The King [To Abergavenny.) 

Is pleas’d you shall to the Tower, till you know 
How he determines further. 

Aber. As the Duke said, 

The will of Heaven be done, and the King’s 
pleasure 215 

By me obey’d! 

Bran. Here is a warrant from 

The King to attach Lord Montacute, and the 
bodies 

Of the Duke’s confessor, John de la Car, 

One Gilbert Peck, his chancellor, — 

Buck. So, so; 

These are the limbs o’ the plot. No more, I 
hope ? 220 

Bran. A monk o’ the Chartreux. 

Buck. O, [Nicholas] Hopkins ? 

Bran. He. 

Buck. My surveyor is false ; the o’er-great 
Cardinal 

Hath show’d him gold; my life is spann’d 
already. 

I am the shadow of poor Buckingham, 

Whose figure even this instant cloud puts on, 
By dark’ning my clear sun. My lord, fare¬ 
well. [Exeunt. 226 

Scene II. [The same. The council-chamber .] 

Cornets. Enter the King, leaning on the Cardi¬ 
nal’s shoulder , the Nobles, and Sir Thomas 
Lovell ; the Cardinal places himself under 
the King's feet on his right side. 

King. My life itself, and the best heart of it, 
Thanks you for this great care. I stood i’ the 
level 

Of a full-charg’d confederacy, and give thanks 
To you that chok’d it. Let be call’d before us 
That gentleman of Buckingham’s ; in person e 
I ’ll hear him his confessions justify. 

And point by point the treasons of his master 
He shall again relate. 

A noise within, crying, “ Room for the Queen! ” 
Enter Queen Katherine, ushered by the 
Duke of Norfolk, and the Duke of Suf¬ 
folk : she kneels. The King riseth from his 
state , takes her up, kisses and placeth her by 
him. 

Q. Kath. Nay, we must longer kneel; I am 
a suitor. 

King. Arise, and take place by us. Half your 
suit 10 

Never name to us, you have half our power; 


The other moiety, ere you ask, is given. 

Repeat your will and take it. 

Q. Kath. Thank your Majesty. 

That you would love yourself, and in that love 
Not unconsidered leave your honour, nor 16 

The dignity of your office, is the point 
Of my petition. 

King. Lady mine, proceed. 

Q. Kath. I am solicited, not by a few, 

And those of true condition, that your subjects 
Are in great grievance. There have been com¬ 
missions 20 

Sent down among ’em, which hath flaw’d the 
heart 

Of all their loyalties ; wherein, although, 

My good Lord Cardinal, they vent reproaches 
Most bitterly on you, as putter on 
Of these exactions, yet the King our master — 25 
Whose honour Heaven shield from soil! — even 
he escapes not 

Language unmannerly, yea, such which breaks 
The sides of loyalty, and almost appears 
In loud rebellion. 

Nor. Not “almost appears,” 

It doth appear ; for, upon these taxations, so 
The clothiers all, not able to maintain 
The many to them longing, have put off 
The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who, 
Unfit for other life, compell’d by hunger 
And lack of other means, in desperate manner 
Daring the event to the teeth, are all in up¬ 
roar, 36 

And danger serves among them. 

King. Taxation! 

Wherein ? and what taxation ? My Lord 
Cardinal, 

You that are blam’d for it alike with us, 

Know you of this taxation ? 

Wol. Please you, sir, 40 

I know but of a single part, in aught 
Pertains to the state ; and front but in that 
file 

Where others tell steps with me. 

Q. Kath. No, my lord ? 

You know no more than others ? But you frame 
Things that are known alike, which are not 
wholesome <s 

To those which would not know them, and 
yet must 

Perforce be their acquaintance. These exac¬ 
tions, 

Whereof my sovereign would have note, they 
are 

Most pestilent to the hearing ; and^to bear ’em, 
The back is sacrifice to the load. They say 60 
They are devis’d by you ; or else you suffer 
Too hard an exclamation. 

King. Still exaction! 

The nature of it ? In what kind, let’s know, 

Is this exaction ? 

Q. Kath. I am much too venturous 

In tempting of your patience ; but am bold’ned 
Under your promis’d pardon. The subjects’ 
grief _ os 

Comes through commissions, which compels 
from each 

The sixth part of his substance, to be levied 






776 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


i. ii. 


Without delay ; and the pretence for this 
Is nam’d, your wars in France. This makes 
bold mouths; eo 

Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts 
freeze 

Allegiance in them ; their curses now 
Live where their prayers did ; and it’s come to 
pass, 

This tractable obedience is a slave 
To each incensed will. I would your Highness 
Would give it quick consideration, for 66 

There is no primer business. 

King. By my life, 

This is against our pleasure. 

Wol. And for me, 

I have no further gone in this than by 
A single voice ; and that not pass’d me but ?o 
By learned approbation of the judges. If I am 
Traduc’d by ignorant tongues, which neither 
know 

My faculties nor person, yet will be 
The chronicles of my doing, let me say 74 

’T is but the fate of place, and the rough brake 
That virtue must go through. We must not stint 
Our necessary actions, in the fear 
To cope malicious censurers ; which ever. 

As ravenous fishes, do a vessel follow 

That is new-trimm’d, but benefit no further so 

Than vainly longing. What we oft do best, 

By sick interpreters, once weak ones, is 
Not ours, or not allow’d ; what worst, as oft, 
Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up 
For our best act. If we shall stand still, 85 
In fear our motion will be mock’d or carp’d at, 
We should take root here where we sit, or sit 
State-statues only. 

King. Things done well, 

And with a care, exempt themselves from fear ; 
Things done without example, in their issue so 
Are to be fear’d. Have you a precedent 
Of this commission ? I believe, not any. 

We must not rend our subjects from our laws, 
And stick them in our will. Sixth part of each ? 
A trembling contribution ! Why, we take 95 
From every tree, lop, bark, and part o’ the 
timber ; 

And, though we leave it with a root, thus hack’d, 
The air will drink the sap. To every county 
Where this is question’d send our letters, with 
Free pardon to each man that has deni’d wo 
The force of this commission. Pray, look to’t; 
I put it to your care. 

Wol. A word with you. 

[To the Secretary , aside.] 
Let there be letters writ to every shire, 

Of the King’s grace and pardon. The grieved 
commons 

Hardly conceive of me ; let it be nois’d ios 
That through our intercession this revokement 
And pardon comes. I shall anon advise you 
Further in the proceeding. [Exit Secretary. 

Enter Surveyor. 

Q. Kath. I am sorry that the Duke of Buck¬ 
ingham 

Is run in your displeasure. 

King. It grieves many, no 


The gentleman is learn’d, and a most rare 
speaker; 

To nature none more bound ; his training such 
That he may furnish and instruct great teach¬ 
ers, 

And never seek for aid out of himself. Yet see, 
When these so noble benefits shall prove ns 
Not well dispos’d, the mind growing once cor¬ 
rupt, 

They turn to vicious forms, ten times more ugly 
Than ever they were fair. This man so com¬ 
plete, 

Who was enroll’d ’mongst wonders, and when we, 
Almost with ravish’d list’ning, could not find 
His hour of speech a minute ; he, my lady, 121 
Hath into monstrous habits put the graces 
That once were his, and is become as black 
As if besmear’d in hell. Sit by us; you shall 
hear — 

This was his gentleman in trust — of him 126 

Things to strike honour sad. Bid him recount 
The fore-recited practices, whereof 
We cannot feel too little, hear too much. 

Wol. Stand forth, and with bold spirit relate 
what you, 

Most like a careful subject, have collected iso 
Out of the Duke of Buckingham. 

King. . Speak freely. 

Surv. First, it was usual with him, every day 
It would infect his speech, that if the King 
Should without issue die, he ’ll carry it so 
To make the sceptre his. These very words 135 
I’ve heard him utter to his son-in-law, 

Lord Abergavenny; to whom by oath he men¬ 
ac’d 

Revenge upon the Cardinal. 

Wol. Please your Highness, note 

This dangerous conception in this point. 

Not friended by his wish, to your high person 140 
His will is most malignant; and it stretches 
Beyond you, to your friends. 

Q. Kath. My learn’d Lord Cardinal, 

Deliver all with charity. 

King. Speak on. 

How grounded he his title to the crown ? 

Upon our fail ? To this point hast thou heard 
him 145 

At any time speak aught ? 

Surv. He was brought to this 

By a vain prophecy of Nicholas Henton. 

King. What was that Henton ? 

Surv. Sir, a Chartreux friar, 

His confessor ; who fed him every minute 
With words of sovereignty. 

King. How know’st thou this ? 

Surv. Not long before your Highness sped to 
France, 151 

The Duke being at the Rose, within the parish 
Saint Lawrence Poultney, did of me demand 
What was the speech among the Londoners 
Concerning the French journey. I repli'd, 155 
Men fear the French would prove perfidious, 

To the King’s danger. Presently the Duke 
Said, ’twas the fear, indeed; and that he 
doubted 

’T would prove the verity of certain words 
Spoke by a holy monk, “ that oft,” says he, ieo 




HENRY THE EIGHTH 


777 


I. iii. 


** Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit 
John de la Car, my chaplain, a choice hour 
To hear from him a matter of some moment; 
Whom after under the confession’s seal 
He solemnly had sworn, that what he spoke 100 
My chaplain to no creature living but 
To me should utter, with demure confidence 
This pausingly ensu’d : ‘ Neither the King nor’s 
heirs, 

Tell you the Duke, shall prosper. Bid him 
strive 109 

To gain the love o’ the commonalty. The Duke 
Shall govern England.’ ” 

Q. Kath. If I know you well, 

You were the Duke’s surveyor, and lost your 
office 

On the complaint o’ the tenants. Take good 
heed 

You charge not in your spleen a noble person 
And spoil your nobler soul; I say, take heed ; 
Yesq heartily beseech you. 

King. Let him on. ire 

Go forward. 

Surv. On my soul, I ’ll speak but truth. 
I told my lord the Duke, by the devil’s illu¬ 
sions 

The monk might be deceiv’d ; and that’t was 
dangerous for him 

To ruminate on this so far, until iso 

It forg’d him some design; which, being be¬ 
liev’d, 

It was much like to do. He answer’d, “ Tush, 
It can do me no damage ; ” adding further 
That, had the King in his last sickness fail’d. 
The Cardinal’s and Sir Thomas Lovell’s heads 
Should have gone off. 

King. Ha ! what, so rank ? Ah ha! i «0 

There’s mischief in this man. Canst thou say 
further ? 

Surv. I can, my liege. 

King. Proceed. 

Surv. Being at Greenwich, 

After your Highness had reprov’d the Duke 
About Sir William Bulmer, — 

King. I remember 100 

Of such a time ; being my sworn servant, 

The Duke retain’d him his. But on ; what 
hence ? 

Surv. “ If,” quoth he, “ I for this had been 
committed,” 

— As, to the Tower, I thought, — “I would 
have play’d ' 

The part my father meant to act upon 195 

The usurper Richard ; who, being at Salisbury, 
Made suit to come in’s presence; which if 
granted, 

As he made semblance of his duty, would 
Have put his knife into him.” 

King. A giant traitor ! 

Wol. Now, madam, may his Highness live 
in freedom, 200 

And this man out of prison ? 

Q. Kaih. God mend all! 

King. There’s something more would out of 
thee ; what say’st ? 

Surv. After “ the Duke his father,” with 
“ the knife,” 


He stretch’d him, and, with one hand on his 
dagger, 204 

Another spread on’s breast, mounting his eyes, 
He did discharge a horrible oath ; whose tenour 
Was, were he evil us’d, he would outgo 
His father by as much as a performance 
Does an irresolute purpose. 

King. There’s his period, 

To sheathe his knife in us. He is attach’d. 210 
Call him to present trial. If he may 
Find mercy in the law, ’t is his ; if nonej 
Let him not seek’t of us. By day and night, 
He’s traitor to the height. [ Exeunt . 

Scene III. [An ante-chamber in the palace.'] 

Enter the Lord Chamberlain and Lord 
Sandys. 

Cham. Is’t possible the spells of France 
should juggle 

Men into such strange mysteries ? 

San. New customs, 

Though they be never so ridiculous, 

Nay, let ’em be unmanly, yet are follow’d. 
Cham. As far as I see, all the good our Eng¬ 
lish 5 

Have got by the late voyage is but merely 
A fit or two o’ the face ; but they are shrewd 
ones; 

For when they hold ’em, you would swear di¬ 
rectly 

Their very noses had been counsellors 
To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so. 10 
San. They have all new legs, and lame ones. 
One would take it, 

That never saw ’em pace before, the spavin 
Or springhalt reign’d among ’em. 

Criam. Death! my lord, 

Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too, 
That, sure, they’ve worn out Christendom. 

Enter Sir Thomas Lovell. 

How now! ib 

What news, Sir Thomas Lovell ? 

Lov. Faith, my lord 

I hear of none, but the new proclamation 
That’s clapp’d upon the court-gate. 

Cham. What is’t for ? 

Lov. The reformation of our travell’d gal¬ 
lants, 

That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and 
tailors. 20 

Cham. I’m glad ’tis there. Now I would 

pray our monsieurs 

To think an English courtier may be wise, 

And never see the Louvre. 

Lov. They must either, 

For so run the conditions, leave those remnants 
Of fool and feather that they got in France, 25 
With all their honourable points of ignorance 
Pertaining thereunto, as fights and fireworks, 
Abusing better men than they can be, 

Out of a foreign wisdom, renouncing clean 
The faith they have in tennis and tall stockings, 
Short blist’red breeches, and those types of 
travel, si 

And understand again like honest men, 






778 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


i. iv. 


Or pack to their old playfellows. There, I take 
it, 

They may, “ cum privilegio ,” wear away 
The lag end of their lewdness and be laugh’d at. 
San. ’T is time to give ’em physic, their dis¬ 
eases . 36 

Are grown so catching. 

Cham. What a loss our ladies 

Will have of these trim vanities ! 

Lov. Ay, marry, 

There will be woe indeed, lords ; the sly whore¬ 
sons 

Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies. 40 
A French song and a fiddle has no fellow. 

San. The devil fiddle ’em ! I am glad they 
are going, 

For, sure, there’s no converting of ’em. Now 
An honest country lord, as I am, beaten 
A long time out of play, may bring his plain- 
song 46 

And have an hour of hearing ; and, by ’r Lady, 
Held current music too. 

Cham. Well said, Lord Sandys ; 

Your colt’s tooth is not cast yet. 

San. No, my lord ; 

Nor shall not, while I have a stump. 

Cham. Sir Thomas, 

Whither were you a-going ? 

Lov. To the Cardinal’s. 

Your lordship is a guest too. 

Cham. 0 , ’t is true: si 

This night he makes a supper, and a great one, 
To many lords and ladies ; there will be 
The beauty of this kingdom, I ’ll assure you. 
Lov. That churchman bears a bounteous 
mind indeed, ss 

A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us ; 
His dews fall everywhere. 

Cham. No doubt he’s noble ; 

He had a black mouth that said other of him. 
San. He may, my lord ; has wherewithal; in 
him 

Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doc¬ 
trine. so 

Men of his way should be most liberal; 

They are set here for examples. 

Cham. True, they are so ; 

But few now give so great ones. My barge 
stays; 

Your lordship shall along. Come, good Sir 
Thomas, 

We shall be late else ; which I would not be, 65 
For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford 
This night to be comptrollers. 

San. I am your lordship’s. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [A Hall in York Place.} 

Hautboys. A small table under a state for the 
Cardinal , a longer table for the guests. Then 
enter Anne Bullen and divers other Ladies 
and Gentlemen as guests , at one door ; at an¬ 
other door , enter Sir Henry Guildford. 

Guild. Ladies, a general welcome from his 
Grace 

Salutes ye all; this night he dedicates 


To fair content and you. None here, he hopes, 
In all this noble bevy, has brought with her 
One care abroad. He would have all as merry 6 
As, first, good company, good wine, good wel¬ 
come, 

Can make good people. 

Enter Lord Chamberlain, Lord Sandys, 
and Sir Thomas Lovell. 

O, my lord, you ’re tardy ; 
The very thought of this fair company 
Clapp’d wings to me. 

Cham. You are young, Sir Harry 

Guildford. 

San. Sir Thomas Lovell, had the Cardinal io 
But half my lay thoughts in him, some of these 
Should find a running banquet ere they rested, 
I think would better please ’em. By my life, 
They are a sweet society of fair ones. 

Lov. 0 , that your lordship were but now 
confessor 15 

To one or two of these ! 

San. I would I were ; 

They should find easy penance. 

Lov. Faith, how easy ? 

San. As easy as a down-bed would afford it. 
Cham. Sweet ladies, will it please you sit ? 
Sir Harry, 

Place you that side; I ’ll take the charge of 
this. 20 

His Grace is ent’ring. Nay, you must not 
freeze; 

Two women plac’d together makes cold 
weather. 

My Lord Sandys, you are one will keep ’em 
waking; 

Pray, sit between these ladies. 

San. By my faith, 

And thank your lordship. By your leave, sweet 
ladies. 26 

If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me ; 

I had it from my father. 

Anne. Was he mad, sir ? 

San. 0 , very mad, exceeding mad; in love 
too; 

But he would bite none. Just as I do now, 

He would kiss you twenty with a breath. 

[.Kisses her.] 

Cham. Well said, my lord. 

So, now you ’re fairly seated. Gentlemen, 31 
The penance lies on you, if these fair ladies 
Pass away frowning. 

San. For my little cure, 

Let me alone. 

Hautboys. Enter Cardinal Wolsey, and takes 
his state. 

Wol. You ’re welcome, my fair guests. That 
noble lady 86 

Or gentleman that is not freely merry 
Is not my friend. This, to confirm my welcome ; 
And to you all, good health. [Drinks.] 

San. Your Grace is noble. 

Let me have such a bowl may hold my thanks, 
And save me so much talking. 

Wol. My Lord Sandys, 40 

I am beholding to you ; eheer your neighbours. 





II. 1. 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


779 


Ladies, you are not merry. Gentlemen, 

Whose fault is this ? 

San. The red wine first must rise 

In their fair cheeks, my lord; then we shall 
have ’em 

Talk us to silence. 

Anne. You are a merry gamester, 

My Lord Sandys. 

San. Yes, if I make my play. 46 

Here’s to your ladyship ; and pledge it, madam, 
For ’t is to such a thing, — 

Anne. You cannot show me. 

San. I told your Grace they would talk anon. 

[Drum and trumpet , chambers dis¬ 
charged. 

Wol. What’s that ? 

Cham. Look out there, some of ye. 

[Exit Servant.] 

Wol. What warlike voice, 

And to what end, is this? Nay, ladies, fear 
not; . . 51 

By all the laws of war you ’re privileg’d. 

Re-enter Servant. 


Cham. How now ! what is’t ? 

Serv. A noble troop of strangers, 

For so they seem. They ’ve left their barge and 
landed, 

And hither make as great ambassadors bb 

From foreign princes. 

Wol. Good Lord Chamberlain, 

Go, give ’em welcome; you can speak the 
French tongue; 

And, pray, receive ’em nobly, and conduct ’em 
Into our presence, where this heaven of beauty 
Shall shine at full upon them. Some attend 
him. 60 

[Exit Chamberlain , attended .] All 
rise , and tables remov'd. 

You have now a broken banquet; but we ’ll 
mend it. 

A good digestion to you all; and once more 
I shower a welcome on ye. Welcome all! 

Hautboys. Enter the KinCx and others , as 
masquers , habited like shepherds , usher'd by 
the Lord Chamberlain. They pass directly 
before the Cardinal , and gracefully salute him. 

A noble company ! What are their pleasures ? 
Cham. Because they speak no English, thus 
they pray’d 66 

To tell your Grace, that, having heard by fame 
Of this so noble and so fair assembly 
This night to meet here, they could do no 
less, 

Out of the great respect they bear to beauty, 
But leave their flocks; and, under your fair 
conduct, _ 70 

Crave leave to view these ladies and entreat 
An hour of revels with ’em. 

Wol. Say, Lord Chamberlain, 

They have done my poor house grace; for 
which I pay ’em 

A thousand thanks, and pray ’em take their 
pleasures. 

[They choose Ladies [for the dance]. 
The King chooses Anne Bullen. 


King. The fairest hand I ever touch’d! 0 
beauty, ™ 

Till now I never knew thee 1 [Music. Dance. 
Wol. My lord I 
Cham. Your Grace ? 

Wol. Pray, tell ’em thus much from me : 
There should be one amongst ’em, by his per¬ 
son, 

More worthy this place than myself; to whom, 
If I but knew him, with my love and duty so 
I would surrender it. 

Cham. I will, my lord. 

[ Whispers [the Masquers]. 
Wol. What say they ? 

Cham. Such a one, they all confess, 

There is indeed ; which they would have your 

Grace 

Find out, and he will take it. 

Wol. Let me see, then. 

By all your good leaves, gentlemen ; here I ’ll 
make ss 

My royal choice. 

King. Ye have found him, Cardinal. 

[ U nmasking.] 

You hold a fair assembly ; you do well, lord. 
You are a churchman, or, I ’ll tell you, Cardinal, 
I should judge now unhappily. 

Wol. I am glad »9 

Your Grace is grown so pleasant. 

King. My Lord Chamberlain, 

Prithee, come hither. What fair lady’s that ? 
Cham. An ’t please your Grace, Sir Thomas 
Bullen’s daughter, — 

The Viscount Rochford, — one of her Highness’ 
women. 

King. By heaven, she is a dainty one. 
Sweetheart, 

I were unmannerly to take you out as 

And not to kiss you. A health, gentlemen ! 

Let it go round. 

Wol. Sir Thomas Lovell, is the banquet 
ready 

I’ the privy chamber ? 

Lov. Yes, my lord. 

Wol. Your Grace, 

I fear, with dancing is a little heated. ioo 

Kina. I fear, too much. 

Wol. There’s fresher air, my lord, 

In the next chamber. 

King. Lead in your ladies, every one. Sweet 
partner, 

I must not yet forsake you ; let’s be merry. 
Good my Lord Cardinal, I have half a dozen 
healths 106 

To drink to these fair ladies, and a measure 
To lead ’em once again ; and then let. ’s dream 
Who’s best in favour. Let the music knock it. 

[Exeunt with trumpets. 


ACT II 

Scene I. [Westminster. A street.] 

Enter two Gentlemen at several doors. 

1 . Gent. Whither away so fast ? 

2 . Gent. O, God save ye! 




780 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


11. i 


Even to the hall, to hear what shall become 
Of the great Duke of Buckingham. 

1 . Gent. I ’ll save you 

That labour, sir. All’s now done, but the 

ceremony 4 

Of bringing back the prisoner. 

2 . Gent. Were you there ? 

1 . Gent. Yes, indeed, was I. 

2 . Gent. Pray, speak what has happen’d. 

1 . Gent. You may guess quickly what. 

2 . Gent. Is he found guilty ? 

1 . Gent. Yes, truly is he, and condemn’d 

upon ’t. 

2 . Gent. I am sorry for’t. 

1 . Gent. So are a number more. 

2 . Gent. But, pray, how pass’d it ? 10 

1 . Gent. I ’ll tell you in a little. The great 

Duke 

Came to the bar ; where to his accusations 
He pleaded still not guilty and alleged 
Many sharp reasons to defeat the law. 

The King’s attorney on the contrary is 

Urg’d on the examinations, proofs, confessions 
Of divers witnesses ; which the Duke desir’d 
To have brought viva voce to his face ; 

At which appear’d against him his surveyor ; 
Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor; and John 
Car, 20 

Confessor to him ; with that devil-monk, 
Hopkins, that made this mischief. 

2 . Gent. That was he 

That fed him with his prophecies ? 

1 . Gent. The same. 

All these accus’d him strongly ; which he fain 
Would have flung from him, but, indeed, he 

could not. _ 26 

And so his peers, upon this evidence, 

Have found him guilty of high treason. Much 
He spoke, and learnedly, for life ; but all 
Was either pitied in him or forgotten. 

2 . Gent. After all this, how did he bear him¬ 

self ? . so 

1 . Gent. When he was brought again to the 

bar, to hear 

His knell rung out, his judgement, he was stirr’d 
With such an agony, he sweat extremely, 

And something spoke in choler, ill, and hasty. 
But he fell to himself again, and sweetly 35 
In all the rest show’d a most noble patience. 

2 . Gent. I do not think he fears death. 

1 . Gent. Sure, he does not ; 

He never was so womanish. The cause 

He may a little grieve at. 

2 . Gent.. Certainly 

The Cardinal is the end of this. 

1 . Gent. ’T is likely, 40 

By all conjectures: first, Kildare’s attainder, 
Then deputy of Ireland ; who remov’d, 

Earl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too, 
Lest he should help his father. 

2 . Gent. That trick of state 

Was a deep envious one. 

1 . Gent. At his return 46 

No doubt he will requite it. This is noted, 

And generally, whoever the King favours, 

The Cardinal instantly will find employment, 
And far enough from court too. 


2 . Gent. All the commons 4 « 

Hate him perniciously, and, o’ ray conscience, 
Wish him ten fathom deep. This duke as much 
They love and dote on; call him bounteous 
Buckingham, 

The mirror of all courtesy, — 

Enter Buckingham from his arraignment; tip- 
staves before him ; the axe with the edge towards 
him ; halberds on each side: accompanied with 
Sir Thomas Lovell, Sir Nicholas Vaux, 
Sir [William] Sandys, and common people. 

1 . Gent. Stay there, sir, 

And see the noble ruin’d man you speak of. 

2 . Gent. Let’s stand close, and behold him. 

Buck. All good people, 

You that thus far have come to pity me, 66 
Hear what I say, and then go home and lose 
me. 

I have this day receiv’d a traitor’s judgement, 
And by that name must die ; yet, Heaven bear 
witness, 

And if I have a conscience, let it sink me, eo 
Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful! 

The law I bear no malice for my death ; 

’T has done, upon the premises, but justice ; 
But those that sought it I could wish more 
Christians. 

Be what they will, I heartily forgive ’em ; 66 

Yet let ’em look they glory not in mischief, 
Nor build their evils on the graves of great 
men, 

For then my guiltless blood must cry against 
’em. 

For further life in this world I ne’er hope, 

Nor will I sue, although the King have mercies 
More than I dare make faults. You few that 
lov’d me 71 

And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham, 

His noble friends and fellows, whom to leave 
Is only bitter to him, only dying, 

Go with me, like good angels, to my end ; 76 

And, as the long divorce of steel falls on me, 
Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice, 

And lift my soul to heaven. Lead on, o’ God’s 
name. 

Lov. I do beseech your Grace, for charity, 

If ever any malice in your heart so 

Were hid against me, now to forgive me 
frankly. 

Buck. Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive 
you 

As I would be forgiven. I forgive all. 

There cannot be those numberless offences 
’Gainst me, that I cannot take peace with ; no 
black envy se 

Shall mark my grave. Commend me to his 
Grace ; 

And, if he speak of Buckingham, pray, tell him 
You met him half in heaven. My vows and 
prayers 

Yet are the King’s ; and, till my soul forsake, 
Shall cry for blessings on him. May he live 00 
Longer than I have time to tell his years ! 

Ever belov’d and loving may his rule be ! 

And when old Time shall lead him to his end, 
Goodness and he fill up one monument! 





II. 11. 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


781 


Lov. To the water side I must conduct your 
Grace; 95 

Then give my charge up to Sir Nicholas Vaux, 
Who undertakes you to your end. 

Vaux. -Prepare there, 

The Duke is coming. See the barge be ready ; 
And fit it with such furniture as suits 99 

The greatness of his person. 

Buck. Nay, Sir Nicholas, 

Let it alone ; my state now will but. mock me. 
When I came hither, I was Lord High Consta¬ 
ble 

And Duke of Buckingham ; now, poor Edward 
Bohun. 

Yet I am richer than my base accusers, 

That never knew what truth meant. I now 
seal it; 106 

And with that blood will make ’em one day 
groan for’t. 

My noble father, Henry of Buckingham, 

Who first rais’d head against usurping Richard, 
Flying for succour to his servant Banister, 
Being distress’d, was by that wretch betray’d. 
And without trial fell ; God’s peace be with 
him! m 

Henry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying 
My father’s loss, like a most royal prince. 
Restor’d me to my honours, and, out of ruins, 
Made my name once more noble. Now his 
son, ns 

Henry the Eighth, life, honour, name, and all 
That made me happy, at one stroke has taken 
For ever from the world. I had my trial, 

And, must needs say, a noble one; which 
makes me 

A little happier than my wretched father. 120 
Yet thus far we are one in fortunes: both 
Fell by our servants, by those men we lov’d 
most; 

A most unnatural and faithless service. 

Heaven has an end in all; yet, you that hear me, 
This from a dying man receive as certain: 125 

Where you are liberal of your loves and coun¬ 
sels 

Be sure you be not loose ; for those you make 
friends 

And give your hearts to, when they once per¬ 
ceive 

The least rub in your fortunes, fall away 
Like water from ye ; never found again iso 
But where they mean to sink ye. All good 
people, 

Pray for me! I must now forsake ye. The 
last hour 

Of my long weary life is come upon me. 
Farewell! 

And when you would say something that is 
sad, i 3 e 

Speak how I fell. I have done ; and God for¬ 
give me ! [ Exeunt Duke and train. 

1 . Gent. 0 , this is full of pity ! Sir, it calls, 

I fear, too many curses on their heads 

That were the authors. 

2 . Gent. If the Duke be guiltless, 

’T is full of woe ; yet I can give you inkling ho 
O f an ensuing evil, if it fall, 

Greater than this. 


1 . Gent. Good angels keep it from us! 

What may it be ? You do not doubt my faith, 

sir ? 

2 . Gent. This secret is so weighty, ’t will re¬ 

quire 

A strong faith to conceal it. 

1 . Gent. Let me have it. 

I do not talk much. 

2 . Gent. ' I am confident • ue 

You shall, sir. Did you not of late days hear 
A buzzing of a separation 

Between the King and Katherine ? 

1 . Gent. Yes, but it held not; t49 

For when the King once heard it, out of anger 
He sent command to the Lord Mayor straight 
To stop the rumour, and allay those tongues 
That durst disperse it. 

2 . Gent. But that slander, sir, 

Is found a truth now ; for it grows again 
Fresher than e’er it was; and held for cer¬ 
tain 

The King will venture at it. Either the Cardi¬ 
nal, 166 

Or some about him near, have, out of malice 
To the good Queen, possess’d him with a scru¬ 
ple 

That will undo her. To confirm this too, 
Cardinal Campeius is arriv’d, and lately; ieo 
As all think, for this business. 

1 . Gent. ’T is the Cardinal; 

And merely to revenge him on the Emperor 
For not bestowing on him, at his asking, 

The archbishopric of Toledo, this is purpos’d. 

2 . Gent. I think you have hit the mark ; but 

is’t not cruel ies 

That she should feel the smart of this ? The 
Cardinal 

Will have his will, and she must fall. 

1 . Gent. ’T is woeful 

We are too open here to argue this; 

Let’s think in private more. [ Exeunt. 

Scene II. [An ante-chamber in the palace .] 

Enter the Lord Chamberlain, reading this 
letter: 

[Cham.] “ My lord, the horses your lordship 
sent for, with all the care I had, I saw well 
chosen, ridden, and furnish’d. They were 
young and handsome, and of the best breed in 
the north. When they were ready to set out for 
London, a man of ray Lord Cardinal’s, by [5 
commission and main power, took ’em from 
me, with this reason: His master would be 
serv’d before a subject, if not before the King; 
which stopp’d our mouths, sir.” 10 

I fear he will indeed. Well, let him have them ; 
He will have all, I think. 

Enter , to the Lord Chamberlain, the Dukes OP 
Norfolk and Suffolk. 

Nor. Well met, my Lord Chamberlain. 
Cham. Good day to both your Graces. h 
Suf. How is the King employ’d ? 

Cham. I left him private, 

Full of sad thoughts and troubles. 

Nor. What’s the cause ? 





782 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


11. n. 


Cham. It seems the marriage with his bro¬ 
ther’s wife 

Has crept too near his conscience. 

Suf. No, his conscience 

Has crept too near another lady. 

Nor. ’T is so. 

This is the Cardinal’s doing, the king-cardinal. 
That blind priest, like the eldest son of For¬ 
tune, _ 21 

Turns what he list. The King will know him 
one day. 

Suf. Pray God he do ! he ’ll never know him¬ 
self else. 

Nor. How holily he works in all his business ! 
And with what zeal! for, now he has crack’d 
the league 25 

Between us and the Emperor, the Queen’s 
great nephew, 

He dives into the King’s soul, and there scat¬ 
ters 

Dangers, doubts, wringing of the conscience, 
Fears, and despairs ; and all these for his mar¬ 
riage. 

And out of all these to restore the King, 30 
He counsels a divorce ; a loss of her 
That, like a jewel, has hung twenty years 
About his neck, yet never lost her lustre ; 

Of her that loves him with that excellence 
That angels love good men with ; even of her 35 
That, when the greatest stroke of fortune 
falls, 

Will bless the King. And is not this course 
pious ? 

Cham. Heaven keep me from such counsel! 
’T is most true 

These news are everywhere; every tongue 
speaks ’em, 

And every true heart weeps for ’t. All that 
dare 40 

Look into these affairs see this main end, 

The French king’s sister. Heaven will one day 
open 

The King’s eyes, that so long have slept upon 
This bold bad man. 

Suf. And free us from his slavery. 

Nor. We had need pray, 45 

And heartily, for our deliverance; 

Or this imperious man will work us all 
From princes into pages. All men’s honours 
Lie like one lump before him, to be fashion’d 
Into what pitch he please. 

Suf. For me, my lords, eo 

I love him not, nor fear him ; there’s my creed. 
As I am made without him, so I ’ll stand, 

If the King please; his curses and his bless¬ 
ings 

Touch me alike, they ’re breath I not believe 
in. 

I knew him, and I know him; so I leave him 65 
To him that made him proud, the Pope. 

Nor. . Let’sin; 

And with some other business put the King 
From these sad thoughts, that work too much 
upon him. 

My lord, you ’ll bear us company ? 

Cham. Excuse me; 

The King has sent me otherwhere. Besides, eo 


You ’ll find a most unfit time to disturb him. 
Health to your lordships. 

Nor. Thanks, my good Lord Chamberlain. . 
[Exit Lord Chamberlain; [ Norfolk ] 
draws the curtain ; and [discov¬ 
ers] the King reading pensively. 
Suf. How sad he looks! Sure, he is much 
afflicted. 

King. Who’s there, ha ? 

Nor. Pray God he be not angry. 

King. Who’s there, I say ? How dare you 
thrust yourselves 66 

Into my private meditations ? 

Who am I ? ha ? 

Nor. A gracious king that pardons all of¬ 
fences 

Malice ne’er meant. Our breach of duty this 
way 

Is business of estate ; in which we come 70 
To know your royal pleasure. 

King. Ye are too bold. 

Go to ; I ’ll make ye know your times of busi¬ 
ness. 

Is this an hour for temporal affairs, ha ? 

Enter Wolsey and Campeius, with a commis¬ 
sion. 

Who’s there ? My good Lord Cardinal ? 0 my 
Wolsey, 

The quiet of my wounded conscience, 75 

Thou art a cure fit for a king. [To Camp.] 
You ’re welcome, 

Most learned reverend sir, into our kingdom ; 

Use us and it. [To Wol.] My good lord, have 
great care 

I be not found a talker. 

Wol. Sir, you cannot. 79 

I would your Grace would give us but an hour 
Of private conference. 

King. [To Nor. and Suf] We are busy; go. 
Nor. [Aside to £«/’.] This priest has no pride 
in him ? 

Suf. [Aside to Nor.] Not to speak of. 

I would not be so sick, though, for his place. 

But this cannot continue. 

Nor. [Aside to Suf] If it do, 

I ’ll venture one have-at-him. 

Suf. [Aside to Nor.] I another. 86 

[Exeunt Nor. and Suf. 
Wol. Your Grace has given a precedent of 
wisdom 

Above all princes, in committing freely 
Your scruple to the voice of Christendom. 

Who can be angry now? What envy reach 
you? 

The Spaniard, tied by blood and favour to her, 
Must now confess, if they have any goodness, 

The trial just and noble. All the clerks, 

I mean the learned ones, in Christian king¬ 
doms 

Have their free voices. Rome, the nurse of 
judgement, 

Invited by your noble self, hath sent 95 

One general tongue unto us, this good man, 

This just and learned priest, Cardinal Cam¬ 
peius, 

Whom once more I present unto your Highness. 





HENRY THE EIGHTH 


7 8 3 


II. iii. 


King. And once more in mine arms I bid 
him welcome, 

And thank the holy conclave for their loves. 
They have sent me such a man I would have 
wish’d for. 101 

Cam. Your Grace must needs deserve all 
strangers’ loves, 

You are so noble. To your Highness’ hand 
I tender my commission ; by whose virtue, 

The court of Rome commanding, you, my 
Lord 105 

Cardinal of York, are join’d with me their ser¬ 
vant 

In the impartial judging of this business. 

King. Two equal men. The Queen shall be 
acquainted 

Forthwith for what you come. Where’s Gardi¬ 
ner ? 

Wol. I know your Majesty has always lov’d 
her uo 

So dear in heart not to deny her that 
A woman of less place might ask by law, 
Scholars allow’d freely to argue for her. 

King. Ay, and the best she shall have, and 
my favour 

To him that does best; God forbid else. Car¬ 
dinal, ns 

Prithee, call Gardiner to me, my new secretary. 
I find him a fit fellow. [ Exit Wolsey .] 

Re-enter [Wolsey, with ] Gardiner. 

Wol. [Aside to Gard .] Give me your hand. 
Much joy and favour to you ; 

You are the King’s now. 

Gard. [Aside to Wol.} But to be commanded 
For ever by your Grace, whose hand has rais’d 
me. 120 

King. Come hither, Gardiner. 

[ Walks and whispers. 

Cam. My Lord of York, was not one Doctor 
Pace 

In this man’s place before him ? 

Wol. Yes, he was. 

Cam. Was he not held a learned man ? 

Wol. Yes, surely. 

Cam. Believe me, there’s an ill opinion 
spread then _ 125 

Even of yourself, Lord Cardinal. 

Wol. How ! of me ? 

Cam. They will not stick to say you envi’d 
him, 

And fearing he would rise, he was so virtuous, 
Kept him a foreign man still; which so griev’d 
him, 

That he ran mad and died. 

Wol. Heaven’s peace be with him ! 

That’s Christian care enough. For living mur- 
murers 131 

There’s places of rebuke. He was a fool, 

For he would needs be virtuous. That good fel¬ 
low, 

If I command him, follows my appointment; 

I will have none so near else. Learn this, bro¬ 
ther, 1 36 

We live not to be grip’d by meaner persons. 

King. Deliver this with modesty to the 
Queen. [Exit Gardiner. 


The most convenient place that I can think of 
For such receipt of learning is Black-Friars ; 
There ye shall meet about this weighty busi¬ 
ness. 140 

My Wolsey, see it furnish’d. 0 , my lord, 
Would it not grieve an able man to leave 
So sweet a bedfellow ? But, conscience, con¬ 
science ! 

0 , ’t is a tender place ; and I must leave her. 

[Exeunt. 


Scene III. [An ante-chamber of the Queen's 
apartments .] 

Enter Anne Bullen and an Old Lady. 

Anne. Not for that neither. Here’s the pang 
that pinches: 

His Highness having liv’d so long with her, and 
she 

So good a lady that no tongue could ever 
Pronounce dishonour of her, — by my life, 

She never knew harm-doing — 0 , now, after e 
So many courses of the sun enthroned, 

Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which 
To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than 
’T is sweet at first to acquire, — after this pro¬ 
cess, 

To give her the avaunt, it is a pity 10 

Would move a monster. 

Old L. Hearts of most hard temper 

Melt and lament for her. 

Anne. O, God’s will, much better 

She ne’er had known pomp! Though’t be 
temporal, 

Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce 
It from the bearer, ’t is a suff eranc 3 panging 16 
As soul and body’s severing. 

Old L. Alas, poor lady! 

She’s a stranger now again. 

Anne. So much the more 

Must pity drop upon her. Verily, 

I swear, ’t is better to be lowly born 

And range with humble livers in content, 20 

Than to be perk’d up in a glistering grief, 

And wear a golden sorrow. 

Old L. Our content 

Is our best having. 

Anne. By my troth and maidenhead, 

I would not be a queen. 

Old L. Beshrew me, I would. 

And venture maidenhead for’t; and so would 
you, 25 

For all this spice of your hypocrisy. 

You, that have so fair parts of woman on you, 
Have too a woman’s heart, which ever yet 
Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty ; 
Which, to say sooth, are blessings ; and which 

gifts, 30 

Saving your mincing, the capacity 
Of your soft cheveril conscience would re¬ 
ceive, 

If you might please to stretch it. 

Anne. Nay, good troth. 

Old L. Yes, troth, and troth. You would 
not be a queen ? 

Anne. No, not for all the riches under 
heaven. so 








7 8 4 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


II. iv. 


Old L. ’T is strange. A three-pence bow’d 
would hire me, 

Old as I am, to queen it. But, I pray you, 
What think you of a duchess ? Have you limbs 
To bear that load of title ? 

Anne. No, in truth. 

Old L. Then you are weakly made ; pluck 
off a little. 40 

I would not be a young count in your way, 

For more than blushing comes to. If your back 
Cannot vouchsafe this burden, ’t is too weak 
Ever to get a boy. 

Anne. How you do talk ! 

I swear again, I would not be a queen 45 

For all the world. 

Old L. In faith, for little England 

You’d venture an emballing. I myself 
Would for Carnarvonshire, although there 
long’d 

No more to the crown but that. Lo, who comes 
here ? 

Enter the Lord Chamberlain. 

Cham. Good morrow, ladies. What were’t 
worth to know eo 

The secret of your conference ? 

Anne. My good lord, 

Not your demand ; it values not your asking. 
Our mistress’ sorrows we were pitying. 

Cham. It was a gentle business, and becom¬ 
ing 

The action of good women. There is hope be 
A ll will be well. 

Anne. Now, I pray God, amen ! 

Cham. You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly 
blessings 

Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady, 
Perceive I speak sincerely, and high note’s 
Ta’en of your many virtues, the King’s Maj¬ 
esty . 60 

Commends his good opinion of you, and 
Does purpose honour to you no less flowing 
Than Marchioness of Pembroke ; to which title 
A thousand pound a year, annual support, 

Out of his grace he adds. 

Anne. I do not know on 

What kind of my obedience I should tender. 
More than my all is nothing ; nor my prayers 
Are not words duly hallowed, nor my wishes 
More worth than empty vanities ; yet prayers 
and wishes 

Are all I can return. Beseech your lordship, 70 
Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedi¬ 
ence, 

As from a blushing handmaid, to his Highness ; 
Whose health and royalty I pray for. 

Cham. Lady, 

I shall not fail to approve the fair conceit 
The King hath of you. [Aside.] I have perus’d 
her well. « 

Beauty and honour in her are so mingled 
That they have caught the King ; and who 
knows yet 

But from this lady may proceed a gem 
To lighten all this isle ? I ’ll to the King, 

And say I spoke with you. 

[Exit Lord Chamberlain. 


Anne. My honour’d lord. 

Old L. Why, this it is ; see, see I si 

I have been begging sixteen years in court, 

Am yet a courtier beggarly, nor could 
Come pat betwixt too early and too late 
For any suit of pounds ; and you, O fate ! ss 
A very fresh-fish here — fie, fie, ne upon 
This compell’d fortune ! — have your mouth 
fill’d up 

Before you open it. 

Anne. This is strange to me. 

Old L. How tastes it ? Is it bitter ? Forty 
pence, no. 

There was a lady once, ’t is an old story, so 
That would not be a queen, that would she not, 
For all the mud in Egypt. Have you heard it ? 
Anne. Come, you are pleasant. 

Old L. With your theme, I could 

O’ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pem¬ 
broke ! 

A thousand pounds a year for pure respect! 95 
No other obligation ! By my life. 

That promises moe thousands ; Honour’s train 
Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time 
I know your back will bear a duchess. Say, 
Are you not stronger than you were ? 

Anne. Good lady, 

Make yourself mirth with your particular 
fancy, 101 

And leave me out on’t. Would I had no being, 
If this salute my blood a jot. It faints me, 

To think what follows. 

The Queen is comfortless, and we forgetful iob 
In our long absence. Pray, do not deliver 
What here you’ve heard to her. 

Old L. What do you think me ? 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [A hall in Black-Friars .] 

Trumpets, sennet, and cornets. Enter two Ver¬ 
gers, with short silver wands; next them, two 
Scribes, in the habit of doctors; after them, the 
[Arch]bishop of Canterbury alone; after 
him, the Bishops of Lincoln, Ely, Roch¬ 
ester, and Saint Asaph ; next them, with 
some small distance, follows a Gentleman bear¬ 
ing the purse, with the great seal, and a car¬ 
dinal's hat; then two Priests, bearing each a 
silver cross; then a Gentleman Usher bare¬ 
headed, accompanied with a Sergeant-at-arms 
bearing a silver mace; then two Gentlemen 
bearing two great silver pillars; after them, 
side by side, the two Cardinals ; two Noble¬ 
men with the sword and mace. The King takes 
place under the cloth of state; the two Cardi¬ 
nals sit under him as judges. The Queen 
takes place some distance from the King. The 
Bishops place themselves on each side the court , 
in manner of a consistory; below them, the 
Scribes. The Lords sit next the Bishops. The 
rest of the Attendants stand in convenient order 
about the stage. 

Wol. Whilst our commission from Rome is 
read, 

Let silence be commanded. 

King. What’s the need ? 




II. IV. 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


785 


It hath already publicly been read, 

And on all sides the authority allow’d ; * 

You may, then, spare that time. 

Wol. Be’t, so. Proceed. 

Scribe. Say, Henry King of England, come 
into the court. 

Crier. Henry King of England, etc. 

King. Here. 

Scribe. Say, Katherine Queen of England, 
come into the court. 11 

Crier. Katherine Queen of England, etc. 

[The Queen makes no answer, rises 
out of her chair, goes about the 
court, comes to the King, and 
kneels at his feet; then speaks. 
[Q. Kath .] Sir, I desire you do me right and 
justice, 

And to bestow your pity on me ; for 
I am a most poor woman, and a stranger, is 
Born out of your dominions, having here 
No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance 
Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir, 
In what have I offended you ? What cause 
Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure, 20 
That thus you should proceed to put me off 
And take your good grace from me ? Heaven 
witness, 

I have been to you a true and humble wife, 

At all times to your will conformable ; 

Ever in fear to kindle your dislike, 25 

Yea, subject to your countenance, glad or sorry 
As I saw it inclin’d. When was the hour 
I ever contradicted your desire, 

Or made it not mine too ? Or which of your 
friends 

Have I not strove to love, although I knew so 
He were mine enemy ? What friend of mine 
That had to him deriv’d your anger, did I 
Continue in my liking ? nay, gave notice 
He was from thence discharg’d ? Sir, call to 
mind 

That I have been your wife in this obedience 35 
Upward of twenty years, and have been blest 
With many children by you. If, in the course 
And process of this time, you can report, 

And prove it too, against mine honour aught, 
My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty, 40 
Against your sacred person, in God’s name, 
Turn me away ; and let the foul’st contempt 
Shut door upon me, and so give me up 
To the sharp’st kind of justice. Please you, sir, 
The King, your father, was reputed for 45 
A prince most prudent, of an excellent 
And unmatch’d wit and judgement; Ferdi¬ 
nand, 

My father, King of Spain, was reckon’d one 
The wisest prince that there had reign’d by 
many 

A year before ; it is not to be question’d so 
That they had gather’d a wise council to 
them 

Of every realm, that did debate this business, 
Who deem’d our marriage lawful; wherefore I 
humbly 

Beseech you, sir, to spare me, till I may 
Be by my friends in Spain advis’d, whose coun¬ 
sel 55 


I will implore. If not, i’ the name of God, 
Your pleasure be fulfill’d ! 

Wol. You have here, lady, 

And of your choice, these reverend fathers; 
men 

Of singular integrity and learning, 

Yea, the elect o’ the land, who are assembled so 
To plead your cause. It shall be therefore 
bootless 

That longer you desire the court; as well 
For your own quiet, as to rectify 
What is unsettled in the King. 

Cam. His Grace 

Hath spoken well and justly; therefore, 

madam, se 

It’s fit this royal session do proceed, 

And that, without delay, their arguments 
Be now produc’d and heard. 

Q. Kath. Lord Cardinal, 

To you I speak. 

Wol. Your pleasure, madam ? 

Q. Kath. Sir, 

I am about to weep ; but, thinking that to 

We are a queen, or long have dream’d so, 
certain 

The daughter of a king, my drops of tears 
I ’ll turn to sparks of fire. 

Wol. Be patient yet. 

Q. Kath. I will, when you are humble; nay, 
before, 

Or God will punish me. I do believe, ts 

Induced by potent circumstances, that 
You are mine enemy, and make my challenge 
You shall not be my judge ; for it is you 
Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me, 
Which God’s dew quench! Therefore I say 
again, so 

I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul 
Refuse you for my judge; whom, yet once 
more, 

I hold my most, malicious foe, and think not 
At all a friend to truth. 

Wol. I do profess 

You speak not like yourself, who ever yet ss 
Have stood to charity, and display’d the effects 
Of disposition gentle, and of wisdom 
O’ertopping woman’s power. Madam, you do 
me wrong. 

I have no spleen against you, nor injustice 
For you or any. How far I have pi’oceeded, »« 
Or how far further shall, is warranted 
By a commission from the consistory, 

Yea, the whole consistory of Rome. You 
charge me 

That I have blown this coal. I do deny it. 

The King is present: if it be known to him »s 
That I gainsay my deed, how may he wound, 
And worthily, my falsehood ! yea, as much 
As you have done my truth. If he know 
That I am free of your report, he knows 
I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him io» 
It lies to cure me ; and the cure is, to 
Remove these thoughts from you; the which 
before 

His Highness shall speak in, I do beseech 
You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking 
And to say so no more. 




786 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


II. IV. 


Q. Kath. My lord, ray lord, 105 

I am a simple woman, much too weak 
To oppose your cunning. You ’re meek and 
humble-mouth’d; 

You sign your place and calling, in full seeming, 
With meekness and humility ; but your heart 
Is cramm’d with arrogancy, spleen, and pride. 
You have, by fortune and his Highness’ fa¬ 
vours, in 

Gone slightly o’er low steps and now are 
mounted 

Where powers are your retainers, and your 
words, 

Domestics to you, serve your will as’t please 
Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell 
you, us 

You tender more your person’s honour than 
Your high profession spiritual; that again 
I do refuse you for my judge ; and here, 

Before you all, appeal unto the Pope, 

To bring my whole cause ’fore his Holiness, 120 
And to be judg’d by him. 

[/S'Ae curtsies to the King, and offers 
to depart. 

Cam. The Queen is obstinate, 

Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and 
Disdainful to be tried by’t: ’t is not well. 

She’s going away. 

King. Call her again. 125 

Crier. Katherine, Queen of England, come 
into the court. 

Gent. Ush. Madam, you are call’d back. 

Q. Kath. What need you note it ? Pray you, 
keep your way ; 

When you are call’d, return. Now, the Lord 
help! 

They vex me past my patience. Pray you, 
pass on. iso 

I will not tarry ; no, nor ever more 
Upon this business my appearance make 
In any of their courts. 

[Exeunt Queen , and her Attendants. 
King. Go thy ways, Kate. 

That man i’ the world who shall report he has 
A better wife, let him in nought be trusted, 135 
For speaking false in that. Thou art, alone, 

If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness, 

Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government, 
Obeying in commanding, and thy parts 
Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out, 
The queen of earthly queens. She’s noble 
born; 141 

And, like her true nobility, she has 
Carried herself towards me. 

Wol. Most gracious sir, 

In humblest manner I require your Highness, 
That it shall please you to declare, in hearing 
Of all these ears, —for, where I am robb’d and 
bound, 

There must I be unloos’d, although not there 
At once and fully satisfied, — whether ever I 
Did broach this business to your Highness, or 
Laid any scruple in your way, which might 150 
Induce you to the question on’t ? or ever 
Have to you, but with thanks to God for such 
A royal lady, spake one the least word that 
might 


Be to the prejudice of her present state, 

Or touch of her good person ? 

King. My Lord Cardinal, 

I do excuse you ; yea, upon mine honour, iss 
I free you from’t. You are not to be taught 
That you have many enemies, that know not 
Why they are so, but, like to village-curs, 159 
Bark when their fellows do : by some of these 
The Queen is put in anger. You ’re excus’d ; 
But will you be more justifi’d ? You ever 
Have wish’d the sleeping of this business; never 
desir’d 

It to be stirr’d ; but oft have hind’red, oft, 

The passages made toward it. On my honour, 

I speak my good Lord Cardinal to this point, 10# 
And thus far clear him. Now, what mov’d me 
to’t, 

I will be bold with time and your attention : 
Then mark the inducement. Thus it came ; 
give heed to’t: 

My conscience first receiv’d a tenderness, n« 
Scruple, and prick, on certain speeches utter’d 
By the Bishop of Bayonne, then French am¬ 
bassador ; 

Who had been hither sent on the debating 
A marriage ’twixt the Duke of Orleans and 
Our daughter Mary. I’ the progress of this 
business, 171 

Ere a determinate resolution, he, 

I mean the Bishop, did require a respite ; 
Wherein he might the King his lord advertise 
Whether our daughter were legitimate, 
Respecting this our marriage with the dowager, 
Sometimes our brother’s wife. This respite 
shook i 8 i 

The bosom of my conscience, enter’d me, 

Yea, with a splitting power, and made to trem¬ 
ble 

The region of my breast; which forc’d such 
way, 

That many maz’d considerings did throng iso 
And press’d in with this caution. First, me- 
thought 

I stood not in the smile of Heaven ; who had 
Commanded nature, that my lady’s womb, 

If it conceiv’d a male child by me, should 
Do no more offices of life to’t than 19# 

The grave does to the dead ; for her male issue 
Or died where they were made, or shortly after 
This world had air’d them. Hence I took a 
thought 

This was a judgement on me ; that my king¬ 
dom, 

Well worthy the best heir o’ the world, should 

not 196 

Be gladded in’t by me. Then follows, that 
I weigh’d the danger which my realms stood 
in 

By this my issue’s fail; and that gave to me 
Many a groaning throe. Thus hulling in 
The wild sea of my conscience, I did steer 200 
Toward this remedy, whereupon we are 
Now present here together ; that’s to say, 

I meant to rectify my conscience, — which 
I then did feel full sick, and yet not well, — 
By all the reverend fathers of the land 205 
And doctors learn’d. First I began in private 




ill. 1. 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


787 


With you, my Lord of Lincoln. You remember 
How under my oppression I did reek, 

When I first mov’d you. 

Lin. Very well, my liege. 

King. I have spoke long ; be pleas’d yourself 
to say 210 

How far you satisfi’d me. 

Lin. So please your Highness, 

The question did at first so stagger me, 
Bearing a state of mighty moment in ’t 
And consequence of dread, that I committed 
The daring’st counsel which I had to doubt; 215 
And did entreat your Highness to this course 
Which you are running here. 

King. I then mov’d you, 

My Lord of Canterbury ; and got your leave 
To make this present summons. Unsolicited 
I left no reverend person in this court; 220 

But by particular consent proceeded 
Under your hands and seals. Therefore, go on ; 
For no dislike i’ the world against the person 
Of the good queen, but the sharp thorny points 
Of my alleged reasons, drives this forward. 226 
Prove but our marriage lawful, by my life 
And kingly dignity, we are contented 
To wear our mortal state to come with her, 
Katherine our queen, before the primest crea¬ 
ture 

That’s paragon’d o’ the world. 

Cam. So please your Highness, 230 

The Queen being absent, ’t is a needful fitness 
That we adjourn this court till further day. 
Meanwhile must be an earnest motion 
Made to the Queen, to call back her appeal 
She intends unto his Holiness. 

King. [Aside.'] I may perceive 

These Cardinals trifle with me ; I abhor 236 
This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome. 

My learn’d and well-beloved servant, Cranmer, 
Prithee, return. With thy approach, I know, 
My comfort comes along. — Break up the 
court! 240 

I say, set on. 

[.Exeunt in manner as they enter'd. 


ACT III 

Scene I. [London. The Queen's apartments.] 
The Queen and her women , as at work. 

Q. Kath. Take thy lute, wench; my soul 
grows sad with troubles. 

Sing, and disperse ’em, if thou canst. Leave 
working. 

Song. 

Orpheus with his lute made trees 
And the mountain tops that freeze 

Bow themselves when he did sing. e 
To his music plants and flowers 
Ever sprung ; as sun and showers 
There had made a lasting spring. 

Everything that heard him play, 

Even the billows of the sea, 10 

Hung their heads, and then lay by. 


In sweet music is such art, 

Killing care and grief of heart 
Fall asleep, or hearing, die. 

Enter a Gentleman. 

Q. Kath. How now! is 

Gent. An’t please your Grace, the two great 
Cardinals 

Wait in the presence. 

Q. Kath. Would they speak with me ? 

Gent. They will’d me say so, madam. 

Q. Kath. Pray their Graces 

To come near. [Exit Gent.] What can be their 
business 

With me, a poor weak woman, fallen from 
favour ? 20 

I do not like their coming. Now I think on’t, 
They should be good men, their affairs as 
righteous. 

But all hoods make not monks. A'*'"'" 

Enter the two Cardinals, Wolsey and Cam- 
peius. 

Wol. Peace to your Highness ! 

Q. Kath. Your Graces find me here part of a 
housewife; 

I would be all, against the worst may happen. 
What are your pleasures with me, reverend 
lords ? 26 

Wol. May it please you, noble madam, to 
withdraw 

Into your private chamber, we shall give you 
The full cause of our coming. 

Q. Kath. Speak it here ; 

There’s nothing I have done yet, o’ my con¬ 
science, 30 

Deserves a corner. Would all other women 
Could speak this with as free a soul as I do! 
My lords, I care not, so much I am happy 
Above a number, if my actions 
Were tried by every tongue, every eye saw ’em, 
Envy and base opinion set against ’em, 36 

I know my life so even. If your business 
Seek me out, and that way I am wife in, 

Out with it boldly. Truth loves open dealing. 

Wol. Tanta est erga te mentis integritas , re- 
gina serenissima , — . « 

Q. Kath. 0 , good my lord, no Latin ; 

I am not such a truant since my coming, 

As not to know the language I have liv’d in. 

A strange tongue makes my cause more strange, 
suspicious; 45 

Pray, speak in English. Here are some will 
thank you, 

If you speak truth, for their poor mistress’ 
sake. 

Believe me, she has had much wrong. Lord 
Cardinal, 

The willing’st sin I ever yet committed 
May be absolv’d in English. 

Wol. Noble lady, co 

I am sorry my integrity should breed, 

And service to his Majesty and you. 

So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant. 
We come not by the way of accusation 
To taint that honour every good tongue blesses, 
Nor to betray you any way to sorrow ; ee 





Jr88 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


in. i. 


You have too much, good lady ; but to know 
How you stand minded in the weighty differ¬ 
ence 

Between the King and you ; and to deliver, 
Like free and honest men, our just opinions eo 
And comforts to your cause. 

Cam. Most honour’d madam, 

My Lord of York, out of his noble nature, 

Zeal and obedience he still bore your Grace, 
Forgetting, like a good man, your late censure 
Both of his truth and him, which was too far, 
Offers, as I do, in a sign of peace, e« 

His service and his counsel. 

, Q,. Kath. [Aside.'] To betray me. — 

My lords, I thank you both for your good wills. 
Ye speak like honest men ; pray God, ye prove 
so ! 

But how to make ye suddenly an answer, 70 
In such a point of weight, so near mine hon¬ 


our,— 

More near my life, I fear,— with my weak wit, 
And to such men of gravity and learning, 

In truth I know not. I was set at work 
Among my maids; full little, God knows, 
looking 76 

Either for such men or such business. 

For her sake that I have been,— for I feel 
The last fit of my greatness — good your Graces, 
Let me have time and counsel for my cause. 
Alas, I am a woman, friendless, hopeless! so 
Wol. Madam, you wrong the King’s love 
with these fears. 

Your hopes and friends are infinite. 

Q. Kath. In England 

But little for my profit. Can you think, lords, 
That any Englishman dare give me counsel ? 
Or be a known friend, ’gainst his Highness’ 
pleasure, so 

Though he be grown so desperate to be honest, 
And live a subject ? Nay, forsooth ; my friends, 
They that much weigh out my afflictions, 

They that my trust must grow to, live not here. 
They are, as all my other comforts, far hence 
In mine own country, lords. 

Cam. I would your Grace 01 

Would leave your griefs, and take my counsel. 
Q. Kath. How, sir? 

Cam. Put your main cause into the King’s 
protection; 

He’s loving and most gracious. ’T will be much 
Both for your honour better and your cause ; os 
For if the trial of the law o’ertake ye, 

You ’ll part away disgrac’d. 

Wol. He tells you rightly. 

Q. Kath. Ye tell me what ye wish for both, 
— my ruin. 

Is this your Christian counsel ? Out upon ye ! 
Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge 100 
That no king can corrupt. 

Cam. Your rage mistakes us. 

Q. Kath. The more shame for ye ! Holy men 
I thought ye, 

Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues ; 
But cardinal sins and hollow hearts I fear ye. 
Mend ’em, for shame, my lords! Is this your 
comfort, 105 

The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady, 


A woman lost among ye, laugh’d at, scorn’d ? 

I will not wish ye half my miseries ; 

I have more charity; but say, I warn’d ye: 
Take heed, for heaven’s sake, take heed, lest 
at once 110 

The burden of my sorrows fall upon ye. 

Wol. Madam, this is a mere distraction ; 

You turn the good we offer into envy. 

Q. Kath. Ye turn me into nothing! Woe 
upon ye 

And all such false professors! Would you have 
me — 116 

If you have any justice, any pity ; 

If ye be anything but churchmen’s habits — 
Put my sick cause into his hands that hates 
me ? 

Alas, he’s banish’d me his bed already, 

His love, too, long ago ! I am old, my lords, 120 
And all the fellowship I hold now with him 
Is only my obedience. What can happen 
To me above this wretchedness? All your 
studies 

Make me a curse like this. 

Cam. Your fears are worse. 

. Q. Kath. Have I liv’d thus long — let me 
speak myself, 125 

Since virtue finds no friends — a wife, a true 
one ? 

A woman, I dare say without vain-glory, 

Never yet branded with suspicion ? 

Have I with all my full affections 

Still met the King ? loved him next Heaven ? 

obey’d him ? i 3 « 

Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him ? 
Almost forgot my prayers to content him ? 

And am I thus rewarded ! ’T is not well, lords. 
Bring me a constant woman to her husband, 
One that ne’er dream’d a joy beyond his plea¬ 
sure ; 135 

And to that woman, when she has done most, 
Yet will I add an honour,— a great patience. 

Wol. Madam, you wander from the good we 
aim at. 

Q. Kath. My lord, I dare not make myself 
so guilty, 

To give up willingly that noble title 140 

Your master wed me to. Nothing but death 
Shall e’er divorce my dignities. 

Wol. Pray, hear me. 

Q. Kath. Would I had never trod this Eng¬ 
lish earth, 

Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it! 

Ye have angels’ faces, but Heaven knows your 
hearts. 145 

What will become of me now, wretched lady! 

I am the most unhappy woman living. 

Alas, poor wenches, where are now your for¬ 
tunes ! 

Shipwreck’d upon a kingdom, where no pity, 
No friends, no hope ; no kindred weep for me ; 
Almost no grave allow’d me. Like the lily, 151 
That once was mistress of the field and flour¬ 
ish’d, 

I ’ll hang my head and perish. 

Wol. If your Grace 

Could but be brought to know our ends are 
honest. 






hi. ii. 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


789 


You’d feel more comfort. Why should we, 
good lady, 155 

Upon what cause, wrong you ? Alas, our 
places, 

The way of our profession is against it; 

We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow ’em. 
For goodness’ sake, consider what you do ; 

How you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly ieo 
Grow from the King’s acquaintance, by this 
carriage. 

The hearts of princes kiss obedience, 

So much they love it; but to stubborn spirits 
They swell, and grow as terrible as storms. 

I know you have a gentle, noble temper, nw 
A soul as even as a calm; pray, think us 
Those we profess, peacemakers, friends, and 
servants. 

Cam. Madam, you ’ll find it so. You wrong 
your virtues 

With these weak women’s fears. A noble 
spirit 

As yours was, put into you, ever casts 170 

Such doubts, as false coin, from it. The King 
loves you; 

Beware you lose it not. For us, if you please 
To trust us in your business, we are ready 
To use our utmost studies in your service. 

Q. Kath. Do what ye will, my lords; and, 
pray, forgive me 175 

If I have us’d myself unmannerly. 

You know I am a woman, lacking wit 
To make a seemly answer to such persons. 
Pray, do my service to his Majesty ; 

He lias my heart yet, and shall have my 
prayers i»o 

While I shall have my life. Come, reverend 
fathers, 

Bestow your counsels on me. She now begs, 
That little thought, when she set footing here, 
She should have bought her dignities so dear. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [ Ante-chamber to the King's apart¬ 
ment .]| 

Enter the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of 
Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and the 
Lord Chamberlain. 

Nor. If you will now unite in your com¬ 
plaints 

And force them with a constancy, the Cardinal 
Cannot stand under them. If you omit 
The offer of this time, I cannot promise 
But that you shall sustain moe new disgraces, 5 
With these you bear already. 

Sur. I am joyful 

To meet the least occasion that may give me 
Remembrance of my father-in-law, the Duke, 
To be reveng’d on him. 

Suf. Which of the peers 

Have uncontemn’d gone by him, or at least 10 
Strangely neglected ? When did he regard 
The stamp of nobleness in any person 
Out of himself ? 

Cham. My lords, you speak your pleasures. 
What he deserves of you and me I know ; 

What we can do to him, though now the time is 


Gives way to us, I much fear. If you cannot 
Bar his access to the King, never attempt 
Anything on him ; for he hath a witchcraft 
Over the King in’s tongue. 

Nor. Oj fear him not; 

His spell in that is out. The King hath found 20 
Matter against him that for ever mars 
The honey of his language. No, he’s settled, 
Not to come off, in his displeasure. 

Sur. Sir, 

I should be glad to hear such news as this 
Once every hour. 

Nor. Believe it, this is true. 25 

In the divorce his contrary proceedings 
Are all unfolded ; wherein he appears 
As I would wish mine enemy. 

Sur. How came 

His practices to light ? 

Suf. Most strangely. 

Sur. 0, how, how ? 

Suf. The Cardinal’s letters to the Pope mis¬ 
carried, 30 

And came to the eye o’ the King; wherein was 
read, 

How that the Cardinal did entreat his Holiness 
To stay the judgement o’ the divorce ; for if 
It did take place, “ I do,” quoth he, “ perceive 
My king is tangled in affection to 35 

A creature of the Queen’s, Lady Anne Bullen.” 
Sur. Has the King this ? 

Suf. Believe it. 

Sur. * Will this work ? 

Cham. The King in this perceives him, how 
he coasts 

And hedges his own way. But in this point 
All his tricks founder, and he brings his physic 
After his patient’s death. The King already « 
Hath married the fair lady. 

Sur. Would he had! 

Suf. May you be happy in your wish, my 
lord! 

For, I profess, you have it. 

Sur. Now, all my joy « 

Trace the conjunction ! 

Suf. My amen to’t! 

Nor. All men’s ! 

Suf. There’s order given for her coronation. 
Marry, this is yet but young, and may be left 
To some ears unrecounted. But, my lords, 

She is a gallant creature, and complete 
In mind and feature. I persuade me, from her 
Will fall some blessing to this land, which 
shall ei 

In it be memoriz’d. 

Sur. But, will the King 

Digest this letter of the Cardinal’s ? 

The Lord forbid! 

Nor. Marry, amen ! 

Suf. No, no; 

There be moe wasps that buzz about his nose 
Will make this sting the sooner. Cardinal 

Campeius se 

Is stolen away to Rome, hath ta’en no leave ; 
He’s left the cause o’ the King unhandled, and 
Is posted, as the agent of our Cardinal, 

To second all his plot. I do assure you eo 

The King cried “ Ha ! ” at this. 






790 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


III. 11. 


Cham. Now, God incense him, 

And let him cry “ Ha! ” louder! 

Nor. But, my lord, 

When returns Cranmer ? 

Suf. He is return ’d in his opinions ; which 
Have satisfied the King for his divorce, cs 
Together with all famous colleges 
Almost in Christendom. Shortly, I believe, 

His second marriage shall be publish’d, ana 
Her coronation. Katherine no more 
Shall be call’d Queen, but Princess Dowager 70 
And widow to Prince Arthur. 

Nor. This same Cranmer’s 

A worthy fellow, and hath ta’en much pain 
In the King’s business. 

Suf. He has ; and we shall see him 

For it an archbishop. 

Nor. So I hear. 

Suf. ’T is so. 

Enter Wolsey and Cromwell. 

The Cardinal! 

Nor. Observe, observe, he’s moody. 75 

Wol. The packet, Cromwell, 

Gave ’t you the King ? 

Crom. To his own hand, in’s bedchamber. 
Wol. Look’d he o’ the inside of the paper ? 
Crom. Presently 

He did unseal them ; and the first he view’d, 
He did it with a serious mind ; a heed so 

Was in his countenance. You he bade 
Attend him here this morning. 

Wol. Is he ready 

To come abroad ? 

Crom. I think, by this he is. 

Wol. Leave me a while. [Exit Cromwell. 

[Aside.] It shall be to the Duchess of Alen- 
§on, 85 

The French king’s sister ; he shall marry her. 
Anne Bullen! No ; I ’ll no Anne Bullens for 
him; 

There’s more in ’t than fair visage. Bullen ! 
No, we ’ll no Bullens. Speedily I wish 
To hear from Rome. The Marchioness of 
Pembroke! 90 

Nor. He’s discontented. 

Suf. May be, he hears the King 

Does whet his anger to him. 

Sur. Sharp enough, 

Lord, for thy justice ! 

Wol. [Aside.] The late queen’s gentlewo¬ 
man, a knight’s daughter, 

To be her mistress’ mistress! the Queen’s 
queen! 95 

This candle burns not clear: ’t is I must snuff 
it; 

Then out it goes. What though I know her 
virtuous 

And well deserving ? yet I know her for 
A spleeny Lutheran ; and not wholesome to 
Our cause, that she should lie i’ the bosom of 
Our hard-rul’d king. Again, there is sprung 
up 101 

An heretic, an arch one, Cranmer ; one 
Hath crawl’d into the favour of the King, 

And is his oracle. 

Nor, He’s vex’d at something. 


Enter the King, reading a schedule [and Lov¬ 
ell]. 

Sur. I would ’twere something that would 
fret the string, ios 

The master-cord on’s heart! 

Suf. The King, the King! 

King. What piles of wealth hath he accumu¬ 
lated 

To his own portion ! and what expense by the 
hour 

Seems to flow from him ! How, i’ the name of 
thrift, 

Does he rake this together ! Now, my lords, no 
Saw you the Cardinal ? 

Nor. My lord, we have 

Stood here observing him. Some strange com¬ 
motion 

Is in his brain ; he bites his lip, and starts ; 
Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground, 
Then lays his finger on his temple ; straight ns 
Springs out into fast gait; then stops again, 
Strikes his breast hard, and anon he casts 
His eye against the moon. In most strange pos¬ 
tures 

We have seen him set himself. 

King. It may well be ; 

There is a mutiny in’s mind. This morning no 
Papers of state he sent me to peruse, 

As I requir’d ; and wot you what I found 
There, — on my conscience, put unwittingly ? 
Forsooth, an inventory, thus importing 
The several parcels of his plate, his treasure, 
Rich stuffs, and ornaments of household ; 

which 126 

I find at such proud rate, that it out-speaks 
Possession of a subject. 

Nor. _ It ’s Heaven’s will! 

Some spirit put this paper in the packet, 

To bless your eye withal. 

King. If we did think 130 

His contemplation were above the earth, 

And fix’d on spiritual object, he should s till 
Dwell in his musings; but I am afraid 
His thinkings are below the moon, not worth 
His serious considering. 

[King takes his seat; whispers Lov¬ 
ell, who goes to the Cardinal. 
Wol. Heaven forgive me ! 135 

Ever God bless your Highness I 
King. Good my lord, 

You are full of heavenly stuff, and bear the in¬ 
ventory 

Of your best graces in your mind ; the which 
You were now running o’er. You have scarce 
time 

To steal from spiritual leisure a brief span uo 
To keep your earthly audit. Sure, in that 
I deem you an ill husband, and am glad 
To have you therein my companion. 

Wol. ' m Sir, 

For holy offices I have a time ; a time 
To think upon the part of business which 145 
I bear i’ the state ; and Nature does require 
Her times of preservation, which perforce 
I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal, 
Must give my tendance to. 




tti. ii. 


Kina. You have said well. 

Wol. And ever may your Highness yoke to¬ 
gether, 160 

As I will lend you cause, my doing well 
With my well saying ! 

King. ’T is well said again ; 

And ’t is a kind of good deed to say well; 

And yet words are no deeds. My father lov’d 
you; _ 

He said he did ; and with his deed did crown 
His word upon you. Since I had my office, ice 
I have kept you next my heart; have not alone 
Employ’d you where high profits might come 
home, 

But par’d my present havings, to bestow 
My bounties upon you. 

Wol. [Aside.] What should this mean ? 
Sur. [Aside.] The Lord increase this busi¬ 
ness ! 

King. Have I not made you iei 

The prime man of the state ? I pray you, tell 
me, 

If what I now pronounce you have found true ; 
And, if you may confess it, say withal, 

If you are bound to us or no. What say you ? 
Wol. My sovereign, I confess your royal 
graces, . m 

Shower’d on me daily, have been more than 
could 

My studied purposes requite, which went 
Beyond all man’s endeavours. My endeavours 
Have ever come too short of my desires, no 
Yet fil’d with my abilities. Mine own ends 
Have been mine so that evermore they pointed 
To the good of your most sacred person and 
The profit of the state. For your great graces 
Heap’d upon me, poor undeserver, I its 

Can nothing render but allegiant thanks, 

My prayers to heaven for you, my loyalty, 
Which ever has and ever shall be growing, 

Till death, that winter, kill it. 

King. Fairly answer’d. 

A loyal and obedient subject is iso 

Therein illustrated. The honour of it 
Does pay the act of it, as i’ the contrary, 

The foulness is the punishment. I presume 
That, as my hand has open’d bounty to you, 

My heart dropp’d love, my power rain’d honour, 
more iss 

On you than any, so your hand and heart, 

Your brain, and every function of your power, 
Should, notwithstanding that your bond of 
duty. 

As’t were in love’s particular, be more 
To me, your friend, than any. 

Wol. I do profess no 

That for your Highness’ good I ever labour’d 
More than mine own, that am, have, and will 
be — 

Though all the world should crack their duty 
to you, 

And throw it from their soul; though perils 
did 

Abound, as thick as thought could make ’em, 
and # iss 

Appear in forms more horrid, — yet my duty, 
As doth a rock against the chiding flood, 


791 


Should the approach of this wild river break, 
And stand unshaken yours. 

King. ’T is nobly spoken. 

Take notice, lords, he has a loyal breast, 200 
For you have seen him open’t. Read o’er this : 

[Giving him papers .j 

And, after, this ; and then to breakfast with 
What appetite you have. 

[Exit King, frowning upon Cardinal 
Wolsey: the Nobles throng after 
him , smiling and whispering. 
Wol. What should this mean ? 

What sudden anger’s this ? How have I reap’d 
it? 

He parted frowning from me, as if ruin 20.5 
Reap’d from his eyes. So looks the chafed lion 
Upon the daring huntsman that has gall’d him ; 
Then makes him nothing. I must read this 
paper; 

I fear, the story of his anger. ’T is so ! 

This paper has undone me. ’T is the account 210 
Of all that world of wealth I have drawn to¬ 
gether 

For mine own ends; indeed, to gain the pope¬ 
dom 

And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence, 

Fit for a fool to fall by! What cross devil 
Made me put this main secret in the packet nr, 
I sent the King ? Is there no way to cure this ? 
No new device to beat this from his brains ? 

I know’t will stir him strongly ; yet I know 
A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune 
Will bring me off again. What’s this? “To 
the Pope!” 220 

The letter, as I live, with all the business 
I writ to’s Holiness. Nay then, farewell! 

I have touch’d the highest point of all my great¬ 
ness ; 

And, from that full meridian of my glory, 

I haste now to my setting. I shall fall 225 

Like a bright exhalation in the evening, 

And no man see me more. 

Re-enter to Wolsey , the Dukes of Norfolk 
and Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and 
the Lord Chamberlain. 

Nor. Hear the King’s pleasure, Cardinal! 
who commands you 
To render up the great seal presently 
Into our hands ; and to confine yourself 230 
To Asher House, my Lord of Winchester’s, 
Till you hear further from his Highness. 

Wol. Stay! 

Where’s your commission, lords ? Words can¬ 
not carry 

Authority so weighty. 

Suf. Who dare cross ’em, 

Bearing the King’s will from his mouth ex¬ 
pressly ? 236 

Wot. Till I find more than will or words to 
do it, 

I mean your malice, know, officious lords, 

I dare and must deny it. Now I feel 
Of what coarse metal ye are moulded, envy. 
How eagerly ye follow my disgraces, no 

As if it fed ye ! and how sleek and wanton 
Ye appear in everything may bring my ruin! 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 






79 2 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


hi. u. 


Follow your envious courses, men of malice ! 
You have Christian warrant for ’em, and, no 
doubt, 

In time will find their fit rewards. That seal 245 
You ask with such a violence, the King, 

Mine and your master, with his own hand gave 
me, 

Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours, 
During my life ) and, to confirm his goodness, 
Tied it by letters-patents. Now, who ’ll take 

it ? 250 

Sur. The King, that gave it. 

Wol. It must be himself, then. 

Sur. Thou art a proud traitor, priest. 

Wol. Proud lord, thou liest I 

Within these forty hours Surrey durst better 
Have burnt that tongue than said so. 

Sur. Thy ambition, 

Thou scarlet sin, robb’d this bewailing land 255 
Of noble Buckingham, my father-in-law. 

The heads of all thy brother cardinals, 

With thee and all thy best parts bound to¬ 
gether, 

Weigh’d not a hair of his. Plague of your 
policy ! 

You sent me deputy for Ireland, 200 

Far from his succour, from the King, from all 
That might have mercy on the fault thou gav’st 
him; 

Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity, 
Absolv’d him with an axe. 

Wol. This, and all else 

This talking lord can lay upon my credit, 205 
I answer is most false. The Duke by law 
Found his deserts. How innocent I was 
From any private malice in his end, 

His noble jury and foul cause can witness. 

If I lov’d many words, lord, I should tell you 
You have as little honesty as honour, 271 

That in the way of loyalty and truth 
Toward the King, my ever royal master, 

Dare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be, 
And all that love his follies. 

Sur. By my soul, 275 

Your long coat, priest, protects you; thou 
shouldst feel 

My sword i’ the life-blood of thee else. My 
lords, 

Can ye endure to hear this arrogance ? 

And from this fellow ? If we live thus tamely, 
To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet, 280 

Farewell nobility ! Let his Grace go forward, 
And dare us with his cap like larks. 

Wol. All goodness 

Is poison to thy stomach. 

Sur. Yes. that goodness 

Of gleaning all the land’s wealth into one, 

Into your own hands, Cardinal, by extortion ; 
The goodness of your intercepted packets 286 
You writ to the Pope against the King. Your 
goodness, 

Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious. 
My Lord of Norfolk, as you are truly noble, 

As you respect the common good, the state 290 
Of our despis’d nobility, our issues, 

Who, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen, 
Produce the grand sum of his sms, the articles 


Collected from his life. I ’ll startle you 
Worse than the sacring bell, when the brown 
wench 295 

Lay kissing in your arms, Lord Cardinal. 

Wol. How much, methinks, I could despise 
this man, 

But that I am bound in charity against it! 
Nor. Those articles, my lord, are in the 
King’s hand: 

But, thus much, they are foul ones. 

Wol. So much fairer 

And spotless shall mine innocence arise, 301 
When the King knows my truth. 

Sur. This cannot save you. 

I thank my memory, I yet remember 
Some of these articles ; and out they shall. 
Now, if you can blush and cry “guilty,” Car¬ 
dinal, 308 

You ’ll show a little honesty. 

Wol. Speak on, sir ; 

I dare your worst objections. If I blush, 

It is to see a nobleman want manners. 

Sur. I had rather want those than my head. 
Have at you I 

First, that, without the King’s assent or 
knowledge, sio 

You wrought to be a legate ; by which power 
You maim’d the jurisdiction of all bishops. 

Nor. Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or 
else 

To foreign princes, “ Ego et Rex meus ” 

Was still inscrib’d ; in which you brought the 
King sib 

To be your servant. 

Suf. Then, that, without the knowledge 
Either of king or council, when you went 
Ambassador to the Emperor, you made bold 
To carry into Flanders the great seal. 

Sur. item, you sent a large commission 320 
To Gregory de Cassado, to conclude, 

Without the King’s will or the state’s allow¬ 
ance, 

A league between his Highness and Ferrara. 
Suf. That, out of mere ambition, you have 
caus’d 

Your holy hat to be stamp’d on the King’s coin. 
Sur. Then, that you have sent innumerable 
substance — 326 

By what means got, I leave to your own con¬ 
science — 

To furnish Rome, and to prepare the ways 
You have for dignities ; to the mere undoing 
Of all the kingdom. Many more there are ; 330 
Which, since they are of you, and odious, 

I will not taint my mouth with. 

Cham. O my lord, 

Press not a falling man too far ! ’t is virtue. 

His faults lie open to the laws; let them, 

Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see 
him 336 

So little of his great self. 

Sur. I forgive him. 

Suf. Lord Cardinal, the King’s further plea¬ 
sure is, 

Because all those things you have done of late 
By your power legatine within this kingdom 
Fall into the compass of a proemunire, 340 






III. 11. 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


793 


That therefore such a writ he sued against you ; 
To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements, 
Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be 
Out of the King’s protection. This is my charge. 
Nor. And so we ’ll leave you to your medita¬ 
tions 345 

How to live better. For your stubborn answer 
About the giving back the great seal to us, 
The King shall know it, and, no doubt, shall 
thank you. 

So fare you well, my little good Lord Cardinal. 

[Exeunt all but Wolsey. 
Wol. So farewell to the little good you bear 
me. 350 

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! 
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blos¬ 
soms, 

And bears his blushing honours thick upon 
him; 

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, 353 
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full 
surely 

His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, 

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur’d, 
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
This many summers in a sea of glory, 3 eo 

But far beyond my depth. My high-blown 
pride 

At length broke under me, and now has left 
me, 

Weary and old with service, to the mercy 
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. 
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye! 365 
I feel my heart new open’d. ^ 0 , how wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ fa¬ 
vours ! 

There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, 
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, 
More pangs and fears than wars or women 
have; 370 

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 

Never to hope again. 

Enter Cromwell, standing amazed. 

Why, how now, Cromwell! 
Crom. I have no power to speak, sir. 

Wol. What, amaz’d 

At my misfortunes ? Can thy spirit wonder 
A great man should decline? Nay, an you 
weep, 375 

I am fallen indeed. 

Crom. How does your Grace ? 

Wol. Why, well, 

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. 

I know myself now ; and I feel within me 
A peace above all earthly dignities, 

A still and quiet conscience. The King has 
cur’d me, 380 

I humbly thank his Grace ; and from these 
shoulders, 

These ruin’d pillars, out of pity, taken 
A load would sink a navy, too much honour. 

O, ’tis a burden, Cromwell, ’tis a burden 
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven ! 3«5 
Crom. I am glad your Grace has made that 
right use of it. 


Wol. I hope I have. I am able now, me- 
thinks, 

Out of a fortitude of soul I feel, 

To endure more miseries and greater far 
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer, soo 
What news abroad ? 

Crom. The heaviest and the worst 

Is your displeasure with the King. 

Wol. God bless him ! 

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is 
chosen 

Lord Chancellor in your place. 

Wol. That’s somewhat sudden ; 

But he’s a learned man. May he continue 395 
Long in his Highness’ favour, and do justice 
For truth’s sake and his conscience; that his 
bones, 

When he has run his course and sleeps in bless¬ 
ings, 

May have a tomb of orphans’ tears wept on 
’em! 

What more ? 

Crom. That Cranmer is return’d with 
welcome, 400 

Install’d Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Wol. That’s news indeed. 

Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne, 

Whom the King hath in secrecy long married, 
This day was view’d in open as his queen, 
Going to chapel; and the voice is now 405 

Only about her coronation. 

Wol. There was the weight that pull’d me 
down. 0 , Cromwell, 

The King has gone beyond me ! All my glories 
In that one woman I have lost for ever. 

No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours, 410 
Or gild again the noble troops that waited 
Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Crom¬ 
well ! 

I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now 
To be thy lord and master. Seek the King! 
That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told 
him 4i5 

What and how true thou art. He will advance 
thee ; 

Some little memory of me will stir him — 

I know his noble nature— not to let 
Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Crom¬ 
well, 

Neglect him not; make use now, and provide 
For thine own future safety. 

Crom. 0 my lord, 421 

Must I, then, leave you ? Must I needs forgo 
So good, so noble, and so true a master ? 

Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, 
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. 
The King shall have my service ; but my pray¬ 
ers 426 

For ever and for ever shall be yours. 

Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
In all my miseries ; but thou hast forc’d me, 
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 430 
Let’s dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, 
Cromwell; 

And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, 

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no men¬ 
tion 




794 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


iv. i. 


Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught 
thee ; 

Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, 
And sounded all the depths and shoals of hon¬ 
our, _ 436 

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss’d 
it. 

Mark but my fall, and that that ruin’d me. 439 
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ! 
By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, 
The image of his Maker, hope to win by it ? 
Love thyself last. Cherish those hearts that 
hate thee; 

Corruption wins not more than honesty. 

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 445 
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear 
not. 

Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s, 
Thy God’s, and truth’s ; then if thou fall’st, 0 
Cromwell, 

Thou fall’st a blessed martyr! Serve the King ! 
And, prithee, lead me in. 450 

There take an inventory of all I have. 

To the last penny ; ’t is the King’s. My robe, 
And my integrity to Heaven, is all 
I dare now call mine own. 0 Cromwell, Crom¬ 
well ! 

, Had I but serv’d my God with half the zeal 455 
' I serv’d my king, He would not in mine age 
Have left me naked to mine enemies. 

Crom. Good sir, have patience. 

Wol. So I have. Farewell 

The hopes of court! My hopes in heaven do 
dwell. [ Exeunt. 


ACT IV 

Scene I. [A street in Westminster .] 

Enter two Gentlemen meeting one another. 

1 . Gent. You ’re well met once again. 

2 . Gent. So are you. 

1 . Gent. You come to take your stand here, 

and behold 

The Lady Anne pass from her coronation ? 

2 . Gent. ’T is all my business. At our last 

encounter, 

The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial. 

1 . Gent. ’T is very true ; but that time offer’d 

sorrow; 6 

This, general joy. 

2 . Gent. ’T is well. The citizens, 

I am sure, have shown at full their royal 
minds — 

As, let ’em have their rights, they are ever for¬ 
ward— 

In celebration of this day with shows, 10 

Pageants and sights of honour. 

1 . Gent. Never greater, 

Nor, I ’ll assure you, better taken, sir. 

2 . Gent. May I be bold to ask what that con¬ 

tains, 

That paper in your hand ? 

1 . Gent. Yes ; ’t is the list 

Of those that claim their offices this day ib 


By custom of the coronation. 

The Duke of Suffolk is the first, and claims 
To be High Steward : next, the Duke of Nor¬ 
folk, 

He to be Earl Marshal. You may read the rest. 
2 . Gent. I thank you, sir; had I not known 
those customs, 20 

I should have been beholding to your paper. 
But, I beseech you, what’s become of Kath¬ 
erine, 

The Princess Dowager? How goes her busi¬ 
ness ? 

1 . Gent. That I can tell you too. The Arch¬ 

bishop 

Of Canterbury, accompanied with other 26 

Learned and reverend fathers of his order, 
Held a late court at Dunstable, six miles off 
From Amp thill where the Princess lay; to 
which 

She was often cited by them, but appear’d not; 
And, to be short, for not appearance and 30 
The King’s late scruple, by the main assent 
Of all these learned men she was divorc’d, 

And the late marriage made of none effect: 
Since which she was remov’d to Kimbolton, 
Where she remains now sick. 

2 . Gent. Alas, good lady! 35 

[Trumpets.] 

The trumpets sound ; stand close, the Queen is 
coming. [Hautboys. 

THE ORDER OF THE CORONATION. 

1 . A lively flourish of Trumpets. 

2 . Then, two Judges. 

3 . Lord Chancellor, with the purse and mace 

before him. 

4 . Choristers, singing. Music. 

5 . Mayor of London, bearing the mace. Then 

Garter, in his coat of arms, and on his 
head he wore a gilt copper crown. 

6 . Marquess Dorset, bearing a sceptre of gold., 

on his head a aemi-coronal of gold. With 
him, the Earl of Surrey, bearing the rod of 
silver with the dove, crowned with an earVs 
coronet. Collars of SS. 

7 . Duke of Suffolk, in his robe of estate , his 

coronet on his head, bearing a long white 
wand, as high steward. With him, the 
Duke of Norfolk, with the rod of marshal- 
ship , a coronet on his head. Collars of SS. 

8 . A canopy borne by four of the Cinque-ports ; 

under it, the Queen in her robe, m her hair 
richly adorned with pearl, crowned. On 
each side her, the Bishops of London and 
Winchester. 

9 . The old Duchess of Norfolk, in a coronal of 

gold, wrought with flowers , bearing the 
Queen's train. 

10 . Certain Ladies or Countesses, with plain 
circlets of gold without flowers. 

Exeunt, first passing over the stage in order 
and state, and then a great flourish of 
trumpets. 

2 . Gent. A royal train, believe me. These I 
know. 

Who’s that that bears the sceptre ? 




IV. 11. 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


795 


1. Gent. Marquess Dorset; 

And that the Earl of Surrey, with the rod. 

2. Gent. A bold brave gentleman. That 

should be io 

The Duke of Suffolk ? 

1. Gent. ’T is the same : High Steward. 

2. Gent. And that my Lord of Norfolk ? 

1. Gent. Yes. 

2. Gent. Heaven bless thee! 

[Looking on the Queen.] 

Thou hast the sweetest face I ever look’d on. 
Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel; 

Our king has all the Indies in his arms, 45 
And more and richer, when he strains that 
lady. 

I cannot blame his conscience. 

1. Gent. They that bear 

The cloth of honour over her, are four barons 
Of the Cinque-ports. 

2. Gent. Those men are happy; and so are 

all are near her. so 

I take it, she that carries up the train 
Is that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk. 

1. Gent. It is ; and all the rest are countesses. 

2. Gent. Their coronets say so. These are 

stars indeed; 

And sometimes falling ones. 

1. Gent. No more of that. 

[Exit the last of the procession.] 

Enter a third Gentleman. 


1. Gent. God save you, sir ! Where have you 

been broiling ? ee 

3. Gent. Among the crowd i’ the Abbey, 
where a finger 

Could not be wedg’d in more. I am stifled 
With the mere rankness of their joy. 

2. Gent. You saw 

The ceremony ? 

3. Gent. That I did. 

1. Gent. How was it ? eo 

3. Gent. Well worth the seeing. 

2. Gent. Good sir, speak it to us. 

3. Gent. As well as I am able. The rich 

stream 

Of lords and ladies, having brought the Queen 
To a prepar’d place in the choir, fell off 
A distance from her ; while her Grace sat down 
To rest a while, some half an hour or so, ee 
In a rich chair of state, opposing freely 
The beauty of her person to the people, — 
Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman 
That ever lay by man ; — which when the people 
Had the full view of, such a noise arose n 
As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest, 
As loud, and to as many tunes. Hats, cloaks, — 
Doublets, I think, — flew up; and had their 
faces 

Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy 
I never saw before. Great-belli’d women, re 
That had not half a week to go, like rams 
In the old time of war, would snake the press 
And make ’em reel before ’em. No man living 
Could say “This is my wife” there; all were 
woven 80 

So strangely in one piece. 

2. Gent. But what follow’d ? 


3. Gent. At length her Grace rose, and with 
modest paces 

Came to the altar; where she kneel’d, and 
saint-like 

Cast her fair eyes to heaven and pray’d de¬ 
voutly ; 

Then rose again and bow’d her to the people, 
When by the Archbishop of Canterbury *o 
She had all the royal makings of a queen, 

As holy oil, Edward Confessor’s crown, 

The rod, and bird of peace, and all such em¬ 
blems 

Laid nobly on her; which perform’d, the choir, 
With all the choicest music of the kingdom, 01 
Together sung “ Te Deum.” So she parted, 
And with the same full state pac’d back again 
To York Place, where the feast is held. 

1. Gent. Sir, 

You must no more call it York Place, that’s 

past; 06 

For, since the Cardinal fell, that title’s lost. 

’T is now the King’s, and call’d Whitehall. 

3. Gent. I know it; 

But’t is so lately alter’d, that the old name 
Is fresh about me. 

2. Gent. What two reverend bishops 

Were those that went on each side of the 

Queen ? 100 

3. Gent. Stokesly and Gardiner; the one of 

Winchester, 

Newly preferr’d from the King’s secretary, 
The other, London. 

2. Gent. He of Winchester 

Is held no great good lover of the Archbishop’s, 
The virtuous Cranmer. 

3. Gent. All the land knows that. 

However, yet there is no great breach; when 

it comes, 100 

Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from 
him. 

2. Gent. Who may that be, I pray you ? 

3. Gent. Thomas Cromwell; 

A man in much esteem with the King, and 

truly 

A worthy friend. The King has made him 
master no 

0’ the jewel house, 

And one, already, of the privy council. 

2. Gent. He will deserve more. 

3. Gent. Yes, without all doubt. 

Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, which 
Is to the court, and there ye shall be my 

guests; . 116 

Something I can command. As I walk thither, 
I ’ll tell ye more. 

Both. You may command us, sir. 

[Exeunt. 


Scene II. [Kimbolton.] 

Enter Katherine, Dowager , sick; led between 
Griffith, her gentleman usher , and Pa¬ 
tience, her woman. 

Grif. How does your Grace ? 

Hath. 0 Griffith, sick to death ! 

My legs, like loaden branches, bow to the 
earth, 




79 6 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


IV. ii. 


Willing to leave their burden. Reach a chair. 
So ; now, methinks, I feel a little ease. 

Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led’st 
me, o 

That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wol- 
sey, 

Was dead ? 

Grif. Yes, madam ; hut I think your Grace, 
Out of the pain you suffer’d, gave no ear to’t. 
Kath. Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he 
died. 

If well, he stepp’d before me, happily 10 

For my example. 

Grif. Well, the voice goes, madam: 

For after the stout Earl Northumberland 
Arrested him at York, and brought him for¬ 
ward, 

As a man sorely tainted, to his answer, 

He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill is 

He could not sit his mule. 

Kath. Alas, poor man ! 

Grif. At last, with easy roads, he came to 
Leicester, 

Lodg’d in the abbey; where the reverend 
abbot, 

With all his covent, honourably receiv’d him ; 
To whom he gave these words: “ 0 , father 
abbot, 20 

An old man, broken with the storms of state, 

Is come to lay his weary bones among ye; 

Give him a little earth for charity ! ” 

So went to bed, where eagerly his sickness 
Pursu’d him still; and, three nights after this, 25 
About the hour of eight, which he himself 
Foretold should be his last, full of repentance, 
Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows, 

He gave his honours to the world again, 

His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace. 
Kath. So may he rest; his faults lie gently 
on him ! 31 

Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak 
him, 

And yet with charity. He was a man 
Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking 34 
Himself with princes ; one that, by suggestion. 
Tied all the kingdom. Simony was fair-play ; 
His own opinion was his law ; i’ the presence 
He would say untruths ; and be ever double 
Both in his words and meaning. He was never, 
But where he meant to ruin, pitiful. 40 

His promises were, as he then was, mighty; 
But his performance, as he is now, nothing. 

Of his own body he was ill, and gave 
The clergy ill example. 

Grif. Noble madam, 

Men’s evil manners live in brass ; their virtues 
We write in water. May it please your High¬ 
ness 46 

To hear me speak his good now ? 

Kath. ' _ Yes, good Griffith; 

I were malicious else. 

Grif. This Cardinal, 

Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly 
Was fashion’d to much honour from his cradle. 
He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one ; bi 
E xceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading ; 
Lofty and sour to them that lov’d him not, 


But to those men that sought him, sweet as 
summer. 

And though he were unsatisfied in getting, gs 
Which was a sin, yet in bestowing, madam, 

He was most princely: ever witness for him 
Those twins of learning that he rais’d in you, 
Ipswich and Oxford! one of which fell with 
him, 

Unwilling to outlive the good that did it; 00 

The other, though unfinish’d, yet so famous, 

So excellent in art, and still so rising, 

That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. 
His overthrow heap’d happiness upon him ; 

For then, and not till then, he felt himself, 00 
And found the blessedness of being little ; 

And, to add greater honours to his age 
Than man could give him, he died fearing God. 

Kath. After my death I wish no other herald, 
No other speaker of my living actions, ?o 

To keep mine honour from corruption, 

But such an honest chronicler as Griffith. 
Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me, 
With thy religious truth and modesty, 74 

Now in his ashes honour. Peace be with him! 
Patience, be near me still, and set me lower ; 

I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith, 
Cause the musicians play me that sad note 
I nam’d my knell, whilst I sit meditating 
On that celestial harmony I go to. so 

[/Sac? and solemn music. 
Grif. She is asleep. Good wench, let’s sit 
down quiet, 

For fear we wake her; softly, gentle Patience. 

The vision. Enter , solemnly tripping one after 
another , six personages , clad m white robes, 
wearing on their heads garlands of bays, ana 
golden vizards on their faces; branches of bays 
or palm in their hands. They first congee unto 
her, then dance; and, at certain changes, the 
first two hold a spare garland over her head ; 
at which the other four make reverent curtsies. 
Then the two that held the garland deliver the 
same to the other next two , who observe the same 
order in their changes , and holding the garland 
over her head; which done , they deliver the same 
garland to the last two, who likewise observe the 
same order ; at which , as it were by inspiration, 
she makes in her sleep signs of rejoicing , and 
holdeth up her hands to heaven: and so in their 
dancing vanish , carrying the garland with them. 
The music continues. 

Kath. Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are 
ye all gone, 

And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye ? 
Grif. Madam, we are here. 

Kath. It is not you I call for. so 

Saw ye none enter since I slept ? 

Grif. None, madam. 

Kath. No ? Saw you not, even now, a blessed 
troop 

Invite me to a banquet; whose bright faces 
Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun ? 
They promis’d me eternal happiness, 90 

And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I 
feel 

I am not worthy yet to wear. I shall, assuredly. 




V. 1. 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


797 


Grif. I am most joyful, madam, such good 
dreams 

Possess your fancy. 

Kath. Bid the music leave, »4 

They are harsh and heavy to me. [ Music ceases. 

Pat. Do you note 

How much her Grace is alter’d on the sudden ? 
How long her face is drawn! How pale she 
looks, 

And of an earthy cold ! Mark her eyes ! 

Grif. She is going, wench. Pray, pray. 

Pat. Heaven comfort her ! 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. An ’t like your Grace, — 

Kath. You are a saucy fellow. 100 

Deserve we no more reverence ? 

Grif. You are to blame, 

Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness, 
To use so rude behaviour. Go to, kneel. 

Mess. I humbly do entreat your Highness’ 
pardon; 

My haste made me unmannerly. There is stay¬ 
ing 105 

A gentleman, sent from the King, to see you. 
Kath. Admit him entrance, Griffith; but this 
fellow 

Let me ne’er see again. [Exit Messenger. 

Enter Capucius. 

If my sight fail not, 

You should be lord ambassador from the Em¬ 
peror, 

My royal nephew, and your name Capucius. no 
Cap. Madam, the same ; your servant. 

Kath. O, my lord, 

The times and titles now are alter’d strangely 
With me since first you knew me. But, I pray 
you, 

What is your pleasure with me ? 

Cap. Noble lady, 

First, mine own service to your Grace ; the 
next, _ _ us 

The King’s request that I would visit you ; 
Who grieves much for your weakness, and by 
me 

Sends you his princely commendations, 

And heartily entreats you take good comfort. 
Kath. O my good lord, that comfort comes 
too late; n° 

’T is like a pardon after execution. 

That gentle physic, given in time, had cur’d me ; 
But now I am past all comforts here, but prayers. 
How does his Highness ? 

Cap. Madam, in good health. 

Kath. So may he ever do ! and ever flourish, 
When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor 
name > 126 

Banish’d the kingdom ! Patience, is that letter, 

I caused you write, yet sent away ? 

Pat. No, madam. 

[Giving it to Katherine .] 
Kath. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver 
This to my lord the King. 

Cap. Most willing, madam. 

Kath. In which I have commended to his 

goodness 131 


The model of our chaste loves, his young 
daughter ; 

The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on 
her! 

Beseeching him to give her virtuous breed¬ 
ing, — 

She is young, and of a noble modest nature, 135 
I hope she will deserve well, — and a little 
To love her for her mother’s sake, that lov’d 
him, 

Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor peti¬ 
tion 

Is, that his noble Grace would have some pity 
Upon my wretched women, that so long 140 
Have follow’d both my fortunes faithfully ; 

Of which there is not one, I dare avow, 

And now I should not lie, but will deserve, 

For virtue and true beauty of the soul, 

For honesty and decent carriage, 145 

A right good husband ; let him be a noble ; 
And, sure, those men are happy that shall have 
’em. 

The last is, for my men, — they are the poorest, 
But poverty could never draw ’em from me — 
That they may have their wages duly paid ’em, 
And something over to remember me by. iei 
If Heaven had pleas’d to have given me longer 
life 

And able means, we had not parted thus. 

These are the whole contents; and, good my lord, 
By that you love the dearest in this world, i 65 
As you wish Christian peace to souls departed, 
Stand these poor people’s friend, and urge the 
King 

To do me this last right. 

Cap. By heaven, I will, 

Or let me lose the fashion of a man ! 

Kath. I thank you, honest lord. Remember 
me iso 

In all humility unto his Highness. 

Say his long trouble now is passing 
Out of this world ; tell him, in death I bless’d 
him, 

For so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell, 
My lord. Griffith, farewell. Nay, Patience, i 65 
You must not leave me yet. I must to bed ; 
Call in more women. When I am dead, good 
wench, 

Let me be us’d with honour. Strew me over 
With maiden flowers, that all the world may 
know 

I was a chaste wife to my grave. Embalm me, 
Then lay me forth. Although unqueen’d, yet 
like in 

A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me. 

I can no more. [ Exeunt , leading Katherine. 


ACT V 

Scene I. [London. A gallery in the palace .] 

Enter Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, a 
Page with a torch before him , met by Sir 
Thomas Lovell. 

Gar. It’s one o’clock, boy, is’t not ? 

Page. It hath struck. 




798 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


V. 1 . 


Gar. These should be hours for necessities, 
Not for delights ; times to repair our nature 
With comforting repose, and not for us 
To waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir 
Thomas! * 

Whither so late ? 

Lov. Came you from the King, my lord ? 
Gar. I did, Sir Thomas ; and left him at 
primero 

With the Duke of Suffolk. 

Lov. I must to him too, 

Before he go to bed. I ’ll take my leave. 

Gar. Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell. What’s 
the matter ? 10 

It seems you are in haste. An if there be 
No great offence belongs to ]t, give your friend 
Some touch of your late business. Affairs, that 
walk, 

As they say spirits do, at midnight, have 
In them a wilder nature than the business is 
That seeks dispatch by day. 

Lov.. My lord, I love you ; 

And durst commend a secret to your ear 
Much weightier than this work. The Queen ’s 
in labour, 

They say in great extremity ; and fear’d 
She ’ll with the labour end. 

Gar. The fruit she goes with 

I pray for heartily, that it may find 21 

Good time, and live; but for the stock, Sir 
Thomas, 

I wish it grubb’d up now. 

Lov. Methinks I could 

Cry the amen ; and yet my conscience says 
She’s a good creature, and, sweet lady, does 25 
Deserve our better wishes. 

Gar. But, sir, sir, 

Hear me, Sir Thomas. You ’re a gentleman 
Of mine own way ; I know you wise, religious ; 
And, let me tell you, it will ne’er be well, 

’T will not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take’t of me, 30 
Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and 
she, 

Sleep in their graves. 

Lov. Now, sir, you speak of two 

The most remark’d i’ the kingdom. As for 
Cromwell, 

Beside that of the jewel house, is made master 
O’ the rolls, and the King’s secretary ; further, 
sir, 35 

Stands in the gap and trade of moe preferments, 
With which the time will load him. The Arch¬ 
bishop 

Is the King’s hand and tongue ; and who dare 
speak 

One syllable against him ? 

Gar. Yes, yes, Sir Thomas, 

There are that dare; and I myself have ven¬ 
tur’d 40 

To speak my mind of him: and indeed this 
day, 

Sir, I may tell it you, I think I have 
Incens’d the lords o’ the council, that he is, 

For so I know he is, they know lie is, 

A most arch heretic, a pestilence 45 

That does infect the land; with which they 
moved 


Have broken with the King, who hath so far 
Given ear to our complaint, of his great grace 
And princely care forseeing those fell mischiefs 
Our reasons laid before him, hath commanded 
To-morrow morning to the council-board 01 
He be convented. He’s a rank weed, Sir 
Thomas, 

And we must root him out. From your affairs 
I hinder you too long. Good-night, Sir Thomas. 
Lov. Many good-nights, my lord ! I rest your 
servant. [ Exeunt Gardiner and Page, cs 

Enter the King and Suffolk. 

King. Charles, I will play no more to-night. 
My mind’s not on ’t; you are too hard for me. 
Suf. Sir, I did never win of you before. 
King. But little, Charles ; 

Nor shall not, when my fancy’s on my play, co 
Now, Lovell, from the Queen what is the news ? 

Lov. I could not personally deliver to her 
What you commanded me, but by her woman 
I sent your message ; who return’d her thanks 
In the great’st humbleness, and desir’d your 
Highness os 

Most heartily to pray for her. 

King. What say’st thou, ha ? 

To pray for her ? What, is she crying out ? 
Lov. So said her woman; and that her suf¬ 
ferance made 
Almost each pang a death. 

King. Alas, good lady ! 

Suf. God safely quit her of her burden, and 
With gentle travail, to the gladding of n 

Your Highness with an heir ! 

King. ’T is midnight, Charles ; 

Prithee, to bed ; and in thy prayers remember 
The estate of my poor queen. Leave me alone ; 
For I must think of that which company 75 
Would not be friendly to. 

Suf. I wish your Highness 

A quiet night; and my good mistress will 
Remember in my prayers. 

King. Charles, good-night. 

[Exit Suffolk. 

Enter Sir Anthony Denny. 

Well, sir^ what follows? 

Den. Sir, I have brought my lord the Arch¬ 
bishop, 80 

As you commanded me. 

King. Ha ! Canterbury ? 

Den. Ay, my good lord. 

King. ’T is true ; where is he, Denny ? 

Den. He attends your Highness’ pleasure. 
King. Bring him to us. 

[Exit Denny.] 

Lov. [Aside.] This is about that which the 
bishop spake. 

I am happily come hither. 8' 

Be-enter Denny, with Cranmer. 

King. Avoid the gallery. ( Lovell seems to 
stay.) Ha! I have said. Begone. 

What! __ [Exeunt Lovell and Denny. 

Cran. [Aside.] I am fearful; wherefore 
frowns he thus ? 

’T is his aspect of terror. All’s not well. 





V. l. 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


799 


King. How now, my lord ! you do desire to 
know 8 « 

Wherefore I sent for you. 

Cran. [Kneeling.] It is my duty 

To attend your Highness’ pleasure. 

King. Pray you, arise, 

My good and gracious Lord of Canterbury. 
Come, you and I must walk a turn together ; 

I have news to tell you. Come, come, give me 
your hand. 

Ah, my good lord, I grieve at what I speak, 90 
And am right sorry to repeat what follows. 

I have, and most unwillingly, of late 
Heard many grievous, I do say, my lord, 
Grievous complaints of you ; which, being con¬ 
sider’d, 99 

Have mov’d us and our council, that you shall 
This morning come before us ; where, I know, 
You cannot with such freedom purge your* 
self 

But that, till further trial in those charges 
Which will require your answer, you must 
take 

Your patience to you, and be well contented 106 
To make your.house our Tower. You a brother 
of us, 

It fits we thus proceed, or else no witness 
Would come against you. 

Cran. [Kneeling.) I humbly thank your 
Highness ; 

And am right glad to catch this good occa¬ 
sion 

Most throughly to be winnowed, where my 
chaff no 

And corn shall fly asunder ; for, I know, 

There’s none stands under more calumnious 
tongues 

Than I myself, poor man. 

King. Stand up, good Canterbury ! 

Thy truth and thy integrity is rooted 
In us, thy friend. Give me thy hand, stand 
up; 116 

Prithee, let’s walk. Now, by my holidame, 
What manner of man are you? My lord, I 
look’d 

You would have given me your petition, that 
I should have ta’en some pains to bring to¬ 
gether 

Yourself and your accusers ; and to have heard 
you, 120 

Without indurance, further. 

Cran. Most dread liege, 

The good I stand on is my truth and honesty. 

If they shall fail, I, with mine enemies. 

Will triumph o’er my person ; which I weigh 
not, . 124 

Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing 
What can be said against me. 

King. Know you not 

How your state stands i’ the world, with the 
whole world ? 

Your enemies are many, and not small; their 
practices 

Must bear the same proportion ; and not ever 
The justice and the truth o’ the question car¬ 
ries 130 

The due o’ the verdict with it. At what ease 


Might corrupt minds procure knaves as cor¬ 
rupt 

To swear against you ? Such things have been 
done. 

You are potently oppos’d, and with a malice 
Of as great size. Ween you of better luck, i 36 
I mean, in perjur’d witness, than your Mas¬ 
ter, 

Whose minister you are, whiles here He liv’d 
Upon this naughty earth ? Go to, go to ! 

You take a precipice for no leap of danger, 

And woo your own destruction. 

Cran. God and your Majesty 

Protect mine innocence, or I fall into hi 

The trap is laid for me ! 

King. Be of good cheer; 

They shall no more prevail than we give way 
to. 

Keep comfort to you ; and this morning see 
You do appear before them. If they shall 
chance, i *6 

In charging you with matters, to commit you, 
The best persuasions to the contrary 
Fail not to use, and with what vehemency 
The occasion shall instruct you. If entreaties 
Will render you no remedy, this ring iso 

Deliver them, and your appeal to us 
There make before them. Look, the good man 
weeps! 

He‘s honest, on mine honour. God’s blest 
mother ! 

I swear he is true-hearted ; and a soul 
None better in my kingdom. Get you gone, i 6 s 
And do as I have bid you. ( Exit Cranmer.) He 
has strangled 
His language in his tears. 

Enter Old Lady [Lovell following ]. 

Gent. (Within.) Come back! What mean 
you? 

Old L. I ’ll not come back ; the tidings that 
I bring 

Will make my boldness manners. Now, good 
angels 159 

Fly o’er thy royal head, and shade thy person 
Under their blessed wings ! 

King. Now, by thy looks 

I guess thy message. Is the Queen deliver’d ? 
Say, ay ; and of a boy. 

Old L. Ay, ay, my liege ; 

And of a lovely boy. The God of heaven 
Both now and ever bless her ! ’tis a girl, ios 
P romises boys hereafter. Sir, your queen 
Desires your visitation, and to be 
Acquainted with this stranger. ’T is as like you 
As cherry is to cherry. 

King. Lovell! 

Lov. Sir ? 

King. Give her an hundred marks. I ’ll to 
the Queen. [Exit, no 

Old L. An hundred marks! By this light, 
I ’ll ha’ more. 

An ordinary groom is for such payment. 

I will have more, or scold it out of him. 

Said I for this, the girl was like to him ? 

I will have more, or else unsay’t; and now, ns 
While it is hot, I ’ll put it to the issue. [Exeunt. 





8 oo 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


v. iii. 


Scene II. [Lobby before the council-chamber .] 

[. Pursuivants , Pages , etc., attending .] Enter 
Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Cran. I hope I am not too late ; and yet the 
gentleman, 

That was sent to me from the council, pray’d 
me 

To make great haste. All fast? what means 
this ? Ho! 

Who waits there ? Sure, you know me ? 

Enter Keeper. 

Keep. Yes, my lord ; 

But yet I cannot help you. 5 

Cran. Why? 

Keep. Your Grace must wait till you be 
call’d for. 

Enter Doctor Butts. 

Cran. So. 

Butts. [Aside. ] This is a piece of malice. I 
am glad 

I came this way so happily ; the King 
Shall understand it presently. [Exit. 

Cran. [Aside.} ’T is Butts, 10 

The King’s physician. As he pass’d along, 
How earnestly he cast his eyes upon me ! 

Pray Heaven, he sound not my disgrace ! For 
certain, 

This is of purpose laid by some that hate 
me — 

God turn their hearts! I never sought their 
malice — 15 

To quench mine honour ; they would shame to 
make me 

Wait else at door, a fellow-counsellor, 

’Mong hoys, grooms, and lackeys. But their 
pleasures 

Must he fulfill’d, and I attend with patience. 
Enter the King and Butts, at a window above. 

Butts. I ’ll show your Grace the strangest 
sight — 

King. What’s that, Butts ? 20 

Butts. I think your Highness saw this many 
a day. 

King. Body o’ me, where is it ? 

Butts. There, my lord : 

The high promotion of his Grace of Canter¬ 
bury; 

Who holds his state at door, ’mongst pursui¬ 
vants, 

Pages, and footboys. 

King. Ha 1 ’t is he, indeed. 25 

Is this the honour they do one another ? 

’Tis well there’s one above ’em yet. I had 
thought 

They had parted so much honesty among ’em, 
At least, good manners, as not thus to suffer 
A man of his place, and so near our favour, 30 
To dance attendance on their lordships’ plea¬ 
sures, 

And at the door too, like a post with packets. 
By holy Mary, Butts, there’s knavery. 

Let ’em alone, and draw the curtain close ; 

We shall hear more anon. [Exeunt.] 36 


[Scene III. The council-chamber.] 

A council-table brought in with chairs and stools , 
and placed under the state. Enter Lord 
Chancellor ; places himself at the upper 
end of the table on the left hand; a seat being 
left void above him , as for Canterbury" 1 s seat. 
Duke of Suffolk, Duke of Norfolk, 
Surrey, Lord Chamberlain, Gardiner, 
seat themselves in order on each side. Crom¬ 
well at lower end , as secretary. [Keeper 
at the door.] 

Chan. Speak to the business, master secre¬ 
tary. 

Why are we met in council ? 

Crom. Please your honours, 

The chief cause concerns his Grace of Canter¬ 
bury. 

Gar. Has he had knowledge of it ? 

Crom. * Yes. 

Nor. Who waits there ? 

Keep. Without, my noble lords ? 

Gar. Yes. 

Keep. My Lord Archbishop ; 

And has done half an hour, to know your 
pleasures. 6 

Chan. Let him come in. 

Keep. Your Grace may enter now. 

Cranmer [enters and] approaches the council- 
table. 

Chan. My good Lord Archbishop, I’m very 
sorry 

To sit here at this present, and behold 
That chair stand empty ; but, we all are men, 10 
In our own natures frail, and capable 
Of our flesh ; few are angels: out of which 
frailty 

And want of wisdom, you, that best should 
teach us, 

Have misdemean’d yourself, and not a little, 
Toward the King first, then his laws, in filling 
The whole realm, by your teaching and your 
chaplains, 16 

For so we are inform’d, with new opinions 
Divers and dangerous, which are heresies 
And, not reform’d, may prove pernicious. 19 
Gar. Which reformation must be sudden too, 
My noble lords ; for those that tame wild horses 
Pace ’em not in their hands to make ’em gentle, 
But stop their mouths with stubborn bits and 
spur ’em 

Till they obey the manage. If we suffer, 

Out of our easiness and childish pity 2s 

To one man’s honour, this contagious sickness, 
Farewell all physic ! And what follows then ? 
Commotions, uproars, with a general taint 
Of the whole state ; as, of late days, our neigh¬ 
bours, 

The upper Germany, can dearly witness, 30 
Yet freshly pitied in our memories. 

Cran. My good lords, hitherto, in all the 
progress 

Both of my life and office, I have labour’d, 
And with no little study, that my teaching 
And the strong course of my authority s« 

Might go one way, and safely; and the end 




HENRY THE EIGHTH 


801 


v. iii. 


Was ever, to do well; nor is there living, 

I speak it with a single heart, my lords, 

A man that more detests, more stirs against, 
Both in his private conscience and his place, 40 
Defacers of a public peace, than I do. 

Pray Heaven, the King may never find a heart 
With less allegiance in it! Men that make 
Envy and crooked malice nourishment 
Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lord- 
ships, « 

That, in this case of justice, my accusers, 

Be what they will, may stand forth face to 
face. 

And freely urge against me. 

Suf. Nay, my lord, 

That cannot be. You are a counsellor, 

And, by that virtne, no man dare accuse you. 60 
Gar. My lord, because we have business of 
more moment, 

We will be short with you. ’T is his Highness’ 
pleasure 

And our consent, for better trial of you, 

From hence you be committed to the Tower ; 
Where, being but a private man again, bg 

You shall know many dare accuse you boldly, 
More than, I fear, you are provided for. 

Gran. Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I 
thank you. 

You are always my good friend; if your will 
pass, 

I shall both find your lordship judge and juror, 
You are so merciful. I see your end ; ei 

’T is my undoing. Love ana meekness, lord, 
Become a churchman better than ambition. 
Win straying souls with modesty again, 

Cast none away. That I shall clear myself, es 
Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience, 

I make as little doubt as you do conscience 
In doing daily wrongs. I could say more, 

But reverence to your calling makes me mod¬ 
est. 

Gar. My lord, my lord, you are a sectary, to 
That’s the plain truth. Your painted gloss dis¬ 
covers, 

To men that understand you, words and weak¬ 
ness. 

Grom. My Lord of Winchester, you are a 
little, 

By your good favour, too sharp; men so no¬ 
ble, 

However faulty, yet should find respect ts 
F or what they have been. ’Tis a cruelty 
To load a falling man. 

Gar. Good master secretary, 

I cry your honour mercy. You may, worst 
Of all this table, say so. 

Grom. Why, my lord ? 

Gar. Do not I know you for a favourer so 
Of this new sect? Ye are not sound. 

Grom. Not sound ? 

Gar. Not sound, I say. 

Grom. Would you were half so honest! 

Men’s prayers then would seek you, not their 
fears. 

Gar. I shall remember this bold language. 
Grom. . Ho. 

Remember your bold life too. 


[CAa/i.] This is too much, se 

Forbear for shame, my lords. 

Gar. I have done. 

Grom. And I. 

[Chan.] Then thus for you, my lord: it 
stands agreed, 

I take it, by all voices, that forthwith 
You be convey’d to the Tower a prisoner; 
There to remain till the King’s further plea¬ 
sure 90 

Be known unto us. Are you all agreed, lords ? 
All. We are. 

Cran. Is there no other way of mercy, 

But I must needs to the Tower, my lords ? 

Gar. What other 

Would you expect? You are strangely trouble¬ 
some. 94 

Let some o’ the guard be ready there. 

j Enter Guard. 

Cran. For me ? 

Must I go like a traitor thither ? 

Gar. Receive him, 

And see him safe i’ the Tower. 

Cran. Stay, good my lords, 

I have a little yet to say. Look there, my 
lords; 

By virtue of that ring, I take my cause 
Out of the gripes of cruel men, and give it 100 
To a most noble judge, the King my master. 
Cham. This is the King’s ring. 

Sur. ’T is no counterfeit. 

Suf. ’T is the right ring, by heaven! I told 
ye all, 

When we first put this dangerous stone a-roll- 
ing, 

’T would fall upon ourselves. 

Nor. Do you think, my lords, 

The King will suffer but the little finger io« 
Of this man to be vex’d ? 

Cham. ’T is now too certain. 

How much more is his life in value with him ? 
Would I were fairly out on’t! 

Grom. My mind gave me, 

In seeking tales and informations _ no 

Against this man, whose honesty the devil 
And his disciples only envy at, 

Ye blew the fire that burns ye. Now have at 
ye! 

Enter King, frowning on them; takes his seat. 

Gar. Dread sovereign, how much are we 
bound to Heaven 

In daily thanks, that gave us such a prince ; ub 
Not only good and wise, but most religious ; 
One that, in all obedience, makes the Church 
The chief aim of his honour ; and, to strengthen 
That holy duty, out of dear respect, 

His royal self in judgement comes to hear «o 
The cause betwixt her and this great ofFender. 
King. You were ever good at sudden com¬ 
mendations, 

Bishop of Winchester. But know, I come not 
To hear such flattery now, and in my pres¬ 
ence ; 

They are too thin and bare to hide offences. 12s 
To me you cannot reach you play the spaniel, 




802 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


V. IV. 


And think with wagging of your tongue to win 
me; 

But, whatsoe’er thou tak’st me for, I’m sure 
Thou hast a cruel nature and a bloody. 

[To Cranmer .] Good man, sit down. Now let 
me see the proudest iso 

He, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee: 
By all that’s holy, he had better starve 
Than but once think this place becomes thee 
not. 

Sur. May it please your Grace, — 

King. No, sir, it does not please me. 

I had thought I had had men of some under¬ 
standing _ 136 

And wisdom of my council; but I find none. 
Was it discretion, lords, to let this man, 

This good man, — few of you deserve that 
title,— 

This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy 
At chamber-door ? and one as great as you are ? 
Why, what a shame was this ? Did my com¬ 
mission in 

Bid ye so far forget yourselves ? I gave ye 
Power as he was a counsellor to try him, — 

Not as a groom. There ’s some of ye, I see, 
More out of malice than integrity, 145 

Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean ; 
Which ye shall never have while I live. 

Chan. Thus far, 

My most dread sovereign, may it like your 
Grace 

To let my tongue excuse all. What was pur¬ 
pos’d 

Concerning his imprisonment was rather, ibo 
I f there be faith in men, meant for his trial 
And fair purgation to the world, than malice, 

I’m sure, in me. 

King. Well, well, my lords, respect him ; 
Take him, and use him well, he’s worthy of 
it. ... 155 

I will say thus much for him, if a prince 
May be beholding to a subject, I 
Am, for his love and service, so to him. 

Make me no more ado, but all embrace him. 

Be friends, for shame, my lords ! My Lord of 
Canterbury, ieo 

I have a suit which you must not deny me ; 
That is, a fair young maid that yet wants bap¬ 
tism, 

Yoii must be godfather, and answer for her. 
Cran. The greatest monarch now alive may 
glory 

In such an honour; how may I deserve it, 166 
That am a poor and humble subject to you ? 

King. Come, come, my lord, you’d spare 
your spoons. You shall have two noble partners 
with you, the old Duchess of Norfolk and Lady 
Marquess Dorset. Will these please yoii ? no 
Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge 
you, 

Embrace and love this man. 

Gar. With a true heart 

And brother-love I do it. 

Cran. And let Heaven 

Witness how dear I hold this confirmation. 
King. Good man, those joyful tears show thy 
true heart. its 


The common voice, I see, is verified 
Of thee, which says thus, “Do my Lord of 
Canterbury 

A shrewd turn, and he is your friend for ever.” 
Come, lords, we trifle time away; I long 
To have this young one made a Christian. iso 
As I have made ye one, lords, one remain ; 

So I grow stronger, you more honour gain. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene [IV. The palace yard.] 

Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and 
his Man. 

Port. You ’ll leave your noise anon, ye ras¬ 
cals ; do you take the court for Paris-garden ? 
Ye rude slaves, leave your gaping. 

[Voice.] (Within.) Good master porter, I be¬ 
long to the larder. 5 

Poit. Belong to the gallows, and be hang’d, 
ye rogue ! Is this a place to roar in ? Fetch me 
a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones ; these 
are but switches to ’em. I ’ll scratch your 
heads. You must be seeing christenings? Do 
you look for ale and cakes here, you rude 
rascals ? « 

Man. Pray, sir, be patient. ’T is as much 
impossible — 

Unless we sweep ’em from the door with can¬ 
nons— 

To scatter ’em, as’t is to make ’em sleep 
On May-day morning ; which will never be. is 
We may as well push against Paul’s, as stir ’em. 
Port. How got they in, and be hang’d ? 

Man. Alas, I know not; how gets the tide 
in ? 

As much as one sound cudgel of four foot — 
You see the poor remainder — could distribute, 
I made no spare, sir. 

Port. You did nothing, sir. 21 

Man. I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor 
Colbrand, 

To mow ’em down before me ; but if I spar’d 
any 

That had a head to hit, either young or old, 

He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, 25 

Let me ne’er hope to see a chine again ; 

And that I would not for a cow, God save 
her J 

[Voice.] (Within.) Do you hear, master por¬ 
ter ? 

Port. I shall be with you presently, good 
master puppy. — Keep the door close, sirrah. 
Man. What would you have me do ? 31 

Port. What should you do, but knock ’em 
down by the dozens ? Is this Moorfields to 
muster in? Or have we some strange Indian 
with the great tool come to court, the women 
so besiege us ? Bless me, what a fry of fornica¬ 
tion is at door! On my Christian conscience, 
this one christening will beget a thousand ; here 
will be father, godfather, and all together. 39 
Man. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. 
There is a fellow somewhat near the door, he 
should be a brazier by his face, for, o’ my con¬ 
science, twenty of the dog-days now reign in’s 
nose; all that stand about him are under the 





V. V. 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


803 


line, they need no other penance : that fire- 
drake did I hit three times on the head, and [« 
three times was his nose discharged against me ; 
he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to blow 
us. There was a haberdasher’s wife of small 
wit near him, that rail’d upon me till her 
pink’d porringer fell off her head, for kin- [50 
dling such a combustion in the state. I miss’d 
the meteor once, and hit that woman; who 
cried out “ Clubs ! ” when I might see from far 
some forty truncheoners draw to her succour, 
which were the hope o’ the Strand, where [as 
she was quartered. They fell on ; I made good 
my place ; at length they came to the broom- 
staff to me ; I defi’d ’em still; when suddenly 
a file of boys behind ’em, loose shot, deliver’d 
such a shower of pebbles, that I was fain to 
draw mine honour in, and let ’em win the work. 
The devil was amongst ’em, I think, surely. 62 
Port. These are the youths that thunder at 
a playhouse, and fight for bitten apples; that 
no audience but the tribulation of Tower-hill 
or the limbs of Limehouse, tlieir dear brothers, 
are able to endure. I have some of ’em in 
Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance 
these three days ; besides the running banquet 
of two beadles that is to come. 70 

Enter Lord Chamberlain. 

Cham. Mercy o’ me, what a multitude are 
here! 

They grow still too; from all parts they are 
coming 

As if we kept a fair here! Where are these 
porters. 

These lazy knaves ? Ye have made a fine hand, 
fellows; 

There’s a trim rabble let in. Are all these 75 
Your faithful friends o’ the suburbs ? We shall 
have 

Great store of room, no doubt, left for the 
ladies, 

When they pass back from the christening. 

Port. An ’t please your honour, 

We are but men ; and what so many may do, 
Not being torn a-pieces, we have done. so 

An army cannot rule ’em. 

Cham. As I live, 

If the King blame me for’t, I ’ll lay ye all 
By the heels, and suddenly; and on your 
heads 

Clap round fines for neglect. Ye ’re lazy 
knaves; 

And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when ss 
Ye should do service. Hark! the trumpets 
sound; 

They ’re come already from the christening. 

Go, break among the press, and find a way 
out 

To let the troop pass fairly ; or I ’ll find 
A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two 
months. 90 

Port. Make way there for the princess. 

Man. You great fellow, 

Stand close up, or I ’ll make your head ache. 

Port. You i’ the camlet, get up o’ the rail; 

I ’ll peck you o’er the pales else. [Exeunt. 


Scene [V. The palace.] 

Enter trumpets , sounding; then two Aldermen, 
Lord Mayor, Garter, Cranmer, Duke of 
Norfolk with his marshal's staff ’ Duke of 
Suffolk, two Noblemen bearing great stand¬ 
ing-bowls for the christening-gifts; then four 
Noblemen bearing a canopy , under which the 
Duchess of Norfolk, godmother , bearing the 
child richly habited in a mantle , etc ., train 
borne by a Lady ; then follows the Marchioness 
Dorset, the other godmother , and Ladies. The 
troop pass once about the stage , and Garter 
speaks. 

Gart. Heaven, from thy endless goodness, 
send prosperous life, long, and ever happy, to 
the high and mighty Princess of England, Eliz¬ 
abeth 1 

Flourish. Enter King and Guard. 

Cran. [Kneeling.] And to your royal Grace, 
and the good queen, a 

My noble partners, and myself, thus pray: 

AH comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady, 
Heaven ever laid up to make parents happy, 
May hourly fall upon ye! 

King. Thank you, good Lord Archbishop. 
What is her name ? 

Cran. Elizabeth. 

King. Stand up, lord. 

[The King kisses the child. 
With this kiss take my blessing: God protect 
thee! 11 

Into whose hand I give thy life. 

Cran. Amen. 

King. My noble gossips, ye have been too 
prodigal. 

I thank ye heartily ; so shall this lady, 14 

When she has so much English. 

Cran. Let me speak, sir, 

For Heaven now bids me ; and the words I utter 
Let none think flattery, for they ’ll find ’em 
truth. 

This royal infant — Heaven still move about 
her! — 

Though in her cradle, yet now promises 
Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings, 
Which time shall bring to ripeness. She shall 
be — 21 

But few now living can behold that goodness — 
A pattern to all princes living with her, 

And all that shall succeed. Saba was never 
More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue 25 
Than this pure soul shall be. All princely 
graces, 

That mould up such a mighty piece as this is, 
With all the virtues that attend the good, 

Shall still be doubled on her. Truth shall nurse 
her, 

Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her. so 
She shall be lov’d and fear’d : her own shall 
bless her; 

Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn, 

And hang their heads with sorrow. Good grows 
with her. 

In her days every man shall eat in safety, 
Under his own vine, what he plants, and sing ** 






804 


HENRY THE EIGHTH 


Epi. 


The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours. 
God shall be truly known ; and those about her 
From her shall read the perfect ways of honour, 
And by those claim their greatness, not by 
blood. 

Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as 
when 

The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, 
Her ashes new create another heir 
As great in admiration as herself ; 

So shall she leave her blessedness to one, 

When heaven shall call her from this cloud of 
darkness, 45 

Who from the sacred ashes of her honour 
Shall star-like rise as great in fame as she was, 
And so stand fix’d. Peace, plenty, love, truth, 
terror, 

That were the servants to this chosen infant, 49 
Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him. 
Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine, 
His honour and the greatness of his name 
Shall be, and make new nations. He shall 
flourish, 

And, like a mountain cedar, reach his bi'anches 
To all the plains about him. Our children’s 
children es 

Shall see this, and bless Heaven. 

King. Thou speakest wonders. 

Cran. She shall be, to the happiness of Eng¬ 
land, 

An aged princess ; many days shall see her, 
And yet no day without a deed to crown it. 
Would I had known no more! but she must 
die, 60 

She must, the saints must have her ; yet a vir¬ 
gin, 

A most unspotted lily shall she pass 
To the ground, and all the world shall mourn 
her. 


King. 0 Lord Archbishop, 

Thou hast made me now a man ! Never, before 
This happy child, did I get anything. es 

This oracle of comfort has so pleas’d me, 

That when I am in heaven I shall desire 
To see what this child does, and praise my 
Maker. 69 

I thank ye all. To you, my good Lord Mayor, 
And you, good brethren, I am much behold¬ 
ing; 

I have receiv’d much honour by your presence, 
And ye shall find me thankful. Lead the way, 
lords. 

Ye must all see the Queen, and she must thank 

ye, 

She will be sick else. This day, no man think 
Has business at his house; for all shall stay, xe 
This little one shall make it holiday. [ Exeunt . 


EPILOGUE 

’T is ten to one this play can never please 
All that are here. Some come to take their 
ease, 

And sleep an act or two ; but those, we fear, 
We have frighted with our trumpets; so, ’tis 
clear, 

They’ll say ’tis naught: others, to hear the 
city 6 

Abus’d extremely, and to cry, ‘ 1 That’s witty! ’ ’ 
Which we have not done neither: that, I fear, 
All the expected good we ’re like to hear 
For this play at this time, is only in 
The merciful construction of good women; 10 

For such a one we show’d ’em. If they smile 
And say ’twill do, I know, within a while 
All the best men are ours ; for’t is ill hap 
If they hold when their ladies bid ’em clap. 








TRAGEDIES 




\ 










































THE TRAGEDY OF TITUS ANDRONICUS 


In Henslowe’s Diary, under the date April 11, 1591, is recorded the performance of a play 
called “ tittus and Vespacia ,” marked “ ne,” i. e., new, or newly revised. Among the plays in 
the volume of Englische Comedien und Tragedien (1620), performed by English actors in Ger¬ 
many, there is a tragedy of Tito Andronico , which is apparently a degraded form of some version 
of the present play. In it Lucius is named Vespasian, and this affords a hint, corroborated by 
other evidence, that this German play is based on 11 tittus and Vespacia.'’ 

In 1641 there appeared in Holland a Dutch play by Jan Vos, entitled Aran en Titus , the plot 
of which is essentially that of Titus Andronicus. Both this and a lost German play, acted in 
1699, of which only a program is preserved, seem to be based on a Dutch translation of an Eng¬ 
lish original. A comparison of the extant German, Dutch, and English plays points to the con¬ 
clusion that the Shakespearean tragedy was a recasting of two English originals, on which, 
directly or indirectly, Tito Andronico and Aran en Titus were respectively founded. 

On January 23, 159%, Henslowe records that a “ new ” play, “ Titus and Ondronicus ,” was 
produced by the servants of the Earl of Sussex. On February 6, 159%, there was entered in the 
Stationers’ Register to J. Danter “ A Noble Roman Historye of Tytus Andronicus.” Later in 
the same year appeared a quarto edition of our Titus Andronicus , “ as it was plaide by the Right 
Honourable the Earle of Darbie, Earle of Pembrooke, and Earle of Sussex their servants . . . 
printed by John Danter.” A second quarto with some changes appeared in 1600, and a third 
quarto, printed from the second, appeared in 1611. On none of these Quartos does the name 
of Shakespeare appear; nor is there any external evidence to connect the play with him before 
its inclusion in the First Folio, except its occurrence in Meres’s list of Shakespeare’s tragedies 
in Palladis Tamia (1598). The text of the First Folio is derived from the Third Quarto; and 
the text of the present edition is based on the Second Quarto, the unique copy of the newly 
discovered First Quarto being inaccessible. 

It is not agreed whether Henslowe’s “ Titus and Ondronicus ” was the present play or one of its 
predecessors ; but if the play entered to Danter on February 6, 159%, was, as seems most likely, 
the First Quarto, printed by him in the same year, it places the date of the composition of Titus 
Andronicus not later than 1593. From the evidence gathered from the German and Dutch ver¬ 
sions, it becomes apparent that the question of Shakespeare’s authorship narrows itself down to 
one of the amount of re-writing implied in the re-casting of the older dramatic versions of the 
story. The main features of the Shakespearean play which cannot be proved to have existed in 
the earlier dramas are the rivalry between Saturninus and Bassianus for the throne ; the funeral 
of Titus’s sons killed in war; the sacrifice of Alarbus ; the kidnapping of Lavinia by Bassianus, 
with the death of Mutius ; the sending of young Lucius with presents to the sons of Tamora; and 
the whole of III. ii., which appears only in the First Folio, and is, perhaps, a later addition. 
These, with some minor details, and a revision of phraseology and metre which cannot be exactly 
estimated, seem to indicate the extreme limit of Shakespeare’s responsibility. Nevertheless, it 
cannot be denied that other hands may have worked on the play between the stages represented 
by the Continental versions and that in which it is here printed; and some students still limit 
Shakespeare’s share to “some master-touches to one or two of the principal characters,” accept¬ 
ing the late seventeenth-century tradition, reported by Ravenscroft, that this was all Shakespeare 
added to the work of “ a private author.” 

Evidences of the authorship of the earlier dramatic versions are purely internal. Attempts 
have been made to associate the play with nearly every contemporary dramatic author of note ; 
but traces of the style of Peele and Greene point to the possibility of these writers’ having had 
a share in it, although at what stage it is not possible to determine. 


THE TRAGEDY OF TITUS ANDRONICUS 


[DRAMATIS PERSONAL 


Saturninus, son to the late Emperor of Rome, and 
afterwards declared Emperor. 

Bassianus, brother to Satuminus ; in love with Lavinia. 
Titus Andronicus, a noble Roman, general against the 
Goths. 

Marcus Andronicus, tribune of the people, and brother 
to Titus. 

Lucius, 1 
OUINTU8 I 

Mauttus’ I sons to Titua Andronicus. 

MUTIU8, ) 

Young Lucius, a boy, son to Lucius. 

JSmilius, a noble Roman. 

Publius, son to Marcus the Tribune. 


Sempronius, i 

Caius, > kinsmen to Titus. 
Valentine, ) 

Al ARBUS, ) 

Demetrius, [ sons to Tamora. 

Chiron, ) 

Aaron, a Moor, beloved by Tamora. 

A Clown. 

A Captain, Tribune, and Messenger. 
Goths and Romans. 

Tamora, Queen of the Goths. 

Lavinia, daughter to Titus Andronicus. 
A Nurse, and a black child. 


Senators, Tribunes, Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants. 


Scene : Rome , and 

ACT I 

Scene I. [Rome. Before the Senate-house. The 
Tomb of the Andronici appearing .] 

Enter the Tribunes and Senators aloft , and 
then enter Saturninus and his Followers at 
one door , and Bassianus and his Followers 
at the other; with drums and trumpets. 

Sat. Noble patricians, patrons of my right, 
Defend the justice of my cause with arms, 

And, countrymen, my loving followers, 

Plead my successive title with your swords. 

I am his first-born son, that was the last 6 
That wore the imperial diadem of Rome ; 

Then let my father’s honours live in me, 

Nor wrong mine age with this indignity. 

Bas. Romans, friends, followers, favourers 
of my right, 

If ever Bassianus, Caesar’s son, io 

Were gracious in the eyes of royal Rome, 

Keep then this passage to the Capitol, 

And suffer not dishonour to approach 
The imperial seat, to virtue consecrate, 

To justice, continence, and nobility ; is 

But let desert in pure election shine, 

And, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice. 

Enter Marcus Andronicus, aloft, with the 
crown. 

Marc. Princes, that strive by factions and 
by friends 

Ambitiously for rule and empery, 

Know that the people of Rome, for whom we 
stand *o 

A special party, have, by common voice, 

In election for the Roman empery, 

Chosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius 
For many good and great deserts to Rome. 

A nobler man, a braver warrior, *s 


ie country near if.] 

Lives not this day within the city walls. 

He by the senate is accited home 

From weary wars against the barbarous Goths ; 

That, with his sons, a terror to our foes, 

Hath yok’d a nation strong, train’d up in arms. 
Ten years are spent since first he undertook 3i 
This cause of Rome and chastised with arms 
Our enemies’ pride; five times he hath re¬ 
turn’d 

Bleeding to Rome, bearing his valiant sons 
In coffins from the field ; ss 

And now at last, laden with honour’s spoils, 
Returns the good Andronicus to Rome, 
Renowned Titus, flourishing in arms. 

Let us entreat, by honour of his name, 

Whom worthily you would have now succeed, *o 
And in the Capitol and senate’s right, 

Whom you pretend to honour and adore, 

That you withdraw you and abate your 
strength, 

Dismiss your followers, and, as suitors should, 
Plead your deserts in peace and humbleness. 
Sat. How fair the tribune speaks to calm 
my thoughts ! 

Bas. Marcus Andronicus, so I do affy 
In thy uprightness and integrity, 

And so I love and honour thee and thine, 

Thy noble brother Titus and his sons, 6o 

And her to whom my thoughts are humbled all, 
Gracious Lavinia, Rome’s rich ornament. 

That I will here dismiss my loving friends, 

And to my fortunes and the people’s favour 
Commit my cause in balance to be weigh’d, m 
[E xeunt soldiers [of Bassianus ]. 
Sat. Friends, that have been thus forward 
in my right, 

I thank you all and here dismiss you all, 

And to the love and favour of my country 
Commit myself, my person, and the cause. 

[Exeunt soldiers of Saturninus.] 





8 o 8 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


I. i. 


Rome, be as just and gracious unto me so 

As I am confident and kind to thee. 

Open the gates, and let me in. 

Bas. Tribunes, and me, a poor competitor. 

[ Flourish. They go up into the Sen¬ 
ate-house. 

Enter a Captain. 

Cap. Romans, make way! The good An- 
dronicus, 

Patron of virtue, Rome’s best champion, 65 
Successful in the battles that he fights, 

With honour and with fortune is return’d 
From where he circumscribed with his sword 
And brought to yoke, the enemies of Rome. 

Drums and trumpets sounded, and then enter 
two of Titus's sons [Martius and Mutics] ; 
and then two Men bearing a coffin covered 
with black; then two other sons [Lucius and 
Quintus]. Then Titus Andronicus ; and 
then Tamora, the Queen of Goths with her 
[three] sons [Alarbus,] Demetrius, and Chi¬ 
ron ; Aaron the Moor, and others as many 
as can be. They set down the coffin , and Titus 
speaks. 

Tit. Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning 
weeds! 70 

Lo, as the bark that hath discharg’d her 
fraught 

Returns with precious lading to the bay 
From whence at first she weigh’d her anchor- 
age, 

Cometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs, 
To re-salute his country with his tears, 75 

Tears of true joy for his return to Rome. 

Thou great defender of this Capitol, 

Stand gracious to the rites that we intend ! 
Romans, of five and twenty valiant sons, 

Half of the number that King Priam had, so 
Behold the poor remains, alive and dead ! 
These that survive let Rome reward with love, 
These that I bring unto their latest home 
With burial amongst their ancestors. 

Here Goths have given me leave to sheathe my 
sword. 85 

Titus, unkind and careless of thine own, 

Why suffer’st thou thy sons, unburied yet, 

To hover on the dreadful shore of Styx ? 

Make way to lay them by their brethren. 

[They open the tomb. 
There greet in silence, as the dead are wont, s>o 
And sleep in peace, slain in your country’s 
wars! 

O sacred receptacle of my joys, 

►oweet cell of virtue and nobility, 

How many sons hast thou of mine in store, 
That thou wilt never render to me more ! 05 

Luc. Give us the proudest prisoner o' 5 the 
Goths, 

That we may hew his limbs and on a pile 
Ad manes fratrum sacrifice his flesh 
Before this earthy prison of their bones ; 

That so the shadows be not unappeas’d, 100 
Nor we disturb’d with prodigies on earth. 

Tit. I give him you, the noblest that survives, 
The eldest son of this distressed queen. 


Tam. Stay, Roman brethren ! Gracious con¬ 
queror, 

Victorious Titus, rue the tears I shed, 105 

A mother’s tears in passion for her son ; 

And if thy sons were ever dear to thee, 

0, think my son to be as dear to me ! 

Sufficeth not that we are brought to Rome, 

To beautify thy triumphs and return, no 

Captive to thee and to thy Roman yoke, 

But must my sons be slaught’red in the streets 
For valiant doings in their country’s cause ? 

0, if to fight for king and commonweal 
Were piety in thine, it is in these. ns 

Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood ! 
Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods ? 
Draw near them, then, in being merciful; 
Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge. 

Thrice noble Titus, spare my first-born son ! 12c 
Tit. Patient yourself, madam, and pardon 
me. 

These are their brethren, whom your Goths be¬ 
held 

Alive and dead ; and for their brethren slain 
Religiously they ask a sacrifice. 

To this your son is mark’d, and die he must, w 
To appease their groaning shadows that are 
gone. 

Luc. Away with him! and make a fire 

straight; 

And with our swords, upon a pile of wood, 

Let’s hew his limbs till they be clean consum’d. 

[.Exeunt Lucius , Quintus , Martius, 
and Mutius, with Alarbus. 

Tam. 0 cruel, irreligious piety ! iso 

Chi. Was never Scythia half so barbarous. 
Dern. Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome. 
Alarbus goes to rest; and we survive 
To tremble under Titus’ threat’ning look. 
Then, madam, stand resolv’d, but hope withal 
The self-same gods that arm’d the Queen of 
Troy 136 

With opportunity of sharp revenge 
Upon the Thracian tyrant in his tent, 

May favour Tamora, the Queen of Goths — 
When Goths were Goths and Tamora was 
queen — uo 

To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes. 

Re-enter Lucius, Quintus, Martius, and Mu¬ 
tius [with their swords bloody]. 

Luc. See, lord and father, how we have per¬ 
form’d 

Our Roman rites. Alarbus’ limbs are lopp’d, 
And entrails feed the sacrificing fire, 

Whose smoke, like incense, doth perfume the 
sky. i46 

Remaineth nought but to inter our brethren, 
And with loud ’larums welcome them to Rome. 

Tit. Let it be so ; and let Andronicus 
Make this his latest farewell to their souls. 

[Trumpets sounded , and the coffin 
laid in the tomb. 

In peace and honour rest you here, my sons; 
Rome’s readiest champions, repose you here in 
rest, i5i 

Secure from worldly chances and mishaps! 
Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells, 





TITUS ANDRONICUS 


I. i 


Here grow no damned drugs; here are no 
storms, 

No noise, but silence and eternal sleep. 155 
In peace and honour rest you here, my sons ! 

Enter Laylnia. 

Lav. In peace and honour live Lord Titus 
long, 

My noble lord and father, live in fame ! 

Lo, at this tomb my tributary tears 
I render, for my brethren’s obsequies ; ieo 

And at thy feet 1 kneel, with tears of joy 
Shed on the earth for thy return to Rome. 

O, bless me here with thy victorious hand, 

YY hose fortunes Rome’s best citizens applaud ! 
Tit. Kind Rome, that hast thus lovingly re¬ 
serv’d 166 

The cordial of mine age to glad my heart! 
Lavinia, live ; outlive thy father’s days 
And fame’s eternal date, for virtue’s praise ! 
Marc. Long live Lord Titus, my beloved 
brother, 

Gracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome ! 170 

Tit. Thanks, gentle tribune, noble brother 
Marcus. 

Marc. And welcome, nephews, from success¬ 
ful wars, 

You that survive, and you that sleep in fame ! 
Fair lords, your fortunes are alike in all, 

That in your country’s service drew your 
swords; no 

But safer triumph is this funeral pomp, 

That hath aspir’d to Solon’s happiness 
And triumphs over chance in honour’s bed. 
Titus Andronicus, the people of Rome, 

Whose friend in justice thou hast ever been, iso 
Send thee by me, their tribune and their trust, 
This palliament of white and spotless hue ; 

And name thee in election for the empire, 

"With these our late-deceased emperor’s sons. 
Be candidatus then, and put it on, iss 

And help to set a head on headless Rome. 

Tit. A better head her glorious body fits 
Than his that shakes for age and feebleness. 
What should I don this robe, and trouble you ? 
Be chosen with proclamations to-day, 100 

To-morrow yield up rule, resign my life. 

And set abroad new business for you all ? 
Rome, I have been thy soldier forty years, 

And led my country’s strength successfully, 
And buried one and twenty valiant sons, is»5 
Knighted in field, slain manfully in arms. 

In right and service of their noble country. 
Give me a staff of honour for mine age, 

But not a sceptre to control the world ; 

Upright he held it, lords, that held it last. 200 
Marc. Titus, thou shalt obtain and ask the 
empery. 

Sat. Proud and ambitious tribune, canst thou 
tell ? 

Tit. Patience, Prince Saturninus. 

Sat. Romans, do me right. 

Patricians, draw your swords, and sheathe them 

not 

Till Saturninus be Rome’s emperor. 205 

Andronicus, would thou were shipp’d to hell, 
Rather than rob me of the people’s hearts ! 


809 


Luc. Proud Saturnine, interrupter of the 
good 

That noble-minded Titus means to thee ! 

Tit. Content thee, Prince; I will restore to 
thee 210 

The people’s hearts, and wean them from them¬ 
selves. 

Bas. Andronicus, I do not flatter thee, 

But honour thee, and will do till I die. 

My faction if thou strengthen with thy friends, 
I will most thankful be ; and thanks to men 215 
Of noble minds is honourable meed. 

Tit. People of Rome, and people’s tribunes 
here, 

I ask your voices and your suffrages. 

Will you bestow them friendly on Andronicus ? 

Tribunes. To gratify the good Andronicus, 
And gratulate his safe return to Rome, 221 
The people will accept whom he admits. 

Tit. Tribunes, I thank you ; and this suit I 
make, 

That you create your emperor’s eldest son, 
Lord ISaturnine ; whose virtues will, I hope, 226 
Reflect on Rome as Titan’s rays on earth, 

And ripen justice in this commonweal. 

Then, if you will elect by my advice, 

Crown him, and say, “ Long live our emperor ! ” 
Marc. With voices and applause of every 
sort, 230 

Patricians and plebeians, we create 
Lord Saturninus Rome’s great emperor, 

And say, “ Long live our Emperor Saturnine ! ” 
[A long flourish till they come down. 
Sat. Titus Andronicus, for thy favours done 
To us in our election this day, 236 

I give thee thanks in part of thy deserts, 

And will with deeds requite thy gentleness; 
And, for an onset, Titus, to advance 
Thy name and honourable family, 

Lavinia will I make my empress, 240 

Rome’s royal mistress, mistress of my heart, 
And in the sacred Pantheon her espouse. 

Tell me, Andronicus, doth this motion please 
thee ? 

Tit. It doth, my worthy lord; and in this 
match 

I hold me highly honoured of your Grace : 2« 

And here in sight of Rome to Saturnine, 

King and commander of our commonweal, 

The wide world’s emperor, do I consecrate 
My sword, my chariot, and my prisoners ; 
Presents well worthy Rome’s imperious lord. 250 
Receive them then, the tribute that I owe, 
Mine honour’s ensigns humbled at thy feet. 

Sat. Thanks, noble Titus, father of my life 1 
How proud I am of thee and of thy gifts 
Rome shall record, and when I do forget 266 
The least of these unspeakable deserts, 
Romans, forget your fealty to me. 

Tit. [To Tamora .] Now, madam, are you 
prisoner to an emperor ; 

To him that, for your honour and your state, 
Will use you nobly and your followers. 26* 
Sat. A goodly lady, trust me, of the hue 
That I would choose, were I to choose anew. — 
Clear up, fair queen, that cloudy counte¬ 
nance ; 






8io 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


1.1. 


Though chance of war hath wrought this 
change of cheer, 

Thou com’st not to be made a scorn in Rome; 
Princely shall be thy usage every way. 266 

Rest on my word, and let not discontent 
Daunt all your hopes. Madam, he comforts 
you 

Can make you greater than the Queen of Goths. 
Lavinia, you are not displeas’d with this ? 270 

Lav. Not I, my lord ; sith true nobility 
Warrants these words in princely courtesy. 

Sat. Thanks, sweet Lavinia. Romans, let us 

go; 

Ransomless here we set our prisoners free. 
Proclaim our honours, lords, with trump and 
drum. 275 

[Flourish. Saturninus courts Tamora 
in dumb show.\ 

Bas. Lord Titus, by your leave, this maid is 
mine. [ Seizing Lavinia .] 

Tit. How, sir! Are you in earnest then, my 
lord ? 

Bas. Ay, noble Titus ; and resolv’d withal 
To do myself this reason and this right. 

Marc. “ Suurn cuique ” is our Roman justice ; 
This prince in justice seizeth but his own. 281 
Luc. And that he will, and shall, if Lucius 
live. 

Tit. Traitors, avaunt! Where is the Emper¬ 
or’s guard ? 

Treason, my lord! Lavinia is surpris’d ! 

Sat. Surpris’d ! By whom ? 

Bas. By him that justly may 

Bear his betroth’d from all the world away. 286 
[Exeunt Bassianus and Marcus with 
Lavinia .] 

Mut. Brothers, help to convey her hence 
away, 

And with my sword I ’ll keep this door safe. 

[Exeunt Lucius , Quintus , and Mar- 
tius.] 

Tit. Follow, my lord, and I ’ll soon bring her 
back. 

Mut. My lord, you pass not here. 

Tit. What, villain boy! 290 

Barr’st me my way in Rome ? 

Mut. Help, Lucius, help ! 

[Titus kills him. 
[During the fray, exeunt Saturninus , 
Tamora, Demetrius , Chiron, and 
Aaron.] 

[Re-enter Lucius.] 

Luc. My lord, you are unjust, and, more 
than so, 

In wrongful quarrel you have slain your son. 

Tit. Nor thou, nor he, are any sons of mine ; 
My sons would never so dishonour me. 295 

Traitor, restore Lavinia to the Emperor. 

Luc. Dead, if you will; but not to be his 
wife 

That is another’s lawful promis’d love. [Exit.] 

Re-enter aloft Saturninus with Tamora and 
her two sons, and Aaron. 

Sat. No, Titus, no ; the Emperor needs her 

not. 


Nor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stock. soa 
I ’ll trust, by leisure, him that mocks me once ; 
Thee never, nor thy traitorous haughty sons, 
Confederates all thus to dishonour me. 

Was there none else in Rome to make a stale, 
But Saturnine? Full well, Andronicus, 305 
Agree these deeds with that proud brag of 
thine, 

That said’st I begg’d the empire at thy hands. 
Tit. O monstrous! what reproachful words 
are these ? 

Sat. But go thy ways ; go, give that chang¬ 
ing piece 

To him that flourish’d for her with his sword. 
A valiant son-in-law thou shalt enjoy, 311 

One fit to bandy with thy lawless sons, 

To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome. 

Tit. These words are razors to my wounded 
heart. 

Sat. And therefore, lovely Tamora, Queen 
Of Goths, 315 

That like the stately Phoebe ’mongst her 
nymphs 

Dost overshine the gallant’st dames of Rome, 
If thou be pleas’d with this my sudden choice, 
Behold, I choose thee, Tamora, for my bride, 
And will create thee Empress of Rome. 320 

Speak, Queen of Goths, dost thou applaud my 
choice ? 

And here I swear by all the Roman gods, 

Sith priest and holy water are so near 
And tapers burn so bright and everything 
In readiness for Hymenseus stand, 326 

I will not re-salute the streets of Rome, 

Or climb my palace, till from forth this place 
I lead espous’d my bride along with me. 

Tam. And here, in sight of heaven, to Rome 
I swear, 

If Saturnine advance the Queen of Goths, 33* 
She will a handmaid be to his desires, 

A loving nurse, a mother to his youth. 

Sat. Ascend, fair queen, Pantheon; lords, 
accompany 

Your noble emperor and his lovely bride, 

Sent by the heavens for Prince Saturnine, 335 
Whose wisdom hath her fortune conquered ; 
There shall we consummate our spousal rites. 

[Exeunt all [but Titus], 
Tit. I am not bid to wait upon this bride. 
Titus, when wert thou wont to walk alone, 
Dishonoured thus, and challenged of wrongs ? 

Re-enter Marcus, Lucius, Quintus, and Mar- 

T1US. 

Marc. 0 Titus, see, O, see what thou hast 
done! 341 

In a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son. 

Tit. No, foolish tribune, no ; no son of mine, 
Nor thou, nor these, confederates in the deed 
That hath dishonoured all our family ; 345 

Unworthy brother, and unworthy sons ! 

Luc. But let us give him burial, as becomes ; 
Give Mutius burial with our brethren. 

Tit. Traitors, away! he rests not in this 
tomb. 

This monument five hundred years hath stood, 
Which I have sumptuously re-edified. 351 




TITUS ANDRONICUS 


811 


i. i. 


Here none but soldiers and Rome’s servitors 
Repose in fame ; none basely slain in brawls. 
Bury him where you can j he comes not here. 

Marc. My lord, this is impiety in you. 366 
My nephew Mutius’ deeds do plead for him ; 
He must be buried with his brethren. 

M U art. ! And sha11 ’ or him we will accompany. 

Tit. 1 And shall ! ” What villain was it 
spake that word ? 

Quin. He that would vouch it in any place 
but here. 360 

Tit. What, would you bury him in my de¬ 
spite ? 

Marc. No, noble Titus, but entreat of thee 
To pardon Mutius and to bury him. 

Tit. Marcus, even thou hast struck upon my 
crest, 

And, with these boys, mine honour thou hast 
wounded. 366 

My foes I do repute you every one ; 

>So, trouble me no more, but get you gone. 

Luc. He is not with himself; let us with¬ 
draw. 

Mart. Not I, till Mutius’ bones be buried. 

[Marcus and the sons of Titus kneel. 
Marc. Brother, for in that name doth nature 
plead, — 370 

Mart. Father, and in that name doth nature 
speak, — 

Tit. Speak thou no more, if all the rest will 
speed. 

Marc. Renowned Titus, more than half my 
soul, — 

Luc. Dear father, soul and substance of us 
all,- 

Marc. Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter S76 
His noble nephew here in virtue’s nest, 

That died in honour and Lavinia’s cause. 

Thou art a Roman, be not barbarous. 

The Greeks upon advice did bury Ajax 
That slew himself ; and wise Laertes’ son sso 
Did graciously plead for his funerals. 

Let not young Mutius, then, that was thy joy, 
Be barr’d his entrance here. 

Tit. Rise, Marcus, rise. 

The dismall’st day is this that e’er I saw, 

To be dishonoured by my sons in Rome! 386 

Well, bury him, and bury me the next. 

[Mutius is put into the tomb. 
Luc. There lie thy bones, sweet Mutius, with 
thy friends, 

Till we with trophies do adorn thy tomb. 

All. {Kneeling.) No man shed tears for noble 
Mutius; 

He lives in fame that died in virtue’s cause. 390 
[Exeunt all but Marcus and Titus. 
Marc. My lord, to step out of these dreary 
dumps, 

How comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths 
Is of a sudden thus advanc’d in Rome ? 

Tit. I know not, Marcus, but I know it is ; 
Whether by device or no, the heavens can tell. 
Is she not then beholding to the man 396 

That brought her for this high good turn so 
far ? 

[Yes, and will nobly him remunerate.] 


Flourish. Re-enter Saturninus, Tamora, 
Demetrius, Chiron, and Aaron at one 
door; enter , at the other door , Basslanus, La- 
vinia, with others. 

Sat. So, Bassianus, you have play’d your 
prize. 

God give you joy, sir, of your gallant bride ! 
Bas. And you of yours, my lord! I say no 
more, 401 

Nor wish no less ; and so, I take my leave. 

Sat. Traitor, if Rome have law or we have 
power, 

Thou and thy faction shall repent this rape. 
Bas. Rape, call you it, my lord, to seize my 
own, 406 

My true betrothed love and now my wife ? 

But let the laws of Rome determine all; 
Meanwhile I am possess’d of that is mine. 

Sat. ’T is good, sir ; you are very short with 
us; 

But, if we live, we ’ll be as sharp with you. 410 
Bas. My lord, what I have done, as best I 
may 

Answer lmust, and shall do with my life. 

Only thus much I give your Grace to know : 

By all the duties that I owe to Rome, 

This noble gentleman, Lord Titus here, <15 

Is in opinion and in honour wrong’d ; 

That in the rescue of Lavinia 

With his own hand did slay his youngest son, 

In zeal to you and highly mov’d to wrath 

To be controll’d in that he frankly gave. 420 

Receive him, then, to favour. Saturnine, 

That hath express’d himself in all his deeds 
A father and a friend to thee and Rome. 

Tit. Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my 
deeds; 424 

’T is thou and those that have dishonoured me. 
Rome and the righteous heavens be my judge, 
How I have lov’d and honoured Saturnine ! 

Tam. My worthy lord, if ever Tamora 
Were gracious in those princely eyes of thine, 
Then hear me speak indifferently for all; 430 

And at my suit, sweet, pardon what is past. 

Sat. What, madam ! be dishonoured openly 
And basely put it up without revenge ? 

Tam. Not so, my lord ; the gods of Rome 
forfend 

I should be author to dishonour you ! 436 

But on mine honour dare I undertake 
For good Lord Titus’ innocence in all, 

Whose fury not dissembled speaks his griefs. 
Then, at my suit, look graciously on him ; 

Lose not so noble a friend on vain suppose, 440 
Nor with sour looks afflict his gentle heart. 
[Aside to Sat.] My lord, be rul’d by me, be won 
at last; 

Dissemble all your griefs and discontents. 

You are but newly planted in your throne ; 
Lest, then, the people, and patricians too, 4*« 
Upon a just survey, take Titus’ part, 

And so supplant you for ingratitude, 

Which Rome reputes to be a heinous sin, 

Yield at entreats ; and then let me alone : 

I ’ll find a day to massacre them all «« 

And raze their faction and their family, 







8l2 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


II. L 


The cruel father and his traitorous sons, 

To whom I sued for my dear son’s life, 

And make them know what ’t is to let a queen 
Kneel in the streets and beg for grace in vain. 

{Again speaking openly to Sai.] 
Come, come, sweet emperor ; — come, Andro- 
nicus ; — 

Take up this good old man, and cheer the 
heart 

That dies in tempest of thy angry frown. 

Sat. Rise, Titus, rise ; my empress hath pre¬ 
vail’d. 450 

Tit. I thank your Majesty, and her, my lord. 
These words, these looks, infuse new life in me. 

Tam. Titus, I am incorporate in Rome, 

A Roman now adopted happily, 

And must advise the Emperor for his good. 
This day all quarrels die, Andronicus ; 465 

And let it be mine honour, good my lord, 

That I have reconcil’d your friends and you. 
For you, Prince Bassianus, I have pass’d 
My word and promise to the Emperor 
That you will be more mild and tractable. 470 
And fear not, lords, and you, Lavinia ; 

By my advice, all humbled on your knees, 

You shall ask pardon of his Majesty. 

IMarcus , Lavinia , and the others 
kneel.] 

[Luc.] We do, and vow to heaven and to his 
Highness, 

That what we did was mildly as we might, 475 
Tend’ring our sister’s honour and our own. 
Marc. That, on mine honour, here I do pro¬ 
test. 

Sat. Away, and talk not; trouble us no 
more. 

Tam. Nay, nay, sweet emperor, we must all 
be friends; 479 

The tribune and his nephews kneel for grace. 

I will not be denied ; sweetheart, look back. 
Sat. Marcus, for thy sake and thy brother’s 
here, 

And at my lovely Tam ora’s entreats, 

I do remit these young men’s heinous faults. 
Stand up ! [Marcus and the others rise.] 485 

Lavinia, though you left me like a churl, 

I found a friend, and sure as death I swore 
I would not part a bachelor from the priest. 
Come, if the Emperor’s court can feast two 
brides, 

You are my guest, Lavinia, and your friends. 
This day shall be a love-day, Tamora. 491 

Tit. To-morrow, an it please your Majesty 
To hunt the panther and the hart with me, 
With horn and hound we ’ll give your Grace 
bonjour. 

Sat. Be it so, Titus, and gramercy too. 495 
[. Flourish. Exeunt. 


ACT II 

[Scene I. Rome. Before the palace.] 
Enter Aaron. 

Aar. Now climbeth Tamora Olympus’ top, 
Safe out of fortune’s shot; and sits aloft, 


Secure of thunder’s crack or lightning flash ; 
Advanc’d above pale envy’s threat’ning reach. 
As when the golden sun salutes the morn, e 
And, having gilt the ocean with his beams. 
Gallops the zodiac in his glistering coach 
And overlooks the highest-peering hills ; 

So Tamora: 

Upon her wit doth earthly honour wait, 10 
And virtue stoops and trembles at her frown. 
Then, Aaron, arm thy heart and fit thy 
thoughts 

To mount aloft with thy imperial mistress, 

And mount her pitch, whom thou in triumph 
long 

Hast prisoner held, fett’red in amorous chains 
And faster bound to Aaron’s charming eyes ip 
T han is Prometheus tied to Caucasus. 

Away with slavish weeds and servile thoughts ! 
I will be bright and shine in pearl and gold 
To wait upon this new-made empress. 20 

To wait, said I ? To wanton with this queen, 
This goddess, this Semiramis, this nymph, 

This siren, that will charm Rome’s Saturnine, 
And see his shipwreck and his commonweal’s. 
Holloa ! what storm is this ? 25 

Enter Demetrius and Chiron, braving. 

Bern. Chiron, thy years wants wit, thy wit 
wants edge 

And manners, to intrude where I am grac’d ; 
And may, for aught thou know’st, affected be. 

Chi. Demetrius, thou dost over-ween in all; 
And so in this, to bear me down with braves. 30 
’T is not the difference of a year or two 
Makes me less gracious or thee more fortu¬ 
nate. 

I am as able and as fit as thou 
To serve, and to deserve my mistress’ grace ; 
And that my sword upon thee shall approve, 35 
And plead my passions for Lavinia’s love. 

Aar. [Aside.] Clubs, clubs! these lovers 
will not keep the peace. 

Bern. Why, boy, although our mother, un¬ 
advis’d, 

Gave you a dancing-rapier by your side, 

Are you so desperate grown, to threat your 
friends ? «p 

Go to ; have your lath glued within your sheath 
Till you know better how to handle it. 

Chi. Meanwhile, sir, with the little skill I 
have, 

Full well shalt thou perceive how much I dare. 
Bern. Ay, boy, grow ye so brave ? 

[They draw. 

Aar. [ Coming forward.] Why, how now, 

lords! 45 

So near the Emperor’s palace dare you draw, 
And maintain such a quarrel openly ? 

Full well I wot the ground of all this grudge. 

I would not for a million of gold 
The cause were known to them it most con¬ 
cerns ; 60 

Nor would your noble mother for much more 
Be so dishonoured in the court of Rome. 

For shame, put up. 

Bern. Not I, till I have sheath’d 

My rapier in his bosom, and withal 




II. 11. 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


813 


Thrust those reproachful speeches down his 
throat so 

That he hath breath’d in ray dishonour here. 
Chi. For that I am prepar’d and full re¬ 
solv’d. 

Foul-spoken coward, that thund’rest with thy 
tongue, 

And with thy weapon nothing dar’st perform ! 

Aar. Away, I say ! eo 

Now, by the gods that warlike Goths adore, 
This petty brabble will undo us all. 

Why, lords, and think you not how dangerous 
It is to jet upon a prince’s right ? 

What, is Lavinia then become so loose, 6s 

Or Bassianus so degenerate, 

That for her love such quarrels may be broach’d 
Without controlment, justice, or revenge? 
Young lords, beware! an should the Empress 
know 

This discord’s ground, the music would not 
please. 70 

Chi. I care not, I, knew she and all the 
world; 

I love Lavinia more than all the world. 

Dem. Youngling, learn thou to make some 
meaner choice ; 

Lavinia is thine elder brother’s hope. 

Aar. Why, are ye mad ? or know ye not, in 
Rome 75 

How furious and impatient they be, 

And cannot brook competitors in love ? 

I tell you, lords, you do but plot your deaths 
By this device. 

Chi. Aaron, a thousand deaths 

Would I propose to achieve her whom I love, so 
Aar. To achieve her ! how ? 

Dem. Why makes thou it so strange ? 

She is a woman, therefore may be woo’d ; 

She is a woman, therefore may be won ; 

She is Lavinia, therefore must be lov’d. 

What, man ! more water glideth by the mill ss 
Than wots the miller of ; and easy it is 
Of a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know. 

Though Bassianus be the Emperor’s brother, 
Better than he have worn Vulcan’s badge. 
Aar. [Aside.] Ay, and as good as Saturninus 
may. # 90 

Dem. Then why should he despair that 
knows to court it 

With words, fair looks, and liberality ? 

What, hast not thou full often struck a doe. 
And borne her cleanly by the keeper’s nose ? 
Aar. Why, then, it seems, some certain 
snatch or so 96 

Would serve your turns. 

Chi. Ay, so the turn were served. 

Dem. Aaron, thou bast hit it. 

Aar. Would you had hit it too ! 

Then should not we be tir’d with this ado. 
Why, hark ye, hark ye ! and are you such fools 
To square for this ? Would it offend you, then, 
That both should speed ? 101 

Chi. Faith, not me. 

Dem. Nor me, so I were one. 

Aar. For shame, be friends, and join for that 
you jar. 

’Tis policy and stratagem must do 


That you affect; and so must you resolve iw 
That what you cannot as you would achieve 
You must perforce accomplish as you may. 
Take this of me : Lucrece was not more chaste 
Than this Lavinia, Bassianus’ love. 

A speedier course than ling’ring languishment 
Must we pursue, and I have found the path, in 
My lords, a solemn hunting is in hand : 

There will the lovely Roman ladies troop ; 

The forest walks are wide and spacious ; 

And many unfrequented plots there are u* 
Fitted by kind for rape and villainy. 

Single you thither then this dainty doe, 

And strike her home by force, if not by words. 
This way, or not at all, stand you in hope. 
Come, come, our empress, with her sacred wit 
To villainy and vengeance consecrate, 121 

Will we acquaint with all that we intend ; 

And she shall file our engines with advice, 

That will not suffer you to square yourselves, 
But to your wishes’ height advance you both. 
The Emperor’s court is like the house of 
Fame, 126 

The palace full of tongues, of eyes, and ears ; 
The woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf, and 
dull; 

There speak, and strike, brave boys, and take 
your turns; 

There serve your lust, shadowed from heaven’s 
eye, iso 

And revel in Lavinia’s treasury. 

Chi. Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowardice. 
Dem. Sit fas aut nefas , till I find the stream 
To cool this heat, a charm to calm these fits, 
Per Styga , per manes vehor. [ Exeunt. ise 

[Scene II. A forest near Rome.] 

Enter Titus Andronicus, and his three sons 
[Lucius, Quintus, and Martius], making a 
noise with hounds and horns , and Marcus. 

Tit. The hunt is up, the morn is bright and 
grey, 

The fields are fragrant and the woods are green. 
Uncouple here and let us make a bay, 

And wake the Emperor and his lovely bride, 
And rouse the Prince, and ring a hunter’s peal 
That all the court may echo with the noise. o 
Sons, let it be your charge, as it is ours. 

To attend the Emperor’s person carefully. 

I have been troubled in my sleep this night, 
But dawning day new comfort hath inspir’d. 10 

A cry of hounds , and horns winded in a peal. 
Enter Saturninus, Tamora, Bassianus, 
Lavinia, Chiron, Demetrius, and At¬ 
tendants. 

Many good morrows to your Majesty ; 

Madam, to you as many and as good. 

I promised your Grace a hunter’s peal. 

Sat. And you have rung it lustily, my lords ; 
Somewhat too early for new-married ladies, is 
Bas. Lavinia, how say you ? 

Lav. I say, no; 

I have been broad awake two hours and more. 
Sat. Come on, then; horse and chariots let 
us have, 





814 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


ii. iil 


And to our sport. [To Tamora .] Madam, now 
shall ye see 
Our Roman hunting. 

Marc. I have dogs, my lord, 20 

Will rouse the proudest panther in the chase, 
And climb the highest promontory top. 

Tit. And I have horse will follow where the 
game 

Makes way, and run like swallows o’er the 
plain. 

Dein. Chiron, we hunt not, we, with horse 
nor hound, 26 

But hope to pluck a dainty doe to ground. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III. A lonely part of the forest.] 
Enter Aaron [with a bag of gold]. 

Aar. He that had wit would think that I 
had none 

To bury so much gold under a tree 
And never after to inherit it. 

Let him that thinks of me so abjectly 
Know that this gold must coin a stratagem, s 
Which, cunningly effected, will beget 
A very excellent piece of villainy. 

And so repose, sweet gold, for their unrest 

[Hides the gold.] 
That have their alms otit of the Empress’ chest. 

Enter Tamora. 

Tam. My lovely Aaron, wherefore look’st 
thou sad 10 

When everything doth make a gleeful boast ? 
The birds chant melody on every bush, 

The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun, 

The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind 
And make a chequer’d shadow on the ground. 
Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit, is 
And, whilst the babbling echo mocks the 
hounds, 

Replying shrilly to the well-tun’d horns, 

As if a double hunt were heard at once, 

Let us sit down and mark their yelping noise ; 
And, after conflict such as was suppos’d 21 
The wand’ring prince and Dido once enjoy’d, 
When with a happy storm they were surpris’d 
And curtain’d with a counsel-keeping cave, 

We may, each wreathed in the other’s arms, 26 
Our pastimes done, possess a golden slum¬ 
ber ; 

Whiles hounds and horns and sweet melodious 
birds 

Be unto us as is a nurse’s song 
Of lullaby to bring her babe asleep. 

Aar. Madam, though Venus govern your de¬ 
sires, 30 

Saturn is dominator over mine. 

What signifies my deadly-standing eye, 

My silence and my cloudy melancholy, 

My fleece of woolly hair that now uncurls 
Even as an adder when she doth unroll 35 

To do some fatal execution ? 

No, madam, these are no venereal signs. 
Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, 
Blood and revenge are hammering in my head. 
Hark, Tamora, the empress of my soul, 40 


Which never hopes more heaven than rests in 
thee, 

This is the day of doom for Bassianus. 

His Philomel must lose her tongue to-day, 

Thy sons make pillage of her chastity 
And wash their hands in Bassianus’ blood. 
Seest thou this letter ? Take it up, I pray thee, 
And give the King this fatal-plotted soroll. 

Now question me no more ; we are espied. 

Here comes a parcel of our hopeful booty ? 
Which dreads not yet their lives’ destruction, e# 

Enter Bassianus and Lavinia. 

Tam. Ah, my sweet Moor, sweeter to me 
than life ! 

Aar. No more, great Empress; Bassianus 
comes. 

Be cross with him ; and I ’ll go fetch thy sons 
To back thy quarrels, whatsoe’er they be. 

[Exit.] 

Bas. Who have we here? Rome’s royal 
Empress, 66 

Unfurnisli’d of her well-beseeming troop ? 

Or is it Dian, habited like her, 

Who hath abandoned her holy groves 
To see the general hunting in this forest ? 

Tam. Saucy controller of my private steps 1 
Had I the power that some say Dian had, 6i 
Thy temples should be planted presently 
With horns, as was Actseon’s ; and the hounds 
Should drive upon thy new-transformed limbs, 
Unmannerly intruder as thou art! s* 

Lav. Under your patience, gentle Empress, 
’T is thought you have a goodly gift in horning ; 
And to be doubted that your Moor and you 
Are singled forth to try, experiments. 

Jove shield your husband from his hounds to¬ 
day ! 70 

’T is pity they should take him for a stag. 

Bas. Believe me, Queen, your swarth Cim¬ 
merian 

Doth make your honour of his body’s hue, 
Spotted, detested, and abominable. 

Why are you sequest’red from all your train, 25 
Dismounted from your snow-white goodly steed, 
And wand’red hither to an obscure plot, 
Accompanied but with a barbarous Moor, 

If foul desire had not conducted you ? 

Lav. And, being intercepted in your sport, so 
Great reason that my noble lord be rated 
For sauciness. I pray you, let us hence, 

And let her joy her raven-coloured love ; 

This valley fits the purpose passing well. 

Bas. The King, my brother, shall have note 
of this. 8 b 

Lav. Ay, for these slips have made him noted 
long, 

Good king, to he so mightily abused. 

Tam. Why have I patience to endure all 
this ? 

Enter Chiron and Demetrius. 

Dem. How now, dear sovereign, and our 
gracious mother! 

Why doth your Highness look so pale and wan ? 
Tam. Have I not reason, think you, to look 
pale ? at 




II. iii. 


Titus andronicus 


These two have ’tic’d me hither to this place ; 
A barren detested vale, you see it is ; 

The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and 
lean, 

O’ercome with moss and baleful mistletoe. oe 
Here never shines the sun ; here nothing breeds, 
Unless the nightly owl or fatal raven ; 

And when they show’d me this abhorred pit, 
They told me, here, at dead time of the night, »o 
A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes, 
Ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins, 
Would make such fearful and confused cries 
As any mortal body hearing it 
Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly. 
No sooner had they told this hellish tale, 105 
But straight they told me they would bind me 
here 

Unto the body of a dismal yew, 

And leave me to this miserable death. 

And then they call’d me foul adulteress, 
Lascivious Goth, and all the bitterest terms no 
That ever ear did hear to such effect; 

And, had you not by wondrous fortune come, 
This vengeance on me had they executed. 
Revenge it, as you love your mother’s life, 

Or be ye not henceforth call’d my children, us 
Dem. This is a witness that I am thy son. 

[Stabs Bassianus. 
Chi. And this for me, struck home to show 
my strength. 

[Also stabs Bassianus , who dies.] 
Lav. Ay, come, Semiramis, nay, barbarous 
Tamora, 

For no name fits thy nature but thy own I 
Tam. Give me thy poniard ; you shall know, 
my boys, 120 

Your mother’s hand shall right your mother’s 
wrong. 

Dem. Stay, madam ; here is more belongs to 
her. 

First thrash the corn, then after burn the straw. 
This minion stood upon her chastity, 

Upon her nuptial vow, her loyalty, 125 

And with that painted hope braves your mighti¬ 
ness ; 

And shall she carry this unto her grave ? 

Chi. An if she do, I would I were an eunuch. 
Drag hence her husband to some secret hole, 
And make his dead trunk pillow to our lust, iso 
Tam. But when ye have the honey ye desire, 
Let not this wasp outlive us both to sting. 

Chi. I warrant you, madam, we will make 
that sure. 

Come, mistress, now perforce we will enjoy 
That nice-preserved honesty of yours. 135 

Lav. O Tamora! thou bear’st a woman’s 
face, — 

Tam. I will not hear her speak ; away with 
her I 

Lav. Sweet lords, entreat her hear me but a 
word. 

Dem. Listen, fair madam: let it be your 
glory 

To see her tears ; but be your heart to them no 
As unrelenting flint to drops of rain. 

Lav. When did the tiger’s young ones teach 
the dam ? 


8i 5 


0 , do not learn her wrath ; she taught it thee ; 
The milk thou suck’dst from her did turn to 
marble ; 

Even at thy teat thou hadst thy tyranny. 145 
Yet every mother breeds not sons alike, 

[To Chiron .] Do thou entreat her show a wo¬ 
man’s pity. 

Chi. Wliat, wouldst thou have me prove my¬ 
self a bastard ? 

Lav. ’T is true ; the raven doth not hatch a 
lark. 

Yet have I heard, — could I find it now ! — 
The lion mov’d with pity did endure ici 

To have his princely paws par’d all away ; 
Some say that ravens foster forlorn children 
The whilst their own birds famish in their 
nests; 

O, be to me, though thy hard heart say no, iss 
Nothing so kind, but something pitiful! 

Tam. I know not what it means ; away with 
her ! 

Lav. 0, let me teach thee ! For my father’s 
sake, 

That gave thee life when well he might have 
slain thee, 

Be not obdurate, open thy deaf ears. ioo 

Tam. Hadst thou in person ne’er offended 
me. 

Even for his sake am I pitiless. 

Remember, boys, I pour’d forth tears in vain 
To save your brother from the sacrifice ; 

But fierce Andronicus would not relent. i« 
Therefore, away with her, and use her as you 
will, 

The worse to her, the better lov’d of me. 

Lav. O Tamora, be call’d a gentle queen, 
And with thine own hands kill me in this place! 
For’t is not life that I have begg’d so long; no 
Poor I was slain when Bassianus died. 

Tam. What begg’st thou, then? Fond wo¬ 
man, let me go. 

Lav. ’T is present death I beg, and one thing 
more 

That womanhood denies my tongue to tell. 

0 , keep me from their worse than killing lust, 
And tumble me into some loathsome pit no 
Where never man’s eye may behold my body. 
Do this, and be a charitable murderer. 

Tam. So should I rob my sweet sons of their 
fee. 

No, let them satisfy their lust on thee. wo 

Dem. Away ! for thou hast stay’d us here 
too long. 

Lav. No grace ? no womanhood ? Ah, 
beastly creature! 

The blot and enemy to our general name ! 
Confusion fall — 

Chi. Nay, then I ’ll stop your mouth. Bring 
thou her husband ; ws 

This is the hole where Aaron bid us hide him. 

[Demetrius throws the body of Bas- 
sianus into the pit; then exeunt 
Demetrius ana Chiron , drag¬ 
ging qff Lavinia.] 

Tam. Farewell, my sons: see that you make 
her sure. 

Ne’er let my heart know merry cheer indeed, 







8i6 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


II. iil 


Till all the Andronici be made away. 

Now will I hence to seek my lovely Moor, wo 
And let my spleenful sons this trull deflower. 

[Exit. 

Re-enter Aaron, with Quintus and Martius. 

Aar. Come on, my lords, the better foot be¬ 
fore. 

Straight will I bring you to the loathsome pit 
Where I espied the panther fast asleep. 

Quin. My sight is very dull, whate’er it 
bodes. W 5 

Mart. And mine, I promise you ; were ’t not 
for shame, 

Well could I leave our sport to sleep a while. 

[Falls into the pit.] 
Quin. What, art thou fallen ? What subtle 
hole is this, 

Whose mouth is covered with rude-growing 
briers, 199 

Upon whose leaves are drops of new-shed blood 
As fresh as morning dew distill’d on flowers ? 
A very fatal place it seems to me. 

Speak, brother, hast thou hurt thee with the 
fall? 

Mart. O brother, with the dismall’st object 
hurt 

That ever eye with sight made heart lament! 
Aar. [Aside.] Now will I fetch the King to 
find them here, 200 

That he thereby may have a likely guess 
How these were they that made away his 

brother. [Exit. 

Mart. Why dost not comfort me, and help me 

out 209 

From this unhallow’d and blood-stained hole? 

Quin. I am surprised with an uncouth fear; 
A chilling sweat o’er-runs my trembling joints ; 
My heart suspects more than mine eye can see. 
Mart. To prove thou hast a true-divining 
heart, 

Aaron and thou look down into this den, 210 

And see a fearful sight of blood and death. 
Quin. Aaron is gone ; and my compassionate 
heart 

Will not permit mine eyes once to behold 
The thing whereat it trembles by surmise. 

O, tell me who it is ; for ne’er till now 220 

Was I a child to fear I know not what. 

Mart. Lord Bassianus lies embrued here, 

All on a heap, like to a slaught’red lamb, 

In this detested, dark, blood-drinking pit. 

Quin. If it be dark, how dost thou know’t is 
he ? 228 

Mart. Upon his bloody finger he doth wear 
A precious ring, that lightens all this hole, 
Which, like a taper in some monument, 

Doth shine upon the dead man’s earthy cheeks 
And shows the ragged entrails of this pit. 230 
So pale did shine the moon on Pyramus 
When he by night lay bath’d in maiden blood. 
0 brother, help me with thy fainting hand — 

If fear hath made thee faint, as me it hath — 
Out of this fell devouring receptacle, 23s 

As hateful as Cocytus’ misty mouth. 

Qiein. Reach me thy hand, that I may help 
thee out; 


Or, wanting strength to do thee so much good, 
I may be pluck’d into the swallowing womb 
Of this deep pit, poor Bassianus’ grave. 240 
I have no strength to pluck thee to the brink. 
Marl. Nor I no strength to climb without 
thy help. 

Quin. Thy hand once more ; I will not loose 
again 

Till thou art here aloft or I below. 

Thou canst not come to me ; I come to thee. 245 

[Falls in. 

Enter Saturninus with Aaron. 

Sat. Along with me; I ’ll see what hole is 
here, 

And what he is that now is leap’d into it. 

Say, who art thou that lately didst descend 
Into this gaping hollow of the earth ? 

Mart. The unhappy son of old Andronicus, 
Brought hither in a most unlucky hour 251 
To find thy brother Bassianus dead. 

Sat. My brother dead ! I know thou dost but 
jest. 

He and his lady both are at the lodge 

Upon the north side of this pleasant chase ; 256 

’T is not an hour since I left them there. 

Mart. We know not where you left them all 
alive ; 

But, out, alas ! here have we found him dead. 

Re-enter Tamora [with Attendants] ; Titus 
Andronicus, and Lucius. 

Tam. Where is my lord the King ? 

Sat. Here, Tamora, though griev’d with 
killing grief. 200 

Tam. Where is thy brother Bassianus ? 

Sat. Now to the bottom dost thou search my 
wound; 

Poor Bassianus here lies murdered. 

Tam. Then all too late I bring this fatal 
writ, 

The complot of this timeless tragedy ; 2G5 

And wonder greatly that man’s face can fold 
In pleasing smiles such murderous tyranny. 

[*SAe giveth Saturnine a letter. 
Sat. (Reads.) “An if we miss to meet him 
handsomely — 

Sweet huntsman, Bassianus’t is we mean — 

Do thou so much as dig the grave for him. 270 
Thou know’st our meaning. Look for thy re¬ 
ward 

Among the nettles at the elder-tree 
Which overshades the mouth of that same pit 
Where we decreed to bury Bassianus. 

Do this, and purchase us thy lasting friends.” 

O Tamora ! was ever heard the like ? 270 

This is the pit, and this the elder-tree. 

Look, sirs, if you can find the huntsman out 
That should have murdered Bassianus here. 
Aar. My gracious lord, here is the bag of 
gold. 280 

Sat. [To Titus.] Two of thy whelps, fell curs 
of bloody kind, 

Have here bereft my brother of his life. 

Sirs, drag them from the pit unto the prison. 
There let them bide until we have devis’d 
Some never-heard-of torturing pain for them. 




III. 1. 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


817 


Tam. What, are they in this pit? 0 won¬ 
drous thing! 286 

How easily murder is discovered ! 

Tit. High Emperor, upon my feeble knee 
I beg this boon, with tears not lightly shed. 
That this fell fault of my accursed sons, 200 
Accursed, if the fault be prov’d in them, — 
Sat. If it be prov’d ! You see it is apparent. 
Who found this letter ? Tamora, was it you ? 
Tain. Andronicus himself did take it up. 

Tit. I did, my lord ; yet let me be their bail. 
For, by my father’s reverend tomb, I vow 29 « 
They shall be ready at your Highness’ will 
To answer their suspicion with their lives. 

Sat. Thou shalt not bail them; see thou 
follow me. 

Some bring the murdered body, some the mur¬ 
derers. 300 

Let them not speak a word ; the guilt is plain ; 
For, by my soul, were there worse end than 
death, 

That end upon them should be executed. 

Tam. Andronicus, I will entreat the King. 
Fear not thy sons; they shall do well enough. 
Tit. Come, Lucius, come; stay not to talk 
with them. [ Exeunt. 306 

[Scene IV. Another part of the forest.] 

Enter Demetrius and Chiron, with Lavinia, 
ravished; her hands cut off, and her tongue cut 
out. 

Dem. So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can 
speak, 

Who’t was that cut thy tongue and ravish’d 
thee. 

Chi. Write down thy mind, bewray thy 
meaning so, 

An if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe. 
Dem. See, how with signs and tokens she 
can scrowl. 6 

Chi. Go home, call for sweet water, wash 
thy hands. 

Dem. "She hath no tongue to call, nor hands 
to wash ; 

And so let’s leave her to her silent walks. 

Chi. An’t were my case, I should go hang 
myself. 

Dem. If thou hadst hands to help thee knit 
• the cord. . . 10 

[Exeunt Demetrius and Chiron. 

Horns winded. Enter Marcus from hunting. 

Mar. Who is this — my niece ? — that flies 
away so fast ? 

Cousin, a word; where is your husband ? 

If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake 
me! 

If I do wake, some planet strike me down, 
That I may slumber in eternal sleep ! 16 

Speak, gentle niece, what stern ungentle hands 
Hath lopp’d and hew’d and made thy body bare 
Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments 
Whose circling shadows kings have sought to 
sleep in, 

And might not gain so great a happiness 20 
&s have thy love ? Why dost not speak to me i 


Alas, a crimson river of warm blood, 

Like to a bubbling fountain stirr’d with wind, 
Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips. 
Coming and going with thy honey breath. 2c 
But, sure, some Tereus hath deflowered thee, 
And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy 
tongue. 

Ah, now thou turn’st away thy face for shame ! 
And, notwithstanding all this loss of blood 
As from a conduit with three issuing spouts, 30 
Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan’s face 
Blushing to be encount’red with a cloud. 

Shall I speak for thee ? Shall I say’t is so ? 

0 , that I knew thy heart; and knew the beast, 
That I might rail at him to ease my mind I *e 
Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp’d, 

Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is. 

Fair Philomela, why, she but lost her tongue, 
And in a tedious sampler sew’d her mind ; 

But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from tliee ; 
A craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met, « 
And he hath cut those pretty fingers off, 

That could have better sew’d than Philomel. 

0 , had the monster seen those lily hands 
Tremble, like aspen-leaves, upon a lute, *b 
And make the silken strings delight to kiss 
them, 

He would not then have touch’d them for his 
life ! 

Or, had he heard the heavenly harmony 
Which that sweet tongue hath made, 

He would have dropp’d his knife, and fell 
asleep co 

As Cerberus at the Thracian poet’s feet. 

Come, let us go, and make thy father blind ; 
For such a sight will blind a father’s eye. 

One hour’s storm will drown the fragrant 
meads ; 

What will whole months of tears thy father’s 
eyes ? . cs 

Do not draw back, for we will mourn with 
thee. 

0 , could our mourning ease thy misery ! 

[Exeunt. 

ACT III 

[Scene I. Rome. A street.] 

Enter Judges, Senators [and Tribunes], with 
Martius and Quintus, bound , passing on the 
stage to the place of execution; Titus going 
before , pleading. 

Tit. Hear me, grave fathers! noble tribunes, 
stay ! 

For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent 
In dangerous wars, whilst you securely slept; 
For all my blood in Rome’s great quarrel shed ; 
For all the frosty nights that I have watch’d ; 5 
And for these bitter tears, which now you see 
Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks ; 

Be pitiful to my condemned sons, 

Whose souls are not corrupted as’t is thought. 
For two and twenty sons I never wept, 10 

Because they died in honour’s lofty bed. 

[Lieth down; the Judges , etc., pass 
by him [and exeunt ]. 




8i8 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


III. L 


For these, tribunes, in the dust I write 
My heart’s deep languor and my soul’s sad 
tears. 

Let my tears stanch the earth’s dry appetite ; 
My sons’ sweet blood will make it shame and 
blush. is 

0 earth, I will befriend thee more with rain. 
That shall distil from these two ancient urns, 
Than youthful April shall with all his showers. 
In summer’s drought I ’ll drop upon thee still; 
In winter with warm tears I ’ll melt the snow 
And keep eternal spring-time on thy face, 21 
So thou refuse to drink my dear sons’ blood. 

Enter Lucius, with his weapon drawn. 

0 reverend tribunes ! 0 gentle, aged men ! 
Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death ; 
And let me say, that never wept before, 25 
My tears are now prevailing orators. 

Luc. 0 noble father, you lament in vain. 
The tribunes hear you not; no man is by ; 

And you recount your sorrows to a stone. 

Tit. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me 
plead. 30 

Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you, — 
Luc. My gracious lord, no tribune hears you 
speak. 

Tit. Why, ’t is no matter, man ; if they did 
hear, 

They would not mark me, or if they did mai*k, 
They would not pity me ; yet plead I must, 35 
And bootless unto them. 

Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones ; 
Who, though they cannot answer my distress, 
Yet in some sort they are better than the trib¬ 
unes, 

For that they will not intercept my tale. 40 
When I do weep, they humbly at my feet 
Receive my tears and seem to weep with me ; 
And, were they but attired in grave weeds, 
Rome could afford no tribune like to these. 

A stone is soft as wax, tribunes more hard 
than stones ; 45 

A stone is silent, and offendetli not, 

And tribunes with their tongues doom men to 
death. [Rises.] 

But wherefore stand’st thou with thy weapon 
drawn ? 

Luc. To rescue my two brothers from their 
death; 

For which attempt the judges have pronounc’d 

My everlasting doom of banishment. ei 

Tit. O happy man ! they have befriended 
thee. 

Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive 
That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers ? 
Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey 55 
But me and mine. How happy art thou, then, 
From these devourers to be banished ! 

But who comes with our brother Marcus here ? 

Enter Marcus and Lavinia. 

Marc. Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep ; 
Or, if not so, thy noble heart to break. co 

I bring consuming sorrow to thine age. 

Tit. Will it consume me? Let me see it, 
then. 


Marc. This was thy daughter. 

Tit. Why, Marcus, so she is. 

Luc. Ay me, this object kills me ! 

Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon 
her. 

Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand 

Hath made thee handless in thy father’s sight? 

What fool hath added water to the sea, 

Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy ? 
My grief was at the height before thou cara’st, 
And now, like Nilus, it disdaineth bounds. 71 
Give me a sword, I ’ll chop off my hands too ; 
For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain ; 
And they have nurs’d this woe, in feeding life; 
In bootless prayer have they been held up, 75 
And they have serv’d me to effectless use. 

Now all the service I require of them 
Is that the ono will help to cut the other. 

’T is well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands ; 
For handc to do Rome service is but vain. so 
Luc. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr’d 
thee ? 

Marc. 0 , that delightful engine of her 
thoughts, 

That blabb’d them with such pleasing elo¬ 
quence, 

Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage, 
Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung se 
Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear ! 

Luc. O, say thou for her, who hath done this 
deed ? 

Marc. O, thus I found her, straying in the 
park, 

Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer 
That hath receiv’d some unrecuring wound. 90 
Tit. It was my deer ; and he that wounded 
her 

Hath hurt me more than had he kill’d me dead. 
For now I stand as one upon a rock 
Environ’d with a wilderness of sea, 

Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by 
wave, 96 

Expecting ever when some envious surge 
Will in his brinish bowels swallow him. 

This way to death my wretched sons are gone, 
Here stands my other son, a banish’d man, 

And here my brother, weeping at my woes ; 100 
But that which gives my soul the greatest 
spurn, 

Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul. 

Had I but seen thy picture in this plight, 

It would have madded me ; what shall I do 
Now I behold thy lively body so ? 105 

Thou hast no hands, to wipe away thy tears ; 
Nor tongue, to tell me who hath martyr’d thee. 
Thy husband he is dead ; and for his death 
Thy brothers are condemn’d, and dead by this. 
Look, Marcus ! ah, son Lucius, look on her ! 110 
When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears 
Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew 
Upon a gath’red lily almost withered. 

Marc. Perchance she weeps because they 
kill’d her husband; 

Perchance because she knows them innocent. ns 
Tit. If they did kill thy husband, then be 
joyful, 

Because the law hath ta’en revenge on them. 




III. 1 . 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


819 


No, no, they would not do so foul a deed ; 
Witness the sorrow that their sister makes. 
Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips, 120 

Or make some sign how I may do thee ease. 
Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius, 
And thou, and I, sit round about some fountain, 
Looking all downwards, to behold our cheeks 
How they are stain’d, as meadows yet not dry 
With miry slime left on them by a flood ? 126 

And in the fountain shall we gaze so long 
Till the fresh taste be taken from that clear- 
ness, 

And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears ? 

Or shall we cut away our hands, like thine ? 130 
Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows 
Pass the remainder of our hateful days ? 

What shall we do ? Let us that have our 
tongues 

Plot some device of further misery, 

To make us wond’red at in time to come. 135 
Luc. Sweet father, cease your tears ; for, at 
your grief, 

See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps. 
Marc. Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry 
thine eyes. 

Tit. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I 
wot 

Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine. wo 
For thou, poor man, hast drown’d it witn thine 
own. 

Luc. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks. 
Tit. Mark, Marcus, mark ! I understand her 
signs. 

Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say 
That to her brother which I said to thee : i« 
His napkin, with his true tears all bewet, 

Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks. 

O, what a sympathy of woe is this, 

As far from help as Limbo is from bliss ! 


Enter Aaron the Moor. 

Aar. Titus Andronicus, my lord the Em¬ 
peror ^ 160 

Sends thee this word, — that, if thou love thy 
sons, 

Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus, 

Or any one of you, chop off your hand 
And send it to the King ; he for the same 
Will send thee hither both thy sons alive ; 

And that shall be the ransom for their fault. 

Tit. O gracious emperor ! O gentle Aaron ! 
Did ever raven sing so like a lark 
That gives sweet tidings of the sun’s uprise ? 
With all my heart, I ’ll send the Emperor 
My hand. 

Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off ? 

Luc. Stay, father ! for that noble hand of 
thine, 

That hath thrown down so many enemies, a* 
Shall not be sent. My hand will serve the turn. 
My youth can better spare my blood than you ; 
And therefore mine shall save my brothers’ 
lives. 

Marc. Which of your hands hath not de¬ 
fended Rome, 

And rear’d aloft the bloody battle-axe, 

Writing destruction on the enemy’s castle ? no 


166 


160 


O, none of both but are of high desert. 

My hand hath been but idle ; let it serve 
To ransom my two nephews from their death ; 
Then have I kept it to a worthy end. 

Aar. Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go 
along, . its 

For fear they die before their pardon come. 
Marc. My hand shall go. 

Luc. By heaven, it shall not go ! 

Tit. Sirs, strive no more: such with’red 
herbs as these 

Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine. 
Luc. Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy 
son, no 

Let me redeem my brothers both from death. 
Marc. And, for our father’s sake and mo¬ 
ther’s care, 

Now let me show a brother’s love to thee. 

Tit. Agree between you; I will spare my 
hand. 

Luc. Then I ’ll go fetch an axe. i«6 

Marc. But I will use the axe. 

[Exeunt [Lucius and Marcus ]. 
Tit. Come hither, Aaron ; I ’ll deceive them 
both. 

Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine. 
Aar. [Aside.] If that be call’d deceit, I will 
be honest, 

And never, whilst I live, deceive men so; wo 
But 1 ’ll deceive you in another sort, 

And that you ’ll say, ere half an hour pass. 

[Cuts off Titus's hand. 

Re-enter Lucius and Marcus. 

Tit. Now stay your strife ; what shall be is 
dispatch’d. 

Good Aaron, give his Majesty my hand. 

Tell him it was a hand that warded him we 
From thousand dangers ; bid him bury it: 

More hath it merited ; that let it have. 

As for my sons, say I account of them 
As jewels purchas’d at an easy price ; wg 

And yet dear too, because I bought mine own. 

Aar. I go, Andronicus ; and for thy hand 
Look bv and by to have thy sons with thee. 
[Aside.] Their heads, I mean. 0 , how this 
villainy 

Doth fat me with the very thoughts of it! 204 

Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace, 
Aaron will have his soul black like his face. 

[Exit. 

Tit. 0 , here I lift this one hand up to heaven, 
And bow this feeble ruin to the earth; 

If any power pities wretched tears, 

To that I call! [To Lav.] What, would thou 
kneel with me ? 219 

Do, then, dear heart; for Heaven shall hear 
our prayers; 

Or with our sighs we ’ll breathe the welkin dim, 
And stain the sun with fog, as sometime 
clouds 

When they do hug him in their melting bosoms. 

Marc. 0 brother, speak with possibility, 21s 
And do not break into these deep extremes. 
Tit. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bot¬ 
tom ? 

Then be my passions bottomless with them. 








820 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


hi. 11. 


Marc. But yet let reason govern thy lament. 
Tit. If there were reason for these miseries, 
Then into limits could I bind my woes. 221 
When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth 
o’erflow ? 

If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, 
Threat’ning the welkin with his big-swoln 
face ? 

And wilt thou have a reason for this coil ? 226 

I am the sea; hark, how her sighs do blow ! 
She is the weeping welkin, I the earth; 

Then must my sea be moved with her sighs ; 
Then must my earth with her continual tears 
Become a deluge, overflow’d and drown’d ; 230 
For why my bowels cannot hide her woes, 

But like a drunkard must I vomit them. 

Then give me leave, for losers will have leave 
To ease their stomachs with their bitter 
tongues. 

Enter a Messenger, with two heads and a 
hand. 

Mess. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou re¬ 
paid 236 

For that good hand thou sent’st the Emperor. 
Here are the heads of thy two noble sons ; 

And here’s thy hand, in scorn to thee sent 
back, 

Thy griefs their sports, thy resolution mock’d, 
That woe is me to think upon thy woes 240 
More than remembrance of my father’s death. 

[Exit. 

Marc. Now let hot ./Etna cool in Sicily, 

And be my heart an ever-burning hell! 

These miseries are more than may be borne. 

To weep with them that weep doth ease some 
deal, 246 

But sorrow flouted at is double death. 

Luc. Ah, that this sight should make so deep 
a wound, 

And yet detested life not shrink thereat! 

That ever death should let life bear his name, 
Where life hath no more interest but to 
breathe ! [ Lavinia kisses Titus.] 250 

Marc. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfort¬ 
less 

As frozen water to a starved snake. 

Tit. When will this fearful slumber have an 
end ? 

Marc. Now, farewell, flattery; die, Androni¬ 
cus. 

Thou dost not slumber; see, thy two sons’ 
heads, 255 

Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here, 
Thy other banish’d son, with this dear sight 
Struck pale and bloodless ; and thy brother, I, 
Even like a stony image, cold and numb. 

Ah, now no more will I control thy griefs. 2co 
Rend off thy silver hair, thy other hand 
Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal 
sight 

The closing up of our most wretched eyes. 

Now is a time to storm ; why art thou still ? 

Tit. H a. ha, ha ! 235 

Marc. Why dost thou laugh ? It fits not with 
this hour. 

Tit. Why, 1 have not another tear to shed. 


Besides, this sorrow is an enemy, 

And would usurp upon my watery eyes 
And make them blind with tributary tears ; 270 
Then which way shall I find Revenge’s cave ? 
For these two heads do seem to speak to me, 
And threat me I shall never come to bliss 
Till all these mischiefs be return’d again 
Even in their throats that have committed 
them. 276 

Come, let me see what task I have to do. 

You heavy people, circle me about, 

That I may turn me to each one of you 
And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs. 
The vow is made. Come, brother, take a head ; 
And in this hand the other will I bear. 281 
Lavinia, thou shalt be employed in these 
things! 

Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy 
teeth. 

As for thee, boy, go, get thee from my sight; 
Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay. 286 
Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there ; 
And, if you love me, as I think you do, 

Let’s kiss and part, for we have much to do. 

[Exeunt [Titus, Marcus , and Lavinia]. 
Luc. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father, 
The woefull’st man that ever liv’d in Rome. 290 
Farewell, proud Rome ; till Lucius come again, 
He leaves his pledges dearer than his life. 
Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister ; 

0 , would thou wert as thou tofore hast been ! 
But now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives 205 

But in oblivion and hateful griefs. 

If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs; 
And make proud Saturnine and his empress 
Beg at the gates, like Tarquin and his queen. 
Now will I to the Goths, and raise a power, 300 
To be reveng’d on Rome and Saturnine. 

[Exit. 

[Scene II. A room in Titus's house. A ban¬ 
quet set out. 

Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and young 

Lucius. 

Tit. So, so ; now sit; and look you eat no 
more 

Than will preserve just so much strength in us 
As will revenge these hitter woes of ours. 
Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot; 
Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our 
hands, 6 

And cannot passionate our tenfold grief 
With folded arms. This poor right hand of 
mine 

Is left to tyrannize upon my breast; 

Who, when my heart, all mad with misery, 
Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, 10 

Then thus I thump it down. 

[To Lavinia.] Thou map of woe, that thus dost 
talk in signs ! 

When thy poor heart heats with outrageous 
beating, 

Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still. 
Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with 

groans; ie 

Or get some little knife between thy teeth, 






IV. i. 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


And just against thy heart make thou a hole, 
That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall 
May run into that sink, and soaking in 
Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears. 20 
Marc. Fie, brother, fie I teach her not thus 
to lay 

Such violent hands upon her tender life. 

Tit. How now ! has sorrow made thee dote 
already ? 

Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I. 
What violent hands can she lay on her life ? 25 
Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands, 
To bid iEneas tell the tale twice o’er, 

How Troy was burnt and he made miserable ? 
O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands 
Lest we remember still that we have none. 30 
Fie, fie, how franticly I square my talk, 

As if we should forget we had no hands 
If Marcus did not name the word of hands ! 
Come, let’s fall to ; and, gentle girl, eat this. 
Here is no drink ! Hark, Marcus, what she 
says; 36 

I can interpret all her martyr’d signs : 

She says she drinks no other drink but tears 
Brew’d with her sorrow, mash’d upon her 
cheeks. 

Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought; 
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect 40 
As begging hermits in their holy prayers. 

Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to 
heaven, 

Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign, 
But I of these will wrest an alphabet 
And by still practice learn to know thy mean¬ 
ing. 46 

Young Luc. Good grandsire, leave these 
bitter deep laments. 

Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale. 

Marc. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov’d, 
Doth weep to see his grandsire’s heaviness. 

Tit. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made 
of tears, bo 

And tears will quickly melt, thy life away. 

[Marcus strikes the dish with a knife. 
What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy 
knife ? 

Marc. At that that I have kill’d, my lord ; 
a fly. 

Tit. Out on thee, murderer ! thou kill’st my 
heart; 

Mine eyes are cloy’d with view of tyranny, bb 
A deed of death done on the innocent 
Becomes not Titus’ brother. Get thee gone ; 

I see thou art not for my company. 

Marc. Alas, my lord, I have but kill’d a fly. 
Tit. “But! ” How, if that fly had a father 
and mother ? . . 60 

How would he hang his slender gilded wings, 
And buzz lamenting doings in the air ! 

Poor harmless fly, 

That, with his pretty buzzing melody, 

Came here to make us merry! and thou hast 
kill’d him. . 65 

Marc. Pardon me, sir, it was a black ill-fa- 
vour’d fly, 

Like to the Empress’ Moor; therefore I kill’d 
him. 


821 


Tit. 0 , 0 , 0 , 

Then pardon me for reprehending thee, 

For thou hast done a charitable deed. 70 

Give me thy knife, I will insult on him ; 
Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor 
Come hither purposely to poison me. — 

There’s for thyself, and that’s for Tamora. 
Ah, sirrah ! 7s 

Yet, I think, we are not brought so low, 

But that between us we can kill a fly 
That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor. 
Marc. Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought 
on him, 

He takes false shadows for true substances, so 
Tit. Come, take away. Lavinia, go with 
me. 

I ’ll to thy closet, and go read with thee 
Sad stories chanced in the times of old. 

Come, boy, and go with me ; thy sight is young, 
And thou shalt read when mine begin to daz¬ 
zle.] [Exeunt. «6 

ACT IV 

[Scene I. Rome. Titus's garden.] 

Enter young Lucius, and Lavinia running 
after him , and the hoy flies from her , with his 
books under his arm. Then enter Titus and 
Marcus. 

Young Luc. Help, grandsire, help ! my aunt 
Lavinia 

Follows me everywhere, I know not why. 

Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes. 
Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean. 
Marc. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear 
thine aunt. s 

Tit. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee 
harm. 

Young Luc. Ay, when my father was in 
Rome she did. 

Marc. What means my niece Lavinia by 
these signs ? 

Tit. Fear her not, Lucius; somewhat doth 
she mean. 

[Marc. 1 See, Lucius, see how much she 
makes of thee ; 10 

Somewhither would she have thee go with her. 
Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care 
Read to her sons than she hath read to thee 
Sweet poetry and Tully’s Orator. 

Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee 
thus ? 16 

Young Luc. My lord, I know not, I, nor can 
I guess, 

Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her ; 

For I have heard my grandsire say full oft 
Extremity of griefs would make men mad, 

And I have read that Hecuba of Troy 20 

Ran mad for sorrow. That made me to fear; 
Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt 
Loves me as dear as e’er my mother did, 

And would not, but in fury, fright my youth ; 
Which made me down to throw my books, and 
fly, — 25 

Causeless, perhaps. But pardon me, sweet 
aunt; 






822 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


IV. 1. 


And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go, 

I will most willingly attend your ladyship. 
Marc. Lucius, I will. 

[Lavinia turns over with her stumps 
the books which Lucius has let 
fall.] 

Tit. How now, Lavinia! Marcus, what means 
this ? 80 

Some hook there is that she desires to see. 
Which is it, girl, of these ? Open them, hoy. 
But thou art deeper read, and better skill’d ; 
Come, and take choice of all my library, 

And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens as 
Reveal the damn’d contriver of this deed. 

Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus ? 
Marc. I think she means that there were 
more than one 

Confederate in the fact. Ay, more there was ; 
Or else to heaven she heaves them for re¬ 
venge. # 40 

Tit. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth 
so ? 

Young Luc. Grandsire, ’t is Ovid’s Meta¬ 
morphoses ; 

My mother gave it me. 

Marc. For love of her that’s gone, 

Perhaps she cull’d it from among the rest. 

Tit. Soft! so busily she turns the leaves ! 
Help her. « 

What would she find ? Lavinia, shall I read ? 
This is the tragic tale of Philomel, 

And treats of Tereus’ treason and his rape ; 
And rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy. 
Marc. See, brother, see ; note how she quotes 
the leaves. so 

Tit. Lavinia, wert thou thus surpris’d, sweet 
girl, 

Ravish’d and wrong’d, as Philomela was, 
Forc’d in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods ? 
See, see! 

Ay, such a place there is, where we did hunt — 
O, had we never, never hunted there ! — ee 

Pattern’d by that the poet here describes, 

By nature made for murders and for rapes. 
Marc. 0 , why should nature build so foul a 
den, 

Unless the gods delight in tragedies ? so 

Tit. Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none 
but friends, 

What Roman lord it was durst do the deed ; 

Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst, 

That left the camp to sin in Lucrece’ bed ? 
Marc. Sit down, sweet niece; brother, sit 
down by me. se 

Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury, 

Inspire me, that I may this treason find ! 

My lord, look here ; look here, Lavinia. 

[He writes his name with his staff, 
and guides it with feet and mouth. 
This sandy plot is plain ; guide, if thou canst, 
This after me. I have writ my name 70 

Without the help of any hand at all. 

Curs’d be that heart that forc’d us to this 
shift! 

Write thou, good niece; and here display at 

last 

What God will have discovered for revenge. 


Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows 
plain, 76 

That we may know the traitors and the truth! 

[SAe takes the staff in her mouth, and 
guides it with her stumps, and 
writes. 

Tit. O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath 
writ ? 

“ Stuprum — Chiron — Demetrius.” 

Marc. What, what! the lustful sons of 
Tamora 

Performers of this heinous, bloody deed ? *« 

Tit. Magni Dominator poll, 

Tam lentus audis scelera ? tarn lentus vides f 

Marc. 0 , calm thee, gentle lord ; although I 
know 

There is enough written upon this earth 
To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts, as 
And arm the minds of infants to exclaims. 

My lord, kneel down with me : Lavinia, kneel; 
And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector’s 
hope; 

And swear with me, as, with the woeful fere 
And father of that chaste dishonoured dame, 
Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece’ rape, »i 
That we will prosecute by good advice 
Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths, 
And see their blood, or die with this re¬ 
proach. 

Tit. ’T is sure enough, an you knew how. as 
But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then be¬ 
ware ! 

The dam will wake ; and, if she wind you 
once, 

She’s with the lion deeply still in league, 

And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back, 
And when he sleeps will she do what she 
list. ioo 

You are a young huntsman, Marcus ; let alone ; 
And, come, I will go get a leaf of brass, 

And with a gad of steel will write these words, 
And lay it by. The angry northern wind 
Will blow these sands, like Sibyl’s leaves, 
abroad, ios 

And where’s your lesson, then? Boy, what 
say you ? 

Young Luc. I say, my lord, that if I were a 
man, 

Their mother’s bed-chamber should not be 

safe 

For these bad bondmen to the yoke of Rome. 

Marc. Ay, that’s my boy ! Thy father hath 

full oft 119 

For his ungrateful country done the like. 

Young Luc. And, uncle, so will I, an if I 
live. 

Tit. Come, go with me into mine armoury ; 
Lucius, I ’ll fit thee ; and withal, my boy 
Shall carry from me to the Empress’ sons us 
Presents that I intend to send them both. 
Come, come ; thou ’It do my message, wilt thou 
not ? 

Young Luc. Ay, with my dagger in their 
bosoms, grandsire. 

Tit. No, boy, not so ; I ’ll teach thee another 
course. 

Lavinia, come. Marcus, look to my house ; ia« 







IV. 11. 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


823 


Lucius and I ’ll go brave it at the court. 

Ay, marry, will we, sir ; and we ’ll be waited on. 

[Exeunt [Titus, Lavinia, and young 
Lucius ]. 

Marc. O heavens, can you hear a good man 
groan 

And not relent or not compassion him ? 

Marcus, attend him in his ecstasy, 125 

I'hat hath more scars of sorrow in his heart 
Than foemen’s marks upon his batt’red shield ; 
But yet so just that he will not revenge. 
Revenge the heavens for old Andronicus 1 

[Exit. 

[Scene II. The same. A room in the palace .] 

Enter Aaron, Demetrius, and Chiron, at 
one door; and at another door , young Lucius, 
and another , with a bundle of weapons , and 
verses writ upon them. 

Chi. Demetrius, here’s the son of Lucius; 
He hath some message to deliver us. 

Aar. Ay, some mad message from his mad 
grandfather. 

Young Luc. My lords, with all the humble¬ 
ness I may, 

I greet your honours from Andronicus. 5 

[Aside.] And pray the Roman gods confound 
you both ! 

Lem. Gramercy, lovely Lucius. What’s the 
news ? 

Young Luc. [Aside.] That you are both 
decipher’d, that’s the news. 

For villains mark’d with rape. — May it please 
you, 

My grandsire, well advis’d, hath sent by me 10 
The goodliest weapons of his armoury 
To gratify your honourable youth, 

The hope of Rome ; for so he bid me say ; 

And so I do, and with his gifts present 
Your lordships, that, whenever you have need, 
You may be armed and appointed well: 18 

And so I leave you both — [Aside] like bloody 
villains. 

[Exeunt [young Lucius and Atten¬ 
dant]. 

Lem. What’s here ? A scroll; and written 
round about. 

Let’s see: 

[Reads.] “ Integer vitce, scelerisque purus, 20 
Non eget Mauri jaculis , nec arcuf 
Chi. O, ’t is a verse in Horace; I know it 
well. 

I read it in the grammar long ago. 

Aar. Ay, just; a verse in Horace; right, 
you have it. 

[Aside.] Now, what a thing it is to be an ass ! 25 
Here’s no sound jest! The old man hath found 
their guilt; 

And sends them weapons wrapp’d about with 
lines 

That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick. 
But were our witty empress well afoot, 

She would applaud Andronicus’ conceit; 30 

But let her rest in her unrest a while. — 

And now, young lords, was’t not a happy star 
Led us to Rome, strangers, and more than so, 


Captives, to be advanced to this height ? 

It did me good, before the palace gate ss 

To brave the tribune in his brother’s hearing. 

Lem. But me more good to see so great a 
lord 

Basely insinuate and send us gifts. 

Aar. Had he not reason, Lord Demetrius? 

Did you not use his daughter very friendly ? 40 

Lem. I would we had a thousand Roman 
dames 

At such a bay, by turn to serve our lust. 

Chi. A charitable wish and full of love. 

Aar. Here lacks but your mother for to say 
amen. 

Chi. And that would she for twenty thou¬ 
sand more. 45 

Lem. Come, let us go and pray to all the 
gods 

For our beloved mother in her pains. 

Aar. [Aside.] Pray to the devils; the gods 
have given us over. 

[Trumpets sound within. 

Lem. Why do the Emperor’s trumpets flour¬ 
ish thus ? 49 

Chi. Belike, for joy the Emperor hath a son. 

Lem. Soft! who comes here ? 

Enter a Nurse, with a blackamoor Child. 

Nur. Good morrow, lords. 

0, tell me, did you see Aaron the Moor ? 

Aar. Well, more or less, or ne’er a whit at 
all, 

Here Aaron is ; and what with Aaron now ? 

Nur. O gentle Aaron, we are all undone ! bs 

Now help, or woe betide thee evermore ! 

Aar. Why, what a caterwauling dost thou 
keep! 

What dost thou wrap and fumble in thine 
arms ? 

Nur. 0, that which I would hide from hea¬ 
ven’s eye, 

Our empress’ shame, and stately Rome’s dis¬ 
grace 1 00 

She is delivered, lords ; she is delivered. 

Aar. To whom ? 

Nur. I mean, she is brought a-bed. 

Aar. Well, God give her good rest! What 
hath he sent her ? 

Nur. A devil. 

Aar. Why, then she is the devil’s dam; a 
joyful issue. se 

Nur. A joyless, dismal, black, and sorrowful 
issue! 

Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad 

Amongst the fairest breeders of our clime. 

The Empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy 
seal, 

And bids thee christen it with thy dagger’s 
point. 70 

Aar. ’Zounds, ye whore ! is black so base a 
hue ? 

Sweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom, 
sure. 

Lem. Villain, what hast thou done ? 

A ar. That which thou canst not undo. 

Chi. Thou hast undone our mother. it 

Aar. Villain, I have done thy mother. 






TITUS ANDRONICUS 


IV. ii. 


824 


Dem. And therein, hellish dog, thou hast 
undone her. 

Woe to her chance, and damn’d her loathed 
choice! 

Accurs’d the offspring of so foul a fiend ! 

Chi. It shall not live. so 

Aar. It shall not die. 

Nur. Aaron, it must; the mother wills it so. 

Aar. What, must it, nurse ? then let no man 
but I 

Do execution on my flesh and blood. 

Dem. I ’ll broach the tadpole on my rapier’s 
point. so 

Nurse, give it me; my sword shall soon dis¬ 
patch it. 

Aar. Sooner this sword shall plough thy 
bowels up. 

[Takes the Child from the Nurse , 
and draws .] 

Stay, murderous villains ! will you kill your 
brother ? 

Now, by the burning tapers of the sky, 

That shone so brightly when this boy was got, 
He dies upon my scimitar’s sharp point si 
That touches this my first-born son and heir! 

I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus 
With all his threat’ning band of Typhon’s 
brood, 

Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war, 95 

Shall seize this prey out of his father’s hands. 
What, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys ! 
Ye white-lim’d walls! ye alehouse painted 
signs! 

Coal-black is better than another hue, 

In that it scorns to bear another hue ; 100 

For all the water in the ocean 

Can never turn the swan’s black legs to white, 

Although she lave them hourly in the flood. 

Tell the Empress from me, I am of age 

To keep mine own, excuse it how she can. 106 

Dem. Wilt thou betray thy noble mistress 
thus ? 

Aar. My mistress is my mistress; this my¬ 
self, 

The vigour and the picture of my youth. 

This before all the world do I prefer; 

This maugre all the world will I keep safe, no 
Or some of you shall smoke for it in Rome. 

Dem. By this our mother is for ever sham’d. 

Chi. Rome will despise her for this foul 
escape. 

Nur. The Emperor, in his rage, will doom 
her death. 

Chi. I blush to think upon this ignomy. us 

Aar. Why, there ’s the privilege your beauty 
bears. 

Fie, treacherous hue, that will betray with 
blushing 

The close enacts and counsels of thy heart! 
Here’s a young lad fram’d of another leer; 
Look, how the black slave smiles upon the 
father, 120 

As who should say, “ Old lad, I am thine own.” 
He is your brother, lords, sensibly fed 
Of that self-blood that first gave life to you, 
And from that womb where you imprisoned 
were 


He is enfranchised and come to light. ns 

Nay, he is your brother by the surer side, 
Although my seal be stamped in his face. 

Nur. Aaron, what shall I say unto the Em¬ 
press ? 

Dem. Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done, 
And we will all subscribe to thy advice. no 
Save thou the child, so we may all be safe. 

Aar. Then sit we down, and let us all con¬ 
sult. 

My son and I will have the wind of you ; 

Keep there. Now talk at pleasure of your 
safety. [They sit.] 

Dem. How many women saw this child of 
his? . ns 

Aar. Why, so, brave lords ! when we join in 
league, 

I am a lamb ; but if you brave the Moor, 

The chafed boar, the mountain lioness, 

The ocean swells not so as Aaron storms. 

But say, again, how many saw the child ? wo 
Nur. Cornelia the midwife and myself; 

And no one else but the delivered empress. 
Aar. The Empress, the midwife, and your¬ 
self. 

Two may keep counsel when the third’s away. 
Go to the Empress, tell her this I said. ns 

[He kills her. 

Weke, weke! so cries a pig prepared to the 
spit. 

Dem. What mean’st thou, Aaron? Where¬ 
fore didst thou this ? 

Aar. 0 Lord, sir, ’t is a deed of policy. 

Shall she live to betray this guilt of ours, 

A long-tongu’d babbling gossip ? No, lords, no ; 
And now be it known to you my full intent, iei 
Not far, one Muli lives, my countryman ; 

His wife but yesternight was brought to bed ; 
His child is like to her, fair as you are. 

Go pack with him, and give the mother gold, 155 
And tell them both the circumstance of all; 
And how by this their child shall be advanc’d. 
And be received for the Emperor’s heir, 

And substituted in the place of mine 
To calm this tempest whirling in the court; 160 
And let the Emperor dandle him for his own. 
Hark ye, lords ; you see I have given her physic, 
[Pointing to the Nurse.] 
And you must needs bestow her funeral; 

The fields are near, and you are gallant grooms. 
This done, see that you take no longer days, i 65 
But send the midwife presently to me. 

The midwife and the nurse well made away, 
Then let the ladies tattle what they please. 

Chi, Aaron, I see thou wilt not trust the air 
With secrets. 

Dem. For this care of Tamora, 1™ 

Herself and hers are highly bound to thee. 

[Exeunt [Dem. and Chi., hearing 
off the Nurse's body]. 

Aar. Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow 
flies; 

There to dispose this treasure in mine arms, 
And secretly to greet the Empress’ friends. 
Come on, you thick-lipp’d slave, I ’ll bear you 
hence; 175 

For it is you that puts us to our shifts. 





IV. iii. 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


I 11 make you feed on berries and on roots, 
And feed on curds and whey, and suck the 
goat, 

And cabin in a cave, and bring you up 179 

To be a warrior, and command a camp. [Exit. 

[Scene III. The same. A public place.] 

Enter Titus, bearing arrows with letters at the 
ends of them: with him , Marcus, young Lu¬ 
cius, [Publius, Sempronius, Caius] and 
other Gentlemen, with bows. 

Tit. Come, Marcus, come; kinsmen, this is 
the way. 

Sir boy, let me see your archery. 

Look ye draw home enough, and ’tis there 
straight. 

Terras Astrcea reliquit; 

Be you rememb’red, Marcus, she’s gone, she’s 

fled. 5 

Sirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall 
Go sound the ocean, and cast your nets ; 
Happily you may catch her in the sea ; 

Yet there ’s as little justice as at land. 

No ; Publius and Sempronius, you must do it: 
’T is you must dig with mattock and with 
spade, u 

And pierce the inmost centre of the earth ; 
Then, when you come to Pluto’s region, 

I pray you, deliver him this petition. 

Tell him, it is for Justice and for aid, 15 

And that it comes from old Andronicus, 
Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome. 

Ah, Rome ! Well, well; I made thee miserable 
What time I threw the people’s suffrages 
On him that thus doth tyrannize o’er me. 20 
Go, get you gone ; and pray be careful all, 

And leave you not a man-of-war unsearch’d. 
This wicked emperor may have shipp’d her 
hence ; 

And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for Justice. 

Marc. 0 Publius, is not this a heavy case, 25 
To see thy noble uncle thus distract ? 

Pub. Therefore, my lords, it highly us con¬ 
cerns 

By day and night to attend him carefully, 

And feed his humour kindly as we may, 

Till time beget some careful remedy. 30 

Marc. Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy. 
Join with the Goths ; and with revengeful war 
Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude, 

And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine. 

Tit. Publius, how now ! how now, my mas¬ 
ters ! _ 35 

What, have you met with her ? 

Pub. No, my good lord ; but Pluto sends you 
word, 

If you will have Revenge from hell, you shall. 
Marry, for Justice, she is so employ’d. 

He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere 
else, # 40 

So that perforce you must needs stay a time. 
Tit. He doth me wrong to feed me with de¬ 
lays. 

I ’ll dive into the burning lake below, 

And pull her out of Acheron by the heels. 
Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we, « 


825 


No big-bon’d men fram’d of the Cyclops’ size ; 
But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back, 

Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs 
can bear. 

And, sith there’s no justice in earth nor hell, 
We will solicit heaven and move the gods sc 
To send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs. 
Come, to this gear. You are a good archer, 
Marcus ; [He gives them the arrows. 

Ad Jovem ,’’ that’s for you; here, “Ad 
Apollinem; ” 

“ Ad Martemf that’s for myself ; 

Here, boy, to Pallas ; here, to Mercury ; 55 

To Saturn, Caius, not to Saturnine, 

You were as good to shoot against the wind. 

To it, boy ! Marcus, loose when I bid. 

Of my word, I have written to effect; 

There’s not a god left unsolicited. 00 

Marc. Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the 
court; 

We will afflict the Emperor in his pride. 

Tit. Now, masters, draw. [They shoot.] 0 , 
well said, Lucius! 

Good boy, in Virgo’s lap ; give it Pallas. 

Marc. My lord, I aim a mile beyond the 
moon; es 

Your letter is with Jupiter by this. 

Tit. Ha, ha ! 

Publius, Publius, what hast thou done ? 

See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus’ horns. 
Marc. This was the sport, my lord. When 
Publius shot, 70 

The Bull, being gall’d, gave Aries such a knock 
That down fell both the Ram’s horns in the 
court; 

And who should find them but the Empress’ 
villain ? 

She laugh’d, and told the Moor he should not 
choose 

But give them to his master for a present. 75 
Tit. Why, there it goes ; God give his lord- 
ship joy! 

Enter a Clown, with a basket , and two pigeons 
in it. 

News, news from heaven ! Marcus, the post is 
come. 

Sirrah, what tidings ? Have you any letters ? 
Shall I have justice ? What says Jupiter ? 79 

Clo. O, the gibbet-maker ! he says that he 
hath taken them down again, for the man must 
not be hang’d till the next week. 

Tit. But what says Jupiter, I ask thee ? 83 

Clo. Alas, sir, I know not Jupiter; I never 
drank with him in all my life. 

Tit. Why, villain, art not thou the carrier ? 
Clo. Ay, of my pigeons, sir ; nothing else. 87 
Tit. Why, didst thou not come from heaven ? 
Clo. From heaven ! alas, sir, I never came 
there. God forbid I should be so bold to press 
to heaven in my young days. Why, I am going 
with my pigeons to the tribunal plebs, to take 
up a matter of brawl betwixt my uncle and one 
of the emperial’s men. 0* 

Marc. Why, sir, that is as fit as can be to 
serve for your oration ; and let him deliver the 
pigeons to the Emperor from you, 






826 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


IV. IV. 


Tit. Tell me, can you deliver an oration to 
the Emperor with a grace ? 99 

Clo. Nay, truly, sir, I could never say grace 
in all my life. 

Tit. Sirrah, come hither ; make no more ado, 
But give your pigeons to the Emperor. 

By me thou shalt have justice at his hands. 
Hold, hold ; meanwhile here’s money for thy 
charges. . # 105 

Give me pen and ink. Sirrah, can you with a 
grace deliver a supplication ? 

Clo. Ay, sir. 108 

Tit. Then here is a supplication for you. 
And when you come to him, at the first ap- 
roach you must kneel, then kiss his foot, then 
eliver up your pigeons, and then look for your 
reward. I ’ll be at hand, sir ; see you do it 
bravely. 

Clo. I warrant you, sir, let me alone. n* 
Tit. Sirrah, hast thou a knife? Come, let 
me see it. 

Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration; 

For thou hast made it like an humble suppliant. 
And when thou hast given it the Emperor, 
Knock at my door, and tell me what he says. 
Clo. God be with you, sir ; I will. [Exit. 120 
Tit. Come, Marcus, let us go. Publius, fol¬ 
low me. [Exeunt. 

[Scene XV. The same. Before the palace .] 

Enter Saturninus, Tamora, Demetrius, 
Chiron [Lords, and. others]-, Saturninus 
brings the arrows in his hand that Titus shot 
at him. 

Sat. Why, lords, what wrongs are these! 
Was ever seen 

An emperor in Rome thus overborne, 

Troubled, confronted thus ; and, for the extent 
Of egal justice, us’d in such contempt ? 

My lords, you know, [as know] the mightful 
gods, 8 

However these disturbers of our peace 
Buzz in the people’s ears, there nought hath 
pass’d, 

But even with law, against the wilful sons 
Of old Andronicus. And what an if 
His sorrows have so overwhelm’d his wits, 10 
Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks, 

His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness ? 

And now he writes to heaven for his redress. 
See, here’s to Jove, and this to Mercury ; 

This to Apollo ; this to the god of war ; 15 

Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome ! 
What’s this but libelling against the senate, 
And blazoning our unjustice everywhere ? 

A goodly humour, is it not, my lords ? 

As who would say, in Rome no justice were. 20 
But if I live, his feigned ecstasies 
Shall be no shelter to these outrages ; 

But he and his shall know that justice lives 
In Saturninus’ health, whom, if he sleep, 

He ’ll so awake as he in fury shall 25 

Cut off the proud’st conspirator that lives. 

Tam. My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine, 
Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts, 
Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus’ age, 


The effects of sorrow for his valiant sons, 

Whose loss hath pierc’d him deep and scarr’d 
his heart; 

And rather comfort his distressed plight 
Than prosecute the meanest or the best 
For these contempts. (Aside.) Why, thus it 
shall become 

High-witted Tamora to gloze with all; 35 

But, Titus, I have touch’d thee to the quick. 
Thy life-blood out, if Aaron now be wise, 

Then is all safe, the anchor in the port. 

Enter Clown. 

How now, good fellow! wouldst thou speak 
with us ? 

Clo. Yea, forsooth, an your mistership be 
emperial. _ 40 

Tam. Empress I am, but yonder sits the 
Emperor. 

Clo. ’Tis he. God and Saint Stephen give 
you god-den. I have brought you a letter and a 
couple of pigeons here. 

[Saturninus reads the letter. 
Sat. Go, take him away, and hang him pre¬ 
sently. 46 

Clo. How much money must I have ? 

Tam. Come, sirrah, you must be hang’d. 

Clo. Hang’d ! by ’r lady, then I have brought 
up a neck to a fair end. [Exit [guarded ]. 

Sat. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs! so 
Shall I endure this monstrous villainy ? 

I know from whence this same device pro¬ 
ceeds. 

May this be borne ? As if his traitorous sons, 
That died by law for murder of our brother, 
Have by my means been butcher’d wrongfully ! 
Go, drag the villain hither by the hair ; m 
Nor age nor honour shall shape privilege. 

For this proud mock I ’ll be thy slaughter-man ; 
Sly frantic wretch, that holp’st to make me 
great, 

In hope thyself should govern Rome and me. 00 

Enter Nuntius ^Emilius. 

What news with thee, ^Emilius ? 

AEmil. Arm, my lords! Rome never had 
more cause. 

The Goths have gather’d head; and with a 
power 

Of high-resolved men, bent to the spoil, 

They hither march amain, under conduct 66 
Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus; 

Who threats, in course of this revenge, to do 
As much as ever Coriolanus did. 

Sat. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths ? 
These tidings nip me, and I hang the head 70 
As flowers with frost or grass beat down with 
storms. 

Ay, now begins our sorrows to approach. 

’T is he the common people love so much ; 
Myself hath often heard them say, 

When I have walked like a private man, 76 
That Lucius’ banishment was wrongfully, 

And they have wish’d that Lucius were their 
emperor. 

Tam. Why should you fear ? Is not your city 
strong ? 








V. l. 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


827 


Sat. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius, 

And will revolt from me to succour him. so 
Tam. King, be thy thoughts imperious, like 
thy name. 

Is the sun dimm’d, that gnats do fly in it ? 

The eagle suffers little birds to sing 
And is not careful what they mean thereby, 
Knowing that with the shadow of his wings w 
He can at pleasure stint their melody ; 

Even so mayst thou the giddy men of Rome. 
Then cheer thy spirit; for know, thou emperor, 
I will enchant the old Andronicus 
With words more sweet, and yet more danger¬ 
ous, 90 

Than baits to fish, or honey-stalks to sheep, 
Whenas the one is wounded with the bait, 

The other rotted with delicious feed. 

Sat. -But he will not entreat his son for us. 
Tam. If Tamora entreat him, then he will; 9 s 
For I can smooth and fill his aged ears 
With golden promises ; that, were his heart 
Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf, 

Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue. 
[To AEmilius .] Go thou before, be our ambas¬ 
sador. 100 

Say that the Emperor requests a parley 
Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting 
Even at his father’s house, the old Andronicus. 

Sat. iEmilius, do this message honourably ; 
And if he stand on hostage for his safety, 105 
Bid him demand what pledge will please him 
best. 

^Emil. Your bidding shall I do effectually. 

> [Exit. 

Tam. Now will I to that old Andronicus, 
And temper him with all the art I have 
To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths. 
And now, sweet emperor, be blithe again, 111 
And bury all thy fear in my devices. 

Sat. Then go successantly, and plead to him. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT V 

[Scene I. Plains near Rome.] 

Enter Lucius with an army o/Goths, with drums 
and [colours]. 

Luc. Approved warriors, and my faithful 
friends, 

I have received letters from great Rome, 
Which signifies what hate they bear their em¬ 
peror, 

And how desirous of our sight they are. 
Therefore, great lords, be, as your titles wit¬ 
ness, _ 6 

Imperious and impatient of your wrongs, 

And wherein Rome hath done you any scath, 
Let him make treble satisfaction. 

[ 2 .] Goth. Brave slip, sprung from the great 
Andronicus, 

Whose name was once our terror, now our com¬ 
fort, 10 

Whose high exploits and honourable deeds 
Ingrateful Rome requites with foul contempt, 
Be bold in us ; we ’ll follow where thou lead’st, 
Like stinging bees in hottest summer’s day 


Led by their master to the flow’red fields, ic 
And be aveng’d on cursed Tamora. 

[All the Goths.] And as he saith, so say we all 
with him. 

Luc. I humbly thank him, and I thank you 
all. 

But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth ? 

Enter a Goth, leading of Aaron with his Child 
in his arms. 

[2.] Goth. Renowned Lucius, from our troops 
I stray’d jo 

To gaze upon a ruinous monastery ; 

And, as I earnestly did fix mine eye 
Upon the wasted building, suddenly 
I heard a child cry underneath a wall. 

I made unto the noise ; when soon I heard 26 
The crying babe controll’d with this discourse : 
“Peace, tawny slave, half me and half thy 
dam! 

Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art, 
Had nature lent thee but thy mother’s look, 
Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor. 30 
But where the bull and cow are both milk* 
white, 

They never do beget a coal-black calf. 

Peace, villain, peace!” — even thus he rates 
the babe, — 

“ For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth ; 

Who, when he knows thou art the Empress’ 
babe, 35 

Will hold thee dearly for thy mother’s sake.” 
With this, my weapon drawn, I rush’d upon 
him, 

Surpris’d him suddenly, and brought him 
hither, 

To use as you think needful of the man. 

Luc. O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate 
devil 40 

That robb’d Andronicus of his good hand ; 

This is the pearl that pleas’d your empress’ eye, 
And here’s the base fruit of her burning lust. 
Say, wall-eyed slave, whither wouldst thou 
convey 

This growing image of thy fiend-like face ? « 

Why dost not speak? What, deaf? Not a 
word ? 

A halter, soldiers ! Hang him on this tree, 

And by his side his fruit of bastardy. 

Aar. Touch not the boy; he is of royal 
blood. 

Luc. Too like the sire for ever being good, so 
First hang the child, that he may see it sprawl; 
A sight to vex the father’s soul withal. 

Get me a ladder. 

[A ladder brought , which Aaron is 
made to ascend.] 

Aar. Lucius, save the child, 

And bear it from me to the Empress. 

If thou do this, I ’ll show thee wondrous things, 
That highly may advantage thee to hear. ee 
If thou wilt not, befall what may befall, 

I’ll speak no more but “Vengeance rot you 
all! ” 

Luc. Say on; an if it please me which thou 
speak’st, 

Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourish’d. 




828 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


v. 1. 


Aar. An if it please thee ! Why, assure thee, 
Lucius, 6 i 

’T will vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak ; 
For I must talk of murders, rapes, and massa¬ 
cres, 

Acts of black night, abominable deeds, 
Complots of mischief, treason, villainies, 6 s 
Ruthful to hear, yet piteously perform’d. 

And this shall all be buried in my death 
Unless thou swear to me my child shall live. 
Luc. Tell on thy mind ; I say thy child shall 
live. 

Aar. Swear that he shall, and then I will 
begin. 70 

Luc. Who should I swear by? Thou be- 
liev’st no god: 

That granted, how canst thou believe an oath ? 

Aar. What if I do not ? as, indeed, I do not; 
Yet, for I know thou art religious 
And hast a thing within thee called conscience, 
With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies 76 
Which I have seen thee careful to observe, 
Therefore I urge thy oath ; for that I know 
An idiot holds his bauble for a god 
And keeps the oath which by that god he 
swears, so 

To that I ’ll urge him. Therefore thou shalt 
vow 

By that same god, what god soe’er it be, 

That thou adorest and hast in reverence, 

To save my boy, to nourish and bring him up ; 
Or else I will discover nought to thee. ss 

Luc. Even by my God I swear to thee I will. 
Aar. First know thou, I begot him on the 
Empress. 

Luc. 0 most insatiate and luxurious woman ! 
Aar. Tut, Lucius, this was but a deed of 
charity 

To that which thou shalt hear of me anon. 90 
’T was her two sons that murdered Bassianus ; 
They cut thy sister’s tongue, and ravish’d her, 
And cut her hands, and trimm’d her as thou 
saw’st. 

Luc. 0 detestable villain ! call’st thou that 
trimming ? 

Aar. Why, she was wash’d and cut and 
trimm’d, and’t was 96 

Trim sport for them that had the doing of it. 
Luc. 0 barbarous, beastly villains, like thy¬ 
self ! 

Aar. Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct 
them. 

That codding spirit had they from their 
mother, 

As sure a card as ever won the set; iod 

That bloody mind, I think, they learn’d of me, 
As true a dog as ever fought at head. 

Well, let my deeds be witness of my worth. 

I train’d thy brethren to that guileful hole 
Where the dead corpse of Bassianus lay; 105 

I wrote the letter that thy father found, 

And hid the gold within the letter mention’d, 
Confederate with the Queen and her two sons ; 
And what not done, that thou hast cause to rue, 
Wherein I had no stroke of mischief in it ? no 
I play’d the cheater for thy father’s hand, 

And, when I had it, drew myself apart 


And almost broke my heart with extreme 
laughter. 

I pried me through the crevice of a wall 
When, for his hand, he had his two sons’ 
heads; u 6 

Beheld his tears, and laugh’d so heartily, 

That both mine eyes were rainy like to his ; 
And when I told the Empress of this sport, 

She swounded almost at my pleasing tale, 

And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses. 120 
[l.~\ Goth. What, canst thou say all this, and 
never blush ? 

Aar. Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is. 
Luc. Art thou not sorry for these heinous 
deeds ? 

Aar. Ay, that I had not done a thousand 
more. 124 

Even now I curse the day — and yet, I think, 
Few come within the compass of my curse — 
Wherein I did not some notorious ill, 

As kill a man, or else devise his death, 

Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it, 

Accuse some innocent and forswear myself, 130 
Set deadly enmity between two friends, 

Make poor men’s cattle break their necks, 

Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night, 
And bid the owners quench them with their 
tears. 

Oft have I digg’d up dead men from their 
graves, 135 

And set them upright at their dear friends’ 
door, 

Even when their sorrows almost was forgot; 
And on their skins, as on the bark of trees, 
Have with my knife carved in Roman letters, 

“ Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.” 
Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things i« 
As willingly as one would kill a fly, 

And nothing grieves me heartily indeed 
But that I cannot do ten thousand more. 

Luc. Bring down the devil, for he must not 
die we 

So sweet a death as hanging presently. 

Aar. If there be devils, would I were a 
devil, 

To live and burn in everlasting fire, 

So I might have your company in hell, 

But to torment you with my bitter tongue ! 160 
Luc. Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak 
no more. 

[Enter a Goth.] 

[ 3 .] Goth. My lord, there is a messenger from 
Rome 

Desires to be admitted to your presence. 

Luc. Let him come near. 

Enter ACmilius. 

Welcome, iEmilius! What’s the news from 
Rome ? ice 

AEmil. Lord Lucius, and you princes of the 
Goths, 

The Roman Emperor greets you all by me; 
And, for he understands you are in arms, 

He craves a parley at your father’s house, 
Willing you to demand your hostages, 10# 

And they shall be immediately delivered. 




V. 11. 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


829 


[i.] Goth. What says our general ? 

Luc. H£milius, let the Emperor give his 
pledges 

Unto my father and my uncle Marcus, 

And we will come. March away. 166 

[Flourish. Exeunt. 

[Scene II. Rome. Before Titus’s house.] 

Enter Tamora, Demetrius, and Chiron, dis¬ 
guised. 

Tam. Thus, in this strange and sad habili¬ 
ment, 

I will encounter with Andronicus 
And say I am Revenge, sent from below 
To join with him and right his heinous wrongs. 
Knock at his study, where, they say, he keeps 
To ruminate strange plots of dire revenge ; 6 

Tell him Revenge is come to join with him, 
And work confusion on his enemies. 

[ They knock. 

Titus [above] opens his study door. 

Tit. Who doth molest my contemplation ? 

Is it your trick to make me ope the door 10 
That so my sad decrees may fly away 
And all my study be to no effect ? 

You are deceiv’d ; for what I mean to do 
See here in bloody lines I have set down; 

And what is written shall be executed. is 

Tam. Titus, I am come to talk with thee. 
Tit. No, not a word; how can I grace my 
talk, 

Wanting a hand to give it action ? 

Thou hast the odds of me ; therefore no more. 
Tam. If thou didst know me, thou would’st 
talk with me. 20 

Tit. I am not mad, I know thee well enough ; 
Witness this wretched stump, witness these 
crimson lines; 

Witness these trenches made by grief and care ; 
Witness the tiring day and heavy night; 
Witness all sorrow, that I know thee well 25 
For our proud empress, mighty Tamora. 

Is not thy coming for my other hand ? 

Tam. Know, thou sad man, I am not 
Tamora; 

She is thy enemy, and I thy friend. 

I am Revenge, sent from the infernal kingdom 
To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind 31 
By working wreakful vengeance on thy foes. 
Come down, and welcome me to this world’s 
light ; 

Confer with me of murder and of death. 

There’s not a hollow cave or lurking-place, 35 
No vast obscurity or misty vale, 

Where bloody murder or detested rape 
Can couch for fear, but I will find them out; 
And in their ears tell them my dreadful name, 
Revenge, which makes the foul offender quake. 
Tit. Art thou Revenge ? and art thou sent to 
me, _ 41 

To be a torment to mine enemies ? 

Tam. I am ; therefore come down, and wel¬ 
come me. 

Tit. Do me some service, ere I come to 
thee. 44 


Lo, by thy side where Rape and Murder stands ; 
Now give some surance that thou art Revenge, 
Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot-wheels; 
And then I ’ll come and be thy waggoner, 

And whirl along with thee about the globes. 
Provide thee two proper palfreys, black as jet, 
To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away, ci 
And find out murderers in their guilty caves ; 
And when thy car is loaden with their heads, 

I will dismount, and by the waggon-wheel 
Trot, like a servile footman, all day long, bs 

Even from Hyperion’s rising in the east 
Until his very downfall in the sea ; 

And day by day I ’ll do this heavy task, 

So thou destroy Rapine and Murder there. 

Tam. These are my ministers, and come with 
me. 60 

Tit. Are these thy ministers ? What are they 
call’d ? 

Tam. Rape and Murder; therefore called so, 
’Cause they take vengeance of such kind of 
men. 

Tit. Good Lord, how like the Empress’ sons 
they are! 

And you, the Empress ! but we worldly men 66 
Have miserable, mad, mistaking eyes. 

0 sweet Revenge, now do I come to thee ; 

And, if one arm’s embracement will content 
thee, 

I will embrace thee in it by and by. 

[Exit above.] 

Tam. This closing with him fits his lunacy. 
Whate’er I forge to feed his brain-sick fits, n 
Do you uphold and maintain in your speeches, 
For now he firmly takes me for Revenge ; 

And, being credulous in this mad thought, 

I ’ll make him send for Lucius his son ; ™ 

And, whilst I at a banquet hold him sure, 

I ’ll find some cunning practice out of hand, 

To scatter and disperse the giddy Goths, 

Or, at the least, make them his enemies. 

See, here he comes, and I must ply my theme. 

[Enter Titus below.] 

Tit. Long have I been forlorn, and all for 
thee. 81 

Welcome, dread Fury, to my woeful house ; 
Rapine and Murder, you are welcome too. 

IIow like the Empress and her sons you are ! 
Well are you fitted, had you but a Moor ; «s 
Could not all hell afford you such a devil ? 

For well I wot the Empress never wags 
But in her company there is a Moor ; 

And, would you represent our queen aright, 

It were convenient you had such a devil. a& 
But welcome, as you are. What shall we do ? 
Tam. What wouldst thou have us do, An¬ 
dronicus ? 

Bern. Show me a murderer, I’ll deal with 
him. 

Chi. Show me a villain that hath done a rape, 
And I am sent to be reveng’d on him. as 

Tam. Show me a thousand that have done 
thee wrong, 

And I will be revenged on them all. 

Tit. Look round about the wicked streets of 
Rome; 




83° 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


v. ii. 


And when thou find’st a man that’s like thy¬ 
self, 

Good Murder, stab him ; he’s a murderer. 100 
Go thou with him ; and when it is thy hap 
To find another that is like to thee, 

Good Rapine, stab him ; he’sa ravisher. 

Go thou with them; and in the Emperor’s 
court 

There is a queen, attended by a Moor ; 105 

Well mayst thou know her by thine own propor¬ 
tion, 

For up and down she doth resemble thee. 

I pray thee, do on them some violent death ; 
They have been violent to me and mine. 

Tam. Well hast thou lesson’d us ; this shall 
we do. no 

But would it please thee, good Andronicus, 

To send for Lucius, thy tlirice-valiant son, 
Who leads towards Rome a band of warlike 
Goths, 

And bid him come and banquet at thy house ; 
When he is here, even at thy solemn feast, ns 
I will bring in the Empress and her sons, 

The Emperor himself and all thy foes; 

And at thy mercy shall they stoop and kneel, 
And on them shalt thou ease thy angry heart. 
What says Andronicus to this device ? 120 

Tit. Marcus, my brother! ’t is sad Titus 
calls. 

Enter Marcus. 

Go, gentle Marcus, to thy nephew Lucius ; 
Thou shalt inquire him out among the Goths: 
Bid him repair to me, and bring with him 
Some of the chiefest princes of the Goths. 125 
Bid him encamp his soldiers where they are. 
Tell him the Emperor and the Empress too 
Feast at my house, and he shall feast with 
them. 

This do thou for my love ; and so let him, 

As he regards his aged father’s life. 130 

Marc. This will I do, and soon return again. 

[Exit. 

Tam. Now will I hence about thy business, 
And take my ministers along with me. 

Tit. Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay 
with me ; 

Or else I ’ll call my brother back again, 135 
And cleave to no revenge but Lucius. 

Tam. [Aside to her .sons.] What say you, 
boys ? Will you abide with him 
Whiles I go tell my lord the Emperor 
How I have govern’d our determin’d jest ? 
Yield to his humour, smooth and speak him 
fair, 140 

And tarry with him till I turn again. 

Tit. [Aside.] I know them all though they 
suppose me mad, 

And will o’erreach them in their own devices. 
A pair of cursed hell-hounds and their dam ! 
Dem. Madam, depart at pleasure ; leave us 
here. 145 

Tam. Farewell, Andronicus ! Revenge now 
goes 

To lay a com plot to betray thy foes. 

Tit. I know thou dost; and, sweet Revenge, 
farewell. [Exit Tamora.] 


Chi. Tell us, old man, how shall we be em¬ 
ploy’d ? 

Tit. Tut, I have work enough for you to do. 
Publius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine ! m 

[Enter Publius and others .] 

Pub. What is your will ? 

Tit. Know you these two ? 

Pub. The Empress’ sons, I take them, Chi¬ 
ron, Demetrius. ics 

Tit. Fie, Publius, fie! thou art too much de¬ 
ceiv’d. 

The one is Murder, Rape is the other’s name ; 
And therefore bind them, gentle Publius. 

Caius and Valentine, lay hands on them. 159 
Oft have you heard me wish for such an hour, 
And now I find it; therefore bind them sure, 
And stop their mouths if they begin to cry. 

[Exit Titus. Publius , etc., lay hold 
on Chiron and Demetrius .] 

Chi. Villains, forbear 1 we are the Empress’ 
sons. 

Pub. And therefore do we what we are com¬ 
manded. 

Stop close their mouths, let them not speak a 
word. 166 

Is he sure bound ? Look that you bind them 
fast. 

Re-enter Titus with a knife , and Lavinia with 
a basin. 

Tit. Come, come, Lavinia ; look, thy foes are 
bound. 

Sirs, stop their mouths, let them not speak to 
me, 

But let them hear what fearful words I utter. 
O villains, Chiron and Demetrius ! t 7 o 

Here stands the spring whom you have stain’d 
with mud, 

This goodly summer with your winter mix’d. 
You kill’d her husband, and for that vile fault 
Two of her brothers were condemn’d to death, 
My hand cut off and made a merry jest; m 
Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that 
more dear 

Than hands or tongue, her spotless chastity, 
Inhuman traitors, you constrain’d and forc’d. 
What would you say if I should let you speak ? 
Villains, for shame you could not beg for 
grace. uo 

Hark, wretches ! how I mean to martyr you. 
This one hand yet is left to cut your throats, 
Whilst that Lavinia ’tween her stumps doth 
hold 

The basin that receives your guilty blood. 

You know your mother means to feast with 
me, 186 

And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me 
mad. 

Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to 
dust 

And with your blood and it I ’ll make a paste, 
And of the paste a coffin I will rear 189 

And make two pasties of your shameful heads, 
And bid that strumpet, your unhallowed dam, 
Like .to the earth swallow her own increase. 
This is the feast that I have bid her to, 





TITUS ANDRONICUS 


v. iii. 


And this the banquet she shall surfeit on ; 

For worse than Philomel you us’d my daugh¬ 
ter, 185 

And worse than Progne I will be reveng’d. 

And now prepare your throats. Lavinia, come, 
Receive the blood; and when that they are 
dead, 

Let me go grind their bones to powder small 
And with this hateful liquor temper it ; 200 

And in that paste let their vile heads be bak’d. 
Come, come, be every one officious 
To make this banquet; which I wish may prove 
More stern and bloody than the Centaurs’ feast. 

[He cuts their throats. 

So, now bring them in, for I ’ll play the cook, 
And see them ready against their mother 
comes. 206 

[.Exeunt [hearing the dead bodies ]. 

[Scene III. Court of Titus's house.] 

Enter Lucius, Marcus, and Goths [with 
Aaron prisoner]. 

Luc. Uncle Marcus, since ’t is my father’s 
mind 

That I repair to Rome, I am content. 

[ 2 .] Goth. And ours with thine, befall what 
fortune will. 

Luc. Good uncle, take you in this barbarous 
Moor, 

This ravenous tiger, this accursed devil; s 
Let him receive no sustenance, fetter him, 

Till he be brought unto the Empress’ face, 

For testimony of her foul proceedings. 

And see the ambush of our friends be strong ; 

I fear the Emperor means no good to us. 10 
Aar, Some devil whisper curses in mine 
ear, 

And prompt me, that my tongue may utter 
forth 

The venomous malice of my swelling heart! 
Luc. Away, inhuman dog! unhallowed 
slave! 

Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in. is 

[Exeunt Goths , with Aaron.] Flour¬ 
ish [within]. 

The trumpets show the Emperor is at hand. 

Sound trumpets. Enter Saturninus and Ta- 
mora, with [^Emilius,] Tribunes, [Sena¬ 
tors] and others. 

Sat. What, hath the firmament moe suns 
than one ? 

Luc. What boots it thee to call thyself a 
sun ? 

Marc. Rome’s emperor, and nephew, break 
the parle ; 

These quarrels must be quietly debated. 20 
The feast is ready, which the careful Titus 
Hath ordain’d to an honourable end, 

For peace, for love, for league, and good to 
Rome. 

Please you, therefore, draw nigh, and take your 
places. 

Sat. Marcus, we will. . 26 

[ Hautboys. A table brought in. [The 
company sit down.] 


831 


Sound trumpets. Enter Titus like a cook , pla¬ 
cing the meat on the table ; Lavinia with a veil 
over her face; [young Lucius and others]. 

Tit. Welcome, my gracious lord ; welcome, 
dread queen; 

Welcome, ye warlike Goths ; welcome, Lucius ; 
And welcome, all! Although the cheer be 
poor, 

’T will fill your stomachs ; please you eat of it. 
Sat. Why art thou thus attir’d, Andronicus ? 
Tit. Because I would be sure to have all 
well, 31 

To entertain your Highness and your empress. 
Tam. We are beholding to you, good Andro¬ 
nicus. 

Tit. An if your Highness knew my heart, 
you were. 

My lord the Emperor, resolve me this : 35 

Was it well done of rash Virginius 
To slay his daughter with his own right hand, 
Because she was enforc’d, stain’d, and deflow¬ 
er’d ? 

Sat. It was, Andronicus. 

Tit. Your reason, mighty lord ? 40 

Sat. Because the girl should not survive her 
shame. 

And by her presence still renew his sorrows. 

Tit. A reason mighty, strong, and effectual; 
A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant 
For me, most wretched, to perform the like. 45 
Die, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee ; 
And, with thy shame, thy father’s sorrow die ! 

[Kills Lavinia. 

Sat. What hast thou done, unnatural and 
unkind ? 

Tit. Kill’d her, for whom my tears have 
made me blind. 

I am as woeful as Virginius was, so 

And have a thousand times more cause than he 
To do this outrage ; and it now is done. 

Sat. What, was she ravish’d ? Tell who did 
the deed. 

Tit. Will’t please you eat ? Will’t please 
your Highness feed ? 

Tam. Why hast thou slain thine only daugh¬ 
ter thus ? 56 

Tit. Not I; ’t was Chiron and Demetrius. 
They ravish’d her, and cut away her tongue ; 
And they, ’t was they, that did her all this 
wrong. 

Sat. Go fetch them hither to us presently. 
Tit. Why, there they are both, baked in that 
pie; 60 

Whereof their mother daintily hath fed, 

Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred. 

’T is true, ’t is true ; witness my knife’s sharp 
point. [Stabs Tamara. 

Sat. Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed 
deed ! [Kills Titus.] 

Luc. Can the son’s eye behold his father 
bleed ? 66 

There’s meed for meed, death for a deadly 
deed! 

[Kills Saturninus. A great tumult. 
Lucius , Marcus, and others go 
up into the balcony.] 




832 


TITUS ANDRONICUS 


v. iii. 


Marc. You sad-fac’d men, people and sons of 
Rome, 

By uproars sever’d, as a flight of fowl 
Scatter’d by winds and high tempestuous gusts, 
0 , let me teach you how to knit again to 

This scatt’red corn into one mutual sheaf, 

These broken limbs again into one body ; 

Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself, 

And she whom mighty kingdoms curtsy to, 
Like a forlorn and desperate castaway, 75 

Do shameful execution on herself. 

But if my frosty signs and chaps of age, 

Grave witnesses of true experience, 

Cannot induce you to attend my words, 

[To Lucius .] Speak, Rome’s dear friend, as 
erst our ancestor, ’ 80 

When with his solemn tongue he did discourse 
To love-sick Dido’s sad attending ear 
The story of that baleful burning night 
When subtle Greeks surpris’d King Priam’s 
Troy; 

Tell us what Sinon hath bewitch’d our ears, 

Or who hath brought the fatal engine in 
That gives our Troy, our Rome, the civil 
wound. 

My heart is not compact of flint nor steel; 

Nor can I utter all our bitter grief, 

But floods of tears will drown my oratory 90 
And break my utterance, even in the time 
When it should move you to attend me most, 
Lending your kind commiseration. 

Here is a captain, let him tell the tale ; 

Your hearts will throb and weep to hear him 
speak. 96 

Luc. Then, noble auditory, be it known to 
you 

That cursed Chiron and Demetrius 
Were they that murdered our emperor’s brother, 
And they it were that ravished our sister. 

For their fell faults our brothers were be¬ 
headed ; 100 

Our father’s tears despis’d, and basely cozen’d 
Of that true hand that fought Rome’s quarrel 
out 

And sent her enemies unto the grave. 

Lastly, myself unkindly banished, 

The gates shut on me, and turn’d weeping out 
To beg relief among Rome’s enemies, ioe 

Who drown’d their enmity in my true tears, 
And op’d their arms to embrace me as a friend. 

I am the turned forth, be it known to you, 

That have preserv’d her welfare in my blood ; 
And from her bosom took the enemy’s point, 111 
Sheathing the steel in my advent’rous body. 
Alas, you know I am no vaunter, I; 

My scars can witness, dumb although they are, 
That my report is just and full of truth. ne 
But, soft! methinks I do digress too much, 
Citing my worthless praise. O, pardon me ; 

For when no friends are by, men praise them¬ 
selves. 

Marc. Now is my turn to speak. Behold the 
child: 

[Pointing to the Child in the arms ■ 
of an Attendant.] 

Of this was Tamora delivered, 120 

The issue of an irreligious Moor, 


Chief architect and plotter of these woes. 

The villain is alive in Titus’ house, 

And as he is, to witness this is true. 

Now judge what cause had Titus to revenge 126 
These wrongs unspeakable, past patience, 

Or more than any living man could bear. 

Now you have heard the truth, what say you, 
Romans ? 

Have we done aught amiss ? Show us wherein, 
And, from the place where you behold us now, 
The poor remainder of Andronici 131 

Will, hand in hand, all headlong cast us down, 
And on the ragged stones beat forth our brains, 
And make a mutual closure of our house. 
Speak, Romans, speak; and if you say we 
shall, 136 

Lo, hand in hand, Lucius and I will fall. 

2 Emil. Come, come, thou reverend man of 
Rome, 

And bring our Emperor gently in thy hand, 
Lucius our Emperor ; for well I know 
The common voice do cry it shall be so. 140 
[All.] Lucius, all hail, Rome’s royal Em¬ 
peror ! 

Marc. Go, go into old Titus’ sorrowful house, 

[To Attendants.] 

And hither hale that misbelieving Moor, 

To be adjudg’d some direful slaught’ring death, 
As punishment for his most wicked life. 145 
[Exeunt Attendants.] 

Lucrus, Marcus, and the others descend. 

[All.] Lucius, all hail, Rome’s gracious gov¬ 
ernor ! 

Luc. Thanks, gentle Romans ; may I govern 
so, 

To heal Rome’s harms, and wipe away her 
woe! 

But, gentle people, give me aim a while, 

For nature puts me to a heavy task. iso 

Stand all aloof, but, uncle, draw you near, 

To shed obsequious tears upon this trunk. 

O, take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips, 

[Kissing Titus.] 

These sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stain’d 
face, 

The last true duties of thy noble son! 155 

Marc. Tear for tear, and loving kiss for kiss, 
Thy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips. 

O, were the sum of these that I should pay 
Countless and infinite, yet would I pay them ! 
Luc. Come hither, boy; come, come, and 
learn of us ibo 

To melt in showers ; thy grandsire lov’d thee 
well. 

Many a time he danc’d thee on his knee, 

Sung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow ; 
Many a matter hath he told to thee, 

Meet and agreeing with thine infancy. ice 

In that respect, then, like a loving child, 

Shed yet some small drops from thy tender 
spring, 

Because kind nature doth require it so ; 

Friends should associate friends in grief and 
woe. 

Bid him farewell; commit him to the grave ; 170 
Do him that kindness, and take leave of him. 




TITUS ANDRONICUS 


833 


v. iii. 


Young Luc. 0 grandsire, grandsire! even 
with all my heart 

Would I were dead, so you did live again ! 

O Lord, I cannot speak to him for weeping; 

My tears will choke me, if I ope my mouth, its 

[ Be-enter Attendants with Aaron.] 

A Homan. You sad Andronici, have done 
with woes. 

Give sentence on this execrable wretch 
That hath been breeder of these dire events. 
Luc. Set him breast-deep in earth, and fam¬ 
ish him; 

There let him stand and rave and cry for 
food. 180 

If any one relieves or pities him, 

For the olfence he dies. This is our doom. 
Some stay to see him fast’ned in the earth. 
Aar. Ah, why should wrath be mute, and 
fury dumb ? 

I am no baby, I, that with base prayers i «5 
I should repent the evils I have done. 


Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did 
Would I perform, if 1 might have my will. 

If one good deed in all my life I did, 

I do repent it from my very soul. i»o 

Luc. Some loving friends convey the Em¬ 
peror hence, 

And give him burial in his father’s grave. 

My father and Lavinia shall forthwith 
Be closed in our household’s monument. 

As for that ravenous tiger, Tamora, 100 

No funeral rite, nor man in mourning weeds ; 
No mournful bell shall ring her burial; 

But throw her forth to beasts and birds to 
prey. 

Her life was beastly, and devoid of pity; 

And, being so, shall have like want of pity. 200 
See justice done on Aaron, that damn’d Moor, 
By whom our heavy haps had their begin¬ 
ning. 

Then, afterwards, to order well the state, 

That like events may ne’er it ruinate. 

[Exeunt. 




THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET 


The First Quarto of Borneo and Juliet appeared in 1597 , printed, it is inferred from internal 
evidence, from copy made up on the basis of a shorthand writer’s imperfect report taken at the 
theatre. The title-page of this edition states that “it hath been often (with great applause) 
plaid publiquely, by the right Honourable the L. of Hunsdon his servants.” This proves it to 
have been on the stage between July, 1596 , and April, 1597 , the months during which the 
“ Lord Hunsdon’s servants ” were so named. Further evidence of date is purely internal, the 
most definite being the Nurse’s reference to the earthquake of eleven years before (i. iii. 23 , 35 ). 
If, as is often assumed, this refers to the earthquake of 1580 , it places the play in its first form 
as early as 1591 ; but the ground of the inference is very weak. The frequency of rime, espe¬ 
cially alternate, the lyrical quality of the poetry, and the abundance of verbal quibbling, also 
point to an early date; but in the absence of any external evidence, or of an authentic copy of 
the play in its first form, no certain statement can be made as to exact date. 

The Second Quart©, published in 1599 , claims to be “ newly corrected, augmented, and 
amended,” and a comparison of this text with that of the First Quarto confirms this, indicating 
that the play was subjected to revision and enlargement by Shakespeare about 1597 - 98 , though 
not all the additional passages in the Second Quarto are due to the revision. The Third Quarto 
( 1609 ) was printed from the Second, the Fourth (undated) from the Third, and the Fifth ( 1637 ) 
from the Fourth. The First Folio text follows the Third Quarto, so that the Second Quarto is 
the chief authority, and forms the basis of the present edition. 

The device of escaping from an unwelcome marriage by means of a sleeping potion is found 
as early as the medieval Greek romance of Abrocomas and Anthia by Xenophon of Ephesus. 
Massuccio ( 1476 ) tells a tale having many points of similarity to the present tragedy; but the 
earliest known version which is an undoubted direct ancestor of Shakespeare’s plot is the history 
of Borneo and Giulielta narrated by Luigi da Porto, and published in Venice about 1530 . The 
progress of the story towards the Shakespearean form continues through a version in Bandello’s 
Novelle ( 1554 ), Boisteau’s translation of the same ( 1559 ), the English poem of Bomeus and Juliet 
by Arthur Brooke ( 1562 ), and Painter’s translation of Boisteau in his Palace of Pleasure ( 1567 ). 
In Brooke’s address “To the Reader” he states that he “saw the same argument lately set 
forth on stage; ” but no copy of the play alluded to is known to have survived in English. 
About 1630 , however, Jacob Struijs wrote a Borneo and Juliette in Dutch hexameters; and an 
attempt has been made to prove that this drama is an adaptation of a lost play used by Shake¬ 
speare as a basis, and perhaps that to which Brooke refers. 

The main lines of the dramatic action and of the chief characters were thus already laid down 
before Shakespeare worked on the story ; and he borrowed also a large amount of detail, 
especially from the version by Brooke. The episode of the Apothecary and the order of events 
in the catastrophe go back to Boisteau, but to this last Shakespeare himself added the death of 
Paris at Juliet’s tomb. The Nurse as a great comic figure is first developed by Brooke. The 
death of Mercutio is due to the old dramatist, but the elaboration of his character and his wit 
are Shakespeare’s, as are also the reducing of Juliet’s age from sixteen to fourteen and the 
opening of the action with the conflict of the factions. The genius of Shakespeare is more per¬ 
vasive in the extraordinarily intense quality of the great lyric speeches, and in the representa¬ 
tion of the growth and enriching of the lovers in passion and character. 

The story was dramatized, before Shakespeare, in Italy, Spain, and France, as well as in 
England; and many collateral versions in narrative form exist. Shakespeare’s tragedy was pro¬ 
duced in a corrupt German version in the seventeenth century; and it has been adapted and 
translated by many hands and in many countries. In Shakespeare’s own time the story passed 
from legend into “history,” and the events were stated to have actually occurred in Verona 
in the first years of the fourteenth century. 


THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET 


[DRAMATIS PERSONAE 


EscALus, Prince of Verona. 

Paris, a young nobleman, kinsman to the prince. 
Montague, ) heads of two houses at variance with each 
Capulet, 1 other. 

An old man, of the Capulet family. 

Romeo, son to Montague. 

Mercctio, kinsman to the prince, and friend to Ro¬ 
meo. 

Benvolio, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo. 
Tybalt, nephew to Lady Capulet. 

££ SST™’! Fra ““ 

Balthasar, servant to Romeo. 

Abraham, servant to Montague. 


Gregory', } 8ervants to Capulet. 
Peter, servant to Juliet’s nurse. 

An Apothecary. 

Three Musicians. 

Page to Paris ; another Page. 

An Officer. 

Lady Montague, wife to Montague. 
Lady Capulet, wife to Capulet. 
Juliet, daughter to Capulet. 

Nurse to Juliet. 

Chorus. 


Citizens of Verona; several Men and Women, kinsfolk to both houses; Maskers, Guards, Watchmen, and 

Attendants. 


Scene: Verona; Mantua.'] 


PROLOGUE . 

Two households, both alike in dignity, 

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, 

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, 
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. 
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes o 
A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life ; 
Whose misadventur’d piteous overthrows 
Doth with their death bury their parents’ 
strife. 

The fearful passage of their death-mark’d 
love, 

And the continuance of their parents’ rage, 10 
Which, but their children’s end, nought could 
remove, 

Is now the two hours’ traffic of our stage ; 
The which if you with patient ears attend, 
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to 
mend. 

ACT I 

Scene I. [Verona. A public place.] 

Enter Sampson and Gregory, of the house of 
Capulet , with swords and bucklers. 

Sam. Gregory, on my word, we’ll not carry 
coals. 

Ore. No, for then we should he colliers. 

Sam. I mean, an we be in choler, we ’ll 
draw. 

Gre. Ay, while you live, draw your neck out 
o’ the collar. 6 

Sam . I strike quickly, being mov’d. 

Gre. But thou art not quickly mov’d to 
strike. 

Sam. A dog of the house of Montague moves 
me. 10 


Gre. To move is to stir, and to be valiant is 
to stand; therefore, if thou art mov’d, thou 
run’st away. 

Sam. A dog of that house shall move me to 
stand. I will take the wall of any man or maid 
of Montague’s. is 

Gre. That shows thee a weak slave ; for the 
weakest goes to the wall. 

Sam. ’T is true ; and therefore women, being 
the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall; 
therefore I will push Montague’s men from the 
wall, and thrust his maids to the wall. 22 

Gre. The quarrel is between our masters and 
us their men. 

Sam. ’Tis all one, I will show myself a 
tyrant. When I have fought with the men, I 
will be cruel with the maids; I will cut off 
their heads. 28 

Gre. The heads of the maids? 

Sam. Ay, the heads of the maids, or their 
maidenheads; take it in what sense thou 
wilt. 

Gre. They must take it in sense that feel 
it. 

Sam. Me they shall feel while I am able to 
stand ; and ’t is known I am a pretty piece of 
flesh. 35 

Gre. ’T is well thou art not fish; if thou 
hadst, thou hadst been poor John. Draw thy 
tool; here comes two of the house of Mon¬ 
tagues. 

Enter two other serving-men [Abraham and 
Balthasar]. 

Sam. My naked weapon is out. Quarrel, I 
will back thee. 40 

Gre. How ! turn thy back and run ? 

Sam. Fear me not. 

Gre. No, marry ; I fear thee I 





8 3 6 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


i. i. 


Sam. Let us take the law of our sides; let 
them begin. 45 

Gre. I will frown as I pass by, and let them 
take it as they list. 

Sam. Nay, as they dare. I will bite my 
thumb at them ; which is disgrace to them, if 
they bear it. eo 

Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir ? 
Sam. I do bite my thumb, sir. 

Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir ? 
Sam. [Aside to Gre.] Is the law of our side, 
if I say ay ? 65 

Gre. No. 

Sam. No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at 
you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir. 

Gre. Do you quarrel, sir ? 

Abr. Quarrel, sir? No, sir. 60 

Sam. But if you do, sir, I am for you. I 
serve as good a man as you. 

Abr. No better. 

Sam. Well, sir. 

Enter Benvolio. 

Gre. Say “ better ” ; here comes one of my 
master’s kinsmen. eo 

Sam. Yes, better, sir. 

Abr. You lie. 

Sam. Draw, if you be men. Gregory, re¬ 
member thy swashing blow. {They fight, to 
Ben. Part, fools! 

Put up your swords; you know not what you 
do. [Beats down their swords.] 

Enter Tybalt. 

Tyb. What, art thou drawn among these 
heartless hinds ? 

Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death. 

Ben. I do but keep the peace. Put up thy 
sword, 75 

Or manage it to part these men with me. 

Tyb. What, drawn, and talk of peace ! I hate 
the word 

As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee. 

Have at thee, coward ! [They fight. 

Enter three or four Citizens [and Officers], 
with clubs or partisans. 

Off. Clubs, bills, and partisans! Strike! 
Beat them down ! so 

Down with the Capulets ! down with the Mon¬ 
tagues ! 

Enter Capulet in his gown , and Lady Capu- 
let. 

Cap. What noise is this ? Give me my long 
sword, ho! 

La. Cap. A crutch, a crutch! why call you 
for a sword ? 

Cap. My sword, I say! Old Montague is 
come, 

And flourishes his blade in spite of me. ss 

Enter Montague and Lady Montague. 

Mon. Thou villain Capulet, — Hold me not, 
let me go. 

La. Mon. Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek 
a foe. 


Enter Prince, with his train. 

Erin. Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace, 
Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel, — 
Will they not hear? — What, ho! you men, 
you beasts, 90 

That quench the fire of your pernicious rage 
With purple fountains issuing from your veins, 
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands 
Throw your mistemper’d weapons to the 
ground, 

And hear the sentence of your moved prince. 
Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word, 

By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, 

Have thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets, 
And made Verona’s ancient citizens 
Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments, 100 
To wield old partisans, in hands as old, 
Cank’red with peace, to part your cank’red 
hate; 

If ever you disturb our streets again 
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace. 
For this time, all the rest depart away. ioa 
You, Capulet, shall go along with me ; 

And, Montague, come you this afternoon, 

To know our farther pleasure in this case, 

To old Free-town, our common judgement- 
place. 

Once more, on pain of death, all men depart, no 
[Exeunt [all but Montague , Lady 
Montague , and Benvolio ]. 

Mon. Who set this ancient quarrel new 
abroach ? 

Speak, nephew, were you by when it began? 
Ben. Here were the servants of your adver¬ 
sary, 

And yours, close fighting ere I did approach. 

I drew to part them. In the instant came 115 
The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d, 
Which, as he breath’d defiance to my ears. 

He swung about his head and cut the winds, 
Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn. 
While we were interchanging thrusts and blows. 
Came more and more and fought on part ana 
part, 121 

Till the Prince came, who parted either part. 
La. Mon. O, where is Romeo ? Saw you him 
to-day ? 

Right glad I am he was not at this fray. 

Ben. Madam, an hour before the wor- 
shipp’d sun 126 

Peer’d forth the golden window of the east, 

A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad ; 
Where, underneath the grove of sycamore 
That westward rooteth from the city’s side, 

So early walking did I see your son. 130 

Towards him I made, but he was ware of me 
And stole into the covert of the wood. 

I, measuring his affections by my own, 

Which then most sought where most might not 
be found, 

Being one too many by my weary self, 

Pursued my humour not pursuing his, iss 

And gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me. 
Mon. Many a morning hath he there been 
seen, 

With tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew, 





1 . 1 . 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


837 


Adding- to clouds more clouds with his deep 
sighs; 

But all so soon as the all-cheering sun 140 

Should in the farthest east begin to draw 
The shady curtains from Aurora’s bed, 

Away from light steals home my heavy son, 
And private in his chamber pens himself, 

Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out, 
And makes himself an artificial night. ho 

Black and portentous must this humour prove 
Unless good counsel may the cause remove. 
Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the 
cause ? 

Mon. I neither know it nor can learn of him. 
Ben. Have you importun’d him by any 
means ? isi 

Mon. Both by myself and many other 

friends ; 

But he, his own affections’ counsellor, 

Is to himself — I will not say how true — 

But to himself so secret and so close, ic5 

So far from sounding and discovery, 

As is the bud bit with an envious worm 
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air 
Or dedicate his beauty to the sun. 

Could we but learn from whence his sorrows 
grow, ico 

We would as willingly give cure as know. 

Enter Romeo. 


Ben. See, where he comes! So please you, 
step aside ; 

I ’ll know his grievance, or be much deni’d. 

Mon. I would thou wert so happy by thy 
stay 

To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s 
away. [Exeunt [Montague and Lady], ice 

Ben. Good morrow, cousin. 

Bom. Is the day so young ? 

Ben. But new struck nine. 

Bom. Ay me ! sad hours seem long. 

Was that my father that went hence so fast? 

Ben. It was. What sadness lengthens Ro¬ 
meo’s hours ? 

Bom. Not having that which, having, makes 
them short. 170 

Ben. In love ? 

Bom. Out — 

Ben. Of love ? 

Bom. Out of her favour, where I am in love. 

Ben. Alas, that love, so gentle in his view, its 

Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof ! 

Bom. Alas, that love, whose view is muffled 
still * 

Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will! 

Where shall we dine ? O me ! What fray was 
here ? 

Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. iso 

Here’s much to do with hate, but more with 


Why, then, 0 brawling love ! 0 loving hate ! 

O anything, of nothing first create ! 

O heavy lightness ! serious vanity ! 

Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms ! 
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick 
health! . 

Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! 


This love feel I, that feel no love in this. 

Dost thou not laugh ? 

Ben. No, coz, I rather weep. 

Bom. Good heart, at what ? 

Ben. At thy good heart’s oppression. 

Bom. Why, such is love’s transgression, m 
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, 
Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest 
With more of thine. This love that thou hast 
shown 

Doth add more grief to too much of mine 
own. ice 

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs ; 
Being purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes ; 
Being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears. 
What is it else ? A madness most discreet, 

A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. 200 
Farewell, my coz. 

Ben. Soft! I will go along. 

An if you leave me so, you do me wrong. 

Bom. Tut, I have left myself; I am not 
here. 

This is not Romeo ; he’s some otherwhere. 
Ben. Tell me in sadness, who is that you 
love ? 205 

Bom. What, shall I groan and tell thee ? 
Ben. Groan! why, no; 

But sadly tell me who. 

Bom. Bid a sick man in sadness make his 
will, — 

Ah, word ill urg’d to one that is so ill! 

In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman. 210 

Ben. I aim’d so near, when I suppos’d you 
lov’d. 

Bom. A right good mark-man! And she’s 
fair I love. 

Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest 
hit. 

Bom. Well, in that hit you miss. She ’ll not 
be hit 

With Cupid’s arrow ; she hath Dian’s wit; 215 
And, in strong proof of chastity well arm’d. 
’Gainst Love’s weak childish bow she lives un¬ 
harm’d. 

She will not stay the siege of loving terms, 

Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes, 

Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold. 220 

O, she is rich in beauty, only poor 
That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store. 
Ben. Then she hath sworn that she will still 
live chaste ? 

Bom. She hath, and in that sparing makes 
huge waste; 

For beauty starv’d with her severity 22s 

Cuts beauty off from all posterity. 

She is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair, 

To merit bliss by making me despair. 

She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow 
Do I live dead that live to tell it now. 230 

Ben. Be rul’d by me, forget to think of her. 
Bom. 0 , teach me how I should forget to 
think. 

Ben. By giving liberty unto thine eyes ; 
Examine other beauties. 

Bom. ’T is the way 

To call hers, exquisite, in question more. 235 
These happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows 




8 3 8 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


i. ii. 


Being black puts us in mind they hide the fair ; 
He that is strucken blind cannot forget 
The precious treasure of. his eyesight lost. 

Show me a mistress that is passing fair, 240 
What doth her beauty serve, but as a note 
Where I may read who pass’d that passing 
fair? 

Farewell! Thou canst not teach me to forget. 
Ben. I’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in 
debt. [Exeunt. 


[Scene II. A street.] 

Enter Capulet, Paris, and the Clown [a Ser¬ 
vant], 

Cap. But Montague is bound as well as I, 

In penalty alike ; and’t is not hard, I think, 
For men so old as we to keep the peace. 

Par. Of honourable reckoning are you both ; 
And pity’t is you liv’d at odds so long. 6 

But now, my lord, what say you to my suit ? 
Cap. But saying o’er what I have said be¬ 
fore. 

My child is yet a stranger in the world ; 

She hath not seen the change of fourteen years. 
Let two more summers wither in their pride, 10 
Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride. 

Par. Younger than she are happy mothers 
made. 

Cap. And too soon marr’d are those so early 
made. 

The earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she, 
She is the hopeful lady of my earth ; is 

But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart, 

My will to her consent is but a part; 

An she agree, within her scope of choice 
Lies my consent and fair according voice. 

This night I hold an old accustom’d feast, 20 
Wheretb I have invited many a guest, 

Such as I love ; and you, among the store 
One more, most welcome, makes my number 
more. 

At my poor house look to behold this night 
Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven 
light. 25 

Such comfort as do lusty young men feel 
When well-apparell’d April on the heel 
Of limping winter treads, even such delight 
Among fresh female buds shall you this night 
Inherit at my house ; hear all, all see, 30 

And like her most whose merit most shall be. 
Which on more view of, many, mine being one, 
May stand in number, though in reckoning none. 
Come, go with me. [To Servant .] Go, sirrah, 
trudge about 

Through fair Yerona ; find those persons out 
Whose names are written there, and to them 
say 38 

My house and welcome on their pleasure stay. 

[Exeunt [Capulet and Paris], 
Serv. Find them out whose names are writ¬ 
ten here ! It is written, that the shoemaker 
should meddle with his yard, and the tailor 
with his last, the fisher with his pencil, and the 
painter with his nets; but I am sent to find 
those persons whose names are here writ, and 
can never find what names the writing person 


hath here writ. I must to the learned. — In 
good time. « 

Enter Benvolio and Romeo. 


Ben. Tut, man, one fire burns out another’s 
burning, 

One pain is less’ned by another’s anguish ; 
Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning; 
One desperate grief cures with another’s lan¬ 
guish. 

Take thou some new infection to thy eye, 60 
And the rank poison of the old will die. 

Bom. Your plaintain-leaf is excellent for 
that. 

Ben. For what, I pray thee ? 

Bom. For your broken shin. 

Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad ? 

Bom. Not mad, but bound more than a mad¬ 
man is; 66 

Shut up in prison, kept without my food, 
Whipp’d and tormented and — God-den, good 
fellow. 

Serv. God gi’ god-den. I pray, sir, can you 
read ? 

Bom. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery. 00 
Serv. Perhaps you have learn’d it without 
book. But, I pray, can you read anything you 
see? 

Bom. Ay, if I know the letters and the lan¬ 
guage. 

Serv. Ye say honestly. Rest you merry ! 
Bom. Stay, fellow ; I can read. 66 

(Beads.) “ Signior Martino and his wife and 
daughters ; County Anselme and his beauteous 
sisters ; the lady widow of Vitruvio ; Signior 
Placentio and his lovely nieces ; Mercutio and 
his brother Valentine ; mine uncle Capulet, his 
wife, and daughters; my fair niece Rosaline; 
Livia; Signior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt; 
Lucio and the lively Helena.” 74 

A fair assembly : whither should they come ? 
Serv. Up. 

Bom. Whither ? 


Serv. To supper ; to our house. 

Bom. Whose house? 

Serv. My master’s. so 

Bom. Indeed, I should have ask’d you that 
before. 

Serv. Now I ’ll tell you without asking. My 
master is the great rich Capulet; and if you be 
not of the house of Montagues, I pray, come 
and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry! s« 

[Exit. 

Ben. At this same ancient feast of Capulet’s 
Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so loves, 
With all the admired beauties of Verona. 

Go thither ; and, with unattainted eye, »o 

Compare her face with some that I shall show, 
And I will make thee think thy swan a crow. 
Bom. When the devout religion of mine eye 
Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to 
fires ; 

And these, who, often drown’d, could never 
die, 96 

Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars ! 

One fairer than my love ! The all-seeing sun 
Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun. 





ROMEO AND JULIET 


839 


I. iii. 


Ben. Tut, you saw her fair, none else being 

by, 

Herself pois’d with herself in either eye ; 100 

But in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d 
Your lady’s love against some other maid 
That I will show you shining at this feast, 

And she shall scant show well that now seems 
best. 


Bom. I ’ll go along no such sight to be 
shown, 105 

But to rejoice in splendour of mine own. 

[Exeunt.] 


[Scene III. A room in CapuleVs house.] 

Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse. 

La. Cap. Nurse, where’s my daughter ? Call 
her forth to me. 

Nurse. Now, by my maidenhead at twelve 
year old, 

I bade her come. What, lamb! What, lady¬ 
bird ! 

God forbid I — Where’s this girl ? What, Ju¬ 
liet ! 

Enter Juliet. 

Jul. How now ! Who calls? 

Nurse. Your mother. 

Jul. Madam, I am here. 

What is your will ? 6 

La. Cap. This is the matter. — Nurse, give 
leave a while, 

We must talk in secret.—Nurse, come back 
again; 

I have rememb'red me, thou’s hear our counsel. 
Thou know’st my daughter’s of a pretty age. 10 
Nurse. Faith, I can tell her age unto an 
hour. 

La. Cap. She’s not fourteen. 

Nurse. I ’ll lay fourteen of my teeth, — 

And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but 
four,— 

She is not fourteen. How long is it now 
To Lammas-tide ? 

La. Cap. A fortnight and odd days, is 

Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in the year, 
Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be four¬ 
teen. 

Susan and she — God rest all Christian souls! — 
Were of an age. Well, Susan is with God ; 

She was too good for me. But, as I said, 20 
On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen ; 
That shall she, marry ; I remember it well. 

’T is since the earthquake now eleven years ; 
And she was wean’d, — I never shall forget 
it — 

Of all the days of the year, upon that day. 26 
For I had then laid wormwood to my dug, 
Sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall; 
My lord and you were then at Mantua ; — 

Nay, I do bear a brain ; —but, as I said, 

When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple 
Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool, »i 
To see it tetchy and fall out wi’ the dug! 
Shake, quoth the dove-house; ’twas no need, 
I trow, 

To bid me trudge. 


And since that time it is eleven years ; 35 

For then she could stand high-lone; nay, by 
the rood, 

She could have run and waddled all about; 

For even the day before, she broke her brow ; 
And then my husband — God be with his soul! 
’A was a merry man — took up the child. 10 
“lea,” quoth he, “dost thou fall upon thy 
face ? 

Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more 
wit; 

Wilt thou not, Jule ? ” and, by my holidame, 
The pretty wretch left crying and said, “ Ay.” 
To see, now, how a jest shall come about! *s 
I warrant, an I should live a thousand years, 

1 never should forget it. “Wilt thou not, 
Jule ? ” quoth he ; 

And, pretty fool, it stinted and said, “ Ay.” 

La. Cap. Enough of this; I pray thee, hold 
thy peace. 

Nurse. Yes, madam; yet I cannot choose 

but laugh, 60 

To think it should leave crying and say, “Ay.” 
And yet, I warrant, it had upon it brow 
A bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone ; 

A perilous knock; and it cried bitterly. 

“Yea,” quoth my husband, “fall’st upon thy 
face ? si 

Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to 

age; 

Wilt thou not, Jule?” It stinted and said, 
“Ay.” 

Jul. And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, 
say I. 

Nurse. Peace, I have done. God mark thee 
to his grace ! 

Thou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nurs’d. 
An I might live to see thee married once, ei 
I have my wish. 

La. Cap. Marry, that “ marry ” is the very 
theme 

I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet, 
How stands your dispositions to be married ? 6 s 

Jul. It is an honour that I dream not of. 

Nurse. An honour! were not I thine only 
nurse, 

I would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from 
thy teat. 

La. Cap. Well, think of marriage now; 
younger than you, 

Here in Verona, ladies of esteem, 70 

Are made already mothers. By my count, 

I was your mother much upon these years 
That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief: 
The valiant Paris seeks you for his love. 

Nurse. A man, young lady! Lady, such a 
man 78 

As all the world — why, he’s a man of wax. 

La. Cap. Verona’s summer hath not such a 
flower. 

Nurse. Nay, he’s a flower; in faith, a very 
flower. 

La. Cap. What say you ? Can you love the 
gentleman ? 

This night you shall behold him at our feast; 80 
Read o’er the volume of young Paris’ face 
And find delight writ there with beauty’s pen; 






840 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


I. IV. 


Examine every married lineament 
And see how one another lends content. 

And what obscur’d in this fair volume lies 85 
Find written in the margent of his eyes. 

This precious book of love, this unbound lover, 
To beautify him, only lacks a cover. 

The fish lives in the sea, and ’tis much pride 
For fair without the fair within to hide. so 
That book in many’s eyes doth share the glory, 
That in gold clasps locks in the golden story ; 
So shall you share all that he doth possess, 

By having him, making yourself no less. 

Nurse. No less! nay, bigger; women grow 
by men. »s 

La. Cap. Speak briefly, can you like of 
Paris’ love ? 

Jul. I ’ll look to like, if looking liking move ; 
But no more deep will I endart mine eye »8 

Than your consent gives strength to make it fly. 

Enter Servant. 

Serv. Madam, the guests are come, supper 
serv’d up, you call’d, my young lady ask’d for, 
the nurse curs’d in the pantry, and everything 
in extremity. I must hence to wait; I beseech 
you, follow straight. _ [Exit. 

La. Cap. We follow thee. Juliet, the County 
stays. 105 

Nurse. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy 

days. [Exeunt. 


[Scene IV. A street .] 

Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five 
or six other Maskers, Torch-bearers. 

Rom. What, shall this speech be spoke for 
our excuse ? 

Or shall we on without apology ? 

Ben. The date is out of such 
We ’ll have no Cupid hoodwink 
Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath, 5 

Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper ; 

[Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke 
After the prompter, for our entrance ;] 

But let them measure us by what they will, 

We ’ll measure them a measure and be gone. 10 
Rom. Give me a torch. I am not for this 
ambling; 

Being but heavy, I will bear the light. 

Mer. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you 
dance. 

Rom. Not I, believe me. You have dancing 
shoes 

With nimble soles ; I have a soul of lead is 
So stakes me to the ground I cannot move. 

Mer. You are a lover ; borrow Cupid’s wings, 
And soar with them above a common bound. 

Rom. I am too sore enpierced with his shaft 
To soar with his light feathers, and so bound 20 
I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe. 

Under love’s heavy burden do I sink. 

Mer. And, to sink in it, should you burden 
love; 

Too great oppression for a tender thing. 

Rom. Is love a tender thing ? It is too rough, 
Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like 
thorn. 26 


prolixity. 

’d with a scarf. 


Mer. If love be rough with you, be rough 
with love; 

Prick love for pricking, and you beat love 
down. — 

Give me a case to put my visage in, 

[Puts on a mask.] 
A visor for a visor ! what care I 30 

What curious eye doth quote deformities ? 
Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me. 
Ben. Come, knock and enter; and no 
sooner in, 

But every man betake him to his legs. 

Rom. A torch for me; let wantons light of 
heart 

Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels, 

For I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase: 

I ’ll be a candle-holder, and look on. 

The game was ne’er so fair, and I am done. 
Mer. Tut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s 
own word. 40 

If thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the 
mire 

Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stickest 
Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho ! 
Rom. Nay, that’s not so. 

Mer. I mean, sir, in delay 

We waste our lights in vain, light lights by 
day. 45 

Take our good meaning, for our judgement sits 
Five times in that ere once in our five wits. 
Rom. And we mean well in going to this 
mask; 

But’t is no wit to go. 

Mer. Why, may one ask ? 49 

Rom. I dream’d a dream to-night. 

Mer. And so did I. 

Rom. Well, what was yours? 

Mer. That dreamers often lie. 

Rom. In bed asleep, while they do dream 
things true. 

Mer. 0 , then, I see Queen Mab hath been 
with you. 

She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes 
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone 66 

On the fore-finger of an alderman, 

Drawn with a team of little atomies 
Over men’s noses as they lie asleep ; 

Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs, 
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers, 00 
Her traces of the smallest spider web, 

Her collars of the moonshine’s tvatery beams, 
Her whip of cricket’s bone, the lash of film, 

Her waggoner a small grey-eoated gnat, 

Not half so big as a round little worm 05 

Prick’d from the lazy finger of a maid ; 

Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut 
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, 

Time out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers. 

And in this state she gallops night by night to 
T hrough lovers’ brains, and then they dream 
of love; 

On courtiers’ knees, that dream on curtsies 
straight; 

O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on 
fees; 

Sr? 1 ' \ a< ^ es? liP 8 ’ w ^o straight on kisses dream, 
W Inch oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, 







I. V. 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


841 


Because their breath with sweetmeats tainted 
are. 76 

Sometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose, 

And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; 

And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail 
Tickling a parson’s nose as ’a lies asleep, so 
Then he dreams of another benefice. 

Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck, 

And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, 
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, 

Of healths five fathom deep ; and then anon so 
Drums in his ear, at which lie starts and wakes, 
And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two 
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab 
That plats the manes of horses in the night, 
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs, so 
Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes. 
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, 
That presses them and learns them first to bear, 
Making them women of good carriage. 

This is she — 

Rom. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace! 95 

Thou talk’st of nothing. 

Mer. True, I talk of dreams, 

Which are the children of an idle brain, 

Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, 

Which is as thin of substance as the air 
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes 
Even now the frozen bosom of the north, 101 
And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence, 
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south. 

Ben. This wind you talk of blows us from 
ourselves. 

Supper is done, and we shall come too late. 105 

Rom. I fear, too early; for my mind mis¬ 
gives 

Some consequence yet hanging in the stars 
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date 
With this night’s revels, and expire the term 
Of a despised life clos’d in my breast no 

By some vile forfeit of untimely death. 

But He that hath the steerage of my course 
Direct my sail ! On, lusty gentlemen ! 

Ben. Strike, drum. 

[They march about the stage. 

[Exeunt.] 

[Scene V. A hall in Capulet's house.] 

[Musicians waiting.] Enter Serving-men, with 
napkins. 

[7.] Serv. Where’s Potpan, that he helps not 
to take away ? He shift a trencher ! He scrape 
a trencher ! 

[2.] Serv. When good manners shall lie all in 
one or two men’s hands, and they unwash’d too, 
’t is a foul thing. 6 

[7.] Serv. Away with the joint-stools, remove 
the court-cupboard, look to the plate. Good 
thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and, as 
thou loves me, let the porter let in Susan 
Grindstone and Nell. Antony and Potpan ! 11 

2. Serv. Ay, boy, ready. 

[7.] Serv. You are look’d for and call d for, 
ask’d for and sought for, in the great cham- 
ber. , , , 

3. Serv, We cannot be here and there too. 


Cheerly, boys ; be brisk a while, and the longer 
liver take all. [They retire.] n 

Enter [Capulet, with Juliet and others of his 
house , meeting] the Guests and Maskers. 

Cap. Welcome, gentlemen ! Ladies that have 
their toes 

Unplagu’d with corns will walk a bout with you. 
Ah, my mistresses, which of you all 20 

Will now deny to dance? She that makes 
dainty, 

She, I ’ll swear, hath corns. Am I come near 
ye now ? 

Welcome, gentlemen ! I have seen the day 
That I have worn a visor and could tell 
A whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear, 25 

Such as would please ; ’t is gone, ’t is gone, ’t is 
gone. 

You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musi¬ 
cians, play. 

[Music plays, and they dance. 
A hall, a hall! give room ! and foot it, girls. 
More light, you knaves; and turn the tables 
up, 29 

And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot. 
Ah, sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well. 
Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet, 

For you and I are past our dancing days. 

How long is’t now since last yourself and I 
Were in a mask ? 

2. Cap. By ’r lady, thirty years. 36 

Cap. What, man ! ’t is not so much, ’tis not 
so much. 

’T is since the nuptial of Lucentio, 

Come Pentecost as quickly as it will. 

Some five and twenty years; and then we 
mask’d. 

2. Cap. ’Tis more, ’tis more. His son is 
elder, sir; *o 

His son is thirty. 

Cap. Will you tell me that ? 

His son was but a ward two years ago. 

Rom. [To a Serving-man.] What lady’s that 
which doth enrich the hand 
Of yonder knight ? 

Serv. I know not, sir. « 

Rom. O, she doth teach the torches to burn 
bright! 

It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night 
As a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear ; 

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! 

So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, bo 
As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows. 

The measure done, I’ll watch her place of 
stand, 

And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. 
Did my heart love till now ? Forswear it, sight! 
For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night. be 
Tyb. This, by his voice, should be a Mon¬ 
tague. 

Fetch me my rapier, boy. What dares the slave 
Come hither, cover’d with an antic face, 

To fleer and scorn at our solemnity ? 

Now, by the stock and honour of my kin, ^ 
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin. 

Cap. Why, how now, kinsman ! wherefore 
storm you so ? 





842 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


11. Pra 


Tyb. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe, 

A villain that is hither come in spite 
To scorn at our solemnity this night. es 

Cap. Young Romeo is it ? 

Tyb. ’T is he, that villain Romeo. 

Cap. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone, 
’A hears him like a portly gentleman; 

And, to say truth, Verona brags of him 
To be a virtuous and well-govern’d youth. to 
I would not for the wealth of all this town 
Here in my house do him disparagement; 
Therefore be patient, take no note of him ; 

It is my will, the which if thou respect, 

Show a fair presence and put off these frowns, 
An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast. w 
Tyb. It fits, when such a villain is a guest. 

I ’ll not endure him. 

Cap. He shall be endur’d. 

What, goodman boy ! I say, he shall; go to ! 
Am I the master here, or you ? Go to ! so 

You’ll not endure him! God shall mend my 
soul! 

You ’ll make a mutiny among my guests! 

You will set cock-a-hoop ! You ’ll be the man ! 
Tyb. Why, uncle, ’t is a shame. 

Cap. Go to, go to; 

You are a saucy boy. Is’t so, indeed ? ss 

This trick may chance to scath you; I know 
what. 

You must contrary me ! Marry, ’tis time. — 
Well said, my hearts! — You are a princox ; go : 
Be quiet, or — More light, more light! —for 
shame! 

I ’ll make you quiet. — What, cheerly, my 
hearts! . 90 

Tyb. Patience perforce with wilful choler 
meeting 

Makes my flesh tremble in their different greet¬ 
ing. 

I will withdraw ; but this intrusion shall 
Now seeming sweet convert to bitt’rest gall. 

[Exit. 

Bom. [To Juliet .] If I profane with my un- 
worthiest hand 95 

This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: 

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand 
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. 
Jul. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand 
too much, 

Which mannerly devotion shows in this ; 100 
For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do 
touch, 

And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss. 

Bom. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers 
too ? 

Jul. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in 
prayer. 

Bom. 0 , then, dear saint, let lips do what 
hands do; ioe 

They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to de¬ 
spair. 

Jul. Saints do not move, though grant for 
prayers’ sake. 

Bom. Then move not, while my prayer’s 
effect I take. 

Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purg’d. 

[Kissing her.] 


Jul. Then have my lips the sin that they 
have took. ll « 

Bom. Sin from my lips? 0 trespass sweetly 
urg’d ! 

Give me my sin again. [Kissing her again. 

Jul. You kiss by the book. 

Nurse. Madam, your mother craves a word 
with you. 

Bom. What is her mother ? 

Nurse. Marry, bachelor, 

Her mother is the lady of the house, us 

And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous. 

I nurs’d her daughter, that you talk’d withal; 

I tell you, he that can lay hold of her 
Shall have the chinks. 

Bom. Is she a Capulet ? 

0 dear account! my life is my foe’s debt. 120 
Ben. Away, be gone; the sport is at the 
best. 

Bom. Ay, so I fear ; the more is my unrest. 
Cap. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be 
gone; 

We have a trifling foolish banquet towards. 

Is it e’en so? Why, then, I thank you all; m 
I thank you, honest gentlemen ; good-night. 
More torches here ! Come on then, let’s to bed. 
Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late ; 

I ’ll to my rest. 

[All but Juliet and Nurse begin to 
go out.] 

Jul. Come hither, nurse. What is yond gen¬ 
tleman ? 13 « 

Nurse. The son and heir of old Tiberio. 

Jul. What’s he that now is going out of 
door ? 

Nurse. Marry, that, I think, be young Petru- 
chio. 

Jul. What’s he that follows there, that 
would not dance ? 

Nurse. I know not. 135 

Jul. Go, ask his name. — If he be married, 
My grave is like to be my wedding-bed. 

Nurse. His name is Romeo, and a Montague ; 
The only son of your great enemy. 139 

Jul. My only love sprung from my only hate ! 
Too early seen unknown, and known too late ! 
Prodigious birth of love it is to me 
That I must love a loathed enemy. 

Nurse. What’s this ? what’s this ? 

Jul. A rhyme I learn’d even now 

Of one I danc’d withal. 

[One calls within, “Juliet.” 
Nurse. Anon, anon! 145 

Come, let’s away ; the strangers all are gone. 

[Exeunt. 


[ACT II] 

[prologue] 

[Enter] Chorus. 

[Chor.] Now old Desire doth in his death-bed lie, 
( And young Affection gapes to be his heir; 
That fair for which love groan’d for and would 
die, 

With tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair. 




II. ii. 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


843 


Now Romeo is belov’d and loves again, b 

Alike bewitched by the charm of looks, 

But to his foe suppos’d he must complain, 

And she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful 
hooks. 

Being held a foe, he may not have access 
To breathe such vows as lovers use to 
swear; 10 

And she as much in love, her means much less 
To meet her new-beloved anywhere. 

But passion lends them power, time means, to 
meet, 

Temp’ring extremities with extreme sweet. 

[Exit.] 

[Scene I. A lane by the wall of Capulet's 
orchard .] 

Enter Romeo, alone. 

Rom. Can I go forward when my heart is 
here ? 

Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out. 

[He climbs the wall , and leaps down 
within it.] 

Enter Benvolio with Mercutio. 

Ben. Romeo! my cousin Romeo ! 

Mer. He is wise ; 

And, on my life, hath stol’n him home to bed. 
Ben. He ran this way, and leap’d this 
orchard wall. 5 

Call, good Mercutio. 

Mer. Nay, I ’ll conjure too. 

Romeo ! humours ! madman ! passion ! lover ! 
Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh ! 

Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied ; 

Cry but “Ay me!” pronounce but “love” 

and “dove”; 10 

Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word, 

One nick-name for her purblind son and heir, 
Young Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim, 
When King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid ! 
He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not; 
The ape is dead, and I must conjure him. is 

I conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes, 

By her high forehead and her scarlet lip ? 

By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering 
thigh 

And the demesnes that there adjacent lie, 20 
That in thy likeness thou appear to us ! 

Ben. An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger 
him. 

Mer. This cannot anger him; ’t would anger 
him 

To raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle, 

Of some strange nature, letting it there stand 26 
Till she had laid it and conjur’d it down. 

That were some spite ; my invocation 
Is fair and honest; in his mistress’ name 
I conjure only but to raise up him. 

Ben. Come, he hath hid himself among these 
trees, so 

To be consorted with the humorous night. 
Blind is his love and best befits the dark. 

Mer. If Love be blind, Love cannot hit the 
mark. 

Now will he sit under a medlar tree, 


And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit ss 
As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone. 
O, Romeo, that she were, O, that she were 
An open et cetera , thou a poperin pear! 

Romeo, good-night; I ’ll to my truckle-bed ; 
This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep. 40 
Come, shall we go ? 

Ben. Go, then ; for’t is in vain 

To seek him here that means not to be found. 

[Exeunt [Ben. and Mer.]. 

[Scene II. Capulet's orchard. 

Romeo advances from the wall.] 

Rom. He jests at scars that never felt a 
wound. 

[Juliet appears above at her win¬ 
dow.] 

But, soft! what light through yonder window 
breaks ? 

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. 

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, 
Who is already sick and pale with grief 5 

That thou, her maid, art far more fair than 
she. 

Be not her maid, since she is envious ; 

Her vestal livery is but sick and green, 

And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. 

It is my lady, 0 , it is my love 1 10 

O, that she knew she were ! 

She speaks, yet she says nothing; what of that ? 
Her eye discourses ; I will answer it. — 

I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks. 

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, is 
Having some business, do entreat her eyes 
To twinkle in their spheres till they return. 
What if her eyes were there, they in her head ? 
The brightness of her cheek would shame those 
stars, 

As daylight doth a lamp ; her eyes in heaven 20 
Would through the airy region stream so bright 
That birds would sing and think it were not 
night. 

See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand ! 

O, that I were a glove upon that hand, 

That I might touch that cheek ! 

Jul. Ay me! 

Rom. She speaks! 

0 , speak again, bright angel! for thou art 2a 
As glorious to this night, being o’er my head, 
As is a winged messenger of heaven 
Unto the white-upturned wond’ring eyes 
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him 30 
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds 
And sails upon the bosom of the air. 

Jul. O Romeo, Romeo ! wherefore art thou 
Romeo ? 

Deny thy father and refuse thy name ; 

Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, sa 
And I ’ll no longer be a Capulet. 

Rom. [Aside.] Shall I hear more, or shall I 
speak at this ? 

Jul. ’T is but thy name that is my enemy ; 
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. 
What’s Montague ? It is nor hand, nor foot, « 
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part 
Belonging to a man. 0 , be some other name I 






844 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


11. ii. 


What’s in a name ? That which we call a rose 
By any other word would smell as sweet; 

So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d, 
Retain that dear perfection which he owes 
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, 
And for thy name which is no part of thee 
Take all myself. 

Rom. I take thee at thy word. 

Call me but love, and I ’ll be new baptiz’d ; eo 
Henceforth I never will be Romeo. 

Jul. What man art thou that thus be- 
screen’d in night 
So stumblest on my counsel ? 

Rom. By a name 

I know not how to tell thee who I am. 

My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, cs 
Because it is an enemy to thee ; 

Had I it written, I would tear the word. 

Jul. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred 
words 

Of thy tongue’s uttering, yet I know the sound. 
Art thou not Romeo and a Montague ? 60 

Bom. Neither, fair maid, if either thee dis¬ 
like. 

Jul. How cam’st thou hither, tell me, and 
wherefore ? 

The orchard Avails are high and hard to climb, 
And the place death, considering who thou art, 
If any of my kinsmen find thee here. 65 

Bom. With love’s light Avings did I o’er- 
perch these walls ; 

For stony limits cannot hold love out, 

And what love can do that dares love attempt; 
Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me. 

Jul. If they do see thee, they will murder 
thee. 70 

Bom. Alack, there lies more peril in thine 
eye 

Than twenty of their swords ! Look thou but 
sweet, 

And I am proof against their enmity. 

Jul. I would not for the world they saw thee 
here. 

Bom. I have night’s cloak to hide me from 
their eyes; 75 

And but thou love me, let them find me here. 
My life were better ended by their hate, 

Than death prorogued, Avanting of thy love. 

Jul. By whose direction found’st thou out 
this place ? 

Rom. By Love, that first did prompt me to 
inquire; so 

He lent me counsel and I lent him eyes. 

I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far 
As that vast shore wash’d with the farthest 
sea, 

I should adventure for such merchandise. 

Jul. Thou know’st the mask of night is on 
my face, so 

Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek 
For that which thou hast heard me speak to¬ 
night. 

Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny 
What I have spoke ; but farewell compliment! 
Dost thou love me ? I know thou wilt say 
“Ay,” 

And I will take thy word; yet, if thou swear’st, 


Thou mayst prove false. At lovers’ perjuries, 
They say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, 

If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully ; 

Or if thou think’st I am too quickly Avon, 95 
I ’ll frown and be perverse and say thee nay, — 
So thou Avilt woo ; but else, not for the world. 
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, 

And therefore thou mayst think my ’haviour 
light; 

But trust me, gentleman, I ’ll prove more true 
Than those that have more cunning to be 
strange. 101 

I should have been more strange, I must con¬ 
fess, 

But that thou overheard’st, ere I was ware, 

My true love’s passion ; therefore pardon me, 
And not impute this yielding to light love, 105 
Which the dark night hath so discovered. 

Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear 
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops — 
Jul. 0 , swear not by the moon, the incon¬ 
stant moon, 

That monthly changes in her circled orb, no 
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. 
Bom. What shall I swear by ? 

Jul. Do not swear at all; 

Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, 
Which is the god of my idolatry, 

And I ’ll believe thee. 

Bom. If my heart’s dear love — 

Jul. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in 
thee, ns 

I have no joy of this contract to-night; 

It is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden, 

Too like the lightning, which doth cease to 
be 

Ere one can say it lightens. Sweet, good-night! 
This bud of love, by summer’s ripening 
breath, 121 

May prove a beauteous flower when next we 
meet. 

Good-night, good-night! as sweet repose and 
rest 

Come to thy heart as that within my breast! 
Bom. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied ? 
Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to¬ 
night ? 126 

Rom. The exchange of thy love’s faithful 
vow for mine. 

Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst re¬ 
quest it; 

And yet I would it were to give again. 

Bom. Wouldst thou withdraw it ? For what 
purpose, love ? 130 

Jul. But to be frank, and give it thee again. 
And yet I wish but for the thing I have. 

My bounty is as boundless as the sea, 

My love as deep ; the more I give to thee, 

The more I have, for both are infinite. isis 

[Wurse] calls within. 

I hear some noise within ; dear love, adieu ! 
Anon, good nurse ! Sweet Montague, be true. 
Stay but a little, I will come again. 

[Exit, above.] 

Bom. 0 blessed, blessed night! I am afeard, 
Being in night, all this is but a dream, ho 

Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. 




ROMEO AND JULIET 


845 


II. iii. 


[Re-enter Juliet, above.] 

Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good¬ 
night indeed. 

If that thy bent of love he honourable, 

Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-mor¬ 
row, 

gx one that I ’ll procure to come to thee, 

YV here and what time thou wilt perform the 
rite; 

And all my fortunes at thy foot I ’ll lay 
And follow thee my lord throughout the world. 
[Awrse.] ( Within.) Madam! 

Jul. I come, anon. — But if thou mean’st 
not well, iso 

I do beseech thee — 

[Aurse.] (Within.) Madam! 

Jul. By and by, I come: — 

To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief. 
To-morrow will I send. 

Rom. So thrive my soul — 

Jul. A thousand times good-night! 155 

[Exit [above]. 

Rom. A thousand times the worse, to want 
thy light. 

Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their 
books, 

But love from love, toward school with heavy 
looks. [Retiring.] 

Re-enter Juliet, above. 

Jul. Hist! Romeo, hist! O, for a falconer’s 
voice, 

To lure this tassel-gentle back again ! ieo 

Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud ; 
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, 
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than 
mine. 

With repetition of my [Romeo’s name.] 

Romeo! 

Rom. It is my soul, that calls upon my name. 
How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by 
night, 16 « 

Like softest music to attending ears ! 

Jul. Romeo! 

Rom. My dear ? 

Jul. What o’clock to-morrow 

Shall I send to thee ? 

Rom. By the hour of nine. 

Jul. I will not fail; ’t is twenty year till 
then. 170 

I have forgot why I did call thee back. 

Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember 
it. 

Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand 
there, 

Rememb’ring how I love thy company. 

Rom. And I ’ll still stay, to have thee still 
forget, . 176 

Forgetting any other home hut this. 

Jul. ’T is almost morning, I would have thee 
gone; — 

And yet no farther than a wanton’s bird; 

That lets it hop a little from her hand, 

Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, iso 
And with a silken thread plucks it back again, 
So loving-jealous of his liberty. 


Rom. I would I were thy bird. 

Jul. Sweet, so would I; 

Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. 
Good-night, good-night! Parting is such sweet 
sorrow, 186 

That I shall say good-night till it be morrow. 

[Exit, above.] 

Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in 
thy breast! 

Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest 1 
Hence will I to my ghostly father’s cell, 

His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell, mo 

[Exit. 

[Scene III. Friar Laurence's cell.] 

Enter Friar [Laurence], with a basket. 

Fri. L. The grey-ey’d morn smiles on the 
frowning night, 

Chequ’ring the eastern clouds with streaks of 
light, 

And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels 
From forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels. 
Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye, s 
The day to cheer and night’s dank dew to dry, 
I must up-fill this osier cage of ours 
With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers. 
The earth, that’s nature’s mother, is her tomb ; 
What is her burying grave, that is her womb ; to 
And from her womb children of divers kind 
We sucking on her natural bosom find, 

Many for many virtues excellent, 

None but for some, and yet all different. 

O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies is 
In plants, herbs, stones, and their true quali¬ 
ties ; 

For nought so vile that on the earth doth live 
But to the earth some special good doth give, 
Nor aught so good but, strain’d from that fair 
use, 

Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse. 20 
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied ; 

And vice sometime’s by action dignified. 

Enter Romeo. 

Within the infant rind of this weak flower 
Poison hath residence and medicine power ; 

For this, being smelt, with that part cheers 
each part; 25 

Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. 
Two such opposed kings encamp them still 
In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will; 
And where the worser is predominant, 

Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. 30 
Rom. Good morrow, father. 

Fri. L. Benedicite! 

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me ? 
Young son, it argues a distempered head 
So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed. 

Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, 35 
And where care lodges, sleep will never lie ; 
But where unbruised youth with unstuff’d 
brain 

Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth 
reign; 

Therefore thy earliness doth me assure 
Thou art up-rous’d with some distemperature ; 






8 4 6 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


II. iv. 


Or i£ not so, then here I hit it right, « 

Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night. 

Rom. That last is true ; the sweeter rest was 
mine. 

Fri. L. God pardon sin! Wast thou with 
Rosaline ? 

Rom. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? 
No! « 

I have forgot that name, and that name’s woe. 
Fri. L. That’s my good son; but where 
hast thou been, then ? 

Rom. I ’ll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again. 
I have been feasting with mine enemy, 

Where on a sudden one hath wounded me, 60 
That’s by me wounded ; both our remedies 
Within thy help and holy physic lies. 

I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo, 

My intercession likewise steads my foe. 

Fri. L. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy 
drift; ... 65 

Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. 
Rom. Then plainly know my heart’s dear love 
is set 

On the fair daughter of rich Capulet. 

As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine ; 

And all combin’d, save what thou must com¬ 
bine 60 

By holy marriage. When and where and how 
We met, we woo’d, and made exchange of 
vow, 

I ’ll tell thee as we pass ; but this I pray, 

That thou consent to marry us to-day. 

Fri. L. Holy Saint Francis, what a change is 
here! os 

Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear, 

So soon forsaken ? Young men’s love then lies 
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. 
Jesu Maria, what a deal of brine 
Hath wash’d thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline ! to 
H ow much salt water thrown away in waste, 
To season love, that of it doth not taste ! 

The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, 
Thy old groans yet ring in mine ancient ears ; 
Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit ts 
O f an old tear that is not wash’d off yet. 

If e’er thou wast thyself and these woes thine, 
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline. 

And art thou chang’d ? Pronounce this sentence 
t then: 

' Women may fall, when there’s no strength in 
men. »o 

Rom. Thou chid’st me oft for loving Rosa¬ 
line. 

Fri. L. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine. 
Rom. And bad’st me bury love. 

Fri. L. Not in a grave, 

To lay one in, another out to have. 

Rom. I pray thee, chide me not. Her I love 
now as 

Doth grace for grace and love for love allow ; 
The other did not so. 

Fri. L. O, she knew well 

Thy love did read by rote that could not spell. 
But come, young waverer, come, go with me, 
In one respect I ’ll thy assistant be ; so 

For this alliance may so happy prove, 

To turn your households’ rancour to pure love. 


Rom. 0 , let us hence; I stand on sudden 
haste. 

Fri. L. Wisely and slow ; they stumble that 
run fast. [Exeunt. 

[Scene IV. A street .] 

Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. 

Mer. Where the devil should this Romeo be ? 
Came he not home to-night ? 

Ben. Not to his father’s; I spoke with his 
man. 

Mer. Ah, that same pale hard-hearted wench, 
that Rosaline, 

Torments him so, that he will sure run mad. e 

Ben. Tybalt, the kinsman of old Capulet, 
Hath sent a letter to his father’s house. 

Mer. A challenge, on my life. 

Ben. Romeo will answer it. 

Mer. Any man that can write may answer a 
letter. n> 

Ben. Nay, he will answer the letter’s master, 
how he dares, being dared. 

Mer. Alas, poor Romeo ! he is already dead ; 
stabb’d with a white wench’s black eye; run 
through the ear with a love song; the very pin 
of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt- 
shaft : and is he a man to encounter Tybalt ? it 

Ben. Why, what is Tybalt ? 

Mer. More than prince of cats. 0 , he’s the 
courageous captain of compliments. He fights 
as you sing prick-song; keeps time, dis¬ 
tance, and proportion ; he rests his minim [22 
rests, one, two, and the third in your bosom : 
the very butcher of a silk button ; a duellist, a 
duellist; a gentleman of the very first house, 
of the first and second cause. Ah, the immortal 
passado ! the punto reverso ! the hai ! 

Ben. The what? 28 

Mer. The pox of such antic, lisping, affect¬ 
ing fantasticoes ; these new tuners of accent! 
“ By Jesu, a very good blade ! a very tall man ! 
a very good whore ! ” Why, is not this a lament¬ 
able thing, grandsire, that we should be thus 
afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion- 
mongers, these perdona-mVs, who stand so much 
on the new form, that they cannot sit at ease on 
the old bench ? 0 , their bones, their bones! 3 T 

Enter Romeo. 

Ben. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo. 

Mer. Without his roe, like a dried herring: 
0 flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified ! Now is 
he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in. 
Laura to his lady was a kitchen-wench, marry, 
she had a better love to be-rhyme her; Dido 
a dowdy j Cleopatra a gipsy; Helen and [is 
Hero hildings and harlots ; Thisbe, a grey eye 
or so, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, 
bonjour ! There’s a French salutation to your 
French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly 
last night. 

Rom. Good morrow to you both. What 
counterfeit did I give you? 60 

Mer. The slip, sir, the slip ; can you not con¬ 
ceive ? 

Rom. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business 





II. iv. 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


847 


was great; and in such a case as mine a man 
may strain courtesy. C5 

Mer. That’s as much as to say, such a case 
as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams. 
Rom. Meaning, to curtsy. 

Mer. Thou hast most kindly hit it. 

Rom. A most courteous exposition. eo 

Mer. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy. 
Rom. Pink for flower. 

Mer. Right. 63 

Rom. Why, then is my pump well flower’d. 
Mer. Sure wit! Follow me this jest now till 
thou hast worn out thy pump, that, when the 
single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain, 
after the wearing, solely singular. 

Rom. 0 single-sol’d jest, solely singular for 
the singleness! 70 

Mer. Come between us, good Benvolio ; my 
wits faint. 

Rom. Switch and spurs, switch and spurs; 
or I ’ll cry a match. n 

Mer. Nay, if our wits run the wild-goose 
chase, I am done, for thou hast more of the 
wild-goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I 
have in my whole five. Was I with you there 
for the goose ? so 

Rom. Thou wast never with me for anything 
when thou wast not there for the goose. 

Mer. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest. 
Rom. Nay, good goose, bite not. 

Mer. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting ; it is 
a most sharp sauce. 

Rom. And is it not, then, well serv’d in to a 
sweet goose ? se 

Mer. O, here’s a wit of cheveril, that 
stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad ! 

Rom. I stretch it out for that word ‘ ‘ broad ’ ’; 
which added to the goose, proves thee far and 
wide a broad goose. »i 

Mer. Why, is not this better now than groan¬ 
ing for love ? Now art thou sociable, now art 
thou Romeo, now art thou what thou art, by 
art as well as by nature; for this drivelling 
love is like a great natural, that runs lolling up 
and down to hide his bauble in a hole. «7 

Ben. Stop there, stop there. 

Mer. Thou desir’st me to stop in my tale 
against the hair. 

Ben. Thou wouldst else have made thy tale 
large. 102 

Mer. 0 , thou art deceiv’d; I would have 
made it short; for I was come to the whole 
depth of my tale, and meant, indeed, to occupy 
the argument no longer. ioe 

Rom. Here’s goodly gear! 

Enter Nurse and her man [Peter]. 

A sail, a sail! 

Mer. Two, two ; a shirt and a smock. 

Nurse. Peter! 

Peter. Anon ! 

Nurse. My fan, Peter. 

Mer. Good Peter, to hide her face; for her 
fan’s the fairer face. 

Nurse. God ye good morrow, gentlemen, us 
Mer. God ye good den, fair gentlewoman. 
Nurse. Is it good den ? 


Mer. ’T is no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy 
hand of the dial is now upon the prick of 
noon. 

Nurse. Out upon you! what a man are 
you! 120 

Rom. One, gentlewoman, that God hath 
made for himself to mar. 

Nurse. By my troth, it is well said ; “ for 
himself to mar,” quoth ’a! Gentlemen, can 
any of you tell me where I may find the young 
Romeo ? 126 

Rom. I can tell you ; but young Romeo will 
be older when you have found him than he was 
when you sought him. I am the youngest of 
that name, for fault of a worse. 

Nurse. You say well. wo 

Mer. Yea, is the worst well? Very well 
took, i’ faith ; wisely, wisely. 

Nurse. If you be he, sir, I desire some con¬ 
fidence with you. 

Ben. She will indite him to some supper. 135 
Mer. A bawd, a bawd, a bawd ! So ho ! 
Rom. What hast thou found ? 

Mer. No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a 
lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere 
it be spent. [Sing's.] 140 

“ An old hare hoar, 

And an old hare hoar, 

Is very good meat in lent; 

But a hare that is hoar 
Is too much for a score, 145 

When it hoars ere it be spent.” 

Romeo, will you come to your father’s ? We ’ll 
to dinner thither. 

Rom. I will follow you. 

Mer. Farewell, ancient lady ; farewell, [sin<7- 
ing\ “lady, lady, lady.” isi 

[.Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio. 
Nurse. I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant 
was this, that was so full of his ropery ? 

Rom. A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear 
himself talk, and will speak more in a minute 
than he will stand to in a month. 157 

Nurse. An ’a speak anything against me, 
I ’ll take him down, an ’a were lustier than he 
is, and twenty such Jacks ; and if I cannot, I ’ll 
find those that shall. Scurvy knave! I am 
none of his flirt-gills ; I am none of his skains- 
mates. — And thou must stand by too, and 
suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure ? ie 4 
Peter. I saw no man use you at his pleasure ; 
if I had, my weapon should quickly have been 
out. I warrant you, I dare draw as soon as 
another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, 
and the law on my side. isb 

Nurse. Now, afore God, I am so vex’d, that 
every part about me quivers. Scurvy knave ! 
Pray you, sir, a word: and as I told you, my 
young lady bid me inquire you out; what she 
bid me say, I will keep to myself. But first 
let me tell ye, if ye should lead her into a 
fool’s paradise, as they say, it were a very [175 
gross kind of behaviour, as they say ; for the 
gentlewoman is young, and, therefore, if you 
should deal double with her, truly it were an ill 
thing to be off’red to any gentlewoman, and 
very weak dealing. m 





8 4 8 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


II. V. 


Rom. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and 
mistress. I protest unto thee — 

Nurse. Good heart, and, i’ faith, I will tell 
her as much. Lord, Lord, she will be a joyful 
woman. 

RoJti. What wilt thou tell her, nurse ? Thou 
dost not mark me. 

Nurse. I will tell her, sir, that you do pro¬ 
test; which, as I take it, is a gentlemanlike 
offer. 

Rom. Bid her devise 

Some means to come to shrift this afternoon ; 
And there she shall at Friar Laurence’ cell 
Be shriv’d and married. Here is for thy pains. 
Nurse. No, truly, sir; not a penny. 105 

Rom. Go to ; I say you shall. 

Nurse. This afternoon, sir? Well, she shall 
he there. 

Rom. And stay, good nurse ; — behind the 
abbey wall 

Within this hour my man shall be with thee, 200 
And bring thee cords made like a tackled 
stair; 

Which to the high top-gallant of my joy 
Must be my convoy in the secret night. 
Farewell; he trusty, and I ’ll quit thy pains. 
Farewell; commend me to thy mistress. 205 
Nurse. Now God in heaven bless thee ! Hark 
you, sir. 

Rom. What say’st thou, my dear nurse ? 
Nurse. Is your man secret ? Did you ne’er 
hear say, 

“ Two may keep counsel, putting one away ” ? 
Rom. I warrant thee, my man’s as true as 
steel. 210 

Nurse. Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest 
lady — Lord, Lord ! when ’t was a little prating 
thing, — 0 , there is a nobleman in town, one 
Paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she, 
good soul, had as lief see a toad, a very toad, [215 
as see him. I anger her sometimes and tell her 
that Paris is the properer man ; but, I ’ll war¬ 
rant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any 
clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary 
and Romeo begin both with a letter ? 220 

Rom. Ay, nurse ; what of that ? Both with 
an R. 

Nurse. Ah, mocker ! that’s the dog’s name. 
R is for the — No ; I know it begins with some 
other letter — and she hath the prettiest senten¬ 
tious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would 
do you good to hear it. 227 

Rom. Commend me to thy lady. 

Nurse. Ay, a thousand times. [Exit Romeo.} 
Peter! 

Pet. Anon! 

Nurse. Before, and apace. [Exeunt. 232 

[Scene V. CapuleVs orchard .] 

Enter Juliet. 

Jul. The clock struck nine when I did send 
the nurse; 

In half an hour she promis’d to return. 
Perchance she cannot meet him : that’s not so. 
O, she is lame! Love’s heralds should be 
thoughts, 


Which ten times faster glide than the sun’s 
beams > t * 

Driving back shadows over louring hills ; 
Therefore do nimble-pinion’d doves draw Love, 
And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid 
wings. 

Now is the sun upon the highmost hill 
Of this day’s journey, and from nine till twelve 
Is three long hours, yet she is not come. u 
Had she affections and warm youthful blood, 
She would be as swift in motion as a ball; 

My words would bandy her to my sweet love, 
And his to me ; 16 

But old folks, marry, feign as they were dead ; 
Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead. 

Enter Nurse [ and Peter]. 

0 God, she conies ! O honey nurse, what news ? 
Hast thou met with him ? Send thy man away. 
Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate. 20 

[Exit Peter. 

Jul. Now, good sweet nurse, — 0 Lord, why 
look’s! thou sad ? 

Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily ; 

If good, thou sham’st the music of sweet 
news 

By playing it to me with so sour a face. 

Nurse. I am a-weary, give me leave a while. 
Fie, how my bones ache ! What a jaunce have 
I had! 26 

Jul. I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy 
news. 

Nay, come, I pray thee, speak; good, good 
nurse, speak. 

Nurse. Jesu, what haste ! Can you not stay 
a while ? 

Do you not see that I am out of breath ? so 
Jul. How art thou out of breath, when thou 
hast breath 

To say to me that thou art out of breath ? 

The excuse that thou dost make in this delay 
Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. 

Is thy news good, or bad ? Answer to that; 35 

Say either, and I ’ll stay the circumstance. 

Let me be satisfied, is’t good or bad ? 

Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice : 
you know not how to choose a man. Romeo ! 
no, not he ; though his face be better than any 
man’s, yet his leg excels all men’s ; and for [40 
a hand, and a foot, and a body, though they be 
not to be talk’d on, yet they are past compare. 
He is not the flower of courtesy, but, I ’ll war¬ 
rant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, 
wench; serve God. What, have you din’d at 
home ? 46 

Jul. No, no ! But all this did I know before. 
What says he of our marriage? What of 
that ? 

Nurse. Lord, how my head aches! What a 
head have I! 

It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. no 
My back o’ t’other side, — O, my back, my 
back ! 

Beshrew your heart for sending me about 
To catch my death with jauncing up and down ! 
Jul. I’ faith, I am sorry that thou art not 
well. 







III. i. 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


849 


Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says 
my love ? 65 

Nurse. Your love says, like an honest gen¬ 
tleman, and a courteous, and a kind, and a 
handsome, and, I warrant, a virtuous, —Where 
is your mother ? 

Jul. Where is my mother! why, she is 
within; eo 

Where should she he ? How oddly thou re- 
pliest! 

“ Your love says, like an honest gentleman, 

‘ Where is your mother ? ’” 

Nurse. 0 God’s lady dear ! 

Are you so hot ? Marry, come up, I trow ; 

Is this the poultice for my aching bones ? 65 

Henceforward do your messages yourself. 

Jul. Here’s such a coil! — Come, what says 
Romeo ? 

Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift to¬ 
day ? 

Jul. I have. 

Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Lau¬ 
rence’ cell; 70 

There stays a husband to make you a wife. 
Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks, 
They ’ll be in scarlet straight at any news. 

Hie you to church ; I must another way, 

To fetch a ladder, by the which your love 76 
Must climb a bird’s nest soon when it is dark. 

I am the drudge and toil in your delight, 

But you shall bear the burden soon at night. 

Go ; I ’ll to dinner ; hie you to the cell. 

Jul. Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, 
farewell. [Exeunt, eo 

[Scene VI. Friar Laurence’s cell.] 

Enter Friar Laurence and Romeo. 

Fri. L. So smile the heavens upon this holy 
act, 

That after hours with sorrow chide us not! 
Rom. Amen, amen ! but come what sorrow 
can, 

It cannot countervail the exchange of joy 
That one short minute gives me in her sight. 6 
Do thou but close our hands with holy words, 
Then love-devouring Death do what he dare ; 
It is enough I may but call her mine. 

Fri. L. These violent delights have violent 
ends, 

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, 
Which as they kiss consume. The sweetest 
honey n 

Is loathsome in his own deliciousness 
And in the taste confounds the appetite ; 
Therefore love moderately ; long love doth so ; 
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow. is 

Enter Juliet. 

Here comes the lady. 0 , so light a foot 
Will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint. 

A lover may bestride the gossamer 
That idles in the wanton summer air, 

And vet not fall; so light is vanity. 20 

Jul. Good even to my ghostly confessor. 

Fri. L. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, 
for us both. 


Jul. As much to him, else is his thanks too 
much. 

Rom. Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy 
Be heap’d like mine and that thy skill be more 
To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath 20 
This neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue 
Unfold the imagin’d happiness that both 
Receive in either by this dear encounter. 

Jul. Conceit, more rich in matter than in 
words, 30 

Brags of his substance, not of ornament. 

They are but beggars that can count their 
worth; 

But my true love is grown to such excess 
I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth. 

Fri. L. Come, come with me, and we will 
make short work ; 35 

For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone 
Till Holy Church incorporate two in one. 

[Exeunt. 

[ACT III] 

[Scene I. A public place.] 

Enter Mercutio, Bknvolio, and men. 

Ben. I pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire. 
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, 

And, if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl. 
For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stir¬ 
ring. 4 

Mer. Thou art, like one of these fellows that, 
when he enters the confines of a tavern, claps 
me his sword upon the table and says, “ God 
send me no need of thee ! ” and by the opera¬ 
tion of the second cup draws him on the drawer, 
when indeed there is no need. 10 

Ben. Am I like such a fellow ? 

Mer. Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in 
thy mood as any in Italy, and as soon moved to 
be moody, and as soon moody to be moved. 

Ben. And what to ? 15 

Mer. Nay, an there were two such, we should 
have none shortly, for one would kill the other. 
Thou ! why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that 
hath a hair more, or a hair less, in his beard, 
than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man 
for cracking nuts, having no other reason [20 
but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye 
but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel ? 
Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full 
of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as 
addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast [28 
quarrell’d with a man for coughing in the street, 
because he hath wakened thy dog that hath 
lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out 
with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before 
Easter? with another, for tying his new [30 
shoes with old riband ? And yet thou wilt tutor 
me for quarrelling! 

Ben. An I were so apt to quarrel as thou 
art, any man should buy the fee-simple of my 
life for an hour and a quarter. 3 « 

Mer. The fee-simple ! O simple ! 

Enter Tybalt, Petruchio, and others. 

Ben. By my head, here comes the Capulets. 





850 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


III. L 


Mer. By my heel, I care not. 

Tyb. Follow me close, for I will speak to 
them. Gentlemen, good den; a word with one 
of you. 41 

Mer. And but one word with one of us? 
Couple it with something ; make it a word and 
a blow. 

Tyb. You shall find me apt enough to that, 
sir, an you will give occasion. 

Mer. Could you not take some occasion with¬ 
out giving ? 47 

Tyb. Mercutio, thou consortest with Ro¬ 
meo, — 

Mer. Consort! what, dost thou make us 
minstrels ? An thou make minstrels of us, look 
to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddle¬ 
stick ; here’s that shall make you dance. 
’Zounds, consort! 62 

Ben. We talk here in the public haunt of 
men. 

Either withdraw unto some private place, 

Or reason coldly of your grievances, es 

Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us. 

Mer. Men’s eyes were made to look, and let 
them gaze ; 

I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I. 

Enter Romeo. 

Tyb. Well, peace be with you, sir; here 
comes my man. 

Mer. But I ’ll be hang’d, sir, if he wear your 
livery. bo 

Marry, go before to field, he ’ll be your fol¬ 
lower ; 

Your worship in that sense may call him 
“ man.” 

Tyb. Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford 
No better term than this : thou art a villain. 
Bom. Tybalt, the reason that I have to love 
thee 65 

Doth much excuse the appertaining rage 
To such a greeting. Villain am I none ; 
Therefore farewell; I see thouknow’st me not. 

Tyb. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries 
That thou hast done me ; therefore turn and 
draw. 70 

Bom. I do protest, I never injured thee, 

But love thee better than thou canst devise 
Till thou shalt know the reason of my love ; 
And so, good Capulet, — which name I tender 

As dearly as mine own, — be satisfied. 75 

Mer. 0 calm, dishonourable, vile submission ! 
Alla stoccata carries it away. [Draws.] 

Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk ? 

Tyb. What wouldst thou have with me ? 79 

Mer. Good king of cats, nothing but one 
of your nine lives ; that I mean to make bold 
withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry- 
beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your 
sword out of his pilcher by the ears? Make 
haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be 

OUt. 85 

Tyb. I am for you. [Drawing.] 

Bom. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up. 
Mer. Come, sir, your passado. [Theyfight.] 
Bom. Draw, Benvolio; beat down their 
weapons. 


Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage ! 90 
Tybalt, Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath 
Forbid this bandying in Verona streets. 

Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio ! 

[Tybalt under Borneo's arm thrusts 
Mercutio , and flies. 

Mer. I am hurt. 

A plague o’ both your houses ! I am sped. 

Is he gone, and hath nothing ? 

Ben. What, art thou hurt ? 

Mer. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch ; marry, 
’t is enough. 96 

Where is my page ? Go, villain, fetch a 
surgeon. [ Exit Page.] 

Bom. Courage, man; the hurt cannot be 
much. 

Mer. No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so 
wide as a church-door ; but’t is enough, ’t will 
serve. Ask for me to-morrow, and you [101 
shall find me a grave man. I am pepper’d, I 
warrant, for this world. A plague o’ both your 
houses ! ’Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, 
to scratch a man to death ! a braggart, a rogue, 
a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic ! 
Why the devil came you between us? I was 
hurt under your arm. n >8 

Bom. I thought all for the best. 

Mer. Help me into some house, Benvolio, 

Or I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses ! 
They have made worms’ meat of me. I have 
it, 

And soundly too. Your houses ! 113 

[.Exeunt [Mercutio and Benvolio], 
Bom. This gentleman, the Prince’s near 
ally, 

My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt 
In my behalf ; my reputation stain’d 
With Tybalt’s slander, — Tybalt, that an hour 
Hath been my cousin ! O sweet Juliet, 

Thy beauty hath made me effeminate 

And in my temper soft’ned valour’s steel! 120 

Be-enter Benvolio. 

Ben. 0 Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s 
dead ! 

That gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds, 
Which too untimely here did scorn the earth. 
Bom. This day’s black fate on moe days 
doth depend; 

This but begins the woe others must end. 125 
Ben. Here comes the furious Tybalt back 
again. 

Be-enter Tybalt. 

Bom. Alive, in triumph! and Mercutio slain ! 
Away to heaven, respective lenity, 

And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now ! 

Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again, wo 
That late thou gav’st me ; for Mercutio’s soul 
Is biit a little way above our heads, 

Staying for thine to keep him company. 

Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him. 
Tyb. Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort 
him here, 135 

Shalt with him hence. 

Bom. This shall determine that. 

[They flight; Tybalt falls. 






in. ii. 


ROMEO AND JULIET 




Ben. Romeo, away, be gone ! 

The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain. 

Stand not amaz’d; the Prince will doom thee 
death 

If thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away ! 140 

Bom. 0 , I am fortune’s fool! 

Ben. Why dost thou stay ? 

\Exit Borneo. 

Enter Citizens. 

1. Cit. Which way ran he that kill’d Mer- 
cutio ? 

Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he ? 
Ben. There lies that Tybalt. 

L Cit. Up, sir, go with me ; 

I charge thee in the Prince’s name, obey. ns 

Enter Prince, Montague, Capulet, their 
Wives, and all. 

Brin. Where are the vile beginners of this 
fray ? 

Ben. O noble Prince, I can discover all 
The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl. 

There lies the man, slain by young Romeo, 
That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio. iso 
La. Cap. Tybalt, my cousin ! 0 my brother’s 
child! 

O Prince ! 0 cousin ! husband ! 0 , the blood is 
spilt 

Of my dear kinsman ! Prince, as thou art true, 
For blood of ours, shed blood of Montague. 

0 cousin, cousin ! iss 

Prin. Benvolio, who began this bloody fray ? 
Ben. Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand 
did slay ! 

Romeo that spoke him fair, bid him bethink 
How nice the quarrel was, and urg’d withal 
Your high displeasure ; all this uttered i«o 
With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly 
bow’d, 

Could not take trace with the unruly spleen 
Of Tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts 
With piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast, 
Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, ios 
And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats 
Cold death aside, and with the other sends 
It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity 
Retorts it. Romeo he cries aloud, 

“ Hold, friends! friends, part!” and, swifter 
than his tongue, uo 

His agile arm beats down their fatal points, 
And ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose 
arm 

An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life 
Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled ; 

But by and by comes back to Romeo, 

Who had but newly entertain’d revenge, 

And to’t they go like lightning, for, ere I 
Could draw to part them, was stout Tybalt 
slain, 

And, as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly. 

This is the truth, or let Benvolio die. i»o 

La. Cap. He is a kinsman to the Montague; 
Affection makes him false ; he speaks not true. 
Some twenty of them fought in this black 
strife, 

And all those twenty could but kill one life. 


I beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give ; 
Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live, i 86 
Prin. Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio ; 
Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe ? 
Mon. Not, Romeo, Prince, he was Mercutio’s 
friend; 

His fault concludes but what the law should 
end, i 9 » 

The life of Tybalt. 

Prin. And for that offence 

Immediately we do exile him hence. 

I have an interest in your hate’s proceeding, 
My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleed- 


But I ’ll amerce you with so strong a fine ios 
That you shall all repent the loss of mine. 

I will be deaf to pleading and excuses ; 

Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses ; 
Therefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste, 
Else, when he’s found, that hour is his last. 200 
Bear hence this body and attend our will. 
Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill. 

[Exeunt. 


[Scene II. Capulet's orchard .] 

Enter Juliet, alone. 

Jul. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, 
Towards Phoebus’ lodging ; such a waggoner 
As Phaethon would whip you to the west, 

And bring in cloudy night immediately. 4 
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, 
That runaway’s eyes may wink ; and, Romeo, 
Leap to these arms ! Untalk’d of and unseen 
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites, 

And by their own beauties ; or, if love be blind, 
It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, 10 
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black, 

And learn me how to lose a winning match, 
Play’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods. 
Hood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks, 
With thy black mantle ; till strange love grow 
bold, is 

Think true love acted, simple modesty. 

Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day 
in night; 

For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night, 
Whiter than new snow on a raven’s back. 
Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow’d 
night, 20 

Give me my Romeo ; and, when he shall die, 
Take him and cut him out in little stars, 

And he will make the face of heaven so fine 
That all the world will be in love with night, 
And pay no worship to the garish sun. 25 

O, I have bought the mansion of a love, 

But not possess’d it, and, though I am sold, 
Not yet enjoy’d. So tedious is this day 
As is the night before some festival 
To an impatient child that hath new robes 30 
And may not wear them. 0 , here comes my 
nurse, 

Enter Nurse, with cords. 

And she brings news; and every tongue that 
speaks 

But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence. 





ROMEO AND JULIET 


hi. 11. 


852 


Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou 
there ? The cords 
That Romeo bid thee fetch ? 



Jul. Ay me! what news? Why dost thou 
wring 1 thy hands ? 

Nurse. Ah, well-a-day! he’s dead, he’s 
dead, he’s dead! 

We are undone, lady, we are undone ! 

Alack the day! he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s 
dead! 

Jul. Can heaven be so envious ? 

Nurse. Romeo can, 

Though heaven cannot. 0 Romeo, Romeo ! n 
Who ever would have thought it ? Romeo ! 
Jul. What devil art thou, that dost torment 
me thus ? 

This torture should be roar’d in dismal hell. 
Hath Romeo slain himself ? Say thou but ay, 
And that bare vowel I shall poison more 46 
Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice. 

I am not I, if there be such an ay ; 

Or those eyes shut, that makes thee answer ay. 
If he be slain, say ay ; or if not, no. 50 

Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe. 
Nurse. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine 
eyes, — 

God save the mark! —here on his manly breast. 
A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse ! 

Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood, 55 
All in gore-blood ; I swounded at the sight. 

Jul. 0 , break, my heart! poor bankrupt, 
break at once! 

To prison, eyes, ne’er look on liberty! 

Vile earth, to earth resign ; end motion here ; 
And thou and Romeopress one heavy bier ! 60 
Nurse. 0 Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I 
had ! 

0 courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman ! 

That ever I should live to see thee dead ! 

Jul. What storm is this that blows so con¬ 
trary ? 

Is Romeo slaught’red, and is Tybalt dead ? es 
My dearest cousin, and my dearer lord ? 

Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general 
doom ! 

For who is living, if those two are gone ? 

Nurse. Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished; 
Romeo that kill’d him, he is banished. 70 

Jul. O God ! did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s 
blood ? 

Nurse. It did, it did ; alas the day, it did ! 
Jul. 0 serpent heart, hid with a flow’ring 
face! 

Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave ? 

Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical! 75 

Dove-feather’d raven ! wolvish ravenous lamb! 
Despised substance of divinest show ! 

Just opposite to what thou justly seem’st, 

A damned saint, an honourable villain ! 

0 nature, what hadst thou to do in hell, so 
When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend 
In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh ? 

Was ever book containing such vile matter 
So fairly bound ? 0 , that deceit should dwell 
In such a gorgeous palace ! 


Nurse. There’s no trust, »* 

No faith, no honesty in men ; all perjur’d, 

All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. 

Ah, where’s my man ? Give me some aqua 
vitae ; 

These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make 
me old. 

Shame come to Romeo! 

Jul. Blister’d be thy tongue 

For such a wish ! he was not born to shame, ai 
Upon his brow shame is asham’d to sit; 

For’t is a throne where honour may be crown’d 
Sole monarch of the universal earth. 

0 , what a beast was I to chide at him ! 95 

Nurse. Will you speak well of him that kill’d 
your cousin ? 

Jul. Shall I speak ill of him that is my hus¬ 
band ? 

Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy 
name, 

When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled 
it ? 

But, wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my 
cousin ? 100 

That villain cousin would have kill’d my hus¬ 
band. 

Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring ; 
Your tributary drops belong to woe, 

Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy. 

My husband lives, that Tybalt would have 
slain; 105 

And Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my 
husband. 

All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then ? 
Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s 
death, 

That murd’red me ; I would forget it fain ; 
But, 0 , it presses to my memory no 

Like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds : 

“ Tybalt is dead, and Romeo — banished.” 

That “banished,” that one word “banished,” 
Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s 
death 

Was woe enough, if it had ended there; ns 
Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship 
And needly will be rank’d Avith other griefs, 
Why follow’d not, when she said, “Tybalt’s 
dead,” 

Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both, 119 
Which modern lamentation might have mov’d ? 
But with a rear-Avard following Tybalt’s death, 
“ Romeo is banished,” to speak that word, 

Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, 

All slain, all dead. “ Romeo is banished ! ” 
There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, 126 
In that word’s death ; no words can that woe 
sound. 

Where is my father and my mother, nurse ? 

Nurse. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt’s 
corse. 

Will you go to them ? I will bring you thither. 

Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears ? 
Mine shall be spent, i 3 « 

When theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment. 
Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are be- 
guil’d, 

Both you and I, for Romeo is exil’d. 





ROMEO AND JULIET 


§53 


in. iii. 


He made you for a highway to my bed, 

But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed. m 

Come, cords, come, nurse ; I ’ll to my wedding- 
bed ; 

And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead ! 

Nurse. Hie to your chamber. I’ll find Ro¬ 
meo 

To comfort you ; I wot well where he is. 

Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night. 140 
I ’ll to him ; he is hid at Laurence’ cell. 

Jul. O, find him ! Give this ring to my true 
knight, 

And bid him come to take his last farewell. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III. Friar Laurence's cell.] 

Enter Friar Laurence, Romeo [ following ]. 

Fri. L. Romeo, come forth ; come forth, 
thou fearful man : 

Affliction is enamour’d of thy parts, 

And thou art wedded to calamity. 

Rom. Father, what news? What is the 
Prince’s doom ? 4 

What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand, 
That I yet know not ? 

Fri. L. Too familiar 

Is my dear son with such sour company. 

I bring thee tidings of the Prince’s doom. 

Rom. What less than dooms-day is the 
Prince’s doom ? 

Fri. L. A gentler judgement vanish’d from 
his lips, 10 

Not body’s death, but body’s banishment. 

Rom. Ha, banishment! Be merciful, say 
death; 

For exile hath more terror in his look, 

Much more than death. Do not say banish¬ 
ment ! 

Fri. L. Here from Verona art thou ban¬ 
ished. is 

Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. 

Rom. There is no world without Verona 
walls, 

But purgatory, torture, hell itself. 

Hence banished is banish’d from the world, 
And world’s exile is death ; then “ banished ” 20 
Is death mis-term’d. Calling death “ banish¬ 
ment,” 

Thou cut’st my head off with a golden axe. 
And smil’st upon the stroke that murders me. 

Fri. L. O deadly sin! O rude unthankful¬ 
ness ! 

Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind 
prince, # 26 

Taking thy part, hath rush’d aside the law, 
And turn’d that black word death to banish¬ 
ment. 

This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not. 

Rom. ’T is torture, and not mercy. Heaven 
is here, 

Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog 30 
And little mouse, every unworthy thing, 

Live here in heaven and may look on her ; 

But Romeo may not. More validity, 

More honourable state, more courtship lives 
In carrion-flies than Romeo ; they may seize »« 


On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand 
And steal immortal blessing from her lips, 
Who, even in pure and vestal modesty, 

Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin ; 
But Romeo may not; he is banished. 40 

This may flies do, when I from this must fly ; 
They are free men, but I am banished: 

And say’st thou yet that exile is not death ? 
Hadst. thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground 
knife, 

No sudden mean of death, though ne’er so 
mean, 45 

But “ banished ” to kill me ? — “ Banished ” ? 
O friar, the damned use that word in hell; 
Howlings attend it. How hast thou the heart, 
Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, 

A sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d, so 

To mangle me with that word “ banished ” ? 

Fri. L. Thou fond mad man, hear me a little 
speak. 

Rom. 0 , thou wilt speak again of banish¬ 
ment. 

Fri. L. I ’ll give thee armour to keep off 
that word; 

Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy, 65 

To comfort thee, though thou art banished. 

Rom. Yet u banished”? Hang up philoso¬ 
phy! 

Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, 

Displant a town, reverse a prince’s doom, 

It helps not, it prevails not. Talk no more, no 

Fri. L. 0 , then I see that madmen have no 
ears. 

Rom. How should they, when that wise men 
have no eyes ? 

Fri. L. Let me dispute with thee of thy 
estate. 

Rom. Thou canst not speak of that thou dost 
not feel. 

Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, 66 
An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, 
Doting like me and like me banished 
Then miglitst thou speak, then mightst thou 
tear thy hair, 

And fall upon the ground, as I do now, 

Taking the measure of an unmade grave. 70 

[Knocking within. 

Fri. L. Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, 
hide thyself. 

Rom. Not I; unless the breath of heart-sick 
groans, 

Mist-like, infold me from the search of eyes. 

[Knocking. 

Fri. L. Hark, how they knock! Who’s 
there ? Romeo, arise ; 

Thou wilt be taken. — Stay awhile!—Stand 
up; [Knocking. 75 

Run to my study. — By and by ! — God’s will, 
What simpleness is this ! — I come, I come ! 

[Knocking. 

Who knocks so hard? Whence come you? 
What’s your will ? 

Enter Nurse. 

Nurse. Let me come in, and you shall know 
my errand. 

I come from Lady Juliet. 




854 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


III. IV. 


Fri. L. Welcome, then, so 

Nurse. 0 holy friar, 0 , tell me, holy friar, 
Where is my lady’s lord, where’s Romeo ? 

Fri. L. There on the ground, with his own 
tears made drunk. 

Nurse. 0 , he is even in my mistress’ case, 
Just in her case ! 0 woeful sympathy ! ss 

Piteous predicament! Even so lies she, 
Blubb’ring and weeping, weeping and blub- 
b’ring. 

Stand up, stand up ; stand, an you be a man. 
For Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand, 
Why should you fall into so deep an 0 ? oo 
Bom. Nurse! 

Nurse. Ah sir! ah sir! Death’s the end of 
all. 

Bom. Spak’st thou of Juliet ? How is it with 
her? 

Doth she not think me an old murderer, 

Now I have stain’d the childhood of our joy as 
With blood removed but little from her own ? 
Where is she ? and how doth she ? and what 
says 

My conceal’d lady to our cancell’d love ? 

Nurse. 0, she says nothing, sir, but weeps 
and weeps; 

And now falls on her bed ; and then starts up, 
And Tybalt calls ; and then on Romeo cries, 101 
And then down falls again. 

Bom. As if that name, 

Shot from the deadly level of a gun, 

Did murder her, as that name’s cursed hand 
Murder’d her kinsman. 0 , tell me, friar, tell 
me, 105 

In what vile part of this anatomy 
Doth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may 
sack 

The hateful mansion. 

[He offers to stab himself, and the 
Nurse snatches the dagger 
away. 

Fri. L. Hold thy desperate hand ! 

Art thou a man ? Thy form cries out thou art; 
Thy tears are womanish ; thy wild acts de¬ 
note no 

The unreasonable fury of a beast. 

Unseemly woman in a seeming man, 

And ill-beseeming beast in seeming both, 

Thou hast amaz’d me ! By my holy order, 

I thought thy disposition better temper’d, ns 
Hast thou slain Tybalt ? Wilt thou slay thy¬ 
self, 

And slay thy lady that in thy life lives, 

By doing damned hate upon thyself ? 

Why rail’st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and 
earth ? 

Since birth, and heaven, and earth, all three do 
meet 120 

In thee at once, which thou at once wouldst 
lose. 

Fie, fie, thou sham’st thy shape, thy love, thy 
wit; 

Which, like a usurer, abouud’st in all, 

And usest none in that true use indeed 
Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy 

wit. 125 

Thy noble shape is but a form of wax, 


Digressing from the valour of a man ; 

Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, 
Killing that love which thou hast vow’d to 
cherish ; 

Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, 130 
Mis-shapen in the conduct of them both, 

Like powder in a skilless soldier’s flask, 

Is set a-fire by thine own ignorance, 

And thou dismemb’red with thine own defence. 
What, rouse thee, man ! thy Juliet is alive, 135 
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead : 
There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee, 
But thou slewest Tybalt: there art thou happy. 
The law that threat’ned death becomes thy 
friend 

And turns it to exile : there art thou happy, mo 
A pack of blessings light upon thy back ; 
Happiness courts thee in his best array ; 

But, like a misbehav’d and sullen wench, 

Thou pout’st upon thy fortune and thy love. 
Take heed, take heea, for such die miserable. 
Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed ; mo 
A scend her chamber ; hence ! and comfort her. 
But look thou stay not till the watch be set, 
For then thou canst not pass to Mantua, mb 
W here thou shalt live till we can find a time 
To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends, 
Beg pardon of the Prince, and call thee back 
With twenty hundred thousand times more 

j°y 

Than thou went’st forth in lamentation. 

Go before, nurse ; commend me to thy lady ; 155 
And bid her hasten all the house to bed, 

Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto. 
Romeo is coming. 

Nurse. 0 Lord, I could have stay’d here all 
the night 

To hear good counsel. 0 , what learning is ! iso 
My lord, I ’ll tell my lady you will come. 

Bom. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to 
chide. 

[Nurse offers to go in, and turns 
again. 

Nurse. Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, 
sir. 

Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. 
Bom. How well my comfort is reviv’d by 
_ this ! [Exit Nurse. i «5 

Fri. L. Go hence ; good-night; and here 
stands all your state: 

Either be gone before the watch be set, 

Or by the break of day disguis’d from hence. 
Sojourn in Mantua ; I ’ll find out your man, 
And he shall signify from time to time no 

Every good hap to you that chances here. 

Give me thy hand ; ’t is late. Farewell; good¬ 
night. 

Bom. But that a joy past joy calls out on me, 
It were a grief, so brief to part with thee. 
Farewell. [Exeunt, ns 

[Scene IY. A room in Capulet's house.] 
Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris. 

Cap. Things have fallen out, sir, so unluckily 
That we have had no time to move our daugh¬ 
ter. 




III. V. 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


855 


Look you, she lov’d her kinsman Tybalt 
dearly, 

And so did I. Well, we were born to die. 

’T is very late, she ’ll not come down to-night; 
1 promise you, but for your company, « 

I would have been a-bed an hour ago. 

Par. These times of woe afford no times to 
woo. 

Madam, good-night; commend me to your 
daughter. 

La. Cap. I will, and know her mind early 
to-morrow; 10 

To-night she’s mewed up to her heaviness. 
Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate 
tender 

Of my child’s love. I think she will be rul’d 
In all respects by me ; nay, more, I doubt it 
not. 

Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed ; io 

Acquaint her here of my son Paris’ love ; 

And bid her — mark you me ? — on Wednesday 
next — 

But, soft! what day is this ? 

Par. Monday, my lord. 

Cap. Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday 
is too soon, 

O’ Thursday let it be, — o’ Thursday, tell her, 
She shall be married to this noble earl. 21 

Will you be ready ? Do you like this haste ? 
We ’ll keep no great ado, —^a friend or two ; 
For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late, 

It may be thought we held him carelessly, 2s 
Being our kinsman, if we revel much ; 
Therefore we ’ll have some half a dozen friends, 
And there an end. But what say you to Thurs¬ 
day ? 

Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were 
to-morrow. 

Cap. Well, get you gone ; o’ Thursday be 
it, then. 30 

Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed ; 

Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day. 
Farewell, my lord. Light, to my chamber, ho ! 
Afore me ! it is so very late that we 
May call it early by and by. Good-night. ss 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene V. Capulet's orchard .] 

Enter Romeo and Juliet, aloft. 

Jul. Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near 
day. 

It was the nightingale, and not the lark, 

That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear ; 
Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate-tree. 
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. « 
Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the 
morn, 

No nightingale. Look, love, what envious 
streaks 

Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. 
Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day 
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. 10 
I must be gone and live, or stay and die. 

Jul. Yond light is not day-light, I know it, I; 
It is some meteor that the sun exhales. 

To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, 


And light thee on thy way to Mantua ; is 

Therefore stay yet; thou need’st not to be gone. 
Rom. Let me be ta’en, let me be put to 
death; 

I am content, so thou wilt have it so. 

I ’ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye, 

’T is but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow ; 20 

Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat 
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads. 

I have more care to stay than will to £0. 

Come, death, and welcome ! Juliet wills it so. 
How is’t, my soul ? Let’s talk ; it is not day. 

Jul. It is, it is ! Hie hence, be gone, away ! 
It is the lark that sings so out of tune, 21 

Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. 
Some say the lark makes sweet division ; 

This doth not so, for she divideth us. 30 

Some say the lark and loathed toad change 
eyes; 

0 , now I would they had chang’d voices too! 
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, 
Hunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day. 
0 , now be gone ; more light and light it grows. 
Rom. More light and light; more dark and 
dark our woes ! 36 

Enter Nurse [from the chamber]. 

Nurse. Madam! 

Jul. Nurse? 

Nurse. Your lady mother is coming to your 
chamber. 

The day is broke ; be wary, look about. *0 

[Exit.] 

Jul. Then, window, let day in, and let life 
out. 

Rom. Farewell, farewell! One kiss, and I’ll 
descend. [He goeth down. 

Jul. Art thou gone so ? Love, lord, ay, hus¬ 
band, friend! 

I must hear from thee every day in the hour, 
For in a minute there are many days. 45 

0 , by this count I shall be much in years 
Ere I again behold my Romeo ! 

Rom. [From below.] Farewell! 

I will omit no opportunity 
That, may convey my greetings, love, to thee. 
Jul. O, think’st thou we shall ever meet 
again ? 61 

Rom. I doubt it not; and all these woes 
shall serve 

For sweet discourses in our times to come. 

Jul. O God, I have an ill-divining soul! 
Methinks I see thee, now thou art below, bb 
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb. 

Either my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale. 

Rom. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you; 
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu ! 

[Exit. 

Jul. 0 Fortune, Fortune! all men call thee 
fickle; 60 

If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him 
That is renown’d for faith ? Be fickle, Fortune ; 
For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long, 
But send him back. 

Enter Lady Capulet. 

La. Cap. Ho, daughter! are you up ? 66 







8 5 6 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


III. V. 


Jul. Who is’t that calls? It is my lady 
mother. 

Is she not down so late, or up so early ? 

What unaccustom’d cause procures her hither ? 

La. Cap. Why, how now, Juliet ? 

Jul. Madam, I am not well. 

La. Cap. Evermore weeping for your cousin’s 
death ? . . 70 

What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with 
tears ? 

An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him 
live ; 

Therefore, have done. Some grief shows much 
of love, 

But much of grief shows still some want of 
wit. 

Jul. Yet let me weep for such a feeling 
loss. 

La. Cap. So shall you feel the loss, hut not 
the friend 76 

Which you weep for. 

Jul. Feeling so the loss, 

I cannot choose hut ever weep the friend. 

La. Cap. Well, girl, thou weep’st not so 

much for his death, 7n 

As that the villain lives which slaughter’d him. 

Jul. What villain, madam? 

La. Cap. That same villain, Romeo. 

Jul. [Aside.] Villain and he he many miles 
asunder. — 

God pardon him ! I do, with all my heart; 

And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart. 

La. Cap. That is, because the traitor mur¬ 
derer lives. 86 

Jul. Ay, madam, from the reach of these 

my hands. 

Would none but I might venge my cousin’s 
death! 

La. Cap. We will have vengeance for it, 
fear thou not; 

Then weep no more. I ’ll send to one in Man¬ 
tua, 

Where that same banish’d runagate doth live, 
Shall give him such an unaccustom’d dram, 9i 
That he shall soon keep Tybalt company ; 

And then, I hope, thou wilt be satisfied. 

Jul. Indeed, I never shall be satisfied 
With Romeo, till I behold him — dead — as 
Is my poor heart, so for a kinsman vex’d. 
Madam, if you could find out but a man 
To bear a poison, I would temper it 
That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof, as 
Soon sleep in quiet. 0 , how my heart abhors 
To hear him nam’d, and cannot come to him. 
To wreak the love 1 bore my cousin [Tybalt] 
Upon his body that hath slaughter’d him ! 

La. Cap. Find thou the means, and I ’ll find 
such a man. 

But now I ’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl. to6 

Jul. And joy comes well in such a needy 
time. 

What are they, beseech your ladyship ? 

La. Cap. Well, well, thou hast a careful 
father, child; 

One who, to put thee from thy heaviness, 

Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy, no 

That thou expects not nor I look’d not for. 


Jul. Madam, in happy time, what day is 
that ? 

La. Cap. Marry, my child, early next Thurs¬ 
day morn, 

The gallant, young, and noble gentleman, 

The County Paris, at Saint Peter’s Church, tic 
Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride. 

Jul. Now, by Saint Peter’s Church and 
Peter too, 

He shall not make me there a joyful bride. 

I wonder at this haste ; that I must wed 
Ere he that should be husband comes to woo. 

I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam, 121 
I will not marry yet; and, when I do, I swear, 
It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate, 
Rather than Paris. These are news indeed ! _ 

La. Cap. Here comes your father ; tell him 
so yourself, 126 

And see how he will take it at your hands. 

Enter Capulet and Nurse. 

Cap. When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle 
dew; 

But for the sunset of my brother’s son 
It rains downright. 

How now! a conduit, girl ? What, still in 
tears ? 130 

Evermore show’ring ? In one little body 
Thou counterfeits a bark, a sea, a wind: 

For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea, 

Do ebb and flow with tears ; the bark thy body 
is, 

Sailing in this salt flood ; the winds, thy sighs ; 
Who, raging with thy tears, and they with 
them, 136 

Without a sudden calm, will overset 
Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife ! 
Have you delivered to her our decree ? 

La. Cap. Ay, sir ; but she will none, she 
gives you thanks. 140 

I would the fool were married to her grave ! 

Cap. Soft! take me with you, take me with 
you, wife. 

How ! will she none ? Doth she not give us 
thanks ? 

Is she not proud ? Doth she not count her blest, 
Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought us 
So worthy a gentleman to be her bride ? 

Jul. Not proud, you have; but thankful 
that you have. 

Proud can I never be of what I hate ; 

But thankful even for hate, that is meant love. 

Cap. How how, how how, chop-logic ! What 
is this ? 150 

“ Proud,” and “ I thank you,” and “ I thank 
you not;’ ’ 

And yet “ not proud.” Mistress minion, you, 
Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no 
prouds, 

But fettle your fine joints ’gainst Thursday 
next, 

To go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church, 155 
Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. 

Out, you green-sickness carrion ! Out, you bag- 
gage ! 

You tallow-face ! 

La. Cap. Fie, fie ! what, are you mad ? 





iv. i. 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


*57 


Jul. Good father, I beseech you on my knees, 
Hear me with patience but to speak a word. ieo 
Cap. Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient 
wretch ! 

I tell thee what: get thee to church o’ Thurs- 
day, 

Or never after look me in the face. 

Speak not, reply not, do not answer me ! 

My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us 
blest 166 

That God had lent us but this only child ; 

But now I see this one is one too much, 

And that w r e have a curse in having her. 

Out on her, hilding ! 

Nurse. God in heaven bless her ! 

You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so. no 
Cap. And why, my lady wisdom ? Hold 
your tongue, 

Good prudence ; smatter with your gossips, go. 
Nurse. I speak no treason. 

Cap. O, God ye god-den. 

Nurse. May not one speak ? 

Cap. Peace, you mumbling fool! 

Utter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl; ns 
For here we need it not. 

La. Cap. You are too hot. 

Cap. God’s bread ! it makes me mad. 

Day, night, hour, tide, time, work, play, 

Alone, in company, still my care hath been 
To have her match’d ; and having now pro¬ 
vided 180 

A gentleman of noble parentage, 

Of fair demesnes, youthful and nobly train’d, 
Stuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts, 
Proportion’d as one’s thought would wish a 
man; 

And then to have a wretched puling fool, iss 
A whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender 
To answer, “ I ’ll not wed ; I cannot love, 

1 am too young ; I pray you, pardon me.” 

But, an you will not wed, I ’ll pardon you. 
Graze where you will, you shall not house with 
me. # 190 

Look to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest. 
Thursday is near ; lay hand on heart, advise. 
An you be mine, I ’ll give you to my friend ; 
An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the 
streets, 

For, by my soul, I ’ll ne’er acknowledge thee, 
Nor what is mine shall never do thee good, me 
Trust to ’t, bethink you ; I ’ll not be forsworn. 

[Exit. 

Jul. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, 
That sees into the bottom of ray grief ? 

0 , sweet my mother, cast me not away ! 200 

Delay this marriage for a month, a week ; 

Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed 
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies. 

La. Cap. Talk not to me, for I ’ll not speak 
a word. 

Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. 20s 

[Exit. 

Jul. 0 God! — O nurse, how shall this be 
prevented ? 

My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven ; 
How shall that faith return again to earth, 
Unless that husband send it me from heaven 


By leaving earth ? Comfort me, counsel me ! 
Alack, alack, that heaven should practise strat¬ 
agems 211 

Upon so soft a subject as myself ! 

What say’st thou ? Hast thou not a word of 

j°y ? 

Some comfort, nurse. 

Nurse. Faith, here it is. 

Romeo is banish’d ; and all the world to no¬ 
thing, 216 

That he dares ne’er come back to challenge 
you; 

Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth. 

Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, 

I think it best you married with the County. 

O, he’s a lovely gentleman ! 220 

Romeo’s a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam, 
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye 
As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart, 

I think you are happy in this second match, 
For it excels your first; or if it did not, 226 
Your first is dead ; or ’t were as good he were, 
As living here and you no use of him. 

Jul. Speak’st thou from thy heart ? 

Nurse. And from my soul too ; else beshrew 
them both. 

Jul. Amen! 

Nurse. What? 

Jul. Well, thou hast comforted me marvel¬ 
lous much. 230 

Go in ; and tell my lady I am gone, 

Having displeas’d my father, to Laurence’ cell, 
To make confession and to be absolv’d. 

Nurse. Marry, I will; and this is wisely 
done. [Exit.] 

Jul. Ancient damnation! 0 most wicked 

fiend! 236 

Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn, 

Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue 
Which she hath prais’d him with above com¬ 
pare 

So many thousand times ? Go, counsellor ; 
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. 
I ’ll to the friar, to know his remedy ; 241 

If all else fail, myself have power to die. 

[Exit. 


[ACT IV] 

[Scene I. Friar Laurence's cell.] 

Enter Friar Laurence and Paris. 

Fri. L. On Thursday, sir ? The time is very 
short. 

Far. My father Capulet will have it so ; 

And I am nothing slow, to slack his haste. 

Fri. L. You say you do not know the lady’s 
mind. 

Uneven is the course, 1 like it not. « 

Par. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s 
death, 

And therefore have I little talk of love, 

For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. 

Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous 
That she do give her sorrow so much sway, 10 
And in his wisdom hastes our marriage 
To stop the inundation of her tears; 





8 5 8 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


IV. 1 . 


Which, too much minded by herself alone, 
May be put from her by society. 

Now do you know the reason of this haste. is 
Fri. L. [Aside.] I would I knew not why it 
should be slow’d. 

Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell. 
Enter Juliet. 

Par. Happily met, my lady and my wife ! 
Jul. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife. 
Par. That may be must be, love, on Thurs¬ 
day next. 20 

Jul. What must be shall be. 

Fri. L. That’s a certain text. 

Par. Come you to make confession to this 
father ? 

Jul. To answer that, I should confess to you. 
Par. Do not deny to him that you love me. 
Jul. I will confess to you that I love him. 25 
Par. So will ye, I am sure, that you love me. 
Jul. If I do so, it will be of more price, 
Being spoke behind your back, than to your 
face. 

Par. Poor soul, thy face is much abus’d with 
tears. 

Jul. The tears have got small victory by 
that, 30 

For it was bad enough before their spite. 

Par. Thou wrong’st it, more than tears, 
with that report. 

Jul. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth ; 
And what I spake, I spake it to my face. 

Par. Thy face is mine, and thou hast slan- 
d’red it. 35 

Jul. It may be so, for it is not mine own. 

Are you at leisure, holy father, now ; 

Or shall I come to you at evening mass ? 

Fri. L. My leisure serves me, pensive daugh¬ 
ter, now. 

My lord, we must entreat the time alone. 40 
Par. God shield I should disturb devotion ! 
Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye ; 

Till then, adieu ; and keep this holy kiss. [Exit. 
Jul. O, shut the door ! and when thou hast 
done so, 

Come weep with me, past hope, past care, past 
help! 45 

Fri. L. Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief; 
It strains me past the compass of my wits. 

I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it, 
On Thursday next be married to this County. 
Jul. Tell me not, friar, that thou hearest of 
this, 50 

Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it. 

If, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help, 

Do thou but call my resolution wise, 

And with this knife I ’ll help it presently. 

God join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our 
hands; 55 

And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s seal’d, 
Shall be the label to another deed, 

Or my true heart with treacherous revolt 
Turn to another, this shall slay them both. 
Therefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time, eo 
Give me some present counsel, or, behold, 
’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife 
Shall play the umpire, arbitrating that 


Which the commission of thy years and art 
Could to no issue of true honour bring. es 

Be not so long to speak ; I long to die 
If what thou speak’st speak not of remedy. 
Fri. L. Hold, daughter! I do spy a kind of 
hope, 

Which craves as desperate an execution 
As that is desperate which we would prevent, to 
I f, rather than to marry County Paris, 

Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself, 
Then is it likely thou wilt undertake 
A thing like death to chide away this shame, 
That cop’st with Death himself to scape from 
it ,• 76 

And, if thou dar’st, I ’ll give thee remedy. 

Jul. O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, 
From off the battlements of any tower, 

Or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk 
Where serpents are; chain me with roaring 
bears, . _ bo 

Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house, 
O’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling 
bones, 

With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls ; 
Or bid me go into a new-made grave 
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud, — 
Things that, to hear them told, have made me 
tremble; se 

And I will do it without fear or doubt, 

To live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love. 

Fri. L. Hold, then. Go home, be merry, give 
consent 

To marry Paris. Wednesday is to-morrow. 00 
To-morrow night look that thou lie alone ; 

Let not the nurse lie with thee in thy cham¬ 
ber. 

Take thou this vial, being then in bed, 

And this distilling liquor drink thou off ; 

When presently through all thy veins shall 
run 95 

A cold and drowsy humour ; for no pulse 
Shall keep his native progress, but surcease ; 

No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest; 
The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade 
To paly ashes, thy eyes’ windows fall, 100 

Like death, when he shuts up the day of life; 
Each part, depriv’d of supple government, 

Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like 
death: 

And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death 
Thou shalt continue two and forty hours, 106 
And then awake as from a pleasant sleep. 

Now, when the bridegroom in the morning 
comes 

To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou 
dead. 

Then, as the manner of our country is, 

In thy best robes uncovered on the bier no 
Thou shall be borne to that same ancient vault 
Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. 

In the mean time, against thou shalt awake, 
Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift, 

And hither shall he come ; and he and I us 
Will watch thy waking, and that very night 
Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. 

And this shall free thee from this present 
shame: 





ROMEO AND JULIET 


8 S 9 


iv. iii. 


If no inconstant toy, nor womanish fear, 

Abate thy valour in the acting it. 120 

JW. Give me, give me! O, tell not me of 
fear! 

Fri. L. Hold; get you gone, be strong and 
prosperous 

In this resolve. I ’ll send a friar with speed 
To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. 

Jul. Love give me strength! and strength 
shall help afford. 125 

Farewell, dear father! [Exeunt. 

[Scene II. Hall in Capulet's house.] 

Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse, and 
Serving-men, two or three. 

Cap. So many guests invite as here are writ. 

[Exit 1 . Servant.] 

Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks. 

2. Serv. You shall have none ill, sir ; for I ’ll 
try if they can lick their fingers. 

Cap. How canst thou try them so ? b 

2 . Serv. Marry, sir, ’t is an ill cook that can¬ 
not lick his own fingers ; therefore he that can¬ 
not lick his fingers goes not with me. 

Cap. Go, be gone. [Exit 2 . Servant. 

We shall be much unfurnish’d for this time. 10 
What, is my daughter gone to Friar Laurence? 
Nurse. Ay, forsooth. 

Cap. Well, he may chance to do some good 
on her. 

A peevish self-will’d harlotry it is. 

Enter Juliet. 

Nurse. See where she comes from shrift with 
merry look. 15 

Cap. How now, my headstrong ! where have 
you been gadding ? 

Jul. Where I have learn’d me to repent the 
sin 

Of disobedient opposition 
To you and your behests, and am enjoin’d 
By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here, 20 
And beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you ! 
Henceforward I am ever rul’d by you. 

Cap. Send for the County; go tell him of 
this: 

I ’ll have this knot knit up to-morrow morn¬ 
ing. 

Jul. I met the youthful lord at Laurence’ 
cell; 25 

And gave him what becomed love I might, 

Not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty. 

Cap. Why, I am glad on’t; this is well; 
stand up. 

This is as’t should be. Let me see the County ; 
Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither. 30 
Now, afore God ! this reverend holy friar, 

All our whole city is much bound to him. 

Jul. Nurse, will you go with me into my 
closet, 

To help me sort such needful ornaments 
As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow ? 30 

La. Cap. No, not till Thursday; there is 
time enough. 

Cap. Go, nurse, go with her • we ’ll to church 
to-morrow. [Exeunt Juliet and Nurse. 


La. Cap. We shall be short in our provision ; 
’T is now near night. 

Cap. Tush, I will stir about, 

And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, 
wife; 40 

Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her. 

I ’ll not to bed to-night; let me alone ; 

I ’ll play the housewife for this once. What, ho ! 
They are all forth. Well, I will walk myself 
To County Paris, to prepare up him 45 

Against to-morrow. My heart is wondrous 

c . ^ ht ’ 

oince this same wayward girl is so reclaim’d. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III. Juliet's chamber .] 

Enter Juliet and Nurse. 

Jul. Ay, those attires are best; but, gentle 
nurse, 

I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night; 

For I have need of many orisons 
To move the heavens to smile upon my state, 
Which, well thou know’st, is cross and full of 
sin. s 

Enter Lady Capulet. 

La. Cap. What, are you busy, ho? Need 
you my help ? 

Jul. No, madam ; we have cull’d such neces¬ 
saries 

As are behoveful for our state to-morrow. 

So please you, let me now be left alone, 

And let the nurse this night sit up with you ; 10 
For, I am sure, you have your hands full all, 

In this so sudden business. 

La. Cap. Good-night. 

Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need. 

[Exeunt [Lady Capulet and Nurse). 
Jul. Farewell! God knows when we shall 
meet again. 

I have a faint cold fear thrills through my 
veins, 15 

That almost freezes up the heat of life. 

I ’ll call them back again to comfort me. 

Nurse ! — What should she do here ? 

My dismal scene 1 needs must act alone. 

Come, vial. 20 

What if this mixture do not work at all ? 

Shall I be married then to-morrow morning ? 
No, no ; this shall forbid it. Lie thou there. 

[Laying down her dagger.] 
What if it be a poison, which the friar 
Subtly hath minist’red to have me dead, 25 

Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour’d, 

Because he married me before to Romeo ? 

I fear it is ; and yet, methinks, it should not, 
For he hath still been tried a holy man. 

How if, when I am laid into the tomb, 30 

I wake before the time that Romeo 
Come to redeem me ? There’s a fearful point 1 
Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, 

To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes 
in, 

And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes ? 
Or, if I live, is it not very like, so 

The horrible conceit of death and night, 








86 o 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


IV. V. 


Together with the terror of the place, — 

As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, 

Where, for this many hundred years, the 
hones 40 

Of all my buried ancestors are pack’d ; 

Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, 
Lies fest’ring in his shroud; where, as they 
say, 

At some hours in the night spirits resort; — 
Alack, alack, is it not like that I, 45 

So early waking, what with loathsome smells, 
And shrieks like mandrakes’ torn out of the 
earth, 

That living mortals, hearing them, run mad ; — 
0 , if I wake, shall I not be distraught, 
Environed with all these hideous fears, 60 
And madly play with my forefathers’ joints, 
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud, 
And, in this rage, with some great kinsman’s 
bone 

As with a club, dash out my desperate brains ? 
0 , look ! methinks I see my cousin’s ghost ss 
Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body 
Upon a rapier’s point. Stav, Tybalt, stay! 
Romeo, I come ! This do 1 drink to thee. 

[<SAe falls upon her bed , within the 
curtains . 


[Scene IY. Hall in Capulet's house.] 

Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse. 

La. Cap. Hold, take these keys, and fetch 
more spices, nurse. 

Nurse. They call for dates and quinces in the 
pastry. 


Enter Capulet. 

Cap. Come, stir, stir, stir! the second cock 
hath crow’d, 

The curfew-bell hath rung, ’tis three o’clock. 
Look to the bak’d meats, good Angelica ; 6 

Spare not for cost. 

Nurse. Go, you cot-quean, go, 

Get you to bed. Faith, you ’ll be sick to-mor¬ 
row 

For this night’s watching. 

Cap. No, not a whit! What! I have watch’d 
ere now 

All night for lesser cause, and ne’er been sick. 
La. Cap. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt 
in your time ; 11 

But I will watch you from such watching now. 

< [Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse. 
Cap. A jealous-hood, a jealous-hood ! 

Enter three or four [Servinc-men,] with spits , 
logs , and baskets. 


Now, fellow, 

What’s there ? 

1 . Serv. Things for the cook, sir ; but I know 

not what. 

Cap. Make haste, make haste. [Exit 1 . Serv.} 
Sirrah, fetch drier logs : 16 

Call Peter, he will show thee where they are. 

2 . Serv. I have a head, sir, that will find out 

logs, 

And never trouble Peter for the matter. [ Exit. 


Cap. Mass, and well said ; a merry whore¬ 
son, ha! 

Thou shalt be logger-head. Good faith, ’t is 
day. [Music within. 20 

The County will be here with music straight, 
For so he said he would. I hear him near. 
Nurse ! Wife ! What, ho ! What, nurse, I say ! 

j Re-enter Nurse. 

Go waken Juliet, go and trim her up ; 

I ’ll go and chat with Paris. Hie, make haste, 
Make haste ; the bridegroom he is come al¬ 
ready. 26 

Make haste, I say. [Exeunt.] 


[Scene V. Juliet's chamber .] 

[Enter Nurse.] 

Nurse. Mistress! what, mistress ! Juliet! — 
Fast, I warrant her, she. — 

Why, lamb ! why, lady ! fie, you slug-a-bed ! 
Why, love, I say, madam ! sweetheart! why, 
bride! 

What, not a word ? You take your penny¬ 
worths now; 

Sleep for a week ; for the next night, I war¬ 
rant, 5 

The County Paris hath set up his rest 
That you shall rest but little. God forgive me ! 
Marry, and amen, how sound is she asleep ! 

I needs must wake her. Madam, madam, 
madam! 

Ay, let the County take you in your bed ; 10 

He ’ll fright you up, i’ faith. Will it not be ? 

[Draws back the curtains.] 
What, dress’d, and in your clothes ! and down 
again! 

I must needs wake you. Lady ! lady! lady ! 
Alas, alas ! Help, help ! my lady’s dead ! 

0 , well-a-day, that ever I was born ! 16 

Some aqua vitce, ho ! My lord ! my lady! 

Enter Lady Capulet. 


La. Cap. What noise is here ? 

Nurse. O lamentable day ! 

La. Cap. What is the matter ? 

Nurse. Look, look ! 0 heavy day ! 

La. Cap. O me, O me ! My child, my only 
life, 

Revive, look up, or I will die with thee ! 20 

Help, help ! Call help. 


Enter Capulet. 


Cap. For shame, bring Juliet forth ; her lord 
is come. 

Nurse. She’s dead, deceas’d, she’s dead; 
alack the day ! 

La. Cap. Alack the day, she’s dead, she’s 
dead, she’s dead ! 

Cap. Ha ! let me see her. Out, alas ! she’s 
cold; 26 

Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; 
Life and these lips have long been separated. 
Death lies on her like an untimely frost 
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. 

Nurse. O lamentable day ! 

La. Cap. 0 woeful time ! 




iv. v. 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


861 


Cap. Death, that hath ta’en her hence to 
make me wail, si 

Ties up my tongue, and will not let me speak. 

Enter Friar Laurence and Paris, with 
Musicians. 

Fri. L. Come, is the bride ready to go to 
church ? 

Cap. Ready to go, but never to return. 

0 son ! the night before thy wedding-day 35 
Hath Death lain with thy wife. There she lies, 
Flower as she was, deflowered by him. 

Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir ; 

My daughter he hath wedded. I will die 
And leave him all; life, living, all is Death’s. 40 
P ar. Have I thought long to see this morn¬ 
ing’s face 

And doth it give me such a sight as this ? 

La. Cap. Accurs’d, unhappy, wretched, 
hateful day ! 

Most miserable hour that e’er time saw 
In lasting labour of his pilgrimage ! 45 

But one, poor one, one poor and loving child, 
But one thing to rejoice and solace in, 

And cruel Death hath catch’d it from my sight! 
Nurse. O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful 
day! 

Most lamentable day, most woeful day, bo 
T hat ever, ever, I did yet behold ! 

O day ! 0 day! 0 day ! 0 hateful day ! 

Never was seen so black a day as this. 

O woeful day, O woeful day ! 

Par. Beguil’d, divorced, wronged, spited, 
slain! ss 

Most detestable Death, by thee beguil’d, 

By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown ! 

O love ! O life ! not life, but love in death ! 
Cap. Despis’d, distressed, hated, martyr’d, 
kill’d ! 

Uncomfortable time, why cam’st thou now 60 
To murder, murder our solemnity ? 

O child ! O child ! my soul, and not my child ! 
Dead art thou ! Alack ! my child is dead ; 

And with my child my joys are buried. 

Fri. L. Peace, ho, for shame! Confusion’s 
cure lives not ®6 

In these confusions. Heaven and yourself 
Had part in this fair maid ; now heaven hath 
all, 

And all the better is it for the maid. 

Your part in her you could not keep from death, 
But heaven keeps his part in eternal life. ™ 
The most you sought was her promotion, 

For’t was your heaven she should be advanc’d ; 
And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc’d 
Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself ? 

O, in this love, you love your child so ill, « 
That you run mad, seeing that she is well. 

She’s not well married that lives married long ; 
But she’s best married that dies married 
young. 

Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary 
On this fair corse ; and, as the custom is, so 
In all her best array bear her to church ; 

For though fond nature bids us all lament, 

Yet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment. 

Cap. All things that we ordained festival, 


Turn from their office to black funeral; sb 
O ur instruments to melancholy bells, 

Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast, 

Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change, 

Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse, 
And all things change them to the contrary, so 
Fri. L. Sir, go you in ; and, madam, go with 
him ; 

And go, Sir Paris ; every one prepare 
To follow this fair corse unto her grave. 

The heavens do lour upon you for some ill; 
Move them no more by crossing their high 
will. 96 

[Exeunt [Capulet, Lady Capulet, 
Paris , and Friar]. 

1. Mus. Faith, we may put up our pipes, and 
be gone. 

Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put 
up ; 

For, well you know, this is a pitiful case. 

[Exit. 

1. Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be 
amended. 101 

Enter [Peter]. 

Pet. Musicians, 0 , musicians, “ Heart’s 
ease, Heart’s ease ! ” 0 , an you will have me 
live, play “ Heart’s ease.” 

1. Mus. Why “ Heart’s ease ” ? 105 

Pet. O, musicians, because my heart itself 
plays “My heart is full of woe.” 0 , play me 
some merry dump to comfort me. 

1. Mus. Not a dump we; ’tis no time to 
play now. 110 

Pet. You will not, then ? 

1. Mus. No. 

Pet. I will then give it you soundly. 

1. Mus. What will you give us ? 

Pet. No money, on my faith, but the gleek ; 
I will give you the minstrel. no 

1. Mus. Then will I give you the serving- 
creature. 

Pet. Then will I lay the serving-creature’s 
dagger on your pate. I will carry no crotchets ; 
I ’ll re you, I ’ll fa you. Do you note me ? 121 

1. Mus. An you re us and fa us, you note 
us. 

2. Mus. Pray you, put up your dagger, and 
put out vour wit. 

Pet. Then have at you with my wit! I will 
dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my 
iron dagger. Answer me like men : 127 

“ When griping grief the heart doth wound, 
[And doleful dumps the mind oppress,] 
Then music with her silver sound ” — is® 
why “ silver sound ” ? Why “music with her 
silver sound ” ? What say you, Simon Catling ? 

1. Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a 

sweet sound. 134 

Pet. Pretty ! What say you, Hugh Rebeck ? 

2. Mus. I say “silver sound,” because musi¬ 
cians sound for silver. 

Pet. Pretty too! What say you, James 
Soundpost ? 

3. Mus. Faith, I know not what to say. 140 
Pet. O, I cry you mercy ; you are the singer. 

I will say for you. It is “ music with her silver 







862 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


V. ii. 


sound,” because musicians have no gold for 
sounding: 

“ Then music with her silver sound 145 

With speedy help doth lend redress.” 

[Exit. 

1. Mus. What a pestilent knave is this 
same ! 

2 . Mus. Hang him, Jack ! Come, we ’ll in 

here, tarry for the mourners, and stay din¬ 
ner. [Exeunt, 160 

[ACT V] 

[Scene I. Mantua. A street .] 

Enter Romeo. 

Horn. If I may trust the flattering truth of 
sleep, 

My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. 
My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne, 

And all this day an unaccustom’d spirit 
Lifts me above the ground with cheerful 
thoughts. s 

I dreamt my lady came and found me dead — 
Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to 
think! — 

And breath’d such life with kisses in my lips, 
That I reviv’d, and was an emperor. 

Ah me ! how sweet is love itself possess’d, 10 
When but love’s shadows are so rich in joy ! 

Enter Balthasar, his man , booted. 

News from Verona ! —How now, Balthasar ! 
Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar ? 
How doth my lady ? Is my father well ? 

How fares my Juliet ? that I ask again ; is 
For nothing can be ill, if she be well. 

Bal. Then she is well, and nothing can be 
ill. 

Her body sleeps in Capel’s monument. 

And her immortal part with angels lives. 

I saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault, 20 
And presently took post to tell it you. 

0 , pardon me for bringing these ill news, 

Since you did leave it for my office, sir. 

Rom. Is it even so ? Then I defy you, stars 1 
Thou know’st my lodging; get me ink and 
paper, 25 

And hire post-horses ; I will hence to-night. 

Bal. I do beseech you, sir, have patience. 
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import 
Some misadventure. 

Rom. Tush, thou art deceiv’d: 

Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do. 30 
Hast thou no letters to me from the friar ? 

Bal. No, my good lord. 

Rom. No matter ; get thee gone 

And hire those horses; I ’ll be with thee 
straight. < _ [Exit Balthasar. 

Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night. 

Let’s see for means. O mischief, thou art 
swift 35 

To enter in the thoughts of desperate men ! 

I do remember an apothecary, — 

And hereabouts ’a dwells, —which late I noted 
In tatt’red weeds, with overwhelming brows, 
Culling of simples ; meagre were his looks, « 


Sharp misery had worn him to the bones. 

And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, 

A11 alligator stuff’d, and other skins 
Of ill-shap’d fishes ; and about his shelves 
A beggarly account of empty boxes, 46 

Green earthen pots, bladders and musty seeds, 
Remnants of packthread and old cakes of roses, 
Were thinly scattered, to make up a show. 
Noting this penury, to myself I said, 

“ An if a man did need a poison now, 60 

Whose sale is present death in Mantua, 

Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.” 
0 , this same thought did but forerun my need ; 
And this same needy man must sell it me. 

As I remember, this should be the house. es 
Being holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut. 

What, ho ! apothecary ! 

Enter Apothecary. 

Ap. Who calls so loud ? 

Rom. Come hither, man. I see that thou art 
poor. 

Hold, there is forty ducats. Let me have 
A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear eo 
As will disperse itself through all the veins 
That the life-weary taker may fall dead, 

And that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath 
As violently as hasty powder fir’d 
Doth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb, go 
Ap. Such mortal drugs I have ; but Mantua’s 
law 

Is death to any he that utters them. 

Rom. Art thou so bare and full of wretched¬ 
ness, 

And fear’st to die ? Famine is in thy cheeks, 
Need and oppression starveth in thy eyes, 70 
Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back ; 
The world is not thy friend nor the world’s 
law ; 

The world affords no law to make thee rich ; 
Then be not poor, but break it, and take this. 
Ap. My poverty, but not my will, consents. 
Rom. I pay thy poverty, and not thy will. 76 
Ap. Put this in any liquid thing you will, 
And drink it off ; and, if you had the strength 
Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight. 
Rom. There is thy gold, worse poison to 
men’s souls, so 

Doing more murder in this loathsome world, 
Than these poor compounds that thou mayst 
not sell. 

I sell thee poison ; thou hast sold me none. 
Farewell! Buy food, and get thyself in flesh. 
Come, cordial and not poison, go with me *e 
To Juliet’s grave ; for there must I use thee. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. Verona. Friar Laurence's cell.] 
Enter Frl^r John. 

Fri. J. Holy Franciscan friar ! brother, ho ! 

Enter Friar Laurence. 

Fri. L. This same should be the voice of 
Friar John. 

Welcome from Mantua ! What says Romeo ? 
Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter. 





ROMEO AND JULIET 


863 


v. iii. 


Fri. J. Going to find a bare-foot brother 
out, 5 

One of our order, to associate me, 

Here in this city visiting the sick, 

And finding him, the searchers of the town, 
Suspecting that we both were in a house 
Where the infectious pestilence did reign, io 

Seal’d up the doors, and would not let us forth ; 
So that my speed to Mantua there was stay’d. 
Fri. L. Who bare my letter, then, to Ro¬ 
meo ? 

Fri. J. I could not send it, — here it is 
again, — 

Nor get a messenger to bring it thee, is 

So fearful were they of infection. 

Fri. L. Unhappy fortune! By my brother¬ 
hood, 

The letter was not nice but full of charge 
Of dear import, and the neglecting it 
May do much danger. Friar John, go hence ; 20 
Get me an iron crow, and bring it straight 
Unto my cell. 

Fri. J. Brother, I ’ll go and bring it 
# thee. [Exit. 

Fri. L. Now must I to the monument alone ; 
Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake. 2c 
She will beshrew me much that Romeo 
Hath had no notice of these accidents ; 

But I will write again to Mantua, 

And keep her at my cell till Romeo come ; 

Poor living corse, clos’d in a dead man’s 
tomb I [Exit. 30 

[Scene III. A churchyard ; in it a tomb belong¬ 
ing to the Capulets .] 

Enter Paris, and his Page with flowers and 
sweet water [and a torch j. 

Par. Give me thy torch, boy. Hence, and 
stand aloof. 

Yet put it out, for I would not be seen. 

Under yond yew-trees lay thee all along, 
Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground ; 
So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread, 6 
Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves, 
But thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me, 

As signal that thou hear’st something approach. 
Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go. 
Page. [Aside.] I am almost afraid to stand 
alone 10 

Here in the churchyard; yet I will adven¬ 
ture. [Retires.] 

Par. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed 
I strew, — 

0 woe ! thy canopy is dust and stones — 
Which with sweet water nightly I will dew, 

Or, wanting that, with tears distill’d by 
moans. ie 

The obsequies that I for thee will keep 
Nightly snail be to strew thy grave and ween. 

[ The Page whistles. 
The boy gives warning something doth ap¬ 
proach. 

What cursed foot wanders this way to-night, 

To cross my obsequies and true love’s rite ? 20 

What, with a torch ! Muffle me, night, a while. 

[Retires.] 


Enter Romeo and Balthasar, with a torch, a 
mattock , and a crow of iron. 

Rom. Give me that mattock and the wrench¬ 
ing iron. 

Hold, take this letter ; early in the morning 
See thou deliver it to my lord and father. 

Give me the light. Upon thy life, I charge 
thee, 26 

Whate’er thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloof, 
And do not interrupt me in my course. 

Why I descend into this bed of death, 

Is partly to behold my lady’s face ; 

But chiefly to take thence from her dead 
finger 30 

A precious ring, a ring that I must use 
In dear employment; therefore hence, be gone. 
But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry 
In what I farther shall intend to do, 

By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint 35 

And strew this hungry churchyard with thy 

limbs. 

The time and my intents are savage-wild, 

More fierce and more inexorable far 
Than empty tigers or the roaring sea. 

Bal. I will be gone, sir, and not trouble ye. 40 
Rom. So shalt thou show me friendship. 
Take thou that; 

Live, and be prosperous ; and farewell, good 
fellow. 

Bal. [Aside.] For all this same, I ’ll hide me 
hereabout. 

His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt. 

[Retires.] 

Rom. Thou detestable maw, thou womb 01 
death, 45 

Gorg’d with the dearest morsel of the earth, 
Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open, 

And, in despite, I ’ll cram thee with more food ! 

[Opens the tomb.] 
Par. This is that banish’d haughty Mon¬ 
tague, 

That murd’red my love’s cousin, with which 
grief, 60 

It. is supposed, the fair creature died ; 

And here is come to do some villanous shame 
To the dead bodies. I will apprehend him. 

[ Comes forward.] 

Stop thy unhallowed toil, vile Montague ! 

Can vengeance be pursued further than 
death? 56 

Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee. 

Obey, and go with me ; for thou must die. 

Rom. I must indeed; and therefore came I 
hither. 

Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man. 
Fly hence, and leave me; think upon these 
gone, flo 

Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth, 
Put not another sin upon my head, 

By urging me to fury: 0 , be gone ! 

By heaven, I love thee better than myself ; 

For I come hither arm’d against myself. ce 
Stay not, be gone ; live, and hereafter say 
A madman’s mercy bid thee run away. 

Par. I do defy thy conjurations, 

And apprehend thee for a felon here. 




86 4 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


v. iii. 


j Rom. Wilt thou provoke me ? Then have at 
thee, boy! {They fight. 70 

Page. 0 Lord, they fight! I will go call the 
watch. [Exit.] 

Par. 0 , 1 am slain ! [Falls.] If thou be mer¬ 
ciful, 

Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet. [Dies.] 
Rom. In faith, I will. Let me peruse this 
face. 

Mercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris ! 76 

What said my man, when my betossed soul 
Did not attend him as we rode ? I think 
He told me Paris should have married Juliet. 
Said he not so ? Or did I dream it so ? 

Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet, so 
To think it was so ? 0 , give me thy hand, 

One writ with me in sour misfortune’s book ! 

I ’ll bury thee in a triumphant grave. 

A grave ? 0 , no ! a lantern, slaught’red youth, 
For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes se 
This vault a feasting presence full of light. 
Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr’d. 

[Laying Paris in the tomb.] 
How oft when men are at the point of death 
Have they been merry ! which their keepers call 
A lightning before death. 0 , how may I so 
Call this a lightning ? 0 my love ! my wife ! 
Death, that hath suck’dthe honey of thy breath, 
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. 

Thou art not conquer’d ; beauty’s ensign yet 
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, os 
And death’s pale flag is not advanced there. 
Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet ? 

0 , what more favour can I do to thee, 

Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain 
To sunder his that was thine enemy ? 100 

Forgive me, cousin ! Ah, dear Juliet, 

Why art thou yet so fair ? Shall I believe 
That unsubstantial Death is amorous, 

And that the lean abhorred monster keeps 
Thee here in dark to be his paramour ? 105 

For fear of that, I still will stay with thee, 

And never from this palace of dim night 
Depart again. Here, here will I remain 
With worms that are thy chamber-maids; 0 , 
here 

Will I set up my everlasting rest, no 

And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars 
From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your 
last! 


Arms, take your last embrace 1 and, lips, O you 
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss 
A dateless bargain to engrossing death ! us 
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide ! 
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on 
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark ! 
Here’s to my love ! [Drinks.] 0 true apothe¬ 
cary ! U9 

Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die. 

[Dies.] 

Enter Friar Laurence, with lantern , crow , 
and spade. 


Bal. Here’s one, a friend, and one that 
knows you well. 

Fri. L. Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good 
my friend, 

What torch is yond, that vainly lends his light 
To grubs and eyeless skulls ? As I discern, 12# 
It burneth in the Capels’ monument. 

Bal. It doth so, holy sir; and there’s my 
master, 

One that you love. 

Fri. L. Who is it ? 

Bal. Romeo. 12® 

Fri. L. How long hath he been there ? 

Bal. Full half an hour. 

Fri. L. Go with me to the vault. 

Bal. I dare not, sir. 

My master knows not but I am gone hence ; 
And fearfully did menace me with death 
If I did stay to look on his intents. 

Fri. L. Stay, then; I’ll go alone. Fear 
comes upon me : 136 

0 , much I fear some ill unthrifty thing. 

Bal. As I did sleep under this yew-tree here, 
I dreamt my master and another fought, 

And that my master slew him. 

Fri. L. Romeo! 

[Advances.] 

Alack, alack, what blood is this, which stains 
The stony entrance of this sepulchre ? hi 

What mean these masterless and gory swords 
To lie discolour’d by this place of peace ? 

[Enters the tomb.] 
Romeo ! 0 , pale ! Who else ? What, Paris too ? 
And steep’d in blood ? Ah, what an unkind 
hour 145 

Is guilty of this lamentable chance ! 

The ladv stirs. [Juliet rises. 

Jul. O comfortable friar ! where is my lord ? 
I do remember well where I should be, 

And there I am. Where is my Romeo ? iso 

[Noise within.] 

Fri. L. I hear some noise. Lady, come from 
that nest 

Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep. 

A greater power than we can contradict 
Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away. 
Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead ; 166 
And Paris too. Come. I ’ll dispose of thee 
Among a sisterhood of holy nuns. 

Stay not to question, for the watch is coming ; 
Come, go, good Juliet [Noise again], I dare no 
longer stay. [Exit Fri. Lau. 

Jul. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away. 
What’s here ? A cup, clos’d in my true love’s 
hand ? m 

Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. 

O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop 
To help me after? I will kiss thy lips ; 

Haply some poison yet doth hang on them, ibb 
T o make me die with a restorative. 

Thy lips are warm. 

Enter Watch, with the Page of Pans. 


Fri. L. Saint Francis be my speed ! how oft 
to-night 

Have my old feet stumbled at graves ! Who’s 
there ? 


1 . Watch. Lead, boy; which way? 

Jul. Yea, noise? Then I’ll be brief. 0 
happy dagger! 

[Snatching Romeo's dagger.] 





v. iii. 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


865 


This is thy sheath ( Stabs herself) ; there rust, 
and let me die. wo 

[Falls [on Romeo's body , and dies]. 
Page. This is the place; there, where the 
torch doth burn. 

1 . Watch. The ground is bloody; search 

about the churchyard. 

Go, some of you, whoe’er you find attach. 

. [Exeunt some.] 

Pitiful sight! here lies the County slain ; 

And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead, 175 
Who here hath lain this two days buried. 

Go, tell the Prince ; run to the Capulets; 

Raise up the Montagues ; some others search. 

[Exeunt others.] 

We see the ground whereon these woes do 
lie; 

But the true ground of all these piteous woes 
We cannot without circumstance descry. m 

Re-enter [soroe of the Watch, with] Balthasar. 

2 . Watch. Here’s Romeo’s man; we found 

him in the churchyard. 

1 . Watch. Hold him in safety till the Prince 
come hither. 

Re-enter another Watchman, with Friar Lau¬ 
rence. 

3 . Watch. Here is a friar, that trembles, 

sighs, and weeps. 

We took this mattock and this spade from 
him, 186 

As he was coming from this churchyard side. 

1 . Watch. A great suspicion. Stay the friar 
too. 

Enter the Prince [and Attendants]. 

Prince. What misadventure is so early up. 
That calls our person from our morning rest ? 

Enter Capulet, Lady Capclet, and others. 

Cap. What should it be, that they so shriek 
abroad ? 190 

La. Cap. Oh ! the people in the street cry 
Romeo, 

Some Juliet, and some Paris; and all run, 

With open outcry, toward our monument. 
Prince. What fear is this which startles in 
our ears ? 

1 . Watch. Sovereign, here lies the County 
Paris slain ; 195 

And Romeo dead ; and Juliet, dead before, 
Warm and new kill’d. 

Prince. Search, seek, and know how this 
foul murder comes. 

1 . Watch. Here is a friar, and slaughter’d 
Romeo’s man, 

With instruments upon them, fit to open zoo 
These dead men’s tombs. 

Cap. 0 heavens! 0 wife, look how our 
daughter bleeds! 

This dagger hath mista’en, — for, lo, his house 
Is empty on the back of Montague, — 

And is mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom ! 
La. Cap. 0 me! this sight of death is as a 
bell, 206 

That warns my old age to a sepulchre. 


Enter Montague [and others ]. 

Prince. Come, Montague ; for thou art early 
_ up, 

To see thy son and heir more early down. 

Mon. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to¬ 
night ; 210 

Grief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath. 
What further woe conspires against mine age ? 
Prince. Look, and thou shalt see. 

Mon. O thou untaught! what manners is in 
this, 

To press before thy father to a grave ? 215 

Prince. Seal up the mouth of outrage for a 
while, 

Till we can clear these ambiguities, 

And know their spring, their head, their true 
descent; 

And then will I be general of your woes, 

And lead you even to death. Meantime for¬ 
bear, 220 

And let mischance be slave to patience. 

Bring 1 forth the parties of suspicion. 

Fri. L. I am the greatest, able to do least, 
Yet most suspected, as the time and place 234 
Doth make against me, of this direful murder ; 
And here I stand, both to impeach and purge 
Myself condemned and myself excus’d. 

Prince. Then say at once what thou dost 
know in this. 

Fri. L. I will be brief, for my short date of 
breath 

Is not so long as is a tedious tale. 230 

Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet; 
And she, there dead, that Romeo’s faithful 
wife. 

I married them ; and their stolen marriage-day 
Was Tybalt’s dooms-day, whose untimely death 
Banish’d the new-made bridegroom from this 
city, 236 

For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin’d. 
You, to remove that siege of grief from her, 
Betroth’d and would have married her perforce 
To County Paris. Then comes she to me, 

And, with wild looks, bid me devise some mean 
To rid her from this second marriage, 241 

Or in my cell there would she kill herself 
Then gave I her, so tutor’d by my art, 

A sleeping potion ; which so took effect 
As I intended, for it wrought on her 245 

The form of death. Meantime I writ to Romeo, 
That he should hither come as this dire night, 
To help to take her from her borrowed grave, 
Being the time the potion’s force should cease. 
But he which bore my letter, Friar John, 250 
Was stay’d by accident, and yesternight 
Return’d my letter back. Then all alone 
At the prefixed hour of her waking, 

Came I to take her from her kindred’s vault; 
Meaning to keep her closely at my cell, 256 
Till I conveniently could send to Romeo ; 

But when I came, some minute ere the time 
Of her awakening, here untimely lay 
The noble Paris and true Romeo dead. 

She wakes ; and I entreated her come forth, zeo 
And bear this work of heaven with patience. 
But then a noise did scare me from the tomb; 






866 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


v. iii. 


And she, too desperate, would not go with me, 
But, as it seems, did violence on herself. 

All this I know ; and to the marriage 265 

Her nurse is privy ; and, if aught in this 
Miscarried by my fault, let my old life 
Be sacrific’d, some hour before his time, 

Unto the rigour of severest law. 

Prince. We still have known thee for a holy 
man. 270 

Where’s Romeo’s man ? What can he say to 
this ? 

Bal. I brought my master news of Juliet’s 
death ; 

And then in post he came from Mantua 
To this same place, to this same monument. 
This letter he early bid me give his father, 27s 
And threat’ned me with death, going in the 
vault, 

If I departed not and left him there. 

Prince. Give me the letter; I will look on it. 
Where is the County’s page, that rais’d the 
watch ? 

Sirrah, what made your master in this place ? 
Page. He came with flowers to strew his 
lady’s grave; 281 

And bid me stand aloof, and so I did. 

Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb, 
And by and by my master drew on him ; 

And then I ran away to call the watch. 285 


Prince. This letter doth make good the, 
friar’s words, 

Their course of love, the tidings of her death. 
And here he writes that he did buy a poison 
Of a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal 
Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet. 290 
Where be these enemies ? Capulet! Montague ! 
See, what a scourge is laid upon your hate, 

That Heaven finds means to kill your joys with 
love. 

And I for winking at your discords too 294 
Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d. 

Cap. O brother Montague, give me thy hand. 
This is my daughter’s jointure, for no more 
Can I demand. 

Mon. But I can give thee more ; 

For I will raise her statue in pure gold ; 

That whiles Verona by that name is known, 300 
There shall no figure at such rate be set 
As that of true and faithful Juliet. 

Cap. As rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie, 
Poor sacrifices of our enmity ! 

Prince. A glooming peace this morning with it 
brings; 305 

The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head. 
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things ; 

Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished: 
For never was a story of more woe 309 

Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. [ Exeunt . 





THE TRAGEDY OF JULIUS (UESAR 


The tragedy of Julius Ccesar was first printed in the Folio of 1623. The earlier limit for the 
date of its composition is presumably fixed by its absence from the list given in Meres’s Palladis 
Tamia in 1598; and a later limit is found in an allusion to the speeches of Brutus and Antony 
to the citizens in John Weever’s Mirror of Martyrs , published in 1601. But Weever states in his 
Dedication that his work “ some two years ago was made fit for the print ” ; and this piece of 
evidence is strengthened by an apparent reference in Jonson’s Every Man out of his Humour 
(1599). In this play (ill. i.) Clove, a talker of fustian, is made to quote, “ reason long since is 
fled to animals,” which may, perhaps, derive its point from Julius Ccesar, ill. ii. 109. With the 
date thus suggested, 1599, the metrical tests and the characteristics of style are in sufficient 
agreement; and few modern critics place the play later than 1601. An argument has been based 
on the use of the word “ eternal ” in I. ii. 160. In 1600, it is urged, Shakespeare was still using 
“infernal” in such passages, but after that date he substituted “eternal,” apparently out of 
deference to the Puritan agitation which culminated in legislation against profanity and other 
abuses on the stage. But this loses its force when it is observed that the change may here, as 
in other instances, have been made at a later date, and that it is by no means certain that 
Shakespeare wished to say “ infernal.” 

The history of Julius Caesar had been treated on the Elizabethan stage before Shakespeare 
wrote his tragedy, but it has not yet been shown that he made use of any earlier version, 
though some scholars have argued that the present play is the result of the combination of two 
earlier dramas dealing respectively with the death and the avenging of Julius Caesar. The evi¬ 
dence from an extant Dutch play of foreign origin has not yet been brought to bear on the prob¬ 
lem. It is not questioned, however, that Shakespeare drew heavily on Plutarch’s lives of Caesar, 
Brutus, and Antony, which he read in Sir Thomas North’s translation of Amyot’s French ver¬ 
sion. A large portion of the play consists merely of North’s language turned into blank verse, 
with that subtle heightening of the imaginative quality which Shakespeare habitually added to 
his sources; and much that has puzzled readers in the unheroic character of Csesar finds its ex¬ 
planation in the text of Plutarch. Csesar’s great exploits are narrated in Plutarch’s Life , but 
in the earlier part which Shakespeare did not use ; and the later section taken alone conveys 
very much the same impression of Csesar’s pomposity and weaknesses as is given by the earlier 
part of the play. The characters of Casca and Lepidus are hardly hinted at by Plutarch. 
Cassius is strengthened by changing him from a man who was “ too familiar with his friends, 
and would jest too broadly with them,” to one who smiles seldom, and by the omission of the 
petty causes of his hatred of Caesar. Brutus is still more idealized. Several details that might 
have taken from his dignity are omitted, and the boy Lucius is invented that by the picture of 
their relations might be emphasized the tenderness of Brutus’s disposition. The soliloquy of 
Brutus in which the workings of his mind before the assassination are laid bare, the scene in 
the orchard, that in which the conspirators bathe their arms in Caesar’s blood, and the speech of 
Antony over Caesar’s dead body are wholly Shakespeare’s; while the orations of Brutus and 
Antony at Caesar’s funeral are elaborated from the slightest hints. 




THE TRAGEDY OF JULIUS C^SAR 


[DRAMATIS PERSON/E 


triumvirs after the death of 
Julius Ctesar. 


senators. 


conspirators against Julius 
Caesar. 


Julius Caesar. 

Octavius Caesar, 

Marcus Antonius, 

M. ASmilius Lepidus, 

Cicero, 

Publius, 

Popilius Lena, 

Marcus Brutus, 

Cassius, 

Casca, 

Trebonius, 

Ligarius, 

Decius Brutus, 

Metellus Cimber, 

ClNNA, 

Flavius and Marullus, tribunes. 

Artemidorus of Cnidos, a teacher of Rhetoric. 

Senators, Citizens, Guards, Attendants, etc 


A Soothsayer. 

Cinna, a poet. Another Poet. 
Lucilius, 


Titinius, 

Messala, 

Young Cato, 

Volumnius, 

Varro, 

Clitus, 

Claudius, 

Strato, 

Lucius, 

Dardanius, 

Pindarus, servant to Cassius. 

Calpurnia, wife to Caesar. 
Portia, wife to Brutus. 


friends to Brutus and Cassius. 


servants to Brutus. 


Scene: Rome; the neighbourhood of Sardis ; the neighbourhood of Philippi.'] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [Borne. A street.'] 

Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Com¬ 
moners over the stage. 

Flav. Hence ! home, you idle creatures, get 
you home ! 

Is this a holiday ? What! know you not, 

Being mechanical, you ought not walk 
Upon a labouring day without the sign 
Of your profession'? Speak, what trade art 
thou ? s 

Car. Why, sir, a carpenter. 

Mar. Where is thy leather apron and thy 
rule ? 

What dost thou with thy best apparel on ? 

You, sir, what trade are you ? 

Cob. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine work¬ 
man, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler, it 
Mar. But what trade art thou ? Answer me 
directly. 

Cob. A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with 
a safe conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a 
mender of bad soles. is 

Flav. What trade, thou knave? thou naughty 
knave, what trade ? 

Cob. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with 
me ; yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you. 

Mar. What mean’st thou by that? Mend 
me, thou saucy fellow ! 21 

Cob. Why, sir, cobble you. 

Flav. Thou art a cobbler, art thou ? 

Cob. Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the 
awl. I meddle with no tradesman’s matters, [25 
nor women’s matters, but with all. I am, in¬ 
deed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they 


are in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper 
men as ever trod upon neat’s leather have gone 
upon my handiwork. so 

Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to¬ 
day ? 

Why dost thou lead these men about the 
streets ? 

Cob. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to 
get myself into more work. But, indeed, sir, 
we make holiday, to see Csesar and to rejoice 
in his triumph. 36 

Mar, Wherefore rejoice ? What conquest 
brings he home ? 

What tributaries follow him to Rome 
To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels ? 
You blocks, you stones, you worse than sense¬ 
less things! 40 

0 you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, 
Knew you not Pompey ? Many a time and oft 
Have you climb’d up to walls and battlements, 
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, 
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat 45 
The live-long day, with patient expectation, 

To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome ; 
And when you saw his chariot but appear 
Have you not made an universal shout, 

That Tiber trembled underneath her banks eo 
To hear the replication of your sounds 
Made in her concave shores ? 

And do you now put on your best attire ? 

And do you now cull out a holiday ? 

And do you now strew flowers in his way gs 
T hat comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood ? 
Be gone ! 

Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, 

Pray to the gods to intermit the plague 
That needs must light on this ingratitude. «o 








I. II. 


JULIUS CAESAR 


869 


Flav. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this 
fault, 

Assemble all the poor men of your sort; 

Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your 
tears 

Into the channel, till the lowest stream 
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. ee 

[Exeunt all the Commoners. 
See, whe’er their basest metal be not mov’d ; 
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. 

Go you down that way towards the Capitol; 
This way wiU I. Disrobe the images 
If you do find them deck’d with ceremonies. 70 
Mar. May we do so ? 

You know it is the feast of Lupercal. 

Flav. It is no matter ; let no images 
Be hung with Csesar’s trophies. I ’ll about 
And drive away the vulgar from the streets ; 76 
So do you too, where you perceive them thick. 
These growing feathers pluck’d from Caesar’s 
wing 

Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, 

Who else would soar above the view of men 
And keep us all in servile fearfulness. so 

[Exeunt.' 

[Scene II. A public place.] 

Enter Cassar ; Antony, for the course; Cal- 
purnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, 
Cassius, and Casca ; [a great crowd follow¬ 
ing, among them] a Soothsayer : after them 
Marullus and Flavius. 

Cces. Calpurnia ! 

Casca. Peace, ho ! Caesar speaks. 

Cces. Calpurnia! 

Cal. Here, my lord. 

Cces. Stand you directly in Antonius’ way 
When he doth run his course. Antonius ! 

Ant. Caesar, my lord ? 6 

Cces. Forget not, in your speed, Antonius, 

To touch Calpurnia ; for our elders say, 

The barren, touched in this holy chase, 

Shake off their sterile curse. 

Ant. I shall remember : 

When Caesar says, “ Do this,” it is perform’d. 
Cces. Set on ; and leave no ceremony out;, u 

[Flourish.] 

Sooth. Caesar! 

Cces. Ha ! who calls ? 

Casca. Bid every noise be still; peace yet 
again ! 

Cces. Who is it in the press that calls on 
me ? 16 

I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music, 

Cry “ Caesar ! ” Speak ; Caesar is turn’d to 
hear. 

Sooth. Beware the ides of March. 

Cces. What man is that r 

Bru. A soothsayer bids you beware the ides 
of March. 

Cces. Set him before me; let me see his 
face. 20 

Cas. Fellow, come from the throng; look 
upon Caesar. 

Cces. What say’st thou to me now ? Speak 
once again. 


Sooth. Beware the ides of March. 

Cces. He is a dreamer ; let us leave him. 
Pass. 

• [Sennet. Exeunt all but Brutus and 
Cassius. 

Cas. Will you go see the order of the course ? 
Bru. Not I. 2 # 

Cas. I pray you, do. 

Bru. I am not gamesome; I do lack some 
part 

Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. 

Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; 30 

I ’ll leave you. 

Cas. Brutus, I do observe you now of late ; 

I have not from your eyes that gentleness 
And show of love as I was wont to have. 

You bear too stubborn and too strange a 
hand 30 

Over your friend that loves you. 

Bru. Cassius, 

Be not deceiv’d. If I have veil’d my look, 

I turn the trouble of my countenance 
Merely upon myself. Vexed I am 
Of late with passions of some difference, «o 
Conceptions only proper to myself, 

Which give some soil perhaps to my behav¬ 
iours ; 

But let not therefore my good friends be 
griev’d — 

Among which number, Cassius, be you one — 
Nor construe any further my neglect, « 

Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, 
Forgets the shows of love to other men. 

Cas. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook 
your passion ; 

By means whereof this breast of mine hath 
buried 

Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations, no 
Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face ? 

Bru. No, Cassius ; for the eye sees not itself 
But by reflection, by some other things. 

Cas. ’T is just; 

And it is very much lamented, Brutus, ee 

That you have no such mirrors as will turn 
Your hidden worthiness into your eye, 

That you might see your shadow. I have 
heard, 

Where many of the best respect in Rome, 
Except immortal Caesar, speaking of Brutus «, 
And groaning underneath this age’s yoke, 

Have wish’d that noble Brutus had his eyes. 
Bru. Into what dangers would you lead me, 
Cassius, 

That you would have me seek into myself 
For that which is not in me ? «> 

Cas. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepar’d to 
hear; 

And since you know you cannot see yourself 
So well as by reflection, I, your glass, 

Will modestly discover to yourself 

That of yourself which you yet know not of. 

And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus. 

Were I a common laugher, or did use 

To stale with ordinary oaths my love 

To every new protester; if you know 

That I do fawn on men and hug them hard 76 

And after scandal them, or if you know 




870 


JULIUS CLESAR 


1. ii. 


That I profess myself in banqueting 
To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. 

[Flourish and shout. 
Bru. What means this shouting ? I do fear, 
the people 

Choose Caesar for their king. 

Cas. Ay, do you fear it ? 

Then must I think you would not have it so. si 
Bru. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him 
well. 

But wherefore do you hold me here so long ? 
What is it that you would impart to me ? 

If it be aught toward the general good, ss 
Set honour in one eye and death i’ the other, 
And I will look on both indifferently ; 

For let the gods so speed me as I love 
The name of honour more than I fear death. 

Cas. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, 
As well as I do know your outward favour. 01 
Well, honour is the subject of my story. 

I cannot tell what you and other men 
Think of this life ; but, for my single self, 

I had as lief not be as live to be 06 

In awe of such a thing as I myself. 

I was born free as Caesar, so were you ; 

We both have fed as well, and we can both 
Endure the winter’s cold as well as he ; 

For once, upon a raw and gusty day, 100 

The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, 
Caesar said to me, “ Dar’st thou, Cassius, now 
Leap in with me into this angry flood, 

And swim to yonder point ? ” Upon the word, 
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in 105 

And bade him folloAV ; so indeed he did. 

The torrent roar’d, and we did buffet it 
With lusty sinews, throwing it aside 
And stemming it with hearts of controversy ; 
But ere we could arrive the point propos’d, u* 
Caesar cried, “ Help me, Cassius, or I sink ! ” 

I, as vEneas, our great ancestor, 

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder 
The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of 
Tiber 

Did I the tired Caesar. And this man 115 

Is now become a god, and Cassius is 
A wretched creature, and must bend his body 
If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. 

He had a fever when he was in Spain, 

And when the fit was on him, I did mark 120 
How he did shake —’t is true, this god did 
shake. 

His coward lips did from their colour fly, 

And that same eye whose bend doth awe the 
world 

Did lose his lustre ; I did hear him groan. 

Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the 
Romans 125 

Mark him and write his speeches in their 
books, 

Alas, it cried, “ Give me some drink, Titinius,” 
As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me 
A man of such a feeble temper should 
So get the start of the majestic world iso 

And bear the palm alone. [Shout. Flourish. 

Bru. Another general shout! 

I do believe that these applauses are 

For some new honours that are heap’d on Caesar. 


Cas. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow 
world 1*5 

Like a Colossus, and we petty men 
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about 
To find ourselves dishonourable graves. 

IVIen at some time are masters of their fates ; 
'"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, 140 
But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 
Brutus and Caesar: what should be in that 
“Caesar”? 

Why should that name be sounded more than 
yours ? 

Write them together, yours is as fair a name ; 
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as 
well; 145 

Weigh them, it is as heavy ; conjure with ’em, 
“Brutus” will start a spirit as soon as “Cae¬ 
sar.” 

Now, in the names of all the gods at once. 

Upon what meat doth this our Caesar f eea 
That he is grown so great ? Age, thou art 
sham’d! ' ieo 

Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods ! 
When went there by an age, since the great 
flood, 

But it was fam’d with more than with one 
man ? 

When could they say, till now, that talk’d of 
Rome, 

That her wide walls encompass’d but one 
man ? i«s 

Now is it Rome indeed and room enough, 

When there is in it but one only man. 

O, you and I have heard our fathers say 
There was a Brutus once that would have 
brook’d 

The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome iat 
As easily as a king. 

Bru. That you do love me, I am nothing 
jealous ; 

What you would work me to, I have some 
aim. 

How I have thought of this and of these times. 

I shall recount hereafter ; for this present, m 
I would not, so with love I might entreat you, 
Be any further mov’d. What you have said 
I will consider ; what you have to say 
I will with patience hear, and find a time 
Both meet to hear and answer such high things. 
Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this : m 
Brutus had rather be a villager 
Than to repute himself a son of Rome 
Under these hard conditions as this time 
Is like to lay upon us. 11c 

Cas. I am glad that my weak words 
Have struck but thus much show of fire from 
Brutus. 

Bo-enter Cesar and his train. 

Bru. The games are done and Caesar is re¬ 
turning. 

Cas. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the 
sleeve; 

And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you iso 
What hath proceeded worthy note to-day. 

Bru. I will do so. But, look you, Cassius, 
Ihe angry spot doth glow on Caesar’s brow. 






• 7T T ’ T ' ° 47 c a r> 

j U J-i o O v/iTiOxnv 


I. ii. 


And all the rest look like a chidden train. 
Calpurnia’s cheek is pale ; and Cicero im 

Looks with such ferret and such tiery eyes 
As we have seen him in the Capitol, 

Being cross’d in conference by some senators. 
Cas. Casca will tell us what the matter is. 
Cans. Antonius! wo 

Ant. Caesar? 

Coes. Let me have men about me that are 
fat, 

Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o’ nights. 
Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look, 

He thinks too much; such men are dan¬ 
gerous. W 6 

Ant. Fear him not, Caesar; he’s not dan¬ 
gerous ; 

He is a noble Roman and well given. 

Coes. Would he were fatter! but I fear him 
not. 

Yet if my name were liable to fear, 

I do not know the man I should avoid 200 

So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much ; 
He is a great observer, and he looks 
Quite through the deeds of men. He loves no 
plays 

As thou dost, Antony ; he hears no music ; 
Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort 205 
As if he mock’d himself and scorn’d his spirit 
That could be mov’d to smile at anything. 
Such men as he be never at heart’s ease 
Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, 
And therefore are they very dangerous. 210 
I rather tell thee what is to be fear’d 
Than what I fear ; for always I am Caesar. 
Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, 
And tell me truly what thou think’st of him. 

[Sennet. Exeunt Ccesar and all his 
train [but Cased]. 

Casca. You pull’d me by the cloak; would 
you speak with me ? 216 

Bru. Ay, Casca; tell us what hath chanc’d 
to-day 

That Caesar looks so sad. 

Casca. Why, you were with him, were you 
not ? 

Bru. I should not then ask Casca what had 
chanc’d. # 210 

Casca. Why, there was a crown offer’d him ; 
and being offer’d him, he put it by with the 
back of his hand, thus; and then the people 
fell a-shouting. 

Bru. What was the second noise for ? 

Casca. Why, for that too. 225 

Cas. They shouted thrice; what was the 
last cry for ? 

Casca. Why, for that too. 

Bru. Was the crown offer’d him thrice ? 
Casca. Ay, marry, was’t, and he put it by 
thrice, every time gentler than other; and 
at every putting-by mine honest neighbours 
shouted. 231 

Cas. Who offer’d him the crown ? 

Casca. Why, Antony. 

Bru. Tell us the manner of it, gentle 
Casca. 234 

Casca. I can as well be hang’d as tell the 
manner of it. It was mere foolery; I did not 


mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer 
— yet ’t was not a crown neither 
of these coronets — and, as I told 
it by once ; but, for all that, to m 
he would fain have had it. Thei 1 
fered it to him again ; then he put 
but, to my thinking, he was very 1 1 \\ 
his fingers off it. And then he of d 
third time; he put it the third ti ) 
still as he refus’d it, the rabbler ' • 

and clapp’d their chapp’d hands am new 
up their sweaty night-caps and utl 
deal of stinking breath because Co r- i'j 
the crown, that it had almost eh< a 
for he swounded and fell down at 
mine own part, I durst not laugh, o; f 
opening my lips and receiving the 1 d . .. 

Cas. But, soft, I pray you ; wha 
swound ? 

Casca. He fell down in the m ?t-T 1: 
and foam’d at mouth, and was spet 

Bru. ’Tis very like; he hath 
sickness. 

Cas. No, Caesar hath it not; but 
And honest Casca, we have the f 
ness. 

Casca. I know not what you mi 
but I am sure Caesar fell down. If 
people did not clap him and hiss hii d 

as he pleas’d and displeas’d them, 
to do tl e players in the theatre, I 
man. 

Bru. What said he when he cam 
self? 

Casca. Marry, before he fell dov • ' 
perceiv’d the common herd was gla 
the crown, he pluck’d me ope his |. 
offer’d them his throat to cut. An 
a man of any occupation, if I wou . 
taken him at a word, I would I i 
hell among the rogues. And so ^ t«'i 
When he came to himself again, h : . 
had done or said anything amiss, 
their worships to think it was h 
Three or four wenches, where Is 
“ Alas, good soul! ” and forgave h 
their hearts. But there’s no hee 
taken of them; if Caesar had st 
mothers, they would have done no 

Bru. And after that, he came 
away ? 

Casca. Ay. 

Cas. Did Cicero say anything ? 

Casca. Ay, he spoke Greek. 

Cas. To what effect ? 

Casca. Nay, an I tell you thaf 
look you i’ the face again; but 
understood him smil’d at one anotht i 

their heads; but, for mine own J i 
Greek to me. I could tell you mo 
Marullus and Flavius, for pullinf 
Caesar’s images, are put to silenc< 
well. There was more foolery yet 
remember it. 

Cas. Will you sup with me to-nij 

Casca. No, I am promis’d forth. 

Cas. Will you dine with me to-n 




/2 ' ! JULIUS 

- —J f 

Casca. Ay, if I be aliy'e and your mind hold 
and your dinner worth the eating. 290 

Cas. Good ; I will expect you. 

Casca. Do so. Farewell, both. [Exit. 

Bru. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! 
He was quick mettle when he went to school. 

Cas. 80 is he now in execution soi 

Of any bold or noble enterprise, 

However he puts on this tardy form. 

This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, 

Which gives men stomach to digest his words 
With better appetite. < 306 

Bru. And so it is. For this time I will leave 
you; 

To-morrow, if you please to speak with me, 

I will come home to you ; or, if you will, 

Come home to me, and I will wait for you'. 310 
Cas. I will do so; till then, think of the 
world. [Exit Brutus. 

Well, Brutus, thou art noble ; yet, I see, 

Thy honourable metal may be wrought 
From that it is dispos’d ; therefore it is meet 
That noble minds keep ever with their likes ; 
For who so firm that cannot be seduc’d ? 316 

Caesar doth bear me hard, but he loves Brutus. 
If I were Brutus now and he were Cassius, 

He should not humour me. I will this night, 

In several hands, in at his windows throw, 320 
As if they came from several citizens, 

Writings all tending to the great opinion 
That Rome holds of his name; wherein ob¬ 
scurely 

Dsesar’s ambition shall be‘ glanced at; 

Vnd after this let Caesar seat him sure, 325 
'or we will shake him, or worse days endure. 

[Exit. 

[Scene III. The same. A street.] 

Thunder and lightning. Enter [from opposite 
sides ] Casca [with his sword drawn] and 
Cicero. 

Cic. Good even, Casca; brought you Caesar 
\ home ? 

yhy are you breathless, and why stare you ^o ? 
Casca. Are not you mov’d, when aliTfche 
v -• - sway of earth 
Shakes like a thing unfirm ? 0 Cicero, 

I have seen tempests when the scolding winds 
Have riv’d the knotty oaks, and I have seen 0 
The ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam 
To be exalted with the threat’ning clouds ; 

But never till to-night, never till now. 

Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. 10 
Either there is a civil strife in heaven, 

Or else the world, too saucy with the gods, 
Incenses them to send destruction. 

Cic. Why, saw you anything more wonder¬ 
ful ? 

Casca. A common slave — you know him 
well by sight— is 

Held up his left hand, which did flame and 
burn 

Like twenty torches join’d, and yet his hand, 
Not sensible of fire, remain’d unscoreh’d. 
Besides— I ha’ not since put up my sword — 
Against the Capitol I met a lion, 20 


CAESAR I. iii. 


Who glaz’d upon me, and went surly by 
Without annoying me ; and there were drawn 
Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, 
Transformed with their fear, who swore they 
saw 

Men all in fire walk up and down the streets. 25 
And yesterday the bird of night did sit 
Even at noon-day upon the market-place. 
Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigies 
Do so conjointly meet, let not men say, 

“ These are their reasons ; they are natural ” ; 
For, I believe, they are portentous things 31 
Unto the climate that they point upon. 

Cic. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time ; 
But men may construe things after their fash¬ 
ion 

Clean from the purpose of the things them¬ 
selves. 36 

Comes Caesar to the Capitol to-morrow ? 

Casca. He doth ; for he did bid Antonius 
Send word to you he would be there to-morrow. 
Cic. Good-night then, Casca ; this disturbed 
sky 

Is not to walk in. 

Casca. Farewell, Cicero. *0 

[Exit Cicero. 

Enter Cassius. 

Cas. Who’s there ? 

Casca. A Roman. 

Cas. Casca, by your voice. 

Casca. Your ear is good. Cassius, what 
night is this! 

Cas. A very pleasing night to honest men. 
Casca. Who ever knew the heavens menace 
so ? 

Cas. Those that have known the earth so 
full of faults. « 

For my part, I have walk’d about the streets, 
Submitting me unto the perilous night, 

And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, 

Have bar’d my bosom to the thundei’-stone ; 
And when the cross blue lightning seem’d to 
open so 

The breast of heaven, I did present myself 
Even in the aim and very flash of it. 

Casca. But wherefore did you so much tempt 
the heavens ? 

It is the part of men to fear and tremble 
When the most mighty gods by tokens send bb 
Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. 

Cas. You are dull, Casca, and those sparks 
of life 

That should be in a Roman you do want, 

Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze 
And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder, 00 
To see the strange impatience of the heavens ; 
But if you would consider the true cause 
Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts, 
Why birds and beasts from quality and kind, 
Why old men, fools, and children calculate, 66 
Why all these things change from their ordi¬ 
nance 

Their natures and preformed faculties 
To monstrous quality, why, you shall find 
That Heaven hath infus’d them with these 
spirits, 







JULIUS CAESAR 


873 


11. i. 


To make them instruments of fear and warn¬ 
ing 70 

Unto some monstrous state. 

Now could I, Casca, name to thee a man 
Most like this dreadful night, 

That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and 
roars 

As doth the lion in the Capitol, 75 

A man no mightier than thyself or me 
In personal action, yet prodigious grown 
And fearful, as these strange eruptions are. 
Casca. ’T is Caesar that you mean ; is it not, 
Cassius ? 

Cas. Let it be who it is ; for Romans now *<> 
Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors, 
But, woe the while! our fathers’ minds are 
dead, 

And we are govern’d with our mothers’ spirits ; 
Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. 
Casca. Indeed, they say the senators to¬ 
morrow 85 

Mean to establish Caesar as a king; 

And he shall wear his crown by sea and land, 
In every place, save here in Italy. 

Cas. I know where I will wear this dagger 
then; 

Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius. 90 
Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most 
strong; 

Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat; 

Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, 

Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, 
Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; 95 

But life, being weary of these worldly bars, 
Never lacks power to dismiss itself. 

If I know this, know all the world besides, 
That part of tyranny that I do bear 
I can shake off at pleasure. [ Thunder still. 

Casca. So can I; 100 

So every bondman in his own hand bears 
The power to cancel his captivity. 

Cas. And why should Caesar be a tyrant 
then ? 

Poor man ! I know he would not be a wolf, 

But that he sees the Romans are but sheep ; uw 
He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. 

Those that with haste will make a mighty 
fire 

Begin it with weak straws: what trash is Rome, 
What rubbish and what offal, when it serves 
For the base matter to illuminate no 

So vile a thing as Caesar! But, O grief, 

Where hast thou led me ? I perhaps speak this 
Before a willing bondman ; then I know 
My answer must be made. But I am arm’d, 
And dangers are to me indifferent. 118 

Casca. You speak to Casca, and to such a 
man 

That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, —my hand. 
Be factious for redress of all these griefs, 

And I will set this foot of mine as far n» 

As who goes farthest. 

Cas. There’s a bargain made. 

Now know you, Casca, I have mov’d already 
Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans 
To undergo with me an enterprise 
Of honourable-dangerous consequence; 


And I do know, by this they stay for me 126 
In Pompey’s porch ; for now, this fearful night, 
There is no stir or walking in the streets ; 

And the complexion of the element 
In favour’s like the work we have in hand, 
Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. 130 

Enter Cinna. 

Casca. Stand close a while, for here comes 
one in haste. 

Cas. ’T is Cinna, I do know him by his gait; 
He is a friend. Cinna, where haste you so ? 

Cin. To find out you. Who’s that? Metellus 
Cimber ? 

Cas. No, it is Casca ; one incorporate iss 
To our attempts. Am I not stay’d for, Cinna ? 
Cin. I am glad on’t. What a fearful night 
is this ! 

There’s two or three of us have seen strange 
sights. 

Cas. Am I not stay’d for ? tell me. 

Cin. Yes, you are. 

O Cassius, if you could 140 

But win the noble Brutus to our party — 

Cas. Be you content. Good Cinna, take this 
paper, 

And look you lay it in the prsetor’s chair, 
Where Brutus may but find it; and throw 
this 

In at his window ; set this up with wax 145 
Upon old Brutus’ statue. All this done, 

Repair to Pompey’s porch, where you shall find 
us. 

Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there? 

Cin. All but Metellus Cimber; and he’s 
gone 

To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie 100 
And so bestow these papers as you bade me. 
Cas. That done, repair to Pompey’s theatre. 

[Exit Cinna. 

Come, Casca, you and I will yet ere day 
See Brutus at his house. Three parts of him 
Is ours already, and the man entire 1&5 

Upon the next encounter yields him ours. 

Casca. O, he sits high in all the people’s 
hearts ; 

And that which would appear offence in us, 

His countenance, like richest alchemy, 

Will change to virtue and to worthiness. 160 
Cas. Him and his worth and our great need 
of him 

You have right well conceited. Let us go, 

For it is after midnight; and ere day 
We will awake him and be sure of him. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT II 

[Scene I. Rome.] 

Enter Brutus in his orchard. 

Bru. What, Lucius, ho ! 

I cannot by the progress of the stars 
Give guess how near to day. Lucius, I say ! 

I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly. 
When, Lucius, when ! Awake, I say ! What, 
Lucius! * 







874 


JULIUS CAESAR 


ii. i. 


Enter Lucius. 

Luc. Call’d you, my lord ? 

Bru. Get me a taper in my study, Lucius. 
When it is lighted, come and call me here. 

Luc. I will, my lord. [Exit. 

Bru. It must be by his death ; and for my 
part, # 10 

I know no personal cause to spurn at him 
But for the general. He would be crown’d: 

How that might change his nature, there’s the 
question. 

It is the bright day that brings forth the adder, 
And that craves wary walking. Crown him ? — 
that; — 16 

And then, I grant, we put a sting in him 
That at his will he may do danger with. 

The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins 
Remorse from power ; and, to speak truth of 
Caesar, 

I have not known when his affections sway’d 20 
More than his reason. But’t is a common proof 
That lowliness is young Ambition’s ladder, 
Whereto the climber-upward turns his face ; 

But when he once attains the upmost round, 

He then unto the ladder turns his back, 25 
Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees 
By which he did ascend. So Caesar may ; 

Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the 
quarrel 

Will bear no colour for the thing he is, 

Fashion it thus : that what he is, augmented, 
Would run to these and these extremities ; 31 

And therefore think him as a serpent’s egg 
Which, hatch’d, would, as his kind, grow mis¬ 
chievous, 

And kill him in the shell. 

Re-enter Lucius. 

Luc. The taper burneth in your closet, sir. 
Searching the window for a flint, I found 36 
This paper, thus seal’d up ; and I am sure 
It did not lie there when I went to bed. 

[Gives him the letter. 

Bru. Get you to bed again ; it is not day. 

Is not to-morrow, boy, the ides of March ? 40 

Luc. I know not, sir. 

Bru. Look in the calendar, and bring me 
word. 

Luc. I will, sir. _ ... [Exit. 

Bru. The exhalations whizzing in the air 
Give so much light that I may read by them. 45 
[Opens the letter and reads. 

“ Brutus, thou sleep’st; awake, and see thy¬ 
self! 

Shall Rome, etc. Speak, strike, redress! ” 

“ Brutus, thou sleep'st; awake ! ” 

Such instigations have been often dropp’d 
Where I have took them up. so 

“Shall Rome, etc.” Thus must I piece it out: 
Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe ? 
What, Rome ? 

My ancestors did from the streets of Rome 
The Tarquin drive, when he was call’d a king. 

“ Speak, strike, redress ! ” Am I entreated os 
To speak and strike ? O Rome, I make thee 
promise, I 


If the redress will follow, thou receivest 
Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus ! 

Re-enter Lucius. 

Luc. Sir, March is wasted fifteen days. 

[Knocking within. 
Bru. ’Tis good. Go to the gate; somebody 
knocks. [Exit Lucius .] 

Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar, 
I have not slept. 

Between the acting of a dreadful thing 
And the first motion, all the interim is 
Like a phantasma or a hideous dream. 68 

The Genius and the mortal instruments 
Are then in council; and the state of a man, 
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then 
The nature of an insurrection. 

Re-enter Lucius. 

Luc. Sir, ’tis your brother Cassius at the 
door, 70 

Who doth desire to see you. 

Bru. Is he alone ? 

Luc. No, sir, there are moe with him. 

Bru. Ho you know them ? 

Luc. No, sir; their hats are pluck’d about 
their ears 

And half their faces buried in their cloaks, 
That by no means I may discover them re 

By any mark of favour. 

Bru. Let ’em enter. 

[Exit Lucius .] 

They are the faction. 0 Conspiracy, 

Sham’st thou to show thy dangerous brow by 
night, 

When evils are most free ? O, then by day 
Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough *0 
To mask thy monstrous visage ? Seek none, 
Conspiracy! 

Hide it in smiles and affability ; 

For if thou path, thy native semblance on, 

Not Erebus itself were dim enough 

To hide thee from prevention. sc 

Enter the conspirators , Cassius, Casca, Decius, 
Cinna, Metellus Cimber, and Trebonius. 

Cas. I think we are too bold upon your rest. 
Good morrow, Brutus ; do we trouble you ? 
Bru. I have been up this hour, awake all 
night. 

Know I these men that come along with you ? 
Cas. Yes, every man of them ; and no man 
here »o 

But honours you ; and every one doth wish 
You had but that opinion of yourself 
Which every noble Roman bears of you. 

This is Trebonius. 

Bru. He is welcome hither. 

Cas. This, Decius Brutus. 

Bru. He is welcome too. 

Cas. This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, 
Metellus Cimber. «« 

Bru. They are all welcome. 

What watchful cares do interpose themselves 
Betwixt your eyes and night ? 

Cas. Shall I entreat a word ? 100 

[They whisper. 





ii. i. 


JULIUS CAESAR 


875 


Dec. Here lies the east; doth not the day 
break here ? 

Casca. No. 

Cin. 0 , pardon, sir, it doth; and yon grey 
lines 

That fret the clouds are messengers of day. 
Casca. You shall confess that you are both 
deceiv’d. 105 

Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises, 
Which is a great way growing on the south, 
Weighing the youthful season of the year. 
Some two months hence up higher toward the 
north 

He first presents his fire ; and the high east no 
Stands, as the Capitol, directly here. 

Bru. Give me your hands all over, one by 
one. 

Cas. And let us swear our resolution. 

Bru. No, not an oath! If not the face of 
men, 

The sufferance of our souls, the time’s abuse, — 
If these be motives weak, break off betimes, u 6 
And every man hence to his idle bed ; 

So let high-sighted tyranny range on, 

Till each man drop by lottery. But if these, 
As I am sure they do, bear fire enough 120 

To kindle cowards and to steel with valour 
The melting spirits of women, then, country¬ 
men, 

What need we any spur but our own cause, 

To prick us to redress ? what other bond 
Than secret Romans, that have spoke the 
word, i 2 B 

And will not palter ? and what other oath 
Than honesty to honesty engag’d, 

That this shall be, or we will fall for it ? 

Swear priests and cowards and men cautelous, 
Old feeble carrions and such suffering souls 130 
That welcome wrongs ; unto bad causes swear 
Such creatures as men doubt; but do not stain 
The even virtue of our enterprise, 

Nor the insuppressive mettle of our spirits, 

To think that or our cause or our performance 
Did need an oath ; when every drop of blood 130 
That every Roman bears, and nobly bears, 

Is guilty of a several bastardy, 

If he do break the smallest particle 
Of any promise that hath pass’d from him. no 
Cas. But what of Cicero? Shall we sound 
him ? 

I think he will stand very strong with us. 
Casca. Let us not leave him out. 

Cin. No, by no means. 

Met. 0, let us have him, for his silver hairs 
Will purchase us a good opinion ns 

And buy men’s voices to commend our deeds. 
It shall be said, his judgement rul’d our hands ; 
Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, 
But all be buried in his gravity. 

Bru. 0 , name him not; let us not break with 
him, # 150 

For he will never follow anything 
That, other men begin. 

Cas. Then leave him out. 

Casca. Indeed he is not fit. 

Dec. Shall no man else be touch’d but only 
Caesar ? 


Cas. Decius, well urg’d. I think it is not 
meet, 166 

Mark Antony, so well belov’d of Caesar, 

Should outlive Caesar. We shall find of him 
A shrewd contriver ; and, you know, his means, 
If he improve them, may well stretch so far 
As to annoy us all; which to prevent, iso 

Let Antony and Caesar fall together. 

Bru. Our course will seem too bloody, Caius 
Cassius, 

To cut the head off and then hack the limbs, 
Like wrath in death and envy afterwards; 

For Antony is but a limb of Caesar. iss 

Let’s be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. 
We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar, 
And in the spirit of men there is no blood ; 

O, that we then could come by Caesar’s spirit, 
And not dismember Caesar ! But, alas, no 
Caesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends, 
Let’s kill him boldly, but not wrathfully ; 

Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods, 

Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds ; 

And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, ns 
Stir up their servants to an act of rage, 

And after seem to chide ’em. This shall make 
Our purpose necessary and not envious; 

Which so appearing to the common eyes, 

We shall be call’d purgers, not murderers, iso 
And for Mark Antony, think not of him ; 

For he can do no more than Caesar’s arm 
When Caesar’s head is off. 

Cas. Yet I fear him; 

For in the ingrafted love he bears to Caesar — 
Bru. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of 
him. iss 

If he love Caesar, all that he can do 
Is to himself, take thought and die for Caesar ; 
And that were much he should, for he is given 
To sports, to wildness, and much company. 
Treb. There is no fear in him ; let him not 
die; _ i»o 

For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter. 

[Clock strikes. 

Bru. Peace ! count the clock. 

Cas. The clock hath stricken three. 

Treb. ’T is time to part. 

Cas. But it is doubtful yet 

Whether Caesar will come forth to-day, or no ; 
For he is superstitious grown of late, i »5 

Quite from the main opinion he held once 
Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies. 

It may be these apparent prodigies, 

The unaccustom’d terror of this night, 

And the persuasion of his augurers, 200 

May hold him from the Capitol to-day. 

Dec. Never fear that. If he be so resolv’d, 

I can o’ersway him ; for he loves to hear 
That unicorns may be betray’d with trees, 

And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, 
Lions with toils, and men with flatterers ; 20c 

But when I tell him he hates flatterers 
He says he does, being then most flattered. 

Let me work ; 

For I can give his humour the true bent, 210 
And I will bring him to the Capitol. 

Cas. Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch 
him. 




8 76 


JULIUS CAESAR 


ii. i. 


Bru. By the eighth hour ; is that the utter¬ 
most? 

Cin. Be that the uttermost, and fail not 
then. 214 

Met. Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard, 
Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey. 

I wonder none of you have thought of him. 

Bru. Now, good Metellus, go along by him. 
He loves me well, and I have given him rea¬ 
sons ; 

Send him but hither, and I ’ll fashion him. 220 
Cas. The morning comes upon’s. We’ll 
leave you, Brutus, 

And, friends, disperse yourselves; but all re¬ 
member 

What you have said, and show yourselves true 

Romans. 

Bru. Good gentlemen, look fresh and mer¬ 
rily. 

Let not our looks put on our purposes, 225 

But bear it as our Roman actors do, 

With untir’d spirits and formal constancy. 

And so good morrow to you every one. 

[Exeunt all but Brutus. 

Boy ! Lucius ! Fast asleep ? It is no matter ; 
Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber. 230 
Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies 
Which busy care draws in the brains of men; 
Therefore thou sleep’st so sound. 

Enter Portia. 

Bor. Brutus, my lord ! 

Bru. Portia, what mean you? Wherefore 
rise you now ? 

It is not for your health thus to commit 235 
Your weak condition to the raw cold morning. 
Bor. Nor for yours neither. You ’ve ungently, 
Brutus, 

Stole from my bed ; and yesternight, at supper, 
You suddenly arose, and walk’d about, 

Musing and sighing, with your arms across ; 240 
And when I ask’d you what the matter was, 
You star’d upon me with ungentle looks. 

I urg’d you further; then you scratch’d your 
head, 

And too impatiently stamp’d with your foot. 
Yet I insisted ; yet you answer’d not, 245 

But with an angry wafture of your hand 
Gave sign for me to leave you. So I did, 
Fearing to strengthen that impatience 
Which seem’d too much enkindled, and withal 
Hoping it was but an effect of humour, 2S0 
Which sometime hath his hour with every man. 
It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep, 

And could it work so much upon your shape 
As it hath much prevail’d on your condition, 254 
I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord, 
Make me acquainted with your cause of grief. 
Bru. I am not well in health, and that is all. 
Bor. Brutus is wise, and, were he not in 
health, 

He would embrace the means to come by it. 
Bru. Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed. 
Bor. Is Brutus sick ? and is it physical 261 
To walk unbraced and suck up the humours 
Of the dank morning ? What, is Brutus sick, 
And will he steal out of his wholesome bed, 


To dare the vile contagion of the night, 26s 
And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air 
To add unto his sickness ? No, my Brutus ; 
You have some sick offence within your mind, 
Which, by the right and virtue of my place, 

I ought to know of ; and upon my knees 270 
1 charm you, by my once commended beauty, 
By all your vows of love and that great vow 
Which did incorporate and make us one, 

That you unfold to me, yourself, your half, 
Why you are heavy, and what men to-night 275 
Have had resort to you ; for here have been 
Some six or seven, who did hide their faces 
Even from darkness. 

Bru. Kneel not, gentle Portia. 

Bor. I should not need, if you were gentle 
Brutus. 

Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, 
Is it excepted I should know no secrets 281 
That appertain to you ? Am I yourself 
But, as it were, in sort or limitation. 

To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, 
And talk to you sometimes ? Dwell I but in the 
suburbs 286 

Of your good pleasure ? If it be no more, 

Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife. 

Bru. You are my true and honourable wife, 
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops 
That visit my sad heart. 2 »o 

Bor. If this were true, then should I know 
this secret. 

I grant I am a woman ; but withal 
A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife. 

I grant I am a woman ; but withal 
A woman well-reputed, Cato’s daughter. 29* 
Think you I am no stronger than my sex, 

Being so father’d and so husbanded ? 

Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose ’em. 

I have made strong proof of my constancy, 
Giving myself a voluntary wound soo 

Here, in the thigh ; can I bear that with pa¬ 
tience, 

And not my husband’s secrets ? 

Bru. O ye gods ! 

Render me worthy of this noble wife ! 

[Knocking within. 
Hark, hark ! one knocks. Portia, go in a while, 
And by and by thy bosom shall partake -m 
The secrets of my heart. 

All my engagements I will construe to thee, 

All the charactery of my sad brows. 

Leave me with haste. [Exit Bortia .] 

Lucius, who’s that knocks ? 

Re-enter Lucius with Ligarius. 

Luc. Here is a sick man that would speak 
with you. 310 

Bru. Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of. 
Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius ! how ? 

Lig. Vouchsafe good morrow from a feeble 
tongue. 

Bru. O, what a time have you chose out, 
brave Caius, 

To wear a kerchief! Would you were not 
sick! 3is 

Lig. I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand 
Any exploit worthy the name of honour. 





II. 11 . 


JULIUS CAESAR 


877 


Bru. Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, 
Had you a healthful ear to hear of it. 

Lig. By all the gods that Romans bow before, 
I here discard my sickness ! Soul of Rome ! 321 
Brave son, deriv’d from honourable loins ! 
Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjur’d up 
My mortified spirit. Now bid me run, 

And I will strive with things impossible ; 325 

Yea, get the better of them. What’s to do ? 
Bru. A piece of work that will make sick 
men whole. 

Lig. But are not some whole that we must 
make sick ? 

Bru. That must we also. What it is, my 
Caius, 

I shall unfold to thee, as we are going 330 

To whom it must be done. 

Lig. Set on your foot, 

And with a heart new-fir’d I follow you, 

To do I know not what; but it sufficeth 
That Brutus leads me on. [ Thunder. 

Bru. Follow me, then. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. Ccesar's house.] 

Thunder and lightning. Enter Caesar, in his 
night-gown. 

Cces. Nor heaven nor earth have been at 
peace to-night. 

Thrice hath Calpurnia in her sleep cried out, 

“ Help ! ho ! they murder Caesar ! ” Who’s 
within ? 

Enter a Servant. 

Serv. My lord ? 

Cces. Go bid the priests do present sacrifice b 
A nd bring me their opinions, of success. 

Serv. I will, my lord. [Exit. 

Enter Calpurnia. 

Cal. What mean you, Caesar? Think you 
to walk forth ? 

You shall not stir out of your house to-day. 
Cces. Caesar shall forth. The things that 
threaten’d me 10 

Ne’er look’d but on my back ; when they shall 
see 

The face of Caesar, they are vanished. 

Cal. Caesar, I never stood on ceremonies, 
Yet now they fright me. There is one within, 
Besides the things that we have heard and 
seen, t 15 

Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch. 
A lioness hath whelped in the streets; 

And graves have yawn’d, and yielded up their 
dead; 

Fierce fiery warriors fight upon the clouds, 

In ranks and squadrons and right form of 
war, 20 

Which drizzl’d blood upon the Capitol; 

The noise of battle hurtled in the air, 

Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan, 
And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the 
streets. 

O Caesar ! these things are beyond all use, 25 
And I do fear them. 


Cces. What can be avoided 

Whose end is purpos’d by the mighty gods ? 

Yet Caesar shall go forth ; for these predictions 
Are to the world in general as to Caesar. 

Cal. When beggars die there are no comets 
seen; so 

The heavens themselves blaze forth the death 
of princes. 

Cces. Cowards die many times before their 
deaths; 

The valiant never taste of death but once. 

Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, 

It seems to me most strange that men should 
fear, 35 

Seeing that death, a necessary end, 

Will come when it will come. 

Be-enter Servant. 

What say the augurers ? 
Serv. They would not have you to stir forth 
to-day. 

Plucking the entrails of an offering forth, 

They could not find a heart within the beast. 40 
Cces. The gods do this in shame of coward¬ 
ice ; 

Csesar should be a beast without a heart, 

If he should stay at home to-day for fear. 

No, Csesar shall not; Danger knows full well 
That Csesar is more dangerous than he. *b 
W e are two lions litter’d in one day, 

And I the elder and more terrible; 

And Csesar shall go forth. 

Cal. Alas, my lord, 

Your wisdom is consum’d in confidence. 

Do not go forth to-day ; call it my fear bo 

That keeps you in the house, and not your own. 
We ’ll send Mark Antony to the senate-house, 
And he shall say you are not well to-day. 

Let me, upon my knee, prevail in this. 

Cces. Mark Antony shall say I am not well; bb 
A nd, for thy humour, I will stay at home. 

Enter Decius. 

Here’s Decius Brutus, he shall tell them so. 
Dec. Csesar, all hail! good morrow, worthy 
Csesar; 

I come to fetch you to the senate-house. 

Cces. And you are come in very happy 
time 60 

To bear my greetings to the senators 
And tell them that I will not come to-day. 
Cannot, is false, and that I dare not, falser ; 

I will not come to-day. Tell them so, Decius. 
Cal. Say he is sick. 

Cces. Shall Csesar send a lie ? bb 

Have I in conquest stretch’d mine arm so far, 
To be afeard to tell greybeards the truth ? 
Decius, go tell them Csesar will not come. 

Dec. Most mighty Csesar, let me know some 
cause, 

Lest I be laugh’d at when I tell them so. to 
Cces. The cause is in my will; I will not 
come; 

That is enough to satisfy the senate. 

But for your private satisfaction, 

Because I love you, I will let you know : 
Calpurnia here, my wife, stays me at home. « 






873 


JULIUS CAESAR 


II. IV. 


She dreamt to-night she saw my statue, 

Which, like a fountain with an hundred spouts, 
Did run pure blood ; and many lusty Romans 
Came smiling and did bathe their hands in it; 
And these does she apply for warnings and por¬ 
tents 80 

And evils imminent, and on her knee 
Hath begg’d that I will stay at home to-day. 

Dec. This dream is all amiss interpreted ; 

It was a vision fair and fortunate. 

Your statue spouting blood in many pipes, so 
In which so many smiling Romans bath’d, 
Signifies that from you great Rome shall suck 
Reviving blood, and that great men shall press 
For tinctures, stains, relics, and cognizance. 
This by Calpurnia’s dream is signified. no 

Cces. And this way have you well expounded 
it. 

Dec. I have, when you have heard what I 
can say; 

And know it now. The senate have concluded 
To give this day a crown to mighty Csesar. 

If yo^sJjALL-sond--them word you will not 
-'"""'come, \ no 

Their minds may change. Besides, it were a 
mock 

Apt to be render’d, for some one to say, 

“ Break up the senate till another time, 

When Caesar’s wife shall meet with better 
dreams.” 

If Caesar hide himself, shall they not whisper, 

“ Lo, Caesar is afraid ” ? 101 

Pardon me, Caesar ; for my dear dear love 
To your proceeding bids me tell you this ; 

And reason to my love is liable. 

Cces. How foolish do your fears seem now, 
Calpurnia! 100 

I am ashamed I did yield to them. 

Give me my robe, for I will go. 

Enter Publius, Brutus, Ligarius, Mktei,- 
lus, Casca, Trebonius, and Cinna. 

And look where Publius is come to fetch me. 
Pub. Good morrow, Caesar. 

Cces. Welcome, Publius. 

What, Brutus, are you stirr’d so early too ? no 
Good morrow, Casca. Caius Ligarius, 

Caesar was ne’er so much your enemy 
As that same ague which hath made you lean. 
What is’t o’clock ? 

Bru. Caesar, ’t is strucken eight. 

Cces. I thank you for your pains and courtesy. 

Enter Antony. 

See ! Antony, that revels long o’ nights, 116 
Is notwithstanding up. Good morrow, Antony. 
Ant. So to most noble Caesar. 

Cces. Bid them prepare within ; 

I am to blame to be thus waited for. 

Now, Cinna ; now, Metellus ; what, Trebonius ! 
I have an hour’s talk in store for you ; 121 

Remember that you call on me to-day. 

Be near me, that I may remember you. 

Treb. Caesar, I will; [aside] and so near will 
I be, 

That your best friends shall wish I had been 
further. m 


Cces. Good friends, go in, and taste some 
wine with me ; 

And we, like friends, will straightway go 
together. 

Bru. [Aside.] That every like is not the 
same, 0 Caesar, 

The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon ! 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III. A street near the Capitol.] 
Enter Artemidorus [reading a paper]. 

Art. “Caesar, beware of Brutus; take heed 
of Cassius ; come not near Casca ; have an eye 
to Cinna ; trust not Trebonius ; mark well Me¬ 
tellus Cimber: Decius Brutus loves thee not; 
thou hast wrong’d Caius Ligarius. There is [s 
but one mind in all these men, and it is bent 
against Caesar. If thou beest not immortal, look 
about you ; security gives way to conspiracy. 
The mighty gods defend thee ! Thy lover, 

Artemidorus.” 10 

Here will I stand till Caesar pass along, 

And as a suitor will I give him this. 

My heart laments that virtue cannot live 
Out of the teeth of emulation. 

If thou read this, 0 Caesar, thou mayst live ; is 
If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive. 

[Exit. 

[Scene IV. Another part of the same street , be¬ 
fore the house of Brutus.] 

Enter Portia and Lucius. 

Por. I prithee, boy, run to the senate-house ; 
Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone. 

W T hy dost thou stay ? 

Luc. To know my errand, madam. 

Por. I would have had thee there, and here 
again, 

Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there. 
0 constancy, be strong upon my side, e 

Set a huge mountain ’tween my heart and 
tongue! 

I have a man’s mind, but a woman’s might. 
How hard it is for women to keep counsel! 

Art thou here yet ? 

Luc. Madam, what should I do? 

Run to the Capitol, and nothing else ? 11 

And so return to you, and nothing else ? 

Por. Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord 
look well, 

For he went sickly forth ; and take good note 
What Caesar doth, what suitors press to him. ie 
Hark, boy ! what noise is that ? 

Luc. I hear none, madam. 

Por. Prithee, listen well; 

I heard a bustling rumour, like a fray, 

And the wind brings it from the Capitol. 

Luc. Sooth, madam, I hear nothing. 20 

Enter the Soothsayer. 

Por. Come hither, fellow ; which way hast 
thou been ? 

Sooth. At mine own house, good lady. 

Por. What is’t o’clock ? 

Sooth. About the ninth hour, lady. 





III. i. 


879 


JULIUS CAESAR 


Por. Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol ? 

Sooth. Madam, not yet; I go to take my 
stand, 26 

To see him pass on to the Capitol. 

Por. Thou hast some suit to Caesar, hast thou 
not ? 

Sooth. That I have, lady ; if it will please 
Caesar 

To be so good to Caesar as to hear me, 

1 shall beseech him to befriend himself. 30 

Por. Why, know’st thou any harm’s in¬ 
tended towards him ? 

Sooth. None that I know will be, much that 
I fear may chance. 

Good morrow to you. Here the street is nar¬ 
row ; 

The throng that follows Caesar at the heels, 

Of senators, of praetors, common suitors, 36 
Will crowd a feeble man almost to death. 

I ’ll get me to a place more void, and there 
Speak to great Caesar as he comes along. 

[Exit. 

Por. I must go in. Ay me, how weak a 
thing 

The heart of woman is ! 0 Brutus, 40 

The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise ! 

[To herself.] Sure, the boy heard me. [To Lu¬ 
cius.] Brutus hath a suit 
That Caesar will not grant. 0 , I grow faint. 
Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord ; 

Say I am merry. Come to me again, « 

And bring me word what he doth say to thee. 

[Exeunt [severally]. 


ACT III 

[Scene I. Pome. Before the Capitol.] 

[A crowd of people; among them] Artemido- 
rcs and the Soothsayer. Flourish. Enter 
Cadsar, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, Decius, 
Metellus, Trebonius, Cinna, Antony, 
Lepldus, Publius [and Popilius]. 

Cces. [To the Soothsayer.] The ides of March 
are come. 

Sooth. Ay, Caesar ; but not gone. 

Art. Hail, Caesar! read this schedule. 

Dec. Trebonius doth desire you to o’er-read, 
At your best leisure, this his humble suit. s 
Art. O Caesar, read mine first; for mine’s a 
suit 

That touches Caesar nearer. Read it, great 
Caesar. 

Cces. What touches us ourself shall be last 
serv’d. 

Art. Delay not, Caesar ; read it instantly. 
Cces. What, is the fellow mad ? 

Pub. Sirrah, give place. 

Cas. What, urge you your petitions in the 
street ? 11 

Come to the Capitol. 

[Caesar goes up to the Senate-House , 
the rest following.] 

Pop. I wish your enterprise to-day may 
thrive. 

Cas. What enterprise, Popilius ? 


Pop. Fare you well. 

[Advances to Caesar.] 
Bru. What said Popilius Lena ? is 

Cas. He wish’d to-day our enterprise might 
thrive. 

I fear our purpose is discovered. 

Bru. Look, how he makes to Caesar; mark 
him. 

Cas. Casca, be sudden, for we fear preven¬ 
tion. 

Brutus, what shall be done ? If this be known, 
Cassius or Caesar never shall turn back, 21 

For I will slay myself. 

Bru. Cassius, be constant; 

Popilius Lena speaks not of our purposes, 

For, look, he smiles, and Caesar doth not change. 
Cas. Trebonius knows his time ; for, look 
you, Brutus, 26 

He draws Mark Antony out of the way. 

[Exeunt Antony and Trebonius.] 
Dec. Where is Metellus Cimber ? Let him go 
And presently prefer his suit to Caesar. 

Bru. He is address’d ; press near and second 
him. 

Cin. Casca, you are the first that rears your 
hand. 30 

Cces. Are we all ready ? What is now amiss 
That Caesar and his senate must redress ? 

Met. Most high, most mighty, and most 
puissant Caesar, 

Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat 
An humble heart, — [Kneeling.] 

Cces. I must prevent thee, Cimber. 

These couchings and these lowly curtesies 30 
Might fire the blood of ordinary men, 

And turn pre-ordinance and first decree 
Into the law of children. Be not fond 
To think that Caesar bears such rebel blood « 
That will be thaw’d from the true quality 
With that which melteth fools ; I mean, sweet 
words, 

Low-crooked curtsies and base spaniel-fawning. 
Thy brother by decree is banished ; 

If thou dost bend and pray and fawn for him, 

I spurn thee like a cur out of my way. *6 

Know, Caesar doth not wrong, nor without 
cause 

Will he be satisfied. 

Met. Is there no voice more worthy than my 
own, 

To sound more sweetly in great Caesar’s ear eo 
For the repealing of my banish’d brother ? 
Bru. I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, 
Caesar; 

Desiring thee that Publius Cimber may 
Have an immediate freedom of repeal. 

Cces. What, Brutus! 

Cas. Pardon, Caesar ; Caesar, pardon ! 

As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall, bo 
T o beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber. 

Cces. I could be well mov’d, if I were as you ; 
If I could pray to move, prayers would move 
me; 

But I am constant as the northern star, 00 

Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality 
There is no fellow in the firmament. 

The skies are painted with unnumb’red sparks, 





88o 


JULIUS CiESAR 


hi. i. 


They are all fire and every one doth shine ; 64 

But there’s hut one in all doth hold his place. 
So in the world ; ’t is furnish’d well with men, 
And men are flesh and hlood, and apprehen¬ 
sive ; 

Yet in the number I do know hut one 
That unassailable holds on his rank, 

Unshak’d of motion ; and that I am he, ™ 
Let me a little show it, even in this : 

That I was constant Cirnber should be ban¬ 
ish’d, 

And constant do remain to keep him so. 

Cin. 0 Csesar, — 

Cues. Hence ! wilt thou lift up Olympus ? 
Dec. Great Csesar, — 

Cces. Doth not Brutus bootless kneel ? 

Casca. Speak, hands, for me ! to 

[They stab Caesar. 

Coes. Et tu Brute ! Then fall, Csesar ! 

[Dies. 

Cin. Liberty ! Freedom ! Tyranny is dead ! 
Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets. 
Cas. Some to the common pulpits, and cry 
out, 80 

“ Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement! ” 
Bru. People and senators, be not affrighted ; 
Fly not; stand still; ambition’s debt is paid. 
Casca. Go to the pulpit, Brutus. 

Dec. And Cassius too. 

Bru. Where’s Publius ? 85 

Cin. Here, quite confounded with this mu¬ 
tiny. 

Met. Stand fast together, lest some friend of 
Csesar’s 

Should chance — 

Bru. Talk not of standing. Publius, good 
cheer; 

There is no harm intended to your person, 9 o 
Nor to no Roman else. So tell them, Publius. 
Cas. And leave us, Publius; lest that the 
people, 

Rushing on us, should do your age some mis¬ 
chief. 

Bru. Do so : and let no man abide this deed, 
But we the doers. 

Be-enter Trebonius. 

Cas. _ Where is Antony ? as 

Treb. Fled to his house amaz’d. 

Men, wives, and children stare, cry out, and 
run, 

As it were doomsday. 

Bru. Fates, we will know your pleasures. 
That we shall die, we know ; ’ t is but the time 
And drawing days out, that men stand upon. 
Cas. Why, he that cuts off twenty years of 
life ioi 

Cuts off so many years of fearing death. 

Bru. Grant that, and then is death a benefit; 
So are we Csesar’s friends, that have abridg’d 
His time of fearing death. Stoop, Romans, 
Stoop, 105 

And let us bathe our hands in Csesar’s blood 
Up to the elbows, and besmear our swords; 
Then walk we forth, even to the market-place, 
And, waving our red weapons o’er our heads, 
Let’s all cry, “ Peace, freedom, and liberty! ” 


Cas. Stoop, then, and wash. How many ages 
hence 111 

Shall this our lofty scene be acted over 
In states unborn and accents yet unknown ! 
Bru. How many times shall Csesar bleed in 
sport, 

That now on Pompey’s basis lies along ns 

No worthier than the dust! 

Cas. So oft as that shall be, 

So often shall the knot of us be call’d 
The men that gave their country liberty. 

Dec. What, shall we forth ? 

Cas. Ay, every man away. 

Brutus shall lead ; and we will grace his heels 
With the most boldest and best hearts of 
Rome. 

Enter a Servant. 

Bru. Soft! who comes here ? A friend of 
Antony’s. 

Serv. Thus, Brutus, did my master bid me 
kneel, 

Thus did Mark Antony bid me fall down ; 

And, being prostrate, thus he bade me say : 125 
Brutus is noble, wise, valiant, and honest ; 
Csesar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving ; 

Say I love Brutus, and I honour him ; 

Say I fear’d Caesar, honour’d him, and lov’d 
him. 

If Brutus will vouchsafe that Antony 130 

May safely come to him, and be resolv’d 
How Caesar hath deserv’d to lie in death, 

Mark Antony shall not love Caesar dead 
So well as Brutus living ; but will follow 
The fortunes and affairs of noble Brutus iss 
Thorough the hazards of this untrod state 
With all true faith. So says my master Antony. 
Bru. Thy master is a wise and valiant Ro¬ 
man ; 

I never thought him worse. 

Tell him, so please him come unto this place, 
He shall be satisfied ; and, by my honour, 141 
Depart untouch’d. 

Serv. I ’ll fetch him presently. 

[Exit. 

Bru. I know that we shall have him well to 
friend. 

Cas. I wish we may ; but yet have I a mind 
That fears him much, and my misgiving still 
Falls shrewdly to the purpose. lie 

Be-enter Antony. 

Bru. But here comes Antony. Welcome, 
Mark Antony! 

Ant. 0 mighty Csesar ! dost thou lie so low ? 
Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, 
Shrunk to this little measure ? Fare thee well! 
I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, i 6 i 
Who else must be let blood, who else is rank ; 
If I myself, there is no hour so fit 
As Csesar’s death’s hour, nor no instrument 
Of half that worth as those your swords, made 
rich iss 

With the most noble blood of all this world. 

I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard, 

Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and 
smoke, 




III. 1. 


JULIUS CAESAR 


Fulfil your pleasure. Live a thousand years, 

I shall not find myself so apt to die ; 100 

No place will please me so, no mean of death, 
As here by Ctesar, and by you cut off, 

The choice and master spirits of this age. 

Bru. O Antony, beg not your death of us. 
Though now we must appear bloody and cruel, 
As, by our hands and this our present act, ioe 
You see we do, yet see you but our hands 
And this the bleeding business they have done. 
Our hearts you see not; they are pitiful; 

And pity to the general wrong of Rome — m 
As fire drives out fire, so pity pity — 

Hath done this deed on Csesar. For your part, 
To you our swords have leaden points, Mark 
Antony ; 

Our arms, in strength of malice, and our hearts 
Of brothers’ temper, do receive you in 175 

With all kind love, good thoughts, and rever¬ 
ence. 

Cas. Your voice shall be as strong as any 
man’s 

In the disposing of new dignities. 

Bru. Only be patient till we have appeas’d 
The multitude, beside themselves with fear, iso 
And then we will deliver you the cause 
Why I, that did love Caesar when I struck him, 
Have thus proceeded. 

Ant. I doubt not of your wisdom. 

Let each man render me his bloody hand. 

First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you ; is5 
Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand ; 
Now, Decius Brutus, yours ; now yours, Metel- 
lus ; 

Yours, Cinna ; and, my valiant Casca, yours ; 
Though last, not least in love, yours, good Tre- 
bonius. 

Gentlemen all, — alas, what shall I say ? ioo 
My credit now stands on such slippery ground 
That one of two bad ways you must conceit me, 
Either a cow^ard or a flatterer. 

That I did love thee, Caesar, 0 , ’t is true ; 

If then thy spirit look upon us now, 195 

Shall it not grieve thee dearer than thy death, 
To see thy Antony making his peace, 

Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes, 

Most noble ! in the presence of thy corse ? 

Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds, 200 
Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood, 
It would become me better than to close 
In terms of friendship with thine enemies. 
Pardon me, Julius! Here wast thou bay’d, 
brave hart; 

Here didst thou fall; and here thy hunters 
stand, 206 

Sign’d in thy spoil, and crimson’d in thy lethe. 
O world, thou wast the forest to this hart; 

And this, indeed, 0 world, the heart of thee. 
How like a deer, strucken by many princes, 
Dost thou here lie ! 210 

Cas. Mark Antony, — 

Ant. Pardon me, Caius Cassius ! 

The enemies of Csesar shall say this ; 

Then, in a friend, it is cold modesty. 

Cas. I blame you not for praising Caesar so ; 
But what compact mean you to have with 

US ? 216 


881 


Will you be prick’d in number of our friends ; 
Or shall we on, and not depend on you ? 

Ant. Therefore I took your hands, but was, 
indeed, 

Sway’d from the point, by looking down on 

Caesar. 

Friends am I with you all and love you all, 220 
Upon this hope, that you shall give me reasons 
Why and wherein Caesar was dangerous. 

Bru. Or else ^ere this a savage spectacle. 
Our reasons are so full of good regard 
That were you, Antony, the son of Caesar, 22* 
You should be satisfied. 

Ant. That’s all I seek ; 

And am, moreover, suitor that I may 
Produce his body to the market-place ; 

And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend, 

Speak in the order of his funeral. iso 

Bru. You shall, Mark Antony. 

Cas. Brutus, a word with you. 

[Aside to Brui] You know not what you do. 
Do not consent 

That Antony speak in his funeral. 

Know you how much the people may be mov’d 
By that which he will utter ? 

Bru. By your pardon. 

I will myself into the pulpit first, 23 « 

And show the reason of our Caesar’s death. 
What Antony shall speak, I will protest 
He speaks by leave and by permission, 

And that we are contented Caesar shall 240 
Have all true rites and lawful ceremonies. 

It shall advantage more than do us wrong. 

Cas. I know not what may fall; I like it not. 
Bru. Mark Antony, here, take you Caesar’s 
body. 

You shall not in your funeral speech blame 

US, 246 

But speak all good you can devise of Caesar, 
And say you do’t by our permission ; 

Else shall you not have any hand at all 
About his funeral. And you shall speak 
In the same pulpit whereto I am going, 200 
After my speech is ended. 

Ant. Be it so; 

I do desire no more. 

Bru. Prepare the body then, and follow us. 

[Exeunt all but Antony. 
Ant. O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of 
earth, 

That I am meek and gentle with these 

butchers! 205 

Thou art the ruins of the noblest man 
That ever lived in the tide of times. 

Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood ! 
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy, 

Which, like diunb mouths, do ope their ruby 
lips, 200 

To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue : 
A curse shall light upon the limbs of men ; 
Domestic fury and fierce civil strife 
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy ; 

Blood and destruction shall be so in use 205 

And dreadful objects so familiar 
That mothers shall but smile when they behold 
Their infants quartered with the hands of war ; 
All pity chok’d with custom of fell deeds ; 







882 


JULIUS CAESAR 


in. 11. 


And Caesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge, 270 
With Ate by his side come hot from hell, 

Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice 
Cry “ Havoc,” and let slip the dogs of war ; 
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth 
With carrion men, groaning for burial. 275 

Enter Octavius' Servant. 

You serve Octavius Caesar, do you not ? 

Serv. I do, Mark Antony. 

Ant. Caesar did write for him to come to 
Rome. 

Serv. He did receive his letters, and is com¬ 
ing; 

And bid me say to you by word of mouth— 280 
O Caesar ! — [ Seeing the body .] 

Ant. Thy heart is big; get thee apart and 
weep. 

Passion, I see, is catching ; for mine eyes, 
Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine, 
Began to water. Is thy master coming ? 285 

Serv. He lies to-night within seven leagues 
of Rome. 

Ant. Post back with speed and tell him what 
hath chanc’d. 

Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome, 
No Rome of safety for Octavius yet; 239 

Hie hence, and tell him so. Yet, stay a while ; 
Thou shalt not back till I have borne this corse 
Into the market-place. There shall I try, 

In my oration, how the people take 
The cruel issue of these bloody men ; 
According to the which, thou shalt discourse 295 
To young Octavius of the state of things. 

Lend me your hand. 

[Exeunt [with Caesar's body], 

[Scene II. The Forum.] 

Enter Brutus and Cassius, with the Ple¬ 
beians. 

Pleb. We will be satisfied ! Let us be satis¬ 
fied ! 

Bru. Then follow me, and give me audience, 
friends. 

Cassius, go you into the other street, 

And part the numbers. 

Those that will hear me speak, let ’em stay here; 
Those that will follow Cassius, go with him ; e 
And public reasons shall be rendered 
Of Caesar’s death. 

1 . Pleb. I will hear Brutus speak. 

2 . Pleb. I will hear Cassius ; and compare 

their reasons, 

When severally we hear them rendered. 10 
[Exit Cassius , with some of the Ple¬ 
beians.] Brutus goes into the 
pulpit. 

3 . Pleb. The noble Brutus is ascended; si¬ 

lence ! 

Bru. Be patient till the last. 

Romans, countrymen, and lovers ! hear me for 
my cause, and be silent, that you may hear; 
believe me for mine honour, and have respect 
to mine honour, that you may believe ; cen- [is 
sure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses, 
that you may the better judge. If there be any 


in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar’s, 
to him I say, that Brutus’ love to Caesar was 
no less than his. If then that friend demand [20 
why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my an¬ 
swer : Not that I lov’d Caesar less, but that I 
lov’d Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were 
living and die all slaves, than that Caesar were 
dead, to live all freemen? As Caesar lov’d [25 
me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I re¬ 
joice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him ; 
but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There is 
tears for his love ; joy for his fortune ; honour 
for his valour ; and death for his ambition, [so 
Who is here so base that would be a bondman ? 
If any, speak ; for him have I offended. Who 
is here so rude that would not be a Roman ? If 
any, speak ; for him have I offended. Who is 
here so vile that will not love his country ? If 
any, speak ; for him have I offended. I pause 
for a reply. 37 

All. None, Brutus, none. 

Bru. Then none have I offended. I have 
done no more to Caesar than you shall do to 
Brutus. The question of his death is enroll’d 
in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein 
he was worthy, nor his offences enforc’d, for 
which he suffered death. 44 

Enter Antony [and others ], with Caesar's body. 

Here comes his body, mourn’d by Mark An¬ 
tony ; who, though he had no hand in his death, 
shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in 
the commonwealth ; as which of you shall not ? 
With this I depart, that, as I slew my best lover 
for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger 
for myself, when it shall please my country to 
need my death. 62 

All. Live, Brutus ! live, live ! 

1 . Pleb. Bring him with triumph home unto 

his house. 

2 . Pleb. Give him a statue with his ances¬ 

tors. 65 

3 . Pleb. Let him be Caesar. 

4 . Pleb. Caesar’s better parts 

Shall be crown’d in Brutus. 

1 . Pleb. We ’ll bring him to his house 

With shouts and clamours. 

Bru. _ My countrymen, — 

2 . Pleb. Peace, silence ! Brutus speaks. 

J. Pleb. p eace, ho! 

Bru. Good countrymen, let me depart alone. 
And, for my sake, stay here with Antony. ei 
Do grace to Caesar’s corpse, and grace his , 
speech 

T ending to Caesar’s glories, which Mark Antony, 
By our permission, is allow’d to make. 

I do entreat you, not a man depart ec 

Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. [Exit. 

1 . Pleb. Stay, lio ! and let us hear Mark An¬ 
tony. 

3 . Pleb. Let him go up into the public chair ; 
We ’ll hear him. Noble Antony, go up. 

Ant. For Brutus’ sake, I am beholding to 
you. [Goes into the pulpit.] ™ 

4 . Pleb. What does he say of Brutus ? 

3 .P/e 6 . He says, for Brutus’ sake, 

He finds himself beholding to us all. 




III. 11 . 


JULIUS CAESAR 


4. Pleb. ’Twere best he speak no harm of 
Brutus here. 

1. Pleb. This Caesar was a tyrant. 

3 . Pleb. Nay, that’s certain: 

We are blest that Rome is rid of him. 75 

2 . Pleb. Peace ! let us hear what Antony can 

say. 

Ant. You gentle Romans, — 

All. Peace, ho ! let us hear him. 

Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me 
your ears! 

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. 

The evil that men do lives after them, so 

The good is oft interred with their bones ; 

So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus 
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious ; 

If it were so, it was a grievous fault. 

And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it. »s 
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest — 

For Brutus is an honourable man ; 

So are they all, all honourable men -» 

Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral. 

He was my friend, faithful and just to me ; oo 
But Brutus says he was ambitious, 

And Brutus is an honourable man. 

He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill; 

Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? ns 

When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath 
wept; 

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: 

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, 

And Brutus is an honourable man. 

You all did see that on the Lupercal 100 

I thrice presented him a kingly crown, 

Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambi¬ 
tion ? 

Yet Bruttis says he was ambitious, 

And, sure, he is an honourable man. 

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, 105 
But here I am to speak what I do know. 

You all did love him once, not without cause ; 
What cause withholds you then to mourn for 
him ? 

0 judgement! thou art fled to brutish beasts, 
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me ; 
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, m 
And I must pause till it come back to me. 

1. Pleb. Methinks there is much reason in 

his sayings. 

2. Pleb. If thou consider rightly of the mat¬ 

ter, 

Caesar has had great wrong. 

3. Pleb. Has he, masters ? 

I fear there will a worse come in his place. ne 

4 . Pleb. Mark’d ye his words? He would not 

take the crown; 

Therefore ’tis certain he was not ambitious. 

1. Pleb. If it be found so, some will dear 

abide it. 

2 . Pleb. Poor soul! his eyes are red as fare 

with weeping. 120 

3. Pleb. There’s not a nobler man in Rome 

than Antony. 

4. Pleb. Now mark him, he begins again to 

speak. 

Anl. But yesterday the word of Caesar might 


883 


Have stood against the world; now lies he 
there, 

And none so poor to do him reverence. 126 

O masters, if I were dispos’d to stir 

Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 

I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, 
Who, you all know, are honourable men. 

I will not do them wrong ; I rather choose no 
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, 
Than I will wrong such honourable men. 

But here’s a parchment with the seal of Caesar; 
I found it in his closet; ’tis his will. 

Let but the commons hear this testament — 135 
Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read — 
And they would go and kiss dead Caesar’s 
wounds 

And dip their napkins in his sacred blood, 

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, 

And, dying, mention it within their wills, no 
Bequeathing it as a rich legacy 
Unto their issue. 

4. Pleb. We ’ll hear the will. Read it, Mark 
Antony. 

All. The will, the will! we will hear Caesar’s 
will. 

Ant. Have patience, gentle friends, I must 
not read it; ns 

It is not meet you know how Caesar lov’d you. 
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men ; 
And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar, 

It will inflame you, it will make you mad. 

’T is good you know not that you are his heirs ; 
For, if you should, 0 , what would come of it! «i 
4. Pleb. Read the will; we ’ll hear it, An¬ 
tony. 

You shall read us the will, Caesar’s will. 

Ant. Will you be patient? Will you stay a 
while ? 

I have o’ershot myself to tell you of it. ns 
I fear 1 wrong the honourable men 
Whose daggers have stabb’d Caesar ; I do fear 
it. 

4. Pleb. They were traitors; honourable 
men! 

All. The will! the testament! 

2. Pleb. They were villains, murderers. The 
will! read the will. no 

Ant. You will compel me, then, to read the 
will ? 

Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, 
And let me show you him that made the will. 
Shall I descend ? and will you give me leave ? 
All. Come down. 166 

2. Pleb. Descend. 

3. Pleb. You shall have leave. 

[Antony comes down from the pulpit.] 

4. Pleb. A ring ; stand round. 

1 . Pleb. Stand from the hearse, stand from 

the body. 

2. Pleb. Room for Antony, most noble An¬ 

tony. 170 

Ant. Nay, press not so upon me; stand far 
off. 

All. Stand back ; room ; bear back ! 

Ant. If you have tears, prepare to shed them 
now. 

You all do know this mantle ; I remember 






884 


JULIUS CAESAR 


hi. 11. 


The first time ever Caesar put it on. 175 

’T was on a summer’s evening, in his tent, 

That day he overcame the Nervii. 

Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through; 
See what a rent the envious Casca made ; 
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d, 
And as he pluck’d his cursed steel away, isi 
Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it, 

As rushing out of doors, to be resolv’d 
If Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no ; 

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel. 
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov’d 
him! we 

This was the most unkindest cut of all; 

For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, 
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms, 
Quite vanquish’d him. Then burst his mighty 

heart; 190 

And, in his mantle muffling up his face, 

Even at the base of Pompey’s statue, 

Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar 
fell. 

O, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! 

Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, 195 

Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us. 

O, now you weep, and I perceive you feel 
The dint of pity. These are gracious drops. 
Kind souls, what, weep you when you but be¬ 
hold 

Our Caesar’s vesture wounded ? Look you 
here: [ Lifting Ccesar's mantle .] 200 

Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, with trai¬ 
tors. 

1 . Pleb. 0 piteous spectacle ! 

2. Pleb. 0 noble Caesar ! 

3 . Pleb. 0 woeful aay ! 

4 . Pleb. 0 traitors, villains ! 206 

1 . Pleb. 0 most bloody sight! 

2. Pleb. We will be reveng’d ! 

/ [All.] ’ Revenge ! About! 

Seek ! Burn ! Fire ! Kill! Slay ! 

Let not a traitor live ! 

Ant. Stay, countrymen: 210 

‘ 1 . Pleb. Peace there ! hear the noble Antony. 

2. Pleb. We ’ll hear him, we ’ll follow him, 
we ’ll die with him. 

Ant. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not 
stir you up 

To such a sudden flood of mutiny. 215 

They that have done this deed are honourable. 
What private griefs they have, alas, I know 
not, 

That made them do it; they are wise and hon¬ 
ourable, 

And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. 

I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts. 

I am no orator, as Brutus is ; 221 

But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man 
That love my friend ; and that they know full 
well 

That gave me public leave to speak of him ; 224 
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth. 
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech 
To stir men’s blood ; I only speak right on. 

I tell you that which you yourselves do know ; 
Show vou sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor, poor, 
dumb mouths, 


And bid them speak for me. But were I Bru¬ 
tus, 236 

And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue 
In every wound of Caesar, that should move 
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. 

All. We ’ll mutiny. 235 

1 . Pleb. We’ll burn the house of Brutus. 

3 . Pleb. Away, then! come, seek the con¬ 
spirators. 

Ant. Yet hear me, countrymen ; yet hear me 
speak. 

All. Peace, ho! hear Antony, most noble 
Antony! 

Ant. Why, friends, you go to do you know 
not what. 240 

Wherein hath Caesar thus deserv’d your loves? 
Alas, you know not; I must tell you, then. 

You have forgot the will I told you of. 

All. Most true. The will! Let’s stay and 
hear the will. 

Ant. Here is the will, and under Caesar’s 
seal. 245 

To every Roman citizen he gives, 

To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. 

2. Pleb. Most noble Caesar! We’ll revenge 

his death. 

3 . Pleb. 0 royal Caesar ! 

Ant. Hear me with patience. 260 

All. Peace, ho! 

Ant. Moreover, he hath left you all his 
walks, 

His private arbours and new-planted orchards, 
On this side Tiber ; he hath left them you, 

And to your heirs forever, common pleasures, 
To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. 25a 
Here was a Caesar! When comes such an¬ 
other ? 

1 . Pleb. Never, never ! Come, away, away ! 
We ’ll burn his body in the holy place, 

And with the brands fire the traitors’ houses. 
Take up the body. 201 

2. Pleb. Go fetch fire. 

3 . Pleb. Pluck down benches. 

4 . Pleb. Pluck down form?.. windoAvs, any¬ 

thing. [Exeunt Plebeians [with the body]. 

Ant. Noav let it work. Mischief, thou art 
afoot, 265 

Take thou what course thou wilt! 

Enter a Servant. 

How now, fellow? 

Serv. Sir, Octavius is already come to Rome. 

Ant. Where is he ? 

Serv. He and Lepidus are at Caesar’s house. 

Ant. And thither will I straight to visit 
him ; 

He comes upon a wish. Fortune is merry, 271 
And in this mood will gi\ r e us anything. 

Serv.. I heard him say, Brutus and Cas¬ 
sius 

Are rid like madmen through the gates of 
Rome. 

Ant. Belike they had some notice of the 
people, 276 

Hoav 1 had moved them. Bring me to Octavius. 

[Exeunt. 





IV. 11 


JULIUS CtESAR 


885 


[Scene III. A street.] 

Enter Cinna the poet, and after him the Ple¬ 
beians. 

Cin. I dreamt to-night that I did feast with 
Caesar, 

And things unluckily charge my fantasy. 

I have no will to wander forth of doors, 

Yet something leads me forth. 

1 . Pleb. What is your name ? b 

2. Pleb. Whither are you going ? 

3 . Pleb. Where do you dwell? 

4. Pleb. Are you a married man or a bach¬ 
elor ? 

2. Pleb. Answer every man directly. 10 

1. Pleb. Ay, and briefly. 

4. Pleb. Ay, and wisely. 

3 . Pleb. Ay, and truly, you were best. 

Cin. What is my name ? Whither am I 
going ? Where do I dwell ? Am I a married [is 
man or a bachelor ? Then, to answer every man 
directly and briefly, wisely and truly: wisely I 
say, I am a bachelor. 

2. Pleb. That’s as much as to say, they are 

fools that marry. You ’ll bear me a bang for 
that, 1 fear. Proceed ; directly. 21 

Cin. Directly, I am going to Caesar’s funeral. 

1 . Pleb. As a friend or an enemy ? 

Cin. As a friend. 

2. Pleb. That matter is answered directly. 25 

4. Pleb. For your dwelling, — briefly. 

Cin. Briefly, I dwell by the Capitol. 

3. Pleb. Your name, sir, truly. 

Cin. Truly, my name is Cinna. 

1 . Pleb. Tear him to pieces; he’s a con¬ 
spirator. e 81 

Cin. I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the 
poet. 

4. Pleb. Tear him for his bad verses, tear 

him for his bad verses. _ 35 

Cin. I am not Cinna the conspirator. 

4. Pleb. It is no matter, his name’s Cinna. 
Pluck but his name out of his heart, and turn 
him going. 39 

3. Pleb. Tear him, tear him ! Come, brands, 
ho ! fire-brands ! To Brutus’, to Cassius’ ; burn 
all! Some to Decius’ house, and some to Cas- 
ca’s ; some to Ligarius’. Away, go ! [Exeunt. 


ACT IV 

[Scene I. A house in Rome.] 

Antony, Octavius, and Lepidus [seated at a 
table]. 

Ant. These many, then, shall die ; their 
names are prick’d. 

Oct. Your brother too must die; consent 
you, Lepidus? 

Lep. I do consent, — 

Oct. Prick him down, Antony. 

Lep. Upon condition Publius shall not live, 

Who is your sister’s son, Mark Antony. ® 

Ant. He shall not live; look, with a spot I 
damn him. 

But, Lepidus, go you to Caesar’s house ; 


Fetch the will hither, and we shall determine 
How to cut off some charge in legacies. 

Lep. What, shall I find you here ? « 

Oct. Or here, or at the Capitol. 

[Exit Lepidus. 

Ant. This is a slight unmeritable man, 

Meet to be sent on errands ; is it fit, 

The threefold world divided, he should stand 
One of the three to share it ? 

Oct. So you thought him ; 

And took his voice who should be prick’d to 
die, w 

In our black sentence and proscription. 

Ant. Octavius, I have seen more days than 
you ; 

And though we lay these honours on this man 
To ease ourselves of divers slanderous loads, 20 
He shall but bear them as the ass bears gold, 
To groan and sweat under the business, 

Either led or driven, as we point the way ; 

And having brought our treasure where we 
will, 

Then take we down his load, and turn him off, 
Like to the empty ass, to shake his ears 20 
And graze in commons. 

Oct. You may do your will; 

But he’s a tried and valiant soldier. 

Ant. So is my horse, Octavius ; and for that 
I do appoint him store of provender. so 

It is a creature that I teach to fight, 

To wind, to stop, to run directly on, 

His corporal motion govern’d by my spirit. 

And, in some taste, is Lepidus but so ; 

He must be taught and train’d and bid go 
forth; 36 

A barren-spirited fellow ; one that feeds 
On abjects, orts, and imitations, 

Which, out of use and stal’d by other men, 
Begin his fashion. Do not talk of him 
But as a property. And now, Octavius, <o 
Listen great things. Brutus and Cassius 
Are levying powers; we must straight make 
head ; 

Therefore let our alliance be combin’d, 

Our best friends made, our means stretch’d ; 
And let us presently go sit in council « 

How covert matters may be best disclos’d 
And open perils surest answered. 

Oct. Let us do so ; for we are at the stake, 
And bay’d about with many enemies; 

And some that smile have in their hearts, I 
fear, 64 

Millions of mischiefs. [Exeunt. 

[Scene II. Camp near Sardis. Before Bru¬ 

tus's tent.] 

Drum. Enter Brutus, Lucilius, [Lucius,] 
and the army. Titinius and Pindarus meet 
them. 

Bru. Stand, ho! 

Lucil. Give the word, ho ! and stand. 

Bru. What now, Lucilius! is Cassius near ? 
Lucil. He is at hand ; and Pindarus is come 
To do you salutation from his master. 6 

Bru. He greets me well. Your master, Pin 
darus, 






886 


JULIUS CAESAR 


iv. iii. 


In his own change, or by ill officers, 

Hath given me some worthy cause to wish 
Things done undone ; but, if he be at hand, 

I shall be satisfied. 

Pin. I do not doubt 10 

But that my noble master will appear 
Such as he is, full of regard and honour. 

Bru. He is not doubted. A word, Lucilius : 
How he receiv’d you let me be resolv’d. 

Lucil. With courtesy and with respect 
enough; _ 16 

But not with such familiar instances, 

Nor with such free and friendly conference, 

As he hath us’d of old. 

Bru. Thou hast describ’d 

A hot friend cooling. Ever note, Lucilius, 
When love begins to sicken and decay, 20 

It useth an enforced ceremony. 

There are no tricks in plain and simple faith ; 
But hollow men, like horses hot at hand, 

Make gallant show and promise of their mettle ; 

[Low march within . 
But when they should endure the bloody spur 
They fall their crests, and, like deceitful jades, 
Sink in the trial. Comes his army on ? 27 

Lucil. They mean this night in Sardis to be 
quarter’d. 

The greater part, the horse in general, 

Are come with Cassius. 


Enter Cassius and his Powers. 

Bru. Hark ! he is arriv’d. 30 

March gently on to meet him. 

Cas. Stand, ho ! 

Bru. Stand, ho ! Speak the word along. 

1 . Sol.] Stand ! 

' 2 . Sol.] Stand ! s5 

3 . Sol. Stand ! 

Cas. Most noble brother, you have done me 
wrong. 

Bru. Judge me, you gods ! wrong I mine 
enemies ? 

And, if not so, how should I wrong a brother ? 
Cas. Brutus, this sober form of yours hides 
wrongs; 40 

And when you do them — 

Bru. Cassius, be content; 

Speak your griefs softly ; I do know you well. 
Before the eyes of both our armies here, 

Which should perceive nothing but love from us, 
Let us not wrangle. Bid them move away ; 45 

Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs, 
And I will give you audience. 

Cas. Pindarus, 

Bid our commanders lead their charges off 
A little from this ground. 

Bru. [Lucius], do you the like; andletno man 
Come to our tent till we have done our confer¬ 
ence. 61 

[Lucilius] and Titinius, guard our door. 

[Exeunt. 


[Scene III. Brutus's tent.] 

[Enter] Brutus and Cassius. 

Cas. That you have wrong’d me doth appear 
in this: 


You have condemn’d and noted Lucius Pella 
For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; 
Wherein my letters, praying on his side, 
Because I knew the man was slighted off, — c 
Bru. You wrong’d yourself to write in such 
a case. 

Cas. In such a time as this it is not meet 
That every nice offence should bear his com¬ 
ment. 

Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself 
Are much condemn’d to have an itching palm, 10 
To sell and mart your offices for gold 
To undeservers. 

Cas. I an itching palm ! 

You know that you are Brutus that speaks 
this, 

Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. 
Bru. The name of Cassius honours this cor¬ 
ruption, is 

And Chastisement doth therefore hide his head. 
Cas. Chastisement! 

Bru. Remember March, the ides of March 
remember: 

Did not great Julius bleed for justice’ sake ? 
What villain touch’d his body, that did stab 20 
And not for justice ? What, shall one of us, 
That struck the foremost man of all this world 
But for supporting robbers, shall we now 
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, 

And sell the mighty space of our large honours 
For so much trash as may be grasped thus ? 26 
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, 

Than such a Roman. 

Cas. Brutus, bait not me ; 

I ’ll not endure it. You forget yourself 
To hedge me in. I am a soldier, I, 30 

Older in practice, abler than yourself 
To make conditions. 

Bru. Go to ; you are not, Cassius. 

Cas. I am. 

Bru. I say you are not. 

Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself ; 
Have mind upon your health, tempt me no far¬ 
ther. 36 

Bru. Away, slight man ! 

Cas. Is’t possible ? 

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. 

Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? 
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? 40 
Cas. O ye gods, ye gods ! must I endure all 
this ? 

Bru. All this ! ay, more. Fret till your proud 
heart break; 

Go show your slaves how choleric you are, 

And make your bondmen tremble. Must I 
budge ? 

Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch 
Under your testy humour ? By the gods, 46 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen, 
Though it do split you ; for, from this day forth, 
I 11 use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, 
When you are waspish. 

Cas. Is it come to this ? eo 

Bru. You sav you are a better soldier : 

Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, 
And it shall please me well. For mine own part, 
I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 







JULIUS CAESAR 


887 


iv. iii. 


Cas. You wrong' me every way ; you wrong 
me, Brutus ; 55 

I said an elder soldier, not a better. 

Did I say “ better ” ? 

Bru. If you did, I care not. 

Cas. When Caesar liv’d, he durst not thus 
have mov’d me. 

Bru. Peace, peace! you durst not so have 
tempted him. 

Cas. I durst not! eo 

Bru. No. 

Cas. What, durst not tempt him ! 

Bru. For your life you durst not. 

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my 
love; 

I may do that I shall be sorry for. 

Bru. You have done that you should be 
sorry for. es 

There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, 

For I am arm’d so strong in honesty 
That they pass by me as the idle wind, 

Which I respect not. 1 did send to you 
For certain sums of gold, which you deni’d me ; 
For I can raise no money by vile means. — n 
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, 

And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring 
From the hard hands of peasants their vile 
trash 

By any indirection. — I did send 75 

To you for gold to pay my legions, 

Which you deni’d me. Was that done like 
Cassius ? 

Should I have answer’d Caius Cassius so ? 
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous 
To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts ; «i 
Dash him to pieces ! 

Cas. I deni’d you not. 

Bru. You did. 

Cas. I did not. He was but a fool that 
brought 

My answer back. Brutus hath riv’d my heart. 
A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities, so 
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. 
Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me. 
Cas. You love me not. 

Bru. I do not like your faults. 

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such 
faults. 90 

Bru. A flatterer’s would not, though they 
do appear 

As huge as high Olympus. 

Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, 


come, • 

Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, 

For Cassius is aweary of the world ; 94 

Hated by one he loves ; brav’d by his brother; 
Check’d like a bondman; all his faults ob¬ 


serv’d, 

Set in a note-book, learn’d and conn’d by rote 
To cast into my teeth. 0 , I could weep 
My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dag¬ 
ger, 100 

And here my naked breast; within, a heart 
Dearer than Plutus’ mine, richer than gold. 

If that thou be’st a Roman, take it forth ; 

I, that deni’d thee gold, will give my heart. 


Strike, as thou didst at Caesar ; for, I know, 
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov’dst 
him better n# 

Than ever thou lov’dst Cassius. 

Bru. Sheathe your dagger. 

Be angry when you will, it shall have scope. 

Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. 
O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb no 

That carries anger as the flint bears fire ; 

Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 

And straight is cold again. 

Cas. Hath Cassius liv’d 

To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
When grief and blood ill-temper’d vexeth him ? 

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper’d 
too. no 

Cas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your 
hand. 

Bru. And my heart too. 

Cas. 0 Brutus! 

Bru. What’s the matter ? 

Cas. Have not you love enough to bear with 
me, 

When that rash humour which my mother gave 
me 120 

Makes me forgetful ? 

Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and, from henceforth, 
When you are over earnest with your Brutus, 
He ’ll think your mother chides, and leave you 
so. 

Poet. [Within.] Let me go in to see the 
generals; 

There is some grudge between ’em, ’tis not 
meet i*fi 

They be alone. 

Lucil. [ Within.] You shall not come to them. 

Poet. [Within.] Nothing but death shall stay 
me. 


Enter Poet [followed by Lucilius, Titinius, 
and Lucius]. 

Cas. How now ! what’s the matter ? 

Poet. For shame, you generals! what do 
you mean ? 1 3 * 

Love, and be friends, as two such men should 
be ; 

For I have seen more years, I’m sure, than ye. 

Cas. Ha, ha! how vilely doth this cynic 
rhyme ! 

Bru. Get you hence, sirrah; saucy fellow, 
hence! 

Cas. Bear with him, Brutus ; ’t is his fash¬ 
ion. 134 

Bru. I ’ll know his humour, when he knows 
his time. 

What should the wars do with these jigging 
fools ? 

Companion, hence ! 

Cas. Away, away, be gone ! 

[Exit Poet. 

Bru. Lucilius and Titinius, bid the com¬ 
manders 

Prepare to lodge their companies to-night, no 

Cas. And come yourselves, and bring Mes- 
sala with you 

Immediately to us. . . 

[Exeunt Lucilius and Titinius.] 




888 


JULIUS CAESAR 


iv. iii. 


Bru. Lucius, a bowl of wine ! 

[Exit Lucius .] 

Cas. I did not think you could have been so 
angry. 

Bru. O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs. 
Cas. Of your philosophy you make no use 
If you give place to accidental evils. 

Bru. No man bears sorrow better. Portia is 
dead. 

Cas. Ha ! Portia ! 

Bru. She is dead. 

Cas. How scap’d I killing when I cross’d 
you so ? iso 

0 insupportable and touching loss! 

Upon what sickness ? 

Bru. Impatient of my absence, 

And grief that young Octavius with Mark An¬ 
tony 

Have made themselves so strong, — for with 
her death 

That tidings came, —with this she fell distract, 
And, her attendants absent, swallow’d fire, iss 
Cas. And died so ? 

Bru. Even so. 

Cas. O ye immortal gods ! 

Re-enter Boy [Lucius], with wine and tapers. 

Bru. Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl 
of wine. 

In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius. [Drinks. 
Cas. My heart is thirsty for that noble 
pledge. iso 

Fill, Lucius, till the wine o’erswell the cup ; 

I cannot drink too much of Brutus’ love. 

[Drinks.] 

Re-enter Titinius, with Messala. 

Bru. Come in, Titinius ! [Exit Lucius .] 
Welcome, good Messala. 
Now sit we close about this taper here, 

And call in question our necessities. ise 

Cas. Portia, art thou gone ? 

Bru. No more, I pray you. 

Messala, I have here received letters 
That young Octavius and Mark Antony 
Come down upon us with a mighty power, 
Bending their expedition toward Philippi. no 
Mes. Myself have letters of the self-same 
tenour. 

Bru. With what addition ? 

Mes. That by proscription and bills of out¬ 
lawry, 

Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus 
Have put to death an hundred senators. ns 
Bru. Therein our letters do not well agree ; 
Mine speak of seventy senators that died 
By their proscriptions, Cicero being one. 

Cas. Cicero one! 

Mes. Cicero is dead, 

And by that order of proscription. iso 

Had you your letters from your wife, my lord ? 
Bru. No, Messala. 

Mes. Nor nothing in your letters writ of her ? 
Bru. Nothing, Messala. 

Mes. That, methinks, is strange. 

Bru. Why ask you ? Hear you aught of her 
in yours ? iss 


Mes. No, my lord. 

Bru. Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true. 
Mes. Then like a Roman bear the truth I 
tell: 

For certain she is dead, and by strange manner. 
Bru. Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, 
Messala. 190 

With meditating that she must die once, 

I have the patience to endure it now. 

Mes. Even so great men great losses should 
endure. 

Cas. I have as much of this in art as you, 
But yet my nature could not bear it so. 

Bru. Well, to our work alive. What do you 
think 

Of marching to Philippi presently ? 

Cas. I do not think it good. 

Bru. Your reason? 

Cas. This it is: 

’T is better that the enemy seek us. i" 

So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers, 
Doing himself offence ; whilst we, lying still, 
Are full of rest, defence, and nimbleness. 

Bru. Good reasons must, of force, give place 
to better. 

The people ’twixt Philippi and this ground 
Do stand but in a forc’d affection, 205 

For they have grudg’d us contribution. 

The enemy, marching along by them, 

By them shall make a fuller number up, 

Come on refresh’d, new-added, and encour¬ 
ag’d ; 

From which advantage shall we cut him off 210 
If at Philippi we do face him there, 

These people at our back. 

Cas. Hear me, good brother. 

Bru. Under your pardon. You must note 
beside, 

That we have tried the utmost of our friends ; 
Our legions are brim-full, our cause is ripe. 215 
The enemy increaseth every day ; 

-We, at the height, are ready to decline. 

There is a tide in the affairs of men, 

' Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; 

I Omitted, all the voyage of their life 220 

Is bound in shallows and in miseries. 

O11 such a full sea are we now afloat; 

And we must take the current when it serves* 
Or lose our ventures. 

Cas. Then, with your will, go on. 

We ’ll along ourselves, and meet them at Phi¬ 
lippi. 225 

Bru. The deep of night is crept upon our 
talk, 

And nature must obey necessity ; 

„ Which we will niggard with a little rest. 

There is no more to say ? 

Cas. No more. Good-night. 

Early to-morrow will we rise, and hence. 230 
Bru. Lucius ! ( Re-enter Lucius.) My gown. 
[Exit Lucius.] Farewell, good Messala ; 
Good-night., Titinius. Noble, noble Cassius, 
Good-night, and good repose. 

Cas. O my dear brother ! 

This was an ill beginning of the night. 234 

Never come such division ’tween our souls 1 
Let it not, Brutus, 







V. L 


JULIUS CAESAR 


889 


Re-enter Lucius, with the gown. 

Jtiru. Everything is well. 

Cas. Good-night, my lord. 

Bru. Good-night, good brother. 

Tit. Mes. Good-night, Lord Brutus. 

Bru. Farewell, every one. 

[Exeunt [all but Brutus and Lu¬ 
cius]. 

Give me the gown. Where is thy instrument ? 
Luc. Here in the tent. 

Bru. What, thou speak’st drowsily ? 

Poor knave, I blame thee not; thou art o’er- 
watch’d. 241 

Call Claudius and some other of my men ; 

I ’ll have them sleep on cushions in my tent. 
Luc. Varro and Claudius ! 


Enter Varro and Claudius. 


Var. Calls my lord ? 245 

Bru. I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent and 
sleep; 

It may be I shall raise you by and by 
On business to my brother Cassius. 

Var. So please you, we will stand and watch 
your pleasure. 

Bru. I will not have it so: lie dow r n, good 
sirs; 250 

It may he I shall otherwise bethink me. 

[ Varro and Claudius lie down.] 
Look, Lucius, here ’s the hook 1 sought for so ; 
I put it in the pocket of my gown. 

Luc. I was sure your lordship did not give it 


me. 

Bru. Bear with me, good boy, I am much 
forgetful. 255 

Canst. thou hold up thy heavy eyes a while, 
And touch thy instrument a strain or two ? 
Luc. Ay, my lord, an ’t please you. 

Bru. It does, my boy. 

I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing. 
Luc. It is my duty, sir. 200 

Bru. I should not urge thy duty past thy 
might; 

I know young bloods look for a time of rest. 
Luc. I have slept, my lord, already. 

Bru. It was well done ; and thou shalt sleep 


again ; 

I will not hold thee long. If I do live, 255 

I will be good to thee. [Music, and a song. 

This is a sleepy tune. O murderous slumber, 

Lay’st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy, 

That plays thee music ? Gentle knave, good¬ 
night ; 

I will not do thee so much wrong to wake 
thee. 270 

If thou dost nod, thou break’st thy instrument. 

I ’ll take it from thee ; and, good boy, good¬ 
night. 

Let me see, let me see ; is not the leaf turn’d 
down 

Where I left reading ? Here it is, I think. 


Enter the Ghost of Ccesar. 


How ill this taper burns ! Ha! who comes 
here ? 

I think it is the weakness of mine eyes 


That shapes this monstrous apparition. 

It comes upon me. Art thou anything ? 

Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, 
That mak’st my blood cold and my hair to 
stare ? 280 

Speak to me what thou art. 

Ghost. Thy evil spirit, Brutus. 

Bru. Why com’st thou ? 

Ghost. To tell thee thou shalt see me at Phi¬ 
lippi. 

Bru. Well; then I shall see thee again? 285 
Ghost. Ay, at Philippi. 

Bru. Why, I will see thee at Philippi, then. 

[Exit Ghost.) 

Now I have taken heart thou vanishest. 

Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with thee. 
Boy, Lucius! Varro! Claudius! Sirs, awake! 
Claudius! 291 

Luc. The strings, my lord, are false. 

Bru. He thinks he still is at his instrument. 
Lucius, awake ! 

Luc. My lord ? 295 

Bru. Didst thou dream, Lucius, that thou 
so criedst out ? 

Luc. My lord, I do not know that I did cry. 
Bru. Yes, that thou didst. Didst thou see 
anything ? 

Luc. Nothing, my lord. 

Bru. Sleep again, Lucius. Sirrah Claudius ! 
Fellow thou, awake ! soj 

Var. My lord ? 

Clau. My lord ? 

Bru. Why did you so cry out, sirs, in your 
sleep ? 304 

Var. Clau. Did we, my lord ? 

Bru. Ay. Saw you anything ? 

Var. No, my lord, I saw nothing. 

Clau. Nor I, my lord. 

Bru. Go and commend me to my brother 
Cassius; 

Bid him set on his powers betimes before, 

And we will follow. 

Var. Clau. It shall be done, my lord. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT V 

[Scene I. The plains of Philippi.] 

Enter Octavius, Antony, and their army. 

Oct. Now, Antony, our hopes are answered. 
You said the enemy would not come down, 

But keep the hills and upper regions. 

It proves not so : their battles are at hand ; 
They mean to warn us at Philippi here, 5 

Answering before we do demand of them. 

Ant. Tut, I am in their bosoms, and I know 
Wherefore they do it. They could be content 
To visit other places, and come down 
With fearful bravery, thinking by this face 10 
To fasten in our thoughts that they have cour¬ 
age ; 

But’t is not so. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. Prepare you, generals. 

The enemy comes on in gallant show; 





890 


JULIUS CAESAR 


v. 1. 


Their bloody sign of battle is hung out, 

And something to be done immediately. is 
Ant. Octavius, lead your battle softly on, 
Upon the left hand of the even field. 

Oct. Upon the right hand I; keep thou the 
left. 

Ant. Why do you cross me in this exigent ? 
Oct. I do not cross you ; but I will do so. 20 

[March. 

Brum. Enter Brutus, Cassius, and their 
army [Lucilius, Titinius, Messala, and 
others]. 

Bru. They stand, and would have parley. 
Cas. Stand fast, Titinius ; we must out and 
talk. 

Oct. Mark Antony, shall we give sign of 
battle? 

Ant. No, Caesar, we will answer on their 
charge. 

Make forth; the generals would have some 

words. < 25 

Oct. Stir not until the signal. 

Bru. Words before blows ; is it so, country¬ 
men ? 

Oct. Not that we love words better, as you 
do. 

Bru. Good words are better than bad strokes, 
Octavius. 

Ant. In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give 
good words; 30 

Witness the hole you made in Caesar’s heart, 
Crying, “ Long live ! hail, Caesar ! ” 

Cas. Antony, 

The posture of your blows are yet unknown ; 
But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees, 
And leave them honeyless. 

Ant. Not stingless too ? 

Bru. O, yes, and soundless too ; 30 

For you have stolen their buzzing, Antony, 

And very wisely threat before you sting. 

Ant. Villains, you did not so, when your vile 
daggers 

Hack’d one another in the sides of Caesar. 40 
You show’d your teeth like apes, and fawn’d 
like hounds, 

And bow’d like bondmen, kissing Caesar’s feet; 
Whilst damned Casca, like a cur, behind 
Struck Caesar on the neck. O you flatterers ! 
Cas. Flatterers! Now, Brutus, thank your¬ 
self ; 45 

This tongue had not offended so to-day, 

If Cassius might have rul’d. 

Oct. Come, come, the cause! If arguing 
make us sweat, 

The proof of it will turn to redder drops. 

Look! 50 

I draw a sword against conspirators ; 

When think you that the sword goes up again ? 
Never, till Caesar’s three and thirty wounds 
Be well aveng’d ; or till another Caesar 
Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors. 
Bru. Caesar, thou canst not die by traitors’ 
hands, 66 

Unless thou bring’st them with thee. 

Oct. So I hope ; 

I was not born to die on Brutus’ sword. 


Bru. 0, if thou wert the noblest of thy 
strain, 

Young man, thou couldst not die more honour¬ 
able. 60 

Cas. A peevish schoolboy, worthless of such 
honour, 

Join’d with a masker and a reveller ! 

Ant. Old Cassius still! 

Oct. Come, Antony, away! 

Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth. 

If you dare fight to-day, come to the field ; es 
If not, when you have stomachs. 

[.Exeunt Octavius , Antony , and 
army. 

Cas. Why, now, blow wind, swell billow, and 
swim bark ! 

The storm is up, and all is on the hazard. 

Bra. Ho, Lucilius ! hark, a word with you. 
Lucil. (Standing forth.) My lord ? 

[Brutus and Lucilius converse apart.] 
Cas. Messala! 

Mes. (Standing forth.) What says my gen¬ 
eral ? 70 

Cas. Messala, 

This is my birthday : as this very day 

Was Cassius born. Give me thy hand, Messala. 

Be thou my witness that against my will, 

As Pompey was, am I compell’d to set 26 

Upon one battle all our liberties. 

You know that I held Epicurus strong 
And his opinion ; now I change my mind, 

And partly credit things that do presage. 
Coming from Sardis, on our former ensign so 
Two mighty eagles fell, and there they perch’d, 
Gorging and feeding from our soldiers’ hands ; 
Who to Philippi here consorted us. 

This morning are they fled away and gone ; 
And in their steads do ravens, crows, and kites 
Fly o’er our heads and downward look on us, 86 
As we were sickly prey. Their shadows seem 
A canopy most fatal, under which 
Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost. 

Mes. Believe not so. 

Cas. I bnt believe it partly ; 

For I am fresh of spirit, and resolv’d at 

To meet all perils very constantly. 

Bru. Even so, Lucilius. 

Cas. Now, most noble Brutus, 

The gods to-day stand friendly, that we may, 
Lovers in peace, lead on our days to age ! f»5 

But since the affairs of men rest still incertain, 
Let’s reason with the worst that may befall. 

If we do lose this battle, then is this 
The very last time we shall speak together. 
What are you then determined to do ? 100 

Bru. Even by the rule of that philosophy 
By which I did blame Cato for the death 
Which he did give himself, — I know not how, 
But I do find it cowardly and vile, 

For fear of what might fall, so to prevent 106 
The time of life: — arming myself with pa¬ 
tience 

To stay the providence of some high powers 
That govern us below. 

Cas. Then, if we lose this battle, 

You are contented to be led in triumph 
Thorough the streets of Rome ? uo 





V. iii, 


JULIUS CLESAR 


891 


Bru. No, Cassius, no. Think not, thou noble 
Roman, 

That ever Brutus will ^o bound to Rome ; 

He bears too great a mind. But this same day 
Must end that work the ides of March begun ; 
And whether we shall meet again I know not, 
Therefore our everlasting farewell take. us 
For ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius ! 

If we do meet again, why, we shall smile ; 

If not, why then, this parting was well made. 
Cas. For ever, and for ever, farewell, Bru¬ 
tus ! 120 

If we do meet again, we ’ll smile indeed; 

If not, ’tis true this parting was well made. 
Bru. Why, then, lead on. 0 , that a man 
might know 

The end of this day’s business ere it come ! 

But it sufficeth that the day will end, 125 

And then the end is known. Come, ho ! away ! 

[ Exeunt. 

[Scene II. The same. The field of battle .] 

Alarum. Enter Brutus and Messala. 

Bru. Ride, ride, Messala, ride, and give 
these bills 

Unto the legions on the other side. 

[Loud alarum. 

Let them set on at once ; for I perceive 
But cold demeanour in Octavius’ wing. 

And sudden push gives them the overthrow, c 
Ride, ride, Messala: let them all come down. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III. Another part of the field.] 
Alarums. Enter Cassius and Titinius. 

Cas. O, look, Titinius, look, the villains fly ! 
Myself have to mine own turn’d enemy. 

This ensign here of mine was turning back ; 

I slew the coward, and did take it from him. 
Tit. 0 Cassius, Brutus gave the word too 
early; 6 

Who, having some advantage on Octavius, 
Took it too eagerly. His soldiers fell to spoil, 
Whilst we by Antony are all enclos’d. 

Enter Pindarus. 

Pin. Fly further off, my lord, fly further off ; 
Mark Antony is in your tents, my lord ; 10 

Fly, therefore, noble Cassius, fly far off. 

Cas. This hill is far enough. Look, look, 
Titinius; 

Are those my tents where I perceive the fire ? 
Tit. They are, my lord. 

Cas. Titinius, if thou lovest me, 

Mount thou my horse, and hide thy spurs in 
him, 16 

Till he have brought thee up to yonder troops, 
And here again ; that I may rest assur’d 
Whether yond troops are friend or enemy. 

Tit. I will be here again, even with a 
thought. [Exit. 

Cas. Go, Pindarus, get higher on that hill; 
My sight was ever thick ; regard Titinius, 21 
And tell me what thou not’st about the field. 

[Pindarus ascends the hill.] 


This day I breathed first; time is come round, 
And where I did begin, there shall I end ; 

My life is run his compass. Sirrah, what news ? 
Pin. (Above.) 0 my lord! 26 

Cas. What news ? 

Pin. Titinius is enclosed round about 
With horsemen, that make to him on the 
spur; 

Yet he spurs on. Now they are almost on him. 
Now, Titinius! Now some light. 0 , he lights 

tOO. 81 

He’s ta’en. (Shout.) And, hark! they shout 
for joy. 

Cas. Come down, behold no more. 

0 , coward that I am, to live so long, 

To see my best friend ta’en before my face ! 3 s 
[Pindarus [descends]. 

Come hither, sirrah. 

In Parthia did I take thee prisoner; 

And then I swore thee, saving of thy life, 

That whatsoever I did bid thee do, 

Thou shouldst attempt it. Come now, keep 
thine oath; « 

Now be a freeman ; and with this good sword, 
That ran through Caesar’s bowels, search this, 
bosom. 

Stand not to answer ; here, take thou the hilts, 
And, when my face is cover’d, as ’tis now. 
Guide thou the sword. [Pindarus stabs him.] 
Caesar, thou art reveng’d, 46 

Even with the sword that kill’d thee. [Dies.] 
Pin. So, I am free; yet would not so have 
been, 

Durst I have done my will. 0 Cassius, 

Far from this country Pindarus shall run, 
Where never Roman shall take note of him. so 

[Exit.] 

Re-enter Titinius with Messala. 

Mes. It is but change, Titinius ; for Octavius 
Is overthrown by noble Brutus’ power, 

As Cassius’ legions are by Antony. 

Tit. These tidings will well comfort Cassius. 
Mes. Where did you leave him ? 

Tit. All disconsolate, 

With Pindarus his bondman, on this hill. oe 
Mes. Is not that he that lies upon the 
ground ? 

Tit. He lies not like the living. O my heart! 
Mes. Is not that he ? 

Tit. No, this was he, Messala, 

But Cassius is no more. 0 setting suiij eo 

As in thy red rays thou dost sink to-night, 

So in his red blood Cassius’ day is set; 

The sun of Rome is set! Our day is gone ; 
Clouds, dews, and dangers come ; our deeds are 
done! 

Mistrust of my success hath done this deed. 
Mes. Mistrust of good success hath done this 
deed. 

0 hateful error, melancholy’s child, 

Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of 
men 

The things that are not? O error, soon con¬ 
ceiv’d, 

Thou never com’st unto a happy birth, to 

But kill’st the mother that engend’red thee 1 






892 


JULIUS C^SAR 


v. v. 


Tit. What, Pindarus ! Where art thou, Pin- 
darus ? 

Mes. Seek him, Titinius, whilst I go to meet 
The noble Brutus, thrusting this report 
Into his ears ; I may say, “ thrusting ” it; 75 

For piercing steel and darts envenomed 
Shall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus 
As tidings of this sight. 

Tit. Hie you, Messala, 

And I will seek for Pindarus the while. 79 

[Exit Messala .] 

Why didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius ? 
Did I not meet thy friends ? and did not they 
Put on my brows this wreath of victory, 

And bid me give it thee ? Didst thou not hear 
their shouts ? 

Alas, thou hast misconstrued everything ! 

But, hold thee, take this garland on thy brow; 
Thy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I so 

Will do his bidding. Brutus, come apace, 

And see how I regarded Caius Cassius. 

By your leave, gods ! —this is a Roman’s part.. 
Come, Cassius’ sword, and find Titinius’ 
heart. [Kills himself, so 

Alarum. Re-enter Messala, with Brutus, 
young Cato, Strato, Volumnius, Lucilius 
[and others]. 

Bru. Where, where, Messala, doth his body 

iie ? 

Mes. Lo, yonder, and Titinius mourning it. 
Bru. Titinius’ face is upward. 

Cato. He is slain. 

Bru. 0 Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet! 
Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our 
swords os 

In our own proper entrails. [Low alarums. 

Cato. Brave Titinius ! 

Look, whe’er he have not crown’d dead Cas¬ 
sius ! 

Bru. Are yet two Romans living such as 
these ? 

The last of all the Romans, fare thee well! 

It is impossible that ever Rome 100 

Should breed thy fellow. Friends, I owe moe 
tears 

To this dead man than you shall see me pay. 

I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time. 
Come, therefore, and to Thassos send his body ; 
His funerals shall not be in our camp, 105 

Lest it discomfort us. Lucilius, come ; 

And come, young Cato ; let us to the field. 
Labeo and Flavius, set our battles on. 

’T is three o’clock ; and, Romans, yet ere night 
We shall try fortune in a second fight. no 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene IY. Another part of the field.] 

Alarum. Enter Brutus, Messala, young Cato, 
Lucilius, and Flavius. 

Bru. Yet, countrymen, O, yet hold up your 
heads ! 

Cato. What bastard doth not ? Who will go 
with me ? 

I will proclaim my name about the field. 

1 am the son of Marcus Cato, ho I 


A foe to tyrants, and my country’s friend ; e 
I am the son of Marcus Cato, I10! 

Enter Soldiers, and fight. 

[Bru.] And I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I; 
Brutus, my country’s friend; know me for 
Brutus! [Exit.] 

Lucil. O young and noble Cato, art thou 
down ? 

Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titinius, i« 
And mayst be honour’d, being Cato’s son. 

[i.] Sol. Yield, or thou diest. 

Lucil. Only I yield to die : 

There is so much that thou wilt kill me 
straight; [Offering money.] 

Kill Brutus, and be honour’d in his death. 

[i.] Sol. We must not. A noble prisoner! « 

Enter Antony. 

2 . Sol. Room, ho ! Tell Antony, Brutus is 
ta’en. 

1 . Sol. I ’ll tell the news. Here comes the 
general. 

Brutus is ta’en, Brutus is ta’en, my lord ! 

Ant. Where is he ? 

Lucil. Safe, Antony ; Brutus is safe enough. 
I dare assure thee that no enemy 21 

Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus ; 

The gods defend him from so great a shame ! 
When you do find him, or alive or dead, 

He will be found like Brutus, like himself. 25 
Ant. This is not Brutus, friend; but, I as¬ 
sure you, 

A prize no less in worth. Keep this man safe, 
Give him all kindness ; I had rather have 
Such men my friends than enemies. Go on, 

And see whe’er Brutus be alive or dead ; so 
And bring us word unto Octavius’ tent 
How everything is chanc’d. [Exeunt. 

Scene V. [Another part of the field .] 

Enter Brutus, Dardanius, Clitus, Strato, 
and Volumnius. 

Bru. Come, poor remains of friends, rest on 
this rock. 

Cli. Statilius show’d the torchlight, but, my 
lord, 

He came not back. He is or ta’en or slain. 

Bru. Sit thee down, Clitus ; slaying is the 
word, 

It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus. s 

[ Whispering .] 

Cli. What, I, my lord ? No, not for all the 
world. 

Bru. Peace then ! no words. 

Cli. I ’ll rather kill myself. 

Bru. Hark thee, Dardanius. [Whispering.] 
Bar. Shall I do such a deed ? 

Cli. 0 Dardanius! 

Bar. 0 Clitus ! 10 

Cli. What ill request did Brutus make to 
thee ? 

Bar. To kill him, Clitus. Look, he medi- 
. tates. 

Cli. Now is that noble vessel full of grief, 
That it runs over even at his eyes. 





V. V. 


JULIUS CAESAR 


893 


Bru. Come hither, good Volumnius ; list a 
word. is 

Vol. What says my lord ? 

Bru. Why, this, Volumnius : 

The ghost of Caesar hath appear’d to me 
Two several times by night ; at Sardis once, 
And, this last night, here in Philippi fields. 

I know my hour is come. 

Vol. Not so, my lord. 20 

Bru. Nay, I am sure it is, Volumnius. 

Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes ; 
Our enemies have heat us to the pit. 

[Low alarums. 

It is more worthy to leap in ourselves, 

Than tarry till they push us. Good Volum¬ 
nius, 26 

Thou know’st that we two went to school to¬ 
gether ; 

Even for that our love of old, I prithee, 

Hold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it. 
Vol. That’s not an office for a friend, my 
lord. [Alarum still. 

Cli. Fly, fly, my lord ; there is no tarrying 
here. ‘ so 

Bru. Farewell to you, and you, and you, 
Volumnius. 

Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep ; 
Farewell to thee too, Strato. Countrymen, 

My heart doth joy that yet in all my life 
I found no man but he was true to me. so 

I shall have glory by this losing day 
More than Octavius and Mark Antony 
By this vile conquest shall attain unto. 

So fare you well at once ; for Brutus’ tongue 
Hath almost ended his life’s history. 40 

Night hangs upon mine eyes ; my bones would 
rest, • 

That have but labour’d to attain this hour. 

[Alarum. Cry within , “Fly, fly, 
fly!” 

Cli. Fly, my lord, fly. 

Bru. Hence ! I will follow. 

[Exeunt Clitus , Dardanius , and 
Volumnius .] 

I prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord. 

Thou art a fellow of a good respect; 45 

Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in 
it. 


Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face, 
While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato ? 
Stra. Give me your hand first. Fare you 
well, my lord. 

Bru. Farewell, good Strato. [ Buns on his 
sword.] Caesar, now be still; eo 

I kill’d not thee with half so good a will. 

[Dies. 

Alarum. Retreat. Enter Octavius, Antony, 
Messala, Lucilius, and the army. 

Oct. What man is that ? 

Mes. My master’s man. Strato, where is thy 
master ? 

Stra. Free from the bondage you are in, 
Messala; 

The conquerors can but make a fire of him, ee 
For Brutus only overcame himself, 

And no man else hath honour by his death. 
Lucil. So Brutus should be found. I thank 
thee, Brutus, 

That thou hast prov’d Lucilius’ saying true. 
Oct. All that serv’d Brutus, I will entertain 
them. 60 

Fellow, wilt thou bestow thy time with me ? 
Stra. Ay, if Messala will prefer me to you. 
Oct. Do so, good Messala. 

Mes. How died my master, Strato ? 

Stra. I held the sword, and he did run on 

it. 65 

Mes. Octavius, then take him to follow thee, 
That did the latest service to my master. 

Ant. This was the noblest Roman of them 
all. ‘ 

All the conspirators, save only he, 

Did that they did in envy of great Caesar ; 70 

He only, in a general honest thpught 
And common good to all, made one of them. 
His life was gentle r and the elements 
So mix’d in him that Nature might stand up 
And say to all the world,This was a man!” 

Oct. According to his vintnerlet us use him, 
With all respect and rites of burial. 

Within my tent his bones to-night shall lie, 
Most like a soldier, ordered honourably. 

So call the field to rest; and let’s away so 
To part the glories of this happy day. 

[Exeunt omnes. 




THE TRAGEDY OF HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 

On July 26, 1602, “ a booke called the Revenge of Hamlett ” was entered in the Stationers 
Register, and in the following year a quarto edition of Hamlet , ascribed on the title-page to 
Shakespeare, was published. In 1604 the Second Quarto appeared, “ enlarged to almost as 
much againe as it was, according to the true and perfect coppie.” It is generally recognized 
that the First Quarto was printed from a manuscript concocted from notes taken at the theatre, 
possibly with the assistance of the written parts of one or two minor actors; and further, that it 
represents a form of the play earlier and much shorter than that found in the Second Quarto. 
Thus the date of Shakespeare’s first draft of Hamlet is, at latest, the earlier months of 1602; 
of his second, 1603-4. Third, Fourth, and Sixth Quartos, without independent authority, ap¬ 
peared in 1605, 1611, and 1637 ; the Fifth is undated. The text of the First Folio differs in 
a very large number of details from that of the Second Quarto ; and it contains some 85 lines 
not in the Quarto, while the Quarto has about 218 lines not in the Folio. Both of these sets of 
omissions appear to be due to cuts made for acting purposes. It is clear that these two texts 
were printed from independent copies of the author’s manuscript; and most, if not all, of the 
variations in detail may be accounted for by the carelessness of transcribers and printers. They 
are not such as to prove an additional revision by the author. The present text is based on the 
First Folio, but considerable use has been made of the Second Quarto, the omissions supplied 
from this source being, as usual, enclosed in brackets. 

The story of Hamlet is a northern legend which is first found narrated at length in the His¬ 
tory of the Danes written in Latin by Saxo Grammaticus about 1200. It was told in French by 
Belleforest in his Histoires Tragiques (1570), and his version was translated into English, and 
published, in the earliest known edition, in 1608. The theme was familiar on the English stage, 
apparently by 1589, when it seems to be alluded to by Nash, and certainly before 1594, when 
Henslowe records its performance, without the mark usually affixed to the titles of new plays. 
The exact interpretation of the passage in Nash’s preface to Greene’s Menaphon is still a matter 
of dispute; but it is commonly, though not universally, taken to imply that Thomas Kyd is 
there alluded to as the author of a tragedy on Hamlet. Similarities in structure and style tend 
to confirm the conjecture that on such a play by the author of The Spanish Tragedy Shakespeare 
based his play; and many scholars find evidence of important survivals of Kyd’s work in the 
Quarto of 1603, and even in the later text. It is held by some that this earlier play is repre¬ 
sented by a German prose Hamlet acted by English players in Germany in the seventeenth cen¬ 
tury. But this sketch, whether based on the work of Kyd, or on the First Quarto, or on the 
Second, or on a stage version of either of these last, — for all these hypotheses have been put 
forth, — reproduces its original in so degraded a form that it is not possible to take it as a fair 
representative of its source. 

The main situation of the tragedy goes back to the prose tale. There we have a king mur¬ 
dered by his brother, who had previously seduced and has now married his queen ; and the son of 
the king aiming at revenge, finally achieving it, and using the device of pretended madness to 
protect himself in the meantime. The prototype of Polonius is killed while eavesdropping, but 
his character bears little resemblance to that of Shakespeare’s Lord Chamberlain; Ophelia and 
Horatio are merely hinted at; while Laertes, Fortinbras, and several of the minor characters, 
such as the grave-diggers and Osric, are altogether absent. The original Hamlet goes to Eng¬ 
land without interruption from pirates, witnesses the death of his two companions, returns and 
kills not only the king, but all his courtiers, goes to England again and marries two wives, one 
of whom betrays him to his death and marries his slayer. 

Other elements in the tragedy that are probably not due to Shakespeare’s invention have been 
gathered from a study of contemporary “ tragedies of revenge.” Such are the ghost inciting to 
vengeance, the delay in carrying it out, the mad girl with her songs, churchyard scenes, the 
swearing on the sword hilt, and the voice of the ghost in the cellar. How many of such addi¬ 
tions were made by Shakespeare, how many by the author of the lost play, cannot be decided. 
But for the magnificence of the poetry, the amazing subtlety of the psychology, and the inten¬ 
sity of the tragic emotion it is not hard to assign the credit. 


THE 

TRAGEDY OF HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 


[DRAMATIS PERSONAE 


Claudius, King of Denmark. 
Hamlet, son to the late, and 
King. 

Polonius, Lord Chamberlain. 
Horatio, friend to Hamlet. 
Laertes, son to Polonius. 
Voltimand, ) 

Cornelius, 

Rosencrantz, 

Guildenstern, 

OSRIC, 

A Gentleman, 

Marcellus, ) 

Bernardo, ! officers - 


- courtiers. 


nephew to the present 


Francisco, a soldier. 

Reynaldo, servant to Polonius. 

A Priest. 

Players. 

Two Clowns, grave-diggers. 

Fortinbras, Prince of Norway. 

A Captain. 

English Ambassadors. 

Gertrude, Queen of Denmark, and mother to Hamlet. 
Ophelia, daughter to Polonius. 

Ghost of Hamlet’s Father. 


Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Sailors, Messengers, and other Attendants. 


Scene : Elsinore , Denmark.'] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [ Elsinore. A platform before the 
castle .] 

Francisco [at his post. Enter to him ] Ber¬ 
nardo. 

Ber. Who’s there ? 

Fran. Nay, answer me. Stand, and unfold 
yourself. 

Ber. Long live the king ! 

Fran. Bernardo ? 

Ber. He. * 

Fran. You come most carefully upon your 
hour. 

Ber. ’Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to 
bed, Francisco. 

Fran. For this relief much thanks. ’T is 
bitter cold, 

And I am sick at heart. 

Ber. Have you had quiet guard ? 

Fran. Not a mouse stirring. 

Ber. Well, good-night. « 

If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, 

The rivals of my watch, hid them make haste. 

Enter Horatio and Marcellus. 

Fran. I think I hear them. Stand ! Who’s 
there ? 

Hor. Friends to this ground. 

Mar. And liegemen to the Dane. ie 

Fran. Give you good-night. 

Mar. O, farewell, honest soldier. 

Who hath reliev’d you ? 

Fran. Bernardo has my place. 

Give you good-night. [Exit. 

Mar. Holla ! Bernardo ! 


B er • Say, 

What, is Horatio there ? 

Hor. A piece of him. 

Ber. Welcome, Horatio; welcome, good 
Marcellus. 20 

Hor. What, has this thing appear’d again 
to-night ? 

Ber. I have seen nothing. 

Mar. Horatio says ’tis but our fantasy, 

And will not let belief take hold of him 
Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us; 
Therefore I have entreated him along 26 

With us, to watch the minutes of this night, 
That if again this apparition come, 

He may approve our eyes and speak to it. 

Hor. Tush, tush, ’t will not appear. 

Ber. Sit down a while, 

And let us once again assail your ears, 31 

That are so fortified against our story, 

What we two nights have seen. 

Hor. Well, sit we down, 

And let us hear Bernardo speak of this. 

Ber. Last night of all, 35 

When yond same star that’s westward from 
the pole 

Had made his course to illume that part of 
heaven 

Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself, 

The bell then beating one, — 

Enter the Ghost. 


Mar. Peace, break thee off ! Look, where it 
comes again! «n 

Ber. In the same figure, like the King that’s 
dead. 

Mar. Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Ho¬ 
ratio, 


y 






896 


HAMLET 


1. i. 


Ber. Looks it not like the King ? Mark it, 
Horatio. 

Hor. Most like ; it harrows me with fear and 
wonder. 

Ber. It would be spoke to. 

Mar. Question it, Horatio. 

Hor. What art thou that usurp’st this time 
of night, 46 

Together with that fair and warlike form 
In which the majesty of buried Denmark 
Did sometimes march? By heaven I charge 
thee, speak ! 

Mar. It is offended. 

Ber. See, it stalks away! bo 

Hor. Stay! Speak, speak ! I charge thee, 
speak ! [ Exit Ghost. 

Mar. ’T is gone, and will not answer. 

Ber. How now, Horatio! you tremble and 
look pale. 

Is not this something more than fantasy ? 
What think you on ’t ? . 65 

Hor. Before my God, I might not this be¬ 
lieve 

Without the sensible and true avouch 
Of mine own eyes. 

Mar. Is it not like the King ? 

Hor. As thou art to thyself. 

Such was the very armour he had on eo 

When he the ambitious Norway combated. 

So frown’d he once, when, in an angry parle, 
He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice. 

’T is strange. 

Mar. Thus twice before, and jump at this 
dead hour, es 

With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch. 
Hor. In what particular thought to work I 
know not; 

But, in the gross and scope of my opinion, 

This bodes some strange eruption to our state. 
Mar. Good now, sit down, and tell me, he 
that knows, 70 

Why this same strict and most observant watch 
So nightly toils the subject of the land, 

And why such daily cast of brazen cannon, 

And foreign mart for implements of war ; 

Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore 
task 75 

Does not divide the Sunday from the week. 
What might be toward, that this sweaty haste 
Doth make the night joint-labourer with the 
day, 

Who is ’t that can inform me ? 

Hor. That can I; 

At least, the whisper goes so. Our last king, so 
Whose image even but now appear’d to us, 
Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway, 
Thereto prick’d on by a most emulate pride, 
Dar’d to the combat; in which our valiant 
Hamlet — 

For so this side of our known world esteem’d 
him — so 

Did slay this Fortinbras ; who, by a seal’d com¬ 
pact, 

Well ratified by law and heraldry, 

Did forfeit, with his life, all those his lands 
Which he stood seiz’d on, to the conqueror; 
Against the which, a moiety competent 90 


Was gaged by our king ; which had return’d 
To the inheritance of Fortinbras, 

Had he been vanquisher; as, by the same cove¬ 
nant, 

And carriage of the article design’d, 

His fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortin¬ 
bras, 96 

Of unimproved mettle hot and full, 

Hath in the skirts of Norway here and there 
Shark’d up a list of landless resolutes, 

For food and diet, to some enterprise 

That hath a stomach in’t; which is no other — 

As it doth well appear unto our state — 101 

But to recover of us, by strong hand 

And terms compulsative, those foresaid lands 

So by his father lost; and this, I take it, 

Is the main motive of our preparations, iob 
T he source of this our watch, and the chief head 
Of this post-haste and romage in the land. 

[Ber. I think it be no other but e’en so. 

Well may it sort that this portentous figure 
Comes armed through our watch, so like the 
King no 

That was and is the question of these wars. 

Hor. A mote it is to trouble the mind’s eye. 
In the most high and palmy state of Rome, 

A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, 

The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted 
dead lie 

Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets. 

As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, 
Disasters in the sun ; and the moist star 
Upon whose influence Neptune’s empire stands 
Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse. 120 
And even the like precurse of fierce events, 

As harbingers preceding still the fates 
And prologue to the omen coming on, 

Have heaven and earth together demonstrated 
Unto our climatures and countrymen.] 126 

Re-enter Ghost. 

But soft, behold ! Lo, where it comes again ! 

I ’ll cross it, though it blast me. Stay, illusion! 
If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, 

Speak to me; 

If there be any good thing to be done iso 

That may to thee do ease and grace to me, 
Speak to me ; 

If thou art privy to thy country’s fate, 

Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid, 

0 speak ! 135 

Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life 
Extorted treasure in the womb of earth, 

For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in 
death, 

Speak of it; stay, and speak! ( Cock crows.) 
Stop it, Marcellus. 139 

Mar. Shall I strike at it with my partisan ? 
Hor. Do, if it will not stand. 

Ber. ’T is here ! 

Hor. ’T is here! 

Mar. _ ’T is gone ! _ [Exit Ghost. 

We do it wrong, being so majestical, 

To offer it the show of violence ; 

For it is, as the air, invulnerable, 1 # 

And our vain blows malicious mockery. 




1 .11. 


HAMLET 


897 


Ber. It was about to speak, when the cock 
crew. 

Hot. And then it started like a guilty thing 
Upon a fearful summons. I have heard, 

The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, ieo 
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat 
Awake the god of day ; and, at his warning, 
Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, 

The extravagant and erring spirit hies 

To his confine ; and of the truth herein ns 

This present object made probation. 

Mar. It faded on the crowing of the cock. 
Some say that ever ’gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 

The bird of dawning singeth all night long ; igo 
And then, they say, no spirit can walk abroad ; 
The nights are wholesome; then no planets 
strike, 

No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, 
So hallow’d and so gracious is the time. 

Hot. So have I heard and do in part believe 

it. . 165 

But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, 
Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastern hill. 
Break we our watch up ; and, by my advice, 
Let us impart what we have seen to-night 
Unto young Hamlet; for, upon my life, no 
This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him. 

Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it, 
As needful in our loves, fitting our duty ? 

Mar. Let’s do’t, I pray ; and I this morning 
know 

Where we shall find him most conveniently, ns 

[Exeunt. 


Scene II. [A room of state in the castle .] 

Flourish. Enter the King, Queen, Hamlet, 
Polonius, Laertes, Ophelia, Lords , and 
Attendants. 


King. Though yet of Hamlet our dear bro¬ 
ther’s death 

The memory be green, and that it us befitted 
To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole 
kingdom 

To be contracted in one brow of woe, 

Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature e 
That we with wisest sorrow think on him 


Together with remembrance of ourselves. 
Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen, 
The imperial jointress of this warlike state, 
Have we, as ’twere with a defeated joy, — 10 

With one auspicious and one dropping eye, 
With mirth in funeral and with dirge in mar¬ 
riage, 

In equal scale weighing delight and dole. — 
Taken to wife ; nor have we herein barr’d 
Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone « 
With this affair along. For all, our thanks. < 
Now follows that you know: young Fortin- 
bras, 

Holding a weak supposal of our worth, 

Or thinking by our late dear brother’s death 
Our state to be disjoint and out of frame, 20 
Colleagued with the dream of his advantage, 
He hath not fail’d to pester us with message 
Importing the surrender of those lands 


Lost by his father, with all bonds of law, 21 
To our most valiant brother. So much for him. 

Enter Voltimand and Cornelius. 

Now for ourself and for this time of meeting, 
Thus much the business is : we have here writ 
To Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras, — 

Who, impotent and bed-rid, scarcely hears 
Of this his nephew’s purpose, — to suppress so 
His further gait herein, in that the levies, 

The lists and full proportions, are all made 
Out of his subject; and we here dispatch 
You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltimand, 

For bearing of this greeting to old Norway ; ss 
Giving to you no further personal power 
To business with the king, more than the scope 
Of these delated articles allow. 

[Giving a paper.] 
Farewell, and let your haste commend your 
duty. 

[Cor.] I In that and all things will we show 
Vol. J our duty. 40 

King. We doubt it nothing; heartily fare¬ 
well. [Exeunt Voltimand and Cornelius. 
And now, Laertes, what’s the news with you ? 
You told us of some suit; what is’t, Laertes ? 
You cannot speak of reason to the Dane, 

And lose your voice. What wouldst thou beg, 
Laertes, « 

That shall not be my offer, not thy asking ? 
The head is not more native to the heart, 

The hand more instrumental to the mouth, 
Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father. 
What wouldst thou have, Laertes ? 

Laer. Dread my lord, 

Your leave and favour to return to France ; bi 
From whence though willingly I came to Den¬ 
mark 

To show my duty in your coronation, 

Yet now, I must confess, that duty done, 

My thoughts and wishes bend again towards 
France bb 

And bow them to your gracious leave and par¬ 
don. 

King. Have you your father’s leave ? What 
says Polonius ? 

Pol. He hath, my lord, [wrung from me my 
slow leave 

By laboursome petition, and at last 

Upon his will I seal’d my hard consent.] eo 

I do beseech you, give him leave to go. 

King. Take thy fair hour, Laertes. Time be 
thine, 

And thy best graces spend it at thy will! 

But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son, — 
Ham. [Aside.] A little more than kin, and 
less than kind. _ 66 

King. How is it that the clouds still hang on 
you ? 

Ham. Not so, my lord; I am too much i’ 
the sun. 

Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour 
off, 

And let thine eye look like a friend on Den¬ 
mark. 

Do not for ever with thy vailed lids w 

Seek for thy noble father in the dust. 





8 9 8 


HAMLET 


i. n. 


Thou know’st’t is common ; all that lives must 
die. 

Passing through nature to eternity. 

Ham. Ay, madam, it is common. 

Queen. If it be, 

Why seems it so particular with thee ? « 

Ham. Seems, madam! Nay, it is; I know 
not “seems.” 

’T is not alone my inky cloak, good mother, 
Nor customary suits of solemn black, 

Nor windy suspiration of forc’d breath, 

No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, «o 

Nor the dejected haviour of the visage, 
Together with all forms, moods, shows of grief, 
That can denote me truly. These indeed seem, 
For they are actions that a man might play ; 
But I have that within which passeth show, 85 
These but the trappings and the suits of woe. 
King . ’Tis sweet and commendable in your 
nature, Hamlet, 

To give these mourning duties to your father. 
But, you must know, your father lost a father ; 
That father lost, lost his ; and the survivor 
bound so 

In filial obligation for some term 
To do obsequious sorrow. But to persever 
In obstinate condolement is a course 
Of impious stubbornness ; ’t is unmanly grief ; 
It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, 95 

A heart unfortified, a mind impatient, 

An understanding simple and unschool’d ; 

For what we know must be, and is as common 
As any the most vulgar thing to sense, 

Why should we in our peevish opposition 100 
Take it to heart ? Fie ! ’t is a fault to heaven, 
A fault against the dead, a fault to nature, 

To reason most absurd, whose common theme 
Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried. 
From the first corse till he that died to-day, too 
“This must be so.” We pray you, throw to 
earth 

This unprevailing woe, and think of us 
A s of a father ; for, let the world take note, 
You are the most immediate to our throne, 
And with no less nobility of love no 

Than that which dearest father bears his son, 
Do I impart towards you. For your intent 
In going back to school in Wittenberg, 

It is most retrograde to our desire ; 

And we beseech you, bend you to remain ns 
Here in the cheer and comfort of our eye, 

Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son. 
Queen. Let not thy mother lose her prayers, 
Hamlet. 

I prithee, stay with us ; go not to Wittenberg. 
Ham. I shall in all my best obey you, 
madam. 120 

King. Why, ’t is a loving and a fair reply. 
Be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come ; 
This gentle and unforc’d accord of Hamlet 
Sits smiling to my heart; in grace whereof, 124 
No jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day, 
But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell, 
And the King’s rouse the heavens shall bruit 
again, 

Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away. 

[Flourish. Exeunt all but Hamlet. 


Ham. 0 , that this too too solid flesh would 
melt, 

Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew ! 130 

Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d 
His canon ’gainst self-slaughter ! O God ! God I 
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable, 

Seems to me all the uses of this world ! 

Fie on’t! oh fie, fie ! ’T is an unweeded garden. 
That grows to seed ; things rank and gross in 
nature 130 

Possess it merely. That it should come to this ! 
But two months dead ! Nay, not so much, not 
two. 

So excellent a king; that was, to this, 
Hyperion to a satyr J so loving to my mother 140 
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven 
Visit her face too roughly, j Heaven and earth ! 
Must I remember? Why, she would hang on 
him, 

As if increase of appetite had grown 
By what it fed on ; and yet, within a month,— 
Let me not think on’t! — Frailty, thy name is 
woman! — 140 

A little month, or e’er those shoes were old 
With which she followed my poor father’s body, 
Like Niobe, all tears, — why she, even she — 

0 God ! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, 
Would have mourn’d longer — married with 
mine uncle, 101 

My father’s brother, but no more like my father 
Than I to Hercules ; within a month, 

Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears 
Had left the flushing of her galled eyes, iss 

She married. 0 , most wicked speed, to post 
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets ! 

It is not, nor it cannot come to good. — 

But break my heart, for I must hold my 
tongue. 

Enter Horatio, Marcellus, and Bernardo. 

Hor. Hail to your lordship ! 

Ham. I am glad to see you well. 

Horatio ! — or I do forget myself. m 

Hor. The same, my lord, and your poor ser¬ 
vant ever. 

Ham. Sir, my good friend ; I ’ll change that 
name with you. 

And what make you from Wittenberg, Hora¬ 
tio ? 

Marcellus ? 105 

Mar. My good lord ! 

Ham. I am very glad to see you. [To Ber.] 
Good even, sir. — 

But what, in faith, make you from Witten¬ 
berg ? 

Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord. 
Ham. I would not hear your enemy say so, 
Nor shall you do mine ear that violence, m 
To make it truster of your own report 
Against yourself. I know you are no truant. 
But what is your affair in Elsinore ? 

We ’ll teach you to drink deep ere you depart. 
Hor. My lord, I came to see your father’s 
funeral. 170 

Ham. I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow- 
student. 

I think it was to see my mother’s wedding. 




HAMLET 


I. iii. 


899 


Hor. Indeed, my lord, it followed hard upon. 
Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio ! The funeral 
bak’d-meats iso 

Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. 
Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven 
Ere I had ever seen that day, Horatio ! 

My father ! — methinks I see my father. m 
Hor. Oh, where, my lord ? 

Ham. In my mind’s eye, Horatio. 

Hor. I saw him once ; he was a goodly king. 
Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all, 
I shall not look upon his like again. 

Hor. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight. 
Ham. Saw ? Who ? 100 

Hor. My lord, the King your father. 

Ham. The King my father! 

Hor. Season your admiration for a while 
With an attent ear, till I may deliver, 

Upon the witness of these gentlemen, 

This marvel to you. 

Ham. For God’s love, let me hear. 

Hor. Two nights together had these gentle¬ 
men, 196 

Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch, 

In the dead waste and middle of the night, 
Been thus encount’red. A figure like your 
father. 

Arm’d at all points exactly, cap-a-pie, 200 

Appears before them, and with solemn march 
Goes slow and stately by them. Thrice he 
walk’d 

By their oppress’d and fear-surprised eyes, 
Within his truncheon’s length: whilst they, 
distill’d 

Almost to jelly with the act of fear, 205 

Stand dumb and speak not to him. This to me 
In dreadful secrecy impart they did, 

And I with them the third night kept the 
watch ; 

Where, as they had deliver’d, both in time, 
Form of the thing, each word made true and 
good, 210 

The apparition comes. I knew your father ; 
These hands are not more like. 

Ham. But where was this ? 

Mar. My lord, upon the platform where we 
watch’d. 

Ham. Did you not speak to it? 

Hor. My lord, I did ; 

But answer made it none. Yet once me- 
thought 216 

t lifted up it head and did address 
tself to motion, like as it would speak ; 
lut even then the morning cock crew loud, 

Lnd at the sound it shrunk in haste away, 
ind vanish’d from our sight. 

Ham. ’T is very strange. 

Hor. As I do live, my honour’d lord, ’tis 
true, ... 221 

,nd we did think it writ down in our duty 
0 let you know of it. 

Ham. Indeed, indeed, sirs. But this troubles 


me. 


[old you the watch to-night ? 
Mar. ) 

Ber. ( 

Ham. Arm’d, say you ? 


We do, my lord. 

226 


Mar. ( 
Ber. J 
Ham. 
Mar. ) 
Ber. 


Arm’d, my lord. 

From top to toe ? 

My lord, from head to foot. 


Ham. Then saw you not his face ? 

Hor. O, yes, my lord; he wore his beaver 
up. 230 

Ham. What, look’d he frowningly ? 

Hor. A countenance more 

In sorrow than in anger. 

Ham. Pale, or red ? 

Hor. Nay, very pale. 

Ham. And fix’d his eyes upon you ? 

Hor. Most constantly. 

Ham. I would I had been there. 

Hor. It would have much amaz’d you. 236 

Ham. Very like, very like. Stay’d it long ? 
Hor. While one with moderate haste might 
tell a hundred. 

Ber' j Lon & er > longer. 

Hor. Not when I saw’t. 

Ham. His beard was grizzly ? No ? 

Hor. It was, as I have seen it in his life, 241 
A sable silver’d. 

Ham. I will watch to-night; 

Perchance’t will walk again. 

Hor. I warrant you it will. 

Ham. If it assume my noble father’s per¬ 
son, 

I ’ll speak to it, though hell itself should 
gape 246 

And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, 

If you have hitherto conceal’d this sight, 

Let it be tenable in your silence still; 

And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, 

Give it an understanding, but no tongue. 250 
I will requite your loves. So, fare ye well. 
Upon the platform ’twixt eleven and twelve, 

I ’ll visit you. 

All. Our duty to your honoui 4 . 

Ham. Your love, as mine to you ; farewell. 

[Exeunt [all but Hamlet ], 
My father’s spirit in arms ! All is not well; 255 
I doubt some foul play. Would the night were 
come ! 

Till then sit still, my soul. Foul deeds will rise, 
Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s 
eyes. [Exit. 


Scene III. [A room in Polonius's house.] 
Enter Laertes and Ophelia. 

Baer. My necessaries are embark’d, fare¬ 
well ; 

And, sister, as the winds give benefit 
And convoy is assistant, do not sleep, 

But let me hear from you. 

Oph. Do you doubt that ? 

Laer. For Hamlet and the trifling of his fa¬ 
vours, 6 

Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood, 

A violet in the youth of primy nature, 
Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting, 
The [perfume and] suppliance of a minute ; 

No more. 




900 


HAMLET 


I. iii. 


Oph. No more but so ? 

Laer. Think it no more: 

For nature crescent does not grow alone n 
In thews and bulk, but, as this temple waxes, 
The inward service of the mind and soul 
Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now, 
And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch is 
The virtue of his will; but you must fear, 

His greatness weigh’d, his will is not his own ; 
For he himself is subject to his birth. 

He may not, as unvalued persons do. 

Carve for himself, for on his choice depends 20 
The sanity and health of the whole state ; 

And therefore must his choice be circumscrib’d 
Unto the voice and yielding of that body 
Whereof he is the head. Then, if he says he 
loves you, 

It fits your wisdom so far to believe it 25 

As he in his particular act and place 
May give his saying deed; which is no fur¬ 
ther 

Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal. 
Then weigh what loss your honour may sus¬ 
tain 

If with too credent ear you list his songs, 30 
Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open 
To his unmast’red importunity. 

Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister, 

And keep you in the rear of your affection, 

Out of the shot and danger of desire. 35 

The chariest maid is prodigal enough, 

If she unmask her beauty to the moon. 

Virtue itself scapes not calumnious strokes. 
The canker galls the infants of the spring 
Too oft before the buttons be disclos’d, 40 
And in the morn and liquid dew of youth 
Contagious blastments are most imminent. 

Be wary then, best safety lies in fear ; 

Youth to itself rebels, though none else near. 
Oph. I shall the effect of this good lesson 
keep, 45 

As watchman to my heart. But, good my 
brother, 

Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, 

Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven, 
Whilst, like a puff’d and reckless libertine, 49 
Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, 
And recks not his own rede. 

Laer. 0 , fear me not. 

Enter Polonitjs. 

I stay too long: but here my father comes. 

A double blessing is a double grace ; 

Occasion smiles upon a second leave. 

Pol. Yet here, Laertes ? Aboard, aboard, 
for shame! 55 

The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, 

And you are stay’d for. There ; my blessing 
with you! 

And these few precepts in thy memory 
See thou character. Give thy thoughts no 
tongue, 

Nor any unproportion’d thought his act. 60 
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. 

The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, 
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; 
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment 


Of each new-hatch’d, unfledg’d comrade. Be¬ 
ware . 66 

Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, 

Bear’t that the opposed may beware of thee. 
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice ; 
Take each man’s censure, but reserve tliy 
judgement. 

Costly thy habit as thy purse qan buy, 70 

But not express’d in fancy ; riqji, not g^udy ; 
For the apparel oft proclaims the man, 

And they in France of the best rank and sta¬ 
tion 

Are most select and generous in that. 

Neither a borrower nor a lender be ; « 

For loan oft loses both itself and friend, 

M nd borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry, 
his above all: to thine own self be true, 

And it must follow, as the night the day, 

Thou canst not then be false to any man. so 
Farewell; my blessing season this in thee ! 
Laer. Most humbly do I take my leave, my 
lord. 

Pol. The time invites you; go, your ser¬ 
vants tend. 

Laer. Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well 
What I have said to you. 

Oph. ’T is in my memory lock’d, 

And you yourself shall keep the key of it. 86 
Laer. Farewell. [Exit. 

Pol. What is’t, Ophelia, he hath said to 
you? 

Oph. So please you, something touching the 
Lord Hamlet. 

Pol. Marry, well bethought. eo 

’T is told me, he hath very oft of late 
Given private time to you, and you yourself 
Have of your audience been most free and 
bounteous. 

If it be so — as so ’tis put on me, 

And that in way of caution — I must tell you, 
You do not understand yourself so clearly 96 
As it behoves my daughter and your honour. 
What is between you ? Give me up the truth. 
Oph. He hath, my lord, of late made many 
tenders 

Of his affection to me. 100 

Pol. Affection ! pooh! You speak like a 
green girl, 

Unsifted in such perilous circumstance. 

Do you believe his tenders, as you call them ? 
Oph. I do not know, my lord, what I should 
think. 

Pol. Marry, I’ll teach you: think yourself 
a baby 106 

That you have ta’en his tenders for true pay, 
Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more 
dearly, 

Or — not to crack the wind of the poor phrase, 
Running it thus — you ’ll tender me a fool. 

Oph. My lord, he hath importun’d me with 
love no 

In honourable fashion. 

Pol. Ay, fashion you may call it. Go to, go 
to. 

Oph. And hath given countenance to his 
speech 7 'mv lord. 

With almost all the holy vows of heaven. 





I. iv. 


I AM LET 


Pol. Ay, springes to catch woodcocks I do 
know, ns 

When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul 
Lends the tongue vows. These blazes, 
daughter, 

Giving more light than heat, extinct in both 
Even in their promise, as it is a-making, 

You must not take for fire. From this time, 
daughter, 120 

Be somewhat scanter of your maiden presence. 
Set your entreatments at a higher rate 
Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet, 
Believe so much in him, that lie is young, 

And with a larger tether may he walk 12c 

Than may be given you. In few, Ophelia, 

Do not believe his vows ; for they are brokers, 
Not of that dye which their investments show, 
But mere implcrators of unholy suits, 
Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds, 130 
The better to beguile. This is for all: 

I would not, in plain terms, from this time 
forth, 

Have you so slander any moment leisure 
As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet. 
Look to’t, I charge you. Come your ways. 135 
Oph. I shall obey, my lord. [Exeunt. 


[Scene IV. The platform.} 

Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus. 


Ham. The air bites shrewdly ; it is very cold. 
Hot. It is a nipping and an eager air. 

Ham. What hour now ? 

Ilor. I think it lacks of twelve. 

Mar. No, it is struck. 

Hor. Indeed ? I heard it not. Then it 
draws near the season 6 

Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk. 

[A flourish of trumpets , and two 
pieces go off [within}. 

What does this mean, my lord ? 

Ham. The King doth wake to-night and 
takes his rouse. 

Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-spring 
reels; 

And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish 
down, 10 

The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out 
The triumph of his pledge. 

Hor. Is it a custom ? 


Ham. Ay, marry, is’t, 

But to my mind, though I am native here 
And to the manner born, it is a custom 15 

More honour’d in the breach than the observ¬ 
ance. 

[This heavy-headed revel east and west 
Makes us traduc’d and tax’d of other nations. 
They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish 
phrase 

Soil our addition ; and indeed it takes 20 

From our achievements, though perform’d at 
height, 

The pith and marrow of our attribute. 

So, oft it chances in particular men, 

That for some vicious mole of nature in them, 
As, in their birth — wherein they are not guilty, 
Since nature cannot choose his origin 26 


By their o’ergrowth ol » ku;.. 

Oft breaking down the . = • • ' ■ <: ■ 

Or bj some nabit tiiai ihiu-h o ,-t-te.i've 1 

The form of plausive l . : hat these nn u, 
Carrying, I say, the si p f u ie defect, 

Being nature’s livery, . fortune’s star, — 

His virtues else— be 1 y as pure as grace, 

As infinite as man ma .ndergo — 

Shall in the general c* ire take comq on 
From that particular ult. The dram ot eale 
Doth all the noble sul ,t mce often dout 
To his own scandal.] 

Enter Ghost. 

Hor. . «k, my lord, it t om > s 

Ham. Angels and ] < 

us ! 

Be thou a spirit of he goblin damn’d, 

Bring with thee airs fr■< > heaven < >r blasts from 
hell, 

Be thy intents wicked - '. aritable, 

Thou eom’st in such . ■■iiona! is shape 
That I will speak to » . I ’ll 1 all ice Ham¬ 

let, 

King, father ; royal 1 >anc, O, ausw* ■ me ! « 

Let me not burst in i >norance, but t 11 
Why thy canoniz’d b -?:es, hearse< i dc ith. 
Have burst their cere L 

Wherein we saw thee .jnietlr in .h i i. 

Hath op’d his pondei us and marie ; ws, 

To cast thee up agaii What ma lb mean. 
That thou, dead cors again in eomj 
Revisits thus the glimpses of the moon, 
Making night hideous, and we fools ol -.iture 
So horridly to shake c ur disposition 
With thoughts beyond th B of CTO ‘ , 

Say, why is this? Wh fore Wh#l 

we do ? [G’//''S< beckons ; La> 'L<* 

Hor. It beckons y >u to go aw ay with d, 

As if it some impart] r ent did desire 
To you alone. 

Mar. Look, 1 th what courteous act'. 
It wafts you to a mo cmove 1 ground. 

But do not go with i 1 
Hor. No, b\ 1 o mea u 

Ham. It will not s; . - th ill > n . - 
Hor. Do not, my 1 

Ham. Why hat should the 

I do not set my life t. pin’s fee 
And for my soul, wl can it do 
Being a thing immo: al a* itself 
It waves me forth again. I ’ll 
Hor. What if it tempt you 
my lord, 

Or to the dreadful snmmit < 

That beetles o’er his base ir 
And there assume* sort;oth 
Which might deprive your s< 

And draw you into inn dues* 

[The very place puts tovs ,i 
Without more motive, into » 

That looks so many fathoms 
And hears it roar beneath.} 

Ham. 

Go on, I ’ll follow the 

Mar. You shall no go. m3 
Ham. Hold. 







902 


HAMLET 


I. V. 


Hor. Be rul’d ; you shall not go. 

Ham. My fate cries out, 

And makes each petty artery in this body 
As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve. 

Still am I call’d. Unhand me, gentlemen. 

By heaven, I ’ll make a ghost of him that lets 
me! 66 

I say, away! — Go on, I ’ll follow thee. 

[Exeunt Ghost and Hamlet. 
Hor. He waxes desperate with imagination. 
Mar. Let’s follow. ’T is not fit thus to obey 
him. 

Hor. Have after. To what issue will this 
come ? 

Mar. Something is rotten in the state of 
Denmark. 90 

Hor. Heaven will direct it. 

Mar. Nay, let’s follow him. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene V. Another part of the platform.) 
Enter Ghost and Hamlet. 

Ham. Where wilt thou lead me ? Speak, I ’ll 
go no further. 

Ghost. Mark me. 

Ham. I will. 

Ghost. My hour is almost come, 

When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames 
Must render up myself. 

Ham. Alas, poor ghost! 

Ghost. Pity me not, but lend thy serious 
hearing 6 

To what I shall unfold. 

Ham. Speak ; I am bound to hear. 

Ghbst. So art thou to revenge, when thou 
shalt hear. 

Ham. What? 

GLost. I am thy father's spirit, 

>oom’d for a certain term to walk the night, io 
nd for the day confin’d to fast in fires, 
ill the foul crimes done in my days of nature 
•e burnt and purg’d away. But that I am 
forbid 

tell the secrets of my prison-house, 
mid a tale unfold whose lightest word is 
fid harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young 
bloo 

i eyes, like stars, start from their 

d combined locks to part 
cular hair to stand on end, 

•i the fretful porpentine. 20 

blazon must not be 
and blood. List, Hamlet, 0 , 

thy dear father love — 

his foul and most unnatural 

K.IU ! 1 , :• 25 

most foul, as in the best it is, 
uL strange, and unnatural, 
me to know’t, that I, with 
swift 

•r the thoughts of love, 30 

ly revenge. 


Ghoit. I hnd thee apt; 

And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed 
That roots itself in ease on Lethe wharf, 
Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, 
bear. 

It’s given out that, sleeping in mine orchard, 

A serpent stung me ; so the whole ear of Den¬ 
mark 36 

Is by a forged process of my death 
Rankly abus’d ; but know, thou noble youth, 
The serpent that did sting thy father’s life 
Now wears his crown. 

Ham. O my prophetic soul! « 

Mine uncle ! 

Ghost. Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate 
beast, 

With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous 
gifts,— 

0 wicked wit and gifts, that have the power 
So to seduce ! — won to his shameful lust * 5 
The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen. 

O Hamlet, what a falling-off was there ! 

From me, whose love was of that dignity 
That it went hand in hand even with the vow 
I made to her in marriage, and to decline so 
Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor 
To those of mine! 

But virtue, as it never will be moved, 

Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven, 
So lust, though to a radiant angel link’d, bc 
W ill sate itself in a celestial bed 
And prey on garbage. 

But, soft! methinks I scent the morning’s air. 
Brief let me be. Sleeping within mine orchard, 
My custom always in the afternoon, «< 

Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole, 

With juice of cursed liebenon in a vial, 

And in the porches of mine ears did pour 
The leperous distilment; whose effect 
Holds such an enmity with blood of man 6: 
That swift as quicksilver it courses through 
The natural gates and alleys of the body, 

And with a sudden vigour it doth posset 
And curd, like eager droppings into milk, 

The thin and wholesome blood. So did it mine, 
And a most instant tetter bark’d about, n 
Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust, 
All my smooth body. 

Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother’s hand 
Of life, of crown, and queen, at once dis¬ 
patch’d ; 7c 

Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, 
Unhousel’d, disappointed, unanel’d, 

No reckoning made, but sent to my account 
With all my imperfections on my head. 

0, horrible ! 0, horrible ! most horrible ! «c 
If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not; 

Let not the royal bed of Denmark be 
A couch for luxury and damned incest. 

But, howsoever thou pursuest this act, 

Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive 86 
Against thy mother aught. Leave her to hea¬ 
ven 

And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, 
To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at 
once! 

The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, 







I. v. 


HAMLET 


9°3 


And ’gins to pale his uneffectual fire. 90 

Adieu, adieu ! Hamlet, remember me. [Exit, 
lam. 0 all you host of heaven! 0 earth! 
What else ? 

And shall I couple hell? 0 , fie! Hold, my 
heart, 

And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, 

But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee ! 9 c 
Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a 
seat 

In this distracted globe. Remember thee ! 

Yea, from the table of my memory 
I ’ll wipe away all trivial fond records, 

All saws of books, all forms, all pressures 
past, . 100 

That youth and observation copied there, 

And thy commandment all alone shall live 
Within the book and volume of my brain, 
Unmix’d with baser matter. Yes, yes, by hea¬ 
ven ! 

O most pernicious woman ! iob 

' O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain! 

My tables, my tables, — meet it is I set it 
down ! 

That one may smile, and smile, and be a vil¬ 
lain ! 

At least I’m sure it may be so in Denmark. 
So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word ; 

It is “ Adieu, adieu! remember me.” m 

I have sworn’t. 

| (Within.) My lord, my lord! 

Mar. [ Within.] Lord Hamlet! 

Hor. [Within.] Heaven secure him ! 

Ham. So be it! 

Mar. [Within.] Illo, ho, ho, my lord ! ns 
Ham. Hillo, I10, ho, boy ! Come, bird, come. 

Enter Horatio and Marcellus. 

Mar. How is ’t, my noble lord ? 

Hor. What news, my lord ? 

Ham. 0 , wonderful! 

Hor. Good my lord, tell it. 

Ham. No, you ’ll reveal it. 

Hor. Not I, my lord, by heaven. 

Mar. Nor I, my lord. 

Ham. How say you, then, would heart of 
man once think it ? — 121 

But you ’ll be secret ? 

J Ay, by heaven, my lord. 

Ham. There’s ne’er a villain dwelling m all 
Denmark — 

But he’s an arrant knave. 

Hor. There needs no ghost, my lord, come 
from the grave 126 

To tell us this. 

Ham. Why, right, you are i’ the right. 

And so, without more circumstance at all, 

I hold it fit that we shake hands and part; 
You, as your business and desires shall point 
you, 

Tor every man has business and desire, iso 
Such as it is; and for mine own poor part, 
Look you, I ’ll go pray. 

Hor. These are but wild and whirling words, 
my lord. 


Ham. I’m sorry they offend you, heartily ; 

Yes, faith, heartily. 

Hor. There’s no offence, my lord. 

Ham. Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, 
Horatio, iso 

And much offence too. Touching this vision 
here, 

It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you. 

For your desire to know what is between us, 
O’ermaster ’t as you may. And now, good 
friends, 340 

As you are friends, scholars, and soldiers, 

Give me one poor request. 

Hor. What is ’t, my lord ? We will. 

Ham. Never make known what you have 
seen to-night. 

Afar | My lord, we will not. 

Ham. Nay, but swear’t. 

Hor. In faith, 

My lord, not I. 

Mar. Nor I, my lord, in faith. 146 

Ham. Upon my sword. 

Mar. We have sworn, my lord, already. 
Ham. Indeed, upon my sword, indeed. 

Ghost. Swear! [Ghost cries under the stage. 
Ham. Ah, ha, boy! say’st thou so ? Art 
thou there, truepenny ? iso 

Come on ; you hear this fellow in the cellarage. 
Consent to swear. 

Hor. Propose the oath, my lord. 

Ham. Never to speak of this that you have 
seen. 

Swear by my sword. 

Ghost. [Beneath.] Swear. ibb 

Ham. Hie et ubique ? Then we ’ll shift our 
ground. 

Come hither, gentlemen, 

And lay your hands again upon my sword. 
Never to speak of this that you have heard, 
Swear by my sword. iso 

Ghost. [Beneath.] Sw r ear. 

Ham. Well said, old mole! Canst work i’ 
the earth so fast ? 

A worthy pioner! Once more remove, good 
friends. 

Hor. 0 day and night, but this is wmndrour 
strange ! 

Ham. And therefore as a stranger give it 
welcome. _ i«c 

There are more things in heaven and earth 
Horatio, 

Than are dreamt of in our philosophy. 

But come ; 

Here, as before, never, so help you mercy, 

How strange or odd soe’er I bear myself, — nr 
As I perchance hereafter shall think meet 
To put an antic disposition on — 

That you, at such time seeing me, never shall, 
With arms encumb’red thus, or this headshake, 
Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase, ns 
As “ YVell, we know,” or “ We could, an if we 
would,” 

Or “If we list to speak,” or “ There be, an if 
they might,” 

Or such ambiguous giving out, to note 
That you know aught of me, — this not to do, 







9°4 


HAMLET 


ii. l. 


So grace and mercy at your most need help you, 
Swear. isi 

Ghost. [Beneath.] Swear. 

Ham. liest, rest, perturbed spirit! [ They 

swear.] So, gentlemen, 

With all my love I do commend me to you. 
And what so poor a man as Hamlet is iss 

May do, to express his love and friending to 
you, 

God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in to¬ 
gether ; 

And still your fingers on your lips, I pray. 

The time is out of joint; — O cursed spite, 

That ever I was born to set it right 1 wo 

Nay, come, let’s go together. [ Exeunt. 


ACT II 

[Scene I. A room in Polonius‘ > s house.] 
Enter Polonius and Reynaldo. 

Pol. Give him this money and these notes, 
Reynaldo. 

Bey. I will, my lord. 

Pol. You shall do marvellous wisely, good 
Reynaldo, 

Before you visit him, to make inquiry 
Of his behaviour. 

Bey. My lord, I did intend it. 5 

Pol. Marry, well said, very well said. Look 
you, sir, 

Inquire me first what Danskers are in Paris, 
And how, and who, what means, and where 
they keep, 

What company, at what expense ; and finding 
By this encompassment and drift of question io 
That they do know my son, come you more 
nearer 

Than your particular demands will touch it. 
Take you, as ’t were, some distant knowledge 
of him, 

As thus, “ I know his father and his friends, 
And in part him.” Do you mark this, Rey¬ 
naldo ? 15 

Bey. Ay, very well, my lord. 

Pol. “ And in part him ; but,” you may say, 
“ not well. 

But, if’t be he I mean, he ’s very wild, 
Addicted so and so; ” and there put on him 
What forgeries you please; marry, none so 
rank 20 

As may dishonour him, — take heed of that; 
But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips 
As are companions noted and most known 
To youth and liberty. 

Bey. As gaming, my lord ? 

Pol. Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, 
quarrelling, 25 

Drabbing; you may go so far. 

Bey. My lord, that would dishonour him. 

Pol. Faith, no, as you may season it in the 
charge. 

You must not put another scandal on him, 

That he is open to incontinency. so 

That’s not my meaning. But breathe his faults 
so quaintly 


That they may seem the taints of liberty, 

The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind, 

A savageness in unreclaimed blood, 

Of general assault. 

Bey. But, my good lord, — sc 

Pol. Wherefore should you do this ? 

Bey. Ay, my lord, 

I would know that. 

Pol. Marry, sir, here’s my drifts 

And, I believe, it is a fetch of warrant: 

You laying these slight sullies on my son. 

As ’t were a thing a little soil’d i’ the working, 
Mark you, « 

Your party in converse, him you would sound, 
Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes 
The youth you breathe of guilty, be assur’d 
He closes with you in this consequence ; « 

“Good sir,” or so, or “friend,” or “gentle¬ 
man,” 

According to the phrase and the addition 
Of man and country. 

Bey. Very good, my lord. 

Pol. And then, sir, does he this — he does — 
What was I about to say ? [By the mass,] I was 
about to say something. Where did I leave ? si 
Bey. At “ closes in the consequence,” at 
“friend or so,” and “gentleman.” 

Pol. At “ closes in the consequence,” ay, 
marry. 

He closes with you thus : “I know the gentle¬ 
man. 55 

I saw him yesterday, or t’ other day, 

Or then, or then, with such and such ; and, as 
you say, 

There was he gaming; there o’ertook in ’s 
rouse; 

There falling out at tennis ; ” or, perchance, 

“I saw him enter such a house of sale,” v 
Videlicet , a brothel, or so forth. 

See you now 

Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth; 
And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, 

With windlasses and with assays of bias, sc 
By indirections find directions out. 

So by my former lecture and advice. 

Shall you my son. You have me, have you not ? 
Bey. My lord, I have. 

Pol. God buy you ; fare you well. 

Bey. Good my lord. 70 

Pol. Observe his inclination in yourself. 

Bei/. I shall, ray lord. 

Pol. And let him ply his music. 

Bey. Well, my lord. 

Pol. Farewell! [Exit Beynaldo. 

Enter Ophelia. 


How now, Ophelia! what’s the matter? 
Oph. Alas, my lord, I have been so af¬ 
frighted ! 7* 

Pol. With what, in the name of God ? 

Oph. My lord, as I was sewing in my 
chamber, 

Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac’d, 

No hat upon his head, his stockings foul’d, 
Ungart’red, and down-gyved to his ankle, »o 
Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each 
other, 





II. ii. 


HAMLET 


And with a look so piteous in purport 
As if he had been loosed out of hell 
To speak of horrors, — he comes before me. 
Pol. Mad for thy love ? 

Oph. My lord, I do not know, 

But truly, I do fear it. 

Pol. What said he? 86 

Oph. He took me by the wrist and held me 
hard; 

Then goes he to the length of all his arm, 

And, with his other hand thus o’er his brow, 
He falls to such perusal of my face 90 

As he would draw it. Long stay’d he so. 

At last, a little shaking of mine arm, 

And thrice his head thus waving up and down, 
He rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound 
That it did seem to shatter all his bulk 95 

And end his being. That done, he lets me go ; 
And, with his head over his shoulder turn’d, 
He seem’d to find his way without his eyes, 

For out o’ doors he went without their help, 
And, to the last, bended their light on me. 100 
Pol. [Come,] go with me, I will go seek the 
King. 

This is the very ecstasy of love, 

Whose violent property fordoes itself 
And leads the will to desperate undertakings 
As oft as any passion under heaven ios 

That does afflict our natures. I am sorry, — 
What, have you given him any hard words of 
late ? 

Oph. No, my good lord, but, as you did com¬ 
mand, 

1 did repel his letters and deni’d 
His access to me. 

Pol. That hath made him mad. no 

I am sorry that with better heed and judgement 
I had not quoted him. I fear’d he did but trifle 
And meant to wreck thee; but beshrew my 
jealousy! 

By heaven, it is as proper to our age 
To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions no 
As it is common for the younger sort 
To lack discretion. Come, go we to the King. 
This must be known, which, being kept close, 
might move 

More grief to hide than hate to utter love. n» 
[Come.] [Exeunt. 

Scene II. [A room in the castle .] 

Flourish. Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz, 
Guildenstern, with others. 

King. Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and 
Guildenstern! 

Moreover that we much did long to see you, 
The need we have to use you did provoke 
Our hasty sending. Something have you heard 
Of Hamlet’s transformation ; so I call it, b 
S ince not the exterior nor the inward man 
Resembles that it was. What it should be, 
More than his father’s death, that thus hath 
put him 

So much from the understanding of himself, 

I cannot dream of. I entreat you both, 10 

That, being of so young days brought up with 
him 


9°5 


And since so neighbour’d to his youth and 
humour, 

That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court 
Some little time ; so by your companies 
To draw him on to pleasures, and to gather is 
So much as from occasions you may glean, 
[Whether aught, to us unknown, afflicts him 
thus,] 

That, open’d, lies within our remedy. 

Queen. Good gentlemen, he hath much talk’d 
of you; 

And sure I am two men there are not living 20 
To whom he more adheres. If it will please you 
To show us so much gentry and good will 
As to expend your time with us a while 
For the supply and profit of our hope, 

Your visitation shall receive such thanks 2 b 
A s fits a king’s remembrance. 

Bos. Both your Majesties 

Might, by the sovereign power you have of us, 
Put your dread pleasures more into command 
Than to entreaty. 

Guil. ' We both obey, 

And here give up ourselves, in the full bent 30 
To lay our services freely at your feet, 

To be commanded. 

King. Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guild¬ 
enstern. 

Queen. Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Ro¬ 
sencrantz, 

And I beseech you instantly to visit 35 

My too much changed son. Go, some of ye, 

And bring the gentlemen where Hamlet is. 
Guil. Heavens make our presence and our 
practices 

Pleasant and helpful to him ! 

Queen. Amen! 

[Exeunt [ Rosencrantz , Guildenstern , 
and some Attendants], 

Enter Polonius. 

Pol. The ambassadors from Norway, my 
good lord, 40 

Are joyfully return’d. 

King. Thou still hast been the father of good 
news. 

Pol. Have I, my lord ? Assure you, my good 
liege, 

I hold my duty as I hold my soul, 

Both to my God and to my gracious king. « 
And I do think, or else this brain of mine 
Hunts not the trail of policy so sure 
As it hath us’d to do, that I have found 
The very cause of Hamlet’s lunacy. 

King. O, speak of that; that I do long to 
hear. so 

Pol. Give first admittance to the ambassa¬ 
dors. 

My news shall be the fruit to that great feast. 
King. Thyself do grace to them, and bring 
them in. [Exit Polonius?] 

He tells me, my sweet queen, that he hath 
found 

The head and source of all your son’s distem¬ 
per. 58 

Queen. I doubt it is no other but the main, 
His father’s death and our o’erhasty marriage. 







go6 


HAMLET 


ii. u. 


Re-enter Polonius, with Voltimand and Cor¬ 
nelius. 

King. Well, we shall sift him.—Welcome, 
my good friends! 

Say, Voltimand, what from our brother Nor¬ 
way? 

Volt. Most fair return of greetings and de¬ 
sires. 60 

Upon our first, he sent out to suppress 
His nephew’s levies, which to him appear’d 
To be a preparation ’gainst the Polack, 

But, better look’d into, he truly found 
It was against your Highness. Whereat grieved, 
That so his sickness, age, and impotence 66 
Was falsely borne in hand, sends out arrests 
On Fortinhras ; which he, in brief, obeys, 
Receives rebuke from Norway, and in fine 
Makes vow before his uncle never more yo 
To give the assay of arms against your Maj¬ 
esty. 

Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy, 

Gives him three thousand crowns in annual fee, 
And his commission to employ those soldiers, 
So levied as before, against the Polack ; 

With an entreaty, herein further shown, 

[Giving a paper.] 

That it might please you to give quiet pass 
Through your dominions for his enterprise, 

On such regards of safety and allowance 
As therein are set down. 

King. It likes us well; so 

And at our more consider’d time we ’ll read, 
Answer, and think upon this business. 
Meantime we thank you for your well-took 
labour. 

Go to your rest; at night we ’ll feast together. 
Most welcome home ! 

[.Exeunt Voltimand and Cornelius. 
Pol. This business is well ended. 

My liege, and madam, to expostulate se 

What majesty should be, what duty is, 

Why day is day, night night, and time is time, 
Were nothing hut to waste night, day, and 
time ; 

Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit no 
And tediousness the limbs and outward flour¬ 
ishes, 

I will be brief. Your noble son is mad. 

Mad call I it; for, to define true madness, 
What is’t but to be nothing else hut mad ? 

But let that go. 

Queen. More matter, with less art. os 

Pol. Madam, I swear I use no art at all. 
That he is mad, ’t is true ; ’tis true’t is pity, 
And pity’t is’t is true. A foolish figure ! 

But farewell it, for I will use no art. 

Mad let us grant him then ; and now remains 
That we find out the cause of this effect, 101 
Or rather say, the cause of this defect, 

For this effect defective comes by cause. 

Thus it remains, and the remainder thus. 
Perpend. 105 

I have a daughter — have whilst she is mine — 
Who, in her duty and obedience, mark, 

Hath given me this. Now gather, and surmise. 

\Reads] the letter. 


“ To the celestial and my soul’s idol, the most 
beautified Ophelia,”— 110 

That’s an ill phrase, a vile phrase ; “ beauti¬ 
fied ” is a vile phrase. But you shall hear. 
Thus: 

“ In her excellent white bosom, these.” 

Queen. Came this from Hamlet to her ? 

Pol. Good madam, stay a while. I will be 
faithful. [Reads.] ue 

“ Doubt thou the stars are fire, 

Doubt that the sun doth move, 
Doubt truth to be a liar, 

But never doubt I love. ns> 

“ O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers. I 
have not art to reckon my groans ; but that I 
love thee best, O most best, believe it. Adieu. 
Thine evermore, most dear lady, 

Whilst this machine is to him, 

Hamlet.” 

This in obedience hath my daughter show’d 
me, 126 

And more above, hath his solicitings, 

As they fell out by time, by means, and place, 
All given to mine ear. 

King. But how hath she 

Receiv’d his love ? 

Pol. What do you think of me ? 

King. As of a man faithful and honourable. 
Pol. I would fain prove so. But what might 
you think, 131 

When I had seen this hot love on the wing, — 
As I perceiv’d it, I must tell you that, 

Before my daughter told me, — what might 

y°u, 

Or my dear Majesty your queen here, think, 135 
If I had play’d the desk or table-book, 

Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb, 
Or look’d upon this love with idle sight, 

What might you think ? No, I went round to 
work, 

And my young mistress thus I did bespeak: ho 
“ Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star. 

This must not be ; ” and then I precepts gave 
her, 

That she should lock herself from his resort, 
Admit no messengers, receive no tokens. 

Which done, she took the fruits of my ad¬ 
vice ; i 46 

And he, repulsed — a short tale to make — 

Fell into a sadness, then into a fast, 

Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness, 
Thence to a lightness, and, by this declension, 
Into the madness whereon now he raves, isa 
And all we wail for. 

King. Do you think’t is this ? 

Queen. It may be, very likely. 

Pol. Hath there been such a time — I’d fain 
know that — 

That I have positively said, “ ’Tis so,” 

Whe.n it prov’d otherwise ? 

King. _ Not that I know. 

Pol. Take this from this, if this be other¬ 
wise. 166 

If circumstances lead me, I will find 
Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed 
Within the centre. 

King. How may we try it further ? 





II. 11. 


HAMLET 


9°7 


Pol. You know, sometimes he walks four 
hours together 160 

Here in the lobby. 

Queen. So he has, indeed. 

Pol. At such a time I ’ll loose my daughter 
to him. 

Be you and I behind an arras then ; 

Mark the encounter. If he love her not 
And be not from his reason fallen thereon, i 65 
Let me be no assistant for a state, 

But keep a farm and carters. 

King. We will try it. 

Enter Hamlet, reading on a book. 

Queen. But look where sadly the poor wretch 
comes reading. 

Pol. Away, I do beseech you, both away. 

I ’ll board him presently. 

[Exeunt King , Queen [and Atten¬ 
dants]. 

O, give me leave, no 
How does my good Lord Hamlet ? 

Ham. Well, God-a-mercy. 

Pol. Do you know me, my lord ? 

Ham. Excellent well; you are a fishmonger. 
Pol. Not I, my lord. 175 

Ham. Then I would you were so honest a 
man. 

Pol. Honest, my lord ! 

Ham. Ay, sir. To be honest, as this world 
goes, is to be one man pick’d out of ten thou¬ 
sand. 

Pol. That’s very true, my lord. iso 

Ham. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead 
dog, being a good kissing carrion, — Have you 
daughter ? 

Pol. I have, my lord. i 84 

Ham. Let her not walk i’ the sun. Concep¬ 
tion is a blessing, but not as your daughter may 
Conceive. Friend, look to’t. i »7 

Pol. [Aside.] How say you by that? Still 
harping on my daughter. Yet he knew me not 
at first; he said I was a fishmonger. He is far 
gone, far gone. And truly in my youth I suf- 
f’red much extremity for love ; very near this. 
I ’ll speak to him again. — What do you read, 
my lord ? 193 

Ham. Words, words, words. 

Pol. What is the matter, my lord ? 

Ham. Between who ? 

Pol. I mean, the matter you read, my lord. 197 
Ham. Slanders, sir; for the satirical slave 
says here that old men have grey beards, that 
their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging 
thick amber or plum-tree gum, and that they 
have a plentiful lack of wit. together with weak 
hams ; all which, sir, though I most powerfully 
and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty 
to have it thus set down ; for you yourself, sir, 
should be old as I am, if like a crab you could 
go backward. 206 

Pol. [Aside.] Though this be madness, yet 
there is method in’t. — Will you walk out of 
the air, my lord ? 

Ham. Into my grave ? 210 

Pol. Indeed, that is out o’ the air. [Aside.] 
How pregnant sometimes his replies are! a 


happiness that often madness hits on, which 
reason and sanity could not so prosperously be 
deliver’d of. I will leave him, and suddenly 
contrive the means of meeting between him and 
my daughter. — My honourable lord, I will 
most humbly take my leave of you. 218 

Ham. You cannot, sir, take from me any¬ 
thing that I will more willingly part withal, — 
[Aside] except my life, my life. 221 

Pol. Fare you well, my lord. 

Ham. These tedious old fools! 

Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 

Pol. You go to seek my Lord Hamlet ? There 
he is. 

Pos. [To Polonius.] God save you, sir ! 221; 

[Exit Polonius.] 

Guil. Mine honour’d lord ! 

Bos. My most dear lord ! 

Ham. My excellent good friends! How dost 
thou, Guildenstern? Oh, Rosencrantz! Good 
lads, how do ye both ? 230 

Bos. As the indifferent children of the earth. 
Guil. Happy, in that we are not over-happy. 
On Fortune’s cap we are not the very but¬ 
ton. 

Ham. Nor the soles of her shoe ? 

Bos. Neither, my lord. 235 

Ham. Then you live about her waist, or in 
the middle of her favour ? 

Guil. Faith, her privates we. 

Ham. In the secret parts of Fortune? Oh, 
most true ; she is a strumpet. What’s the 
news ? 240 

Bos. None, my lord, but that the world’s 
grown honest. 

Ham. Then is doomsday near. But your 
news is not true. Let me question more in par¬ 
ticular. What have you, my good friends, de¬ 
served at the hands of Fortune, that she sends 
you to prison hither ? 247 

Guil. Prison, my lord ? 

Ham. Denmark’s a prison. 

Bos. Then is the world one. 250 

Ham. A goodly one, in which there are 
many confines, wards, and dungeons, Denmark 
being one o’ the worst. 

Bos. We think not so, my lord. 254 

Ham. Why, then, ’tis none to you: for 
there is nothing either good or bad, but think¬ 
ing makes it so. To me it is a prison. 

Bos. Why, then, your ambition makes it 
one. ’T is too narrow for your mind. 259 

Ham. O God, I could be bounded in a nut¬ 
shell and count myself a king of infinite space, 
were it not that I have bad dreams. 

Guil. Which dreams indeed are ambition, 
for the very substance of the ambitious is merely 
the shadow of a dream. 205 

Ham. A dream itself is but a shadow. 

Bos. Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy 
and light a quality that it is but a shadow’s 
shadow. 

Ham. Then are our beggars bodies, and our 
monarchs and outstretch’d heroes the beggars’ 
shadows. Shall we to the court ? for, by my 
fay, I cannot reason. 272 






908 


HAMLET 


ii. 11. 


Giiil | We wa ^ u P on you. 

Ham. No such matter. I will not sort you 
with the rest of my servants, for, to speak to 
you like an honest man, I am most dreadfully 
attended. But in the beaten way of friendship, 
what make you at Elsinore ? 278 

Ros. To visit you, my lord; no other occa¬ 
sion. 

Ham. Beggar that I am, I am even poor in 
thanks, but I thank you ; and sure, dear friends, 
my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. Were you 
not sent for ? Is it your own inclining ? Is it 
a free visitation ? Come, deal justly with me. 
Come, come. Nay, speak. 285 

Guil. What should we say, my lord ? 

Ham. Why, anything, but to the purpose. 
You were sent for ; and there is a kind of con¬ 
fession in your looks which your modesties 
have not craft enough to colour. I know the 
good king and queen have sent for you. 

Ros. To what end, my lord ? 292 

Ham. That you must teach me. But let me 
conjure you, by the rights of our fellowship, 
by the consonancy of our youth, by the obliga¬ 
tion of our ever-preserved love, and by what 
more dear a better proposer could charge you 
withal, be even and direct with me, whether 
you were sent for or no ! 299 

Ros. [Aside to Guil.] What say you? 

Ham. [Aside.] Nay, then, I have an eye of 
yon. — If you love me, hold not off. 

Guil. My lord, we were sent for. 303 

Ham. I will tell you why ; so shall my antici¬ 
pation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy 
to the King and Queen moult no feather. I 
have of late — but wherefore I know not — lost 
all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercise; 
and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposi¬ 
tion that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to 
me a sterile promontory, this most excellent [310 
canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhang- 
ing firmament, this majestical roof fretted with 
golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to 
me than a foul and pestilent congregation of 
^ Vapours. What a piece of work is a man ! [sis 
: How noble in reason ! How infinite in fa-culty ! 
In foi’m and moving how express and admirable! 
In action how like an angel ! In apprehension' 
how like a god ! The beauty qf the world ! The 
paragon of animals ! And yet, to me, what' is [320 
this quintessence of dust ? Man delights not 
me, —no, nor woman neither, though by your 
smiling you seem to say so. 

Ros. My lord, there was no such stuff in my 
thoughts. 325 

Ham. Why did you laugh then, when I said, 
“ Man delights not me ” ? 

Ros. To think, my lord, if you delight not in 
man, what'lenten entertainment the players 
shall receive from you. We coted them on the 
way, and hither are they coming to offer you 
service. 331 

Ham. He that plays the king shall be wel¬ 
come ; his majesty shall have tribute of me ; 
the adventurous knight shall use his foil and 
target; the lover shall not sigh gratis; the hu¬ 


morous man shall end his part in peace; the 
clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are 
tickle o’ the sere ; and the lady shall say her 
mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt for’t. 
What players are they ? 340 

Ros. Even those you were wont to take de¬ 
light in, the tragedians of the city. 

Ham. How chances it they travel? Their 
residence, both in reputation and profit, was 
better both ways. 345 

Ros. I think their inhibition comes by the 
means of the late innovation. 

Ham. Do they hold the same estimation they 
did when I was in the city ? Are they so fol¬ 
low’d? 360 

Ros. No, indeed, they are not. 

Ham. How comes it ? Do they grow rusty ? 
Ros. Nay, their endeavour keeps in the 
wonted pace ; but there is, sir, an aery of chil¬ 
dren, little eyases, that cry out on the top of [355 
question, and are most tyrannically clapp’d for’t. 
These are now the fashion, and so berattle 
the common stages — so they call them — that 
many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills 
and dare scarce come thither. 369 

Ham. What, are they children ? Who main¬ 
tains ’em? How are they escoted? Will they 
pursue the quality no longer than they can 
sing? Will they not say afterwards, if they 
should grow themselves to common players, — 
as it is most like, if their means are no better — 
their writers do them wrong, to make them ex¬ 
claim against their own succession ? 368 

Ros. Faith, there has been much to do on 
both sides, and the nation holds it no sin to 
tarre them to controversy. There was for a 
while no money bid for argument unless the 
poet and the player went to cuffs in the ques¬ 
tion. 373 

Ham. Is’t possible ? 

Guil. 0 , there has been much throwing about 
of brains. 

Ham. Do the boys carry it away ? 

Ros. Ay, that they do, my lord; Hercules 
and his load too. 379 

Ham. It is not strange ; for mine uncle is 
King of Denmark, and those that would make 
mows at him while my father lived, give 
twenty, forty, [fifty,] an hundred ducats apiece 
for his picture in little. [’Sblood,] there is 
something in this more than natural, if philoso¬ 
phy could find it out. 386 

[Flourish for the Flayers. 
Guil. There are the players. 

Ham. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsi¬ 
nore. Your hands, come. The appurtenance 
of welcome is fashion and ceremony. Let me 
comply with you in the garb, lest my extent 
to the players, which, I tell you, must [390 
show fairly outward, should more appear like 
entertainment than yours. You are welcome; 
but my uncle-father and aunt-mother are de¬ 
ceiv’d. 

Guil. In what, my dear lord ? 395 

Ham. I am but mad noi’tli-north-west. When 
the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a 
handsaw. 





II. 11. 


HAMLET 


Enter Polonius. 

Pol. Well be with you, gentlemen ! 

Ham. [Aside to them.] Hark you, Guilden- 
stern, and you too, at each ear a hearer: that 
great baby you see there is not yet out of his 
swathing-clouts. 401 

Eos. Happily he is the second time come to 
them, for they say an old man is twice a child. 

Ham. I will prophesy he comes to tell me of 
the players ; mark it. [Aloud.] You say right, 
sir ; for o’ Monday morning’t was so indeed. 407 
Pol. My lord, I have news to tell you. 

Ham. My lord, I have news to tell you. 
When Roscius was an actor in Rome, — 

Pol. The actors are come hither, my lord. 
Ham. Buzz, buzz! 

Pol. Upon mine honour, — 413 

Ham. “ Then came each actor on his ass,” — 
Pol. The best actors in the world, either for 
tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral- 
comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, 
tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene indi- 
vidable, or poem unlimited ; Seneca cannot be 
too heavy, nor Plautus too light. For the law 
of writ and the liberty, these are the only 
men. 421 

Ham. O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a 
treasure hadst thou! 

Pol. What a treasure had he, my lord ? 
Ham. Why, 425 

“ One fair daughter, and no more, 

The which he loved passing well.” 

Pol. [Aside.] Still on ray daughter. 

Ham. Am I not i’ the right, old Jephthah ? 
Pol. If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I 
have a daughter that I love passing well. 431 

Ham. Nay. that follows not. 

Pol. What follows, then, my lord ? 

Ham. Why, 

“ As by lot, God wot,” 43c 

and then, you know, 

“ It came to pass, as most like it was,” — 
The first row of the pious chanson will show 
you more, for look where my abridgements 
come. 439 

Enter four or five Players. 

You ’re welcome, masters, welcome all. I am 
glad to see thee well. Welcome, good friends. 
0 , my old friend ! Thy face is valanc’d since I 
saw thee last; com’st thou to beard me in Den¬ 
mark ? What, my young lady and mistress! 
By ’r lady, your ladyship is nearer heaven [445 
than when I saw you last, by the altitude of a 
chopine. Pray God, your voice, like a piece of 
uncurrent gold, be not crack’d within the ring. 
Masters, you are all welcome. We ’ll e’en to’t 
like French falconers — fly at anything we 
see; we ’ll have a speech straight. Come, [450 
give us a taste of your quality; come, a pas¬ 
sionate speech. 

1 . Play. What speech, my lord ? 

Ham. I heard thee speak me a speech once, 
but it was never acted; or, if it was, not 
above once. For the play, I remember, [45c 
pleas’d not the million ; ’t was caviare to the 


909 


general; but it was — as I receiv’d it, and 
others, whose judgement in such matters cried 
in the top of mine — an excellent play, well di¬ 
gested in the scenes, set down with as much [430 
modesty as cunning. I remember, one said 
there were no sall'ets in the lines to make the 
matter savoury, nor no matter in the phrase 
that might indict the author of affectation ; but 
call’d it an honest method, [as wholesome as [405 
sweet, and by very much more handsome than 
fine.] One speech in it I chiefly lov’d ; ’twas 
HCneas’ tale to Dido, and thereabout of it espe¬ 
cially where he speaks of Priam’s slaughter. If 
it live in your memory, begin at this line: let 
me see, let me see — 471 

“The rugged Pyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian 
beast,” 

— It is not so. It begins with Pyrrhus : — 

“ The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms, 
Black as his purpose, did the night resemble 475 
When he lay couched in the ominous horse, 
Hath now this dread and black complexion 
smear’d 

With heraldry more dismal. Head to foot 
Now is he total gules, horribly trick’d 
With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, 
sons, 480 

Bak’d and impasted with the parching streets, 
That lend a tyrannous and damned light 
To their vile murders. Roasted in wrath and 
fire, 

And thus o’er-sized with coagulate gore, 

With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus 
Old grandsire Priam seeks.” 48 o 

[So, proceed you.] 

Pol. ’Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with 
good accent and good discretion. 

1 . Play. “ Anon he finds him 

Striking too short at Greeks. His antique 
sword, 491 

Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls, 
Repugnant to command. Unequal match, 
Pyrrhus at Priam drives, in rage strikes wide, 
But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword 
The unnerved father falls. Then senseless 
Ilium, 498 

Seeming to feel his blow, with flaming top 
Stoops to his base, and with a hideous crash 
Takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear; for, lo! his 
sword, 

Which was declining on the milky head 600 

Of reverend Priam, seem’d i’ the air to stick. 
So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood 
And like a neutral to his will and matter, 

Did nothing. 

But, as we often see, against some storm, bos 
A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still, 
The bold winds speechless and the orb below 
As hush as death, anon the dreadful thunder 
Doth rend the region ; so, after Pyrrhus’ pause, 
Aroused vengeance sets him new a-work ; sio 

And never did the Cyclops’ hammers fall 
On Mars his armour forg’d for proof eterne 
With less remorse than Pyrrhus’ bleeding sword 
Now falls on Priam. 

Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune ! All you gods, 
In general synod take away her power! bis 





910 


HAMLET 


II. ii. 


Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel, 
And bowl the round nave down the hill of 
heaven 

As low as to the fiends! ” 

Pol. This is too long. 620 

Ham. It shall to the barber’s, with your 
beard. Prithee, say on ; he’s for a jig or a tale 
of bawdry, or he sleeps. Say on; come to 
Hecuba. 

1 . Play. “ But who, 0 , who had seen the 
mobled queen ” — 52s 

Ham. ‘ ‘ The mobled queen ” ? 

Pol. That’s good ; “ mobled queen ” is good. 
1 . Play. “ Run barefoot up and down, threat- 
’ning the flame 

With bisson rheum, a clout about that head 
Where late the diadem stood, and for a robe, 
About her lank and all o’er-teemed loins, 531 
A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up ; — 
Who this had seen, with tongue in venom 
steep’d, 

’Gainst Fortune’s state would treason have pro¬ 
nounc’d. 

But if the gods themselves did see her then, 535 
When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport 
In mincing with his sword her husband’s limbs, 
The instant burst of clamour that she made, 
Unless things mortal move them not at all, 
Would have made milch the burning eyes of 
heaven, 540 

And passion in the gods.” 

Pol. Look, whe’er he has not turn’d his col¬ 
our and has tears in’s eyes. Pray you, no more. 

Ham. ’T is well; I ’ll have thee speak out [545 
the rest soon. Good my lord, will you see the 
layers well bestow’d ? Do ye hear ? Let them 
e well us’d, for they are the abstracts and 
brief chronicles of the time ; after your death 
you were better have a bad epitaph than their 
ill report while you lived. csi 

Pol. My lord, I will use them according to 
their desert. 

Ham. God’s bodykins, man, better. Use 
every man after his desert, and who should 
scape whipping ? Use them after your own 
honour and dignity. The less they deserve, the 
more merit is in your bounty. Take them in. 
Pol. Come, sirs. | Exit, 559 

Ham. Follow him, friends; we ’ll hear a 
play to-morrow. [ Exeunt all the Players hut the 
First.] Dost thou hear me, old friend? Can 
you play “ The Murder of Gonzago ” ? 

1 . Play. Ay, my lord. E 64 

Ham. We’ll ha ’t to-morrow night. You 
could, for a need, study a speech of some dozen 
or sixteen lines, Avhich I would set down and 
insert in’t, could ye not ? 

1 . Play. Ay, my lord. 569 

Ham. Very well. Follow that lord, — and 
look you mock him not. [Exit 1 . Player.] My 
good friends, I ’ll leave you till night. You are 
welcome to Elsinore. 

Bos. Good my lord ! 

[Exeunt [Bosencrantz and Guilden- 
stern.] 

Ham. Ay, so, God buy ye. — Now I am 
alone. 575 


0 , what a rogue and peasant slave am I! 

Is it not monstrous that this player here, 

But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, 

Could force his soul so to his own conceit 
That from her working all his visage wann’d, eso 
Tears in his eyes, distraction in’s aspect, 

A broken voice, and his whole function suiting 
With forms to his conceit ? And all for no¬ 
thing ! 

For Hecuba! 

What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, ess 
T hat he should weep for her ? What would he 
do, 

Had he the motive and the cue for passion 
That I have ? He would drown the stage with 
tears 

And cleave the general ear with horrid speech, 
Make mad the guilty and appall the fi*ee, 69 # 
Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed 
The very faculty of eyes and ears. 

Yet I, 

A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak 
Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, 
And can say nothing ; no, not for a king, ese 
Upon whose property and most dear life 
A damn’d defeat was made. Am I a coward ? 
Who calls me villain, breaks my pate across, 
Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face, «oo 
Tweaks me by the nose, gives me the lie i’ the 
throat 

As deep as to the lungs, who does me this ? 

Ha! 

[’Sw r ounds,] I should take it; for it cannot be 
But I am pigeon-liver’d and lack gall 6 os 

To make oppression bitter, or ere this 
I should have fatted all the region kites 
With this slave’s offal. Bloody, bawdy villain ! 
Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless 
villain ! 

O, vengeance ! eio 

Why, what an ass am I! Sure, this is most 
brave, 

That I, the son of a dear father murdered, 
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, 
Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with 
words, 

And fall a-cursing, like a very drab, eis 

A scullion ! 

Fie upon’t! Fob ! About, my brain ! I have 
heard 

That guilty creatures sitting at a play 
Have by the very cunning of the scene 
Been struck so to the soul that presently 620 
They have proclaim’d their malefactions ; 

For murder, though it have 110 tongue, will 
speak 

With most miraculous organ. I’ll have these 
players 

Play something like the murder of my father 
Before mine uncle. I ’ll observe his looks ; 625 

I ’ll tent him to the quick. If he but blench, 

I know my course. The spirit that I have seen 
May be the devil; and the devil hath power 
To assume a pleasing shape ; yea, and perhaps 
Out of my weakness and my melancholy, 630 
As he is very potent with such spirits, 

Abuses me to damn me. I ’ll have grounds 





III. 1. 


HAMLET 


911 


More relative than this. The play’s the thing 
Wherein I ’ll catch the conscience of the Kin^. 

[Exit. 

[ACT III] 

[Scene I. A room in the castle.] 

Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, 
Rosencrantz, and Guildensteiin. 

King. And can you, by no drift of circum¬ 
stance, 

Get from him why he puts on this confusion, 
Grating so harshly all his days of quiet 
With turbulent and dangerous lunacy ? 

Kos. He does confess he feels himself dis¬ 
tracted ; 5 

But from what cause he will by no means 
speak. 

Guil. Nor do we find him forward to be 
sounded, 

But, with a crafty madness, keeps aloof 
When we would bring him on to some con¬ 
fession 

Of his true state. 

Queen. Did he receive you well ? 10 

Kos. Most like a gentleman. 

Guil. But with much forcing of his dispo¬ 
sition. 

Kos. Niggard of question ; but, of our de¬ 
mands, 

Most free in his reply. 

Queen. Did you assay him 

To any pastime ? is, 

Kos. Madam, it so fell out, that certain play¬ 
ers 

We o’er-raught on the way; of these we told 
him, 

And there did seem in him a kind of joy 
To hear of it. They are about the court, 

And, as I think, they have already order 20 
This night to play before him. 

Pol. ’T is most true. 

And he beseech’d me to entreat your Majes¬ 
ties 

To hear and see the matter. 

King. With all my heart; and it doth much 
content me 

To hear him so inclin’d. 23 ! 

Good gentlemen, give him a further edge, 

And drive his purpose on to these delights. 

Kos. We shall, my lord. 

[Exeunt [Rosencrantz and Guilden- 
stern.] 

King. Sweet Gertrude, leave us too, 

For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither, 

That he, as ’t were by accident, may here 30 
Affront Ophelia. 

Her father and myself, lawful espials, 

Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing unseen, 

We may of their encounter fra/rkly judge, 

And gather by him, as he is behaved, 3 5 

If’t be the affliction of his love or no 
That thus he suffers for. 

Queen. I shall obey you. 

And for your part, Ophelia, I do wish 
That your good beauties be the happy cause 


Of Hamlet’s wildness. So shall I hope your 
virtues 40 

Will bring him to his wonted way again, 

To both your honours. 

Oph. Madam, I wish it may. 

. [Exit Queen.] 

Pol. Ophelia, walk you here. Gracious, so 
please ye, 

We will bestow ourselves. [To Ophelia.] Read 
on this book, 

That show of such an exercise may colour « 

Your loneliness. We are oft to blame in this, — 
’Tis too much prov’d —that with devotion’s 

visage 

And pious action we do sugar o’er 
The devil himself. 

King. O,’tis true! 

[Aside.] How smart a lash that speech doth 
give my conscience ! go 

The harlot’s cheek, beautied with plast’ring 

art, 

Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it 
Than is my deed to my most painted word. 

0 heavy burden! 

Pol. I hear him coming. Let’s withdraw, 
my lord. [Exeunt [King and Polonius]. gg 

Enter Hamlet. 

Ham. To be, or not to be: that is the ques¬ 
tion. 

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer 
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 

And by opposing end them. To die ; to sleep ; eo 
No more ; and by a sleep to say we end 
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to. ’T is a consummation 
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die ; to sleep ; — 

To sleep ? Perchance to dream ! Ay, there’s 
the rub ; 05 

For in that sleep of death what dreams may 
come, 

When we have shuffl’d off this mortal coil, 

Must give us pause. There’s the respect 
That makes calamity of so long life. 

For who would bear the whips and scorns of 
time, 70 

The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s con¬ 
tumely, 

The pangs of dispriz’d love, the law’s delay, 
The insolence of office, and the spurns 
That patient merit of the unworthy takes, 
When he himself might his quietus make 76 

With a bare bodkin ? Who would fardels bear, 
To grunt and sweat under a weary life, 

But that the dread of something after death, 
The undiscovered country from whose bom n 
No traveller returns, puzzles the will so 

And makes us rather bear those ills we have 
Than fly to others that we know n ot of ? / 
Thus conscience does make cowards of us 
all; 

And thus the native hue of resolution 
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, as 
And enterprises of great pith and moment 
With this regard their currents turn awry, 

And lose the name of action. —Soft you now ! 








912 


HAMLET 


III. 1L 


The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons 
Be all my sins rememb’red. 

Oph. Good my lord, 90 

How does your honour for this many a day ? 
Ham. I humbly thank you, well, well, well. 
Oph. My lord, 1 have remembrances of yours 
That I have longed long to re-deliver. 

I pray you, now receive them. 

Ham. No, no; as 

I never gave you aught. 

Oph. My honour’d lord, I know right well 
you did, 

And, with them, words of so sweet breath com¬ 
pos’d 

As made the things more rich. Their perfume 
lost, 

Take these again ; for to the noble mind 100 
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. 
There, my lord. 

Ham. Ha, ha ! are you honest ? 

Oph. My lord ! ~ 

Ham. Are you fair ? 105 

Oph. What means your lordship ? 

Ham. That if you be honest and fair, your 
honesty should admit no discourse to your 
beauty. 

Oph. Could beauty, my lord, have better 
commerce than with honesty ? 110 

Ham. Ay, truly; for the power of beauty 
will sooner transform honesty from what it is 
to a bawd than the force of honesty can trans¬ 
late beauty into his likeness. This was some¬ 
time a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. 
I did love you once. 116 

Oph. Indeed, my lord, you made me believe 


so. 

Ham. You should not have believ’d me, for 
virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we 
shall relish of it. I loved you not. 120 

Oph. I was the more deceived. 

Ham. Get thee to a nunnery; why wouldst 
thou be a breeder of sinners ? I am myself in¬ 
different honest, but yet I could accuse me of 
such things that it were better my mother 
had not borne me. I am very proud, re- [125 
vengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my 
beck than I have thoughts to put them in, im¬ 
agination to give them shape, or time to act 
them in. What should such fellows as I do 
crawling between heaven and earth? We [130 
are arrant knaves all; believe none of us. Go 
thy ways to a nunnery. Where’s your father ? 
Oph. At home, my lord. 

Ham. Let the doors be shut upon him, that 
he may play the fool nowhere but in ’s own 
house. Farewell! 137 

Oph. O, help him, you sweet heavens ! 

Ham. If thou dost marry, I ’ll give thee this 
plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as 
ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape [140 
calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go. Fare¬ 
well ! Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry 
a fool; for wise men know well enough what 
monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, 
go, and quickly too. Farewell! ue 

Oph. 0 heavenly powers, restore him ! 

Ham. I have heard of your paintings too, 


well enough. God has given you one face, and 
you make yourselves another. You jig, you [150 
amble, and you lisp and nick-name God’s 
creatures and make your wantonness your 
ignorance. Go to, I ’ll no more on ’t; it hath 
made me mad. I say, we will have no more 
marriages. Those that are married already, 
all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep as 
they are. To a nunnery, go. [Exit, vn 

Oph. O, what a noble mind is here o’er- 
thrown! 

The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, 
sword; 

The expectancy and rose of the fair state, ico 
The glass of fashion and the mould of form, 
The observ’d of all observers, quite, quite 
down ! 

And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, 
That suck’d the honey of his music vows, i 64 
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, 
Like sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh ; 
That unmatch’d form and feature of blown 
youth 

Blasted with ecstasy. 0 , woe is me, 

To have seen what I have seen, see what I see! 

Re-enter King and Polonius. 

King. Love! his affections do not that way 
tend; 170 

Nor what he spake, though it lack’d form a 
little, 

Was not like madness. There’s something in 
his soul 

O’er which his melancholy sits on brood, 

And I do doubt the hatch and the disclose 
Will be some danger ; which for to prevent, 

I have in quick determination 176 

Thus set it down : he shall with speed to Eng¬ 
land 

For the demand of our neglected tribute. 

Haply the seas and countries different 
With variable objects shall expel iso 

This something-settled matter in his heart, 
Whereon liis brains still beating puts him thus 
From fashion of himself. What think you on’t ? 

Pol.' It shall do well; but yet do I believe 
The origin and commencement of this grief iss 
Sprung from neglected love. How now, 

Ophelia! 

You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said ; 
We heard it all. My lord, do as you please, 

But, if you hold it fit, after the play 
Let his queen mother all alone entreat him m 
To show his griefs. Let her be round with him, 
And I ’ll be plac’d, so please you, in the ear 
Of all their conference. If she find him not, 

To England send him, or confine him where 104 
Your wisdom best shall think. 

King. It shall be so. 

Madness in great ones must not unwatcli’d go. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. A hall in the castle .] 

Enter Hamlet and Players. 

Ham. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I 
pronounc’d it to you, trippingly on the tongue ; 






III. 11. 


HAMLET 


9i3 


but if you mouth it, as many of your players 
do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. 
Nor do not saw the air too much with your 
hand, thus, but use all gently ; for in the very [6 
torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, the whirl¬ 
wind of passion, you must acquire and beget a 
temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it 
olfends me to the soul to see a robustious peri- 
wig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to [10 
very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, 
who for the most part are capable of nothing 
but inexplicable dumb-shows and noise. I could 
have such a fellow whipp’d for o’erdoing Ter¬ 
magant. It out-herods Herod. Pray you, avoid 
it. is 

1 . Play. I warrant your honour. 

Ham. Be not too tame neither, but let your 
own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to 
the word, the word to the action ; with this [20 
special observance, that you o’erstep not the 
modesty of nature. For anything so overdone 
is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both 
at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 
’t w ere, the mirror up to nature ; to show virtue 
her own feature, scorn her own image, and [25 
the very age and body of the time his form and 
pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, 
though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but 
make the judicious grieve ; the censure of*the 
which one must, in your allowance, o’erweigh [30 
a whole theatre of others. 0 , there be players 
that I have seen play, and heard others praise, 
and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, 
neither having the accent of Christians nor the 
gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so [36 
strutted and bellowed that I have thought some 
of Nature’s journeymen had made men and not 
made them well, they imitated humanity so 
abominably. 

1 . Play. I hope we have reform’d that indif¬ 
ferently with us, sir. 41 

Ham. 0 , reform it altogether. And let those 
that play your clowns speak no more than is 
set down for them ; for there be of them that 
will themselves laugh to set on some quantity 
of barren spectators to laugh too, though in [45 
the mean time some necessary question of the 
play be then to be considered. That’s villanous, 
and shows a most pitiful ambition in the Fool 
that uses it. Go, make you ready. r, ° 

[Exeunt Players. 

Enter Polonius, Rosencrantz, and Guild- 

EN STERN. 

How now, my lord ! Will the King hear this 
piece of work ? 

Pol. And the Queen too, and that pre¬ 
sently. 

Ham. Bid the players make haste. 

[Exit Polonius. 

Will you two help to hasten them ? M 

^uil | my ^° r< *’ 

[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guilden- 
stern. 

Ham. What ho ! Horatio. 


Enter Horatio. 

Hor. Here, sweet lord, at your service. 

Ham. Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man 
As e’er my conversation cop’d withal. co 

Hor. 0 , my dear lord, — 

Ham. Nay, do not think I flatter, 

For what advancement may I hope from thee 
That no revenue hast but thy good spirits 
To feed and clothe thee ? Why should the poor 
be flatter’d ? 

No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, 
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee 66 
Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou 
hear ? 

Since my dear soul was mistress of my choice.^" 
And could of men distinguish, her election 
Hath seal’d thee for herself; for thou hast 
been 70 

As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, 

A man that Fortune’s buffets and rewards 
Hath ta’en with equal thanks ; and blest are 
those 

Whose blood and judgement are so well com¬ 
mingled, 

That they are not a pipe for Fortune’s finger 75 
To sound what stop she please. Give me that 
man 

That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him 
In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, 

As I do thee. — Something too much of this. — 
There is a play to-night before the King. so 
One scene of it comes near the circumstance 
Which I have told thee of my father’s death. 

I prithee, when thou seest that act a-foot, 

Even with the very comment of thy soul 
Observe mine uncle. If his occulted guilt 85 
Do not itself unkennel in one speech, 

It is a damned ghost that we have seen, 

And my imaginations are as foul 
As Vulcan’s stithy. Give him heedful note ; 

For I mine eyes will rivet to his face, 00 

And after we will both our judgements join 
To censure of his seeming. 

Hor. Well, my lord. 

If he steal aught the whilst this play is playing, 
And scape detecting, I will pay the theft. 

Danish march. A flourish. Enter King, 
Queen, Polonius, Ophf.lia, Rosencrantz, 
Guildenstern, and other Lords attendant , 
with the guard carrying torches. 

Ham. They are coming to the play; I must 
be idle. 95 

Get you a place. 

King. IIow fares our cousin Hamlet ? 

Ham. Excellent, i’ faith, — of the chame¬ 
leon’s dish. I eat the air, promise-cramm’d. 
You cannot feed capons so. 100 

King. I have nothing with this answer, 
Hamlet ; these words are not mine. 

Ham. No, nor mine now. [To Polonius .] 
My lord, you play’d once i’ the university, you 
say ? 

Pol. That I did, my lord, and was accounted 
a good actor. ioe 

Ham. And what did you enact ? 






9*4 


HAMLET 


hi. u. 


Pol. I did enact Julius Csssar. I was kill’d 
i’ the Capitol; Brutus kill’d me. 

Ham. It was a brute part of him to kill so 
capital a calf there. Be the players ready ? m 

Bos. Ay, my lord, they stay upon your pa¬ 
tience. 

Queen. Come hither, my good Hamlet, sit by 
me. ns 

Ham. No, good mother, here’s metal more 
attractive. [ Lying down at Ophelia's feet.] 

Pol. [To the King.] 0 , ho! do you mark 
that ? 

Ham. Lady, shall I lie in your lap ? 

Oph. No, my lord. 120 

Ham. I mean, my head upon your lap ? 

Oph. Ay, my lord. 

Ham. Do you think I meant country mat¬ 
ters ? 

Oph. I think nothing, my lord. 

Ham. That’s a fair thought to lie between 
maid’s legs. 126 

Oph. What is, my lord ? 

Ham. Nothing. 

Oph. You are merry, my lord. 

Ham. Who, I? 130 



should a man do but be merry? For, look you, 
how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father 
died within ’s two hours. 135 


Oph. Nay, ’t is twice two months, my lord. 
Ham. So long ? Nay then, let the devil wear 
black, for I ’ll have a suit of sables. 0 heavens ! 
die two months ago, and not forgotten yet ? 
Then there’s hope a great man’s memory 
may outlive his life half a year ; but, by ’r [140 
lady, he must build churches then, or else shall 
he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby¬ 
horse, whose epitaph is, “ For, 0 , for, 0 , the 
hobby-horse is forgot.” us 

Hautboys play. The dumb-show enters. 

Enter a King and Queen very lovingly , the Queen 
embracing him. She kneels and makes show of 
protestation unto him. He takes her up and de¬ 
clines his head upon her neck; lays him down 
upon a bank of .flowers. She, seeing him asleep, 
leaves him. A non comes in a fellow, takes off 
his crown , kisses it, and pours poison in the 
King's ears, and exit. The Queen returns., finds 
the King dead, and makes passionate action. 
The poisoner, with some two or three Mutes , 
comes in again, seeming to lament with her. 
The dead body is carried away. The poisoner 
woos the Queen with gifts; she seems loath and 
unwilling a while, but in the end accepts his 
love. [ Exeunt. 

Oph. What means this, my lord ? 

Ham. Marry, this is miching mallecho ; that 
means mischief. 

Oph. Belike this show imports the argument 
of the play ? iso 

Enter Prologue. 

Ham. We shall know by this fellow. The 
players cannot keep counsel, they ’ll tell all. 


Oph. Will they tell us what this show 
meant ? 

Ham. Ay, or any show that you’ll show 
him. Be not you asham’d to show, he ’ll not 
shame to tell you what it means. 

Oph. You are naught, you are naught. I ’ll 
mark the play. 

Pro. For us, and for our tragedy, 

Here stooping to your clemency, wo 
We beg your hearing patiently. [Exit.] 
Ham. Is this a prologue, or the posy of a 
ring? 

Oph. ’T is brief, my lord. 

Ham. As woman’s love. 

Enter [two Players ,] King and his Queen. 

P. King. Full thirty times hath Phcebus’ 
cart gone round 105 

Neptune’s salt wash and Tellus’ orbed ground, 
And thirty dozen moons with borrowed sheen 
About the world have times twelve thirties 
been, 

Since love our hearts and Hymen did our hands 
Unite commutual in most sacred bands. ito 
P. Queen. So many journeys may the sun 
and moon 

Make us again count o’er ere love be done I 
But, woe is me, you are so sick of late, 

So far from cheer and from your former state, 
That I distrust you. Yet, though I distrust, iw 
Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must; 

For women’s fear and love holds quantity. 

In neither aught, or in extremity. 

Now, what my love is, proof hath made you 
know; 

And as my love is siz’d, my fear is so. iso 

[Where love is great, the littlest doubts are 
fear; 

Where little fears grow great, great love grows 
there.] 

P. King. Faith, I must leave thee, love, and 
shortly too. 

My operant, powers their functions leave to do ; 
And thou shalt live in this fair world behind, 
Honour’d, belov’d ; and haply one as kind isc 
For husband shalt thou — 

P. Queen. O, confound the rest! 

Such love must needs be treason in my breast! 
In second husband let me be accurst! 

None wed the second but who kill’d the first. 
Ham. [Aside.] Wormwood, wormwood! m 
P. Queen. The instances that second mar¬ 
riage move 

Are base respects of thrift, but none of love. 

A second time I kill my husband dead. 

When second husband kisses me in bed. 195 
P. King. I do believe you think what now 
you speak, 

But what we do determine oft we break. 
Purpose is but the slave to memory, 

Of violent birth, but poor validity ; 

Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the 
tree, 200 

But fall unshaken when they mellow be. 

Most necessary’t is that we forget 
To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt. 
What to ourselves in passion we propose, 




tn. ii. 


HAMLET 


9 T 5 


The passion ending', doth the purpose lose. 205 
The violence of either grief or joy 
Their own enactures with themselves destroy. 
Where joy most revels, grief doth most la¬ 
ment ; 

Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident. 

This world is not for aye, nor’t is not strange 
That even our loves should with our fortunes 
change, 211 

For ’tis a question left us yet to prove, 
Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love. 
The great man down, you mark his favourite 
flies ; 

The poor advanc’d makes friends of enemies. 
And hitherto doth love on fortune tend, 210 

For who not needs shall never lack a friend; 
And who in want a hollow friend doth try, 
Directly seasons him his enemy. 

But, orderly to end where I begun, 220 

Our wills and fates do so contrary run 
That our devices still are overthrown ; 

Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our 
own. 

So think thou wilt no second husband wed ; 
But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is 
dead. 225 

P. Queen. Nor earth to me give food, nor 

heaven light! 

Sport and repose lock from me day and night! 

I [To desperation turn my trust and hope ! 

An anchor’s cheer in prison be my scope !] 

Each opposite that blanks the face of joy 230 
Meet what I would have well and it destroy ! 
Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife, 
l f, once a widow, ever I be wife ! 

Ham. If she should break it now ! 

P. King. ’Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave 
me here a while. 235 

My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile 
The tedious clay with sleep'. [Sleeps. 

P. Queen. Sleep rock thy brain, 

And never come mischance between us twain ! 

[Exit. 

Ham. Madam, how like you this play ? 
ueen. The lady protests too much, me- 
thinks. 240 

Ham. 0 , but she ’ll keep her word. 

King. Have you heard the argument? Is 
there no offence in’t ? 

Ham. No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest. 
No offence i’ the world. 245 

King. What do you call the play ? 

Ham. The Mouse-trap. Marry, how ? Tropi¬ 
cally. This play is the image of a murder done 
in Vienna. Gonzasro is the duke’s name his 

wife, Baptista. You shall see anon. ’Tis a 
knavish piece of work, but what o’ that? [zeo 
Your Majesty and we that have free souls, it 
touches us not. Let the gall’d jade wince, our 
' withers are unwrung. 

Enter Lucianus. 

This is one Lucianus, nephew to the king. 

Oph. You are a good chorus, my lord. 255 
Ham. I could interpret between you and 
your love, if I could see the puppets dallying. 
Oph. You are keen, my lord, you are keen. 


Ham. It would cost you a groaning to take 
off my edge. 200 

Oph. Still better, and worse. 

Ham. So you mistake your husbands. Be¬ 
gin, murderer ; pox, leave thy damnable faces 
and begin. Come, “the croaking raven doth 
bellow for revenge.” 2 6 fi 

Luc. Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit., 
and time agreeing; 

Confederate season, else no creature seeing. 
Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds col¬ 
lected, 

With Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice in¬ 
fected, 

Thy natural magic and dire property 270 

On wholesome life usurp immediately. 

[Pours the poison in [to the sleeper's] 
ears. 

Ham. He poisons him i’ the garden for ’s 
estate. His name’s Gonzago; the story is ex¬ 
tant, and writ in choice Italian. You shall see 
anon how the murderer gets the love of Gon- 
zago’s wife. 2 <6 

Oph. The King rises. 

Ham. What, frighted with false fire ? 

Queen. How fares my lord ? 

Pol. Give o’er the play. 

King. Give me some light. Away ! 280 

All. Lights, lights, lights ! 

[Exeunt all but Hamlet and Horatio. 
Ham. Why, let the strucken deer go weep, 
The hart ungalled play ; 

For some must watch, while some must 
sleep, — 

So runs the world away. 2 «5 

Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers — 
if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me — 
with two Provincial roses on my raz’d shoes, 
get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir ? 
Hot. Half a share. 290 

Ham. A whole one, I. 

For thou dost know, 0 Damon dear, 

This realm dismantled was 
Of Jove himself ; and now reigns here 
A very, very — pajock. 2ns 

Hot. You might have rhym’d. 

Ham. 0 good Horatio, 1 ’ll take the ghost’s 
word for a thousand pound. Didst perceive ? 
Hot. Very well, my lord. 

Ham. Upon the talk of the poisoning ? 300 

Hot. I did very well note him. 

Be-enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 
Ham. Ah, ha! Come, some music! Come, 
the recorders! 

For if the king like not the comedy, 

Why then, belike, he likes it not, perdy. 305 
Come, some music! 

Guil. Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word 
with you. 

Ham. Sir, a whole history. 

Guil. The King, sir, — 

Ham. Ay, sir, what of him ? 

Guil. Is in his retirement marvellous distem¬ 
per’d. 

Ham. With drink, sir ? 

Guil. No, my lord, rather with choler. sis 




9i 6 


HAMLET 


hi. iii. 


Ham. Your wisdom should show itself more 
richer to signify this to his doctor ; for, for ine 
to put him to his purgation would perhaps 
plunge him into far more choler. 31a 

Guil. Good my lord, put your discourse into 
some frame, and start not so wildly from my 
affair. 

Ham. I am tame, sir ; pronounce. 

Guil. The Queen, your mother, in most great 
affliction of spirit, hath sent me to you. 

Ham. You are welcome. 325 

Guil. Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not 
of the right breed. If it shall please you to 
make me a wholesome answer I will do your 
mother’s commandment; if not, your pardon 
and my return shall be the end of my business. 
Ham. Sir, I cannot. 331 

Guil. What, my lord ? 

Ham. Make you a wholesome answer. My 
wit’s diseas’d. But, sir, such answers as I can 
make, you shall command, or, rather, as you 
say, my mother. Therefore no more, but to the 
matter. My mother, you say, — 337 

Ros. Then thus she says : your behaviour 
hath struck her into amazement and admira¬ 
tion. 

Ham. 0 wonderful son, that can so astonish 
a mother ! But is there no sequel at the heels 
of this mother’s admiration ? [Impart.] 342 
Ros. She desires to speak with you in her 
closet ere you go to bed. 

Ham. We shall obey, were she ten times our 
mother. Have you any further trade with 
us ? 

Ros. My lord, you once did love me. 

Ham. So I do still, by these pickers and 
stealers. 349 

Ros. Good my lord, what is your cause of 
distemper? You do surely bar the door upon 
your own liberty if you deny your griefs to your 
friend. 

Ham. Sir, I lack advancement. 354 

Ros. How can that be, when you have the 
voice of the King himself for your succession in 
Denmark ? 

Ham. Ay, but “ While the grass grows,” — 
the proverb is something musty. 359 

Re-enter one with a recorder. 

0 , the recorder ! Let me see. — To withdraw 
with you: — why do you go about to recover 
the wind of me, as if you would drive me into 
a toil ? 

Guil. 0 , my lord, if my duty be too bold, my 
love is too unmannerly. 304 

Ham. I do not well understand that. Will 
you play upon this pipe ? 

Guil. My lord, I cannot. 

Ham. I pray you. 

Guil. Believe me, I cannot. 

Ham. I do beseech you. 370 

Guil. I know no touch of it, my lord. 

Ham. ’T is as easy as lying. Govern these 
ventages with your finger and thumb, give it 
breath with your mouth, and it will discourse 
most excellent music. Look you, these are the 

Stops, 876 


Guil. But these cannot I command to any 
utterance of harmony. I have not the skill. 

Ham. Why, look you now, how unworthy 
a thing you make of me ! You would play 
upon me, you would seem to know my [aso 
stops, you would pluck out the heart of my 
mystery, you -would sound me from my lowest 
note to the top of my compass; and there is 
much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, 
yet cannot you make it [speak. ’Sblood,] [385 
do you think that I am easier to be play’d on 
than a pipe? Call me what instrument you 
will, though you can fret me, you cannot play 
upon me. 

Enter Polonius. 

God bless you, sir. 390 

Pol. My lord, the Queen would speak with 
you, and presently. 

Ham. Do you see that cloud that’s almost in 
shape like a camel ? 

Pol. By the mass, and it’s like a camel, in¬ 
deed. 395 

Ham. Methinks it is like a weasel. 

Pol. It is back’d like a weasel. 

Ham. Or like a whale ? 

Pol. Very like a whale. 399 

Ham. Then will I come to my mother by and 
by. [Aside .] They fool me to the top of my 
bent. — I will come by and by. 

Pol. I will say so. [Exit. 

Ham. “By and by” is easily said. Leave 

me, friends. [Exeunt all but Hamlet.] 400 
’T is now the very witching time of night 
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes 
out 

Contagion to this world. Now could I drink 
hot blood, 

And do such bitter business as the day 
Would quake to look on. Soft! now to my 

mother. 410 

0 heart, lose not thy nature ! Let not ever 
The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom ; 

Let me be cruel, not unnatural. 

I will speak daggers to her, but use none. 

My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites ; 415 

How in my words soever she be shent 
To give them seals never, my soul, consent! 

[Exit. 

[Scene III. A room in the castle .] 

Enter King, Rosencrantz, and Guilden- 

STERN. 

King. I like him not, nor stands it safe with 
us 

To let his madness range. Therefore prepare 
you. 

I your commission will forthwith dispatch, 

And he to England shall along with you. 

The terms of our estate may not endure 6 
Hazard so dangerous as doth hourly grow 
Out of his lunacies. 

Guil. We will ourselves provide. 

Most holy and religious fear it is 
To keep those many many bodies safe 
That live and feed upon your Majesty, 


10 




III. iv. 


HAMLET 


9*7 


Eos. The single and peculiar life is bound 
With all the strength and armour of the mind 
To keep itself from noyance, but much more 
That spirit upon whose weal depends and rests 
The lives of many. The cease of majesty is 
Dies not alone, but, like a gulf, doth draw 
What’s near it with it. It is a massy wheel, 
Fixed on the summit of the highest mount, 

To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser 
things 

Are mortis’d and adjoin’d; which, when it 
falls, 20 

Each small annexment, petty consequence, 
Attends the boisterous ruin. Never alone 
Did the King sigh, but with a general groan. 
King. Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy 
voyage, 

For we will fetters put upon this fear, 26 

Which now goes too free-footed. 

Q^ii | We will haste us. 

[.Exeunt Eosencrantz and Guilden- 

stern. 

Enter Polonius. 


Pol. My lord, he’s going to his mother’s 
closet. 

Behind the arras I ’ll convey myself, 

To hear the process. I ’ll warrant she ’ll tax 
him home; 

And, as you said, and wisely was it said, 30 
’T is meet that some more audience than a 
mother, 

Since nature makes them partial, should o’er- 
hear 

The speech, of vantage. Fare you well, my 
liege. 

I ’ll call upon you ere you go to bed. 

And tell you what I know. 

King. Thanks, dear my lord. 

[Exit Polonius.'] 
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven ; 36 

It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t, 

A brother’s murder. Pray can I not. 

Though inclination be as sharp as will. 

My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent, « 
And, like a man to double business bound, 

I stand in pause where I shall first begin. 

And both neglect. What if this cursed hand 
Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood. 
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens 
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves 
mercy 46 

But to confront the visage of offence ? 

And what’s in prayer but this twofold force, 
To be forestalled ere we come to fall, 49 

Or pardon’d being down ? Then I ’ll look up ; 
My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer 
Can serve my turn ? “ Forgive me my foul 
murder ” ? 

That cannot be ; since I am still possess’d 
Of those effects for which I did the murder, 

My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. 
May one be pardon’d and retain the offence ? ee 
In the corrupted currents of this world 
Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice, 
And oft’t is seen the wicked prize itself 


Buys out the law. But’t is not so above. eo 
There is no shuffling, there the action lies 
In his true nature; and we ourselves com- 
pell’d, 

Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, 
To give in evidence. What then ? What rests ? 
Try what repentance can. What can it not? cs 
Yet what can it when one cannot repent? 

O wretched state ! O bosom black as death \ 

0 limed soul, that, struggling to be free, 

Art more engag’d! Help, angels! Make as¬ 
say ! 

Bow, stubborn knees, and, heart with strings 
of steel, 70 

Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe ! 

All may be well. [ Eetires and] kneels. 

Enter Hamlet. 

Ham. Now might I do it pat, now he is 
praying. 

And now I ’ll do ’t. — And so he goes to 
heaven; 

And so am I reveng’d. That would be scann’d. 
A villain kills my father, and for that, . 76 

I, his sole son, do this same villain send 
To heaven. 

Oh, this is hire and salary, not revenge. 

He took my father grossly, full of bread, so 
With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as 
May; 

And how his audit stands who knows save 
Heaven ? 

But in our circumstance and course of thought 
’T is heavy with him. And am I then re¬ 
veng’d. 

To take him in the purging of his soul, ss 

When he is fit and season’d for his passage ? 
No! 

Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid 
hent. 

When he is drunk asleep, or in his rage, 

Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed, 00 
At gaming, swearing, or about some act 
That has no relish of salvation in’t, — 

Then trip him, that his heels may kick at 
heaven, 

And that his soul may be as damn’d and black 
As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays. 05 
This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. 

' [Exit. 

King. [jRisingr.] My words fly up, my 
thoughts remain below. 

Words without thoughts never to heaven go. 

[Exit. 


[Scene IV. The Queen's closet.] 

Enter Queen and Polonius. 

Pol. He will come straight. Look you lay 
home to him. 

Tell him his pranks have been too broad to 
bear with, 

And that your Grace hath screen’d and stood 
between 

Much heat and him. I ’ll silence me e’en here. 

Pray you, be round with him. o 

Ham. (Within.) Mother, mother, mother 1 





918 


HAMLET 


III. IV. 


Queen. I ’ll warrant you, fear me not. With¬ 
draw, I hear him coming. 

[Polonius hides behind the arras.] 

Enter Hamlet. 

Ham. Now, mother, what’s the matter? 
Queen. Hamlet, thou hast thy father much 
offended. 

Ham. Mother, you have my father much of¬ 
fended. 10 

Queen. Come, come, you answer with an idle 
tongue. 

Ham. Go, go, you question with a wicked 
tongue. 

Queen. Why, how now, Hamlet! 

Ham. What’s the matter now ? 

Queen. Have you forgot me ? 

Ham. No, by the rood, not so. 

i T ou are the Queen, your husband’s brother’s 
wife; 16 

But would you were not so! You are my 
mother. 

Queen. Nay, then, I ’ll set those to you that 
can speak. 

Ham. Come, come, and sit you down. You 
shall not budge. 

You go not till I set you up a glass 
Where you may see the inmost part of you. 20 
Queen. What wilt thou do ? Thou wilt not 
murder me? 

Help, help, ho ! 

Pol. [Behind.] What, ho ! help, help, help ! 
Ham. [Drawing.] How now! A rat? Dead, 
for a ducat, dead ! 

[Kills Polonius [through the arras]. 
Pol. [Behind.] 0 , I am slain ! 

Queen. O me, what hast thou done ? 

Ham. Nay, I know not. 

Is it the King ? 26 

Queen. 0 , what a rash and bloody deed is 
this ! 

Ham. A bloody deed ! Almost as bad, good 
mother, 

As kill a king, and marry with his brother. 29 
Queen. As kill a king ! 

Ham. Ay, lady, ’t was my word. 

[Lifts up the arras and discovers 
Polonius.] 

Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! 
I took thee for thy better. Take thy fortune. 
Thou find’st to be too busy is some danger. 

— Leave wringing of your hands. Peace ! Sit 
you down, 

And let me wring your heart; for so I shall, 36 
If it be made of penetrable stuff, 

If damned custom have not braz’d it so 
That it is proof and bulwark against sense. 
Queen. What have I done, that thou dar’st 
wag thy tongue 
In noise so rude against me ? 

Ham. Such an act « 

That blurs the grace and blush of modesty, 
Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose 
From the fair forehead of an innocent love 
And sets a blister there, makes marriage-vows 
As false as dicers’ oaths ; O, such a deed « 
As from the body of contraction plucks 


The very soul, and sweet religion makes 
A rhapsody of words. Heaven’s face doth 
glows 

Yea, this solidity and compound mass, 

With tristful visage, as against the doom, o« 
Is thought-sick at the act. 

Queen. Ay me, what act, 

That roars so loud and thunders in the index ? 
Ham. Look here, upon this picture, and on 
this, 

The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. 
See, what a grace was seated on this brow : os 
Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself, 

An eye like Mars, to threaten or command, 

A station like the herald Mercury 
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill, 

A combination and a form indeed,. oo 

Where every god did seem to set his seal, 

To give the w orld assurance of a man. 

This was your husband. Look you now what 
follows: 

Here is your husband, like a mildew’d ear, 
Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you 
eyes ? _ 65 

Could you on this fair moimtain leave to feed, 
And batten on this moor ? Ha ! have you eyes ? 
You cannot call it love, for at your age 
The hey-day in the blood is tame, it’s humble. 
And waits upon the judgement; and wdiat 
judgement to 

Would step from this to this ? [Sense sure you 
have, 

Else could you not have motion ; but sure, that 
sense 

Is apoplex’d ; for madness would not err, 

Nor sense to ecstasy was ne’er so thrall’d 
But it reserv’d some quantity of choice, to 

To serve in such a difference.] What devil 
was’t 

That thus hath cozen’d you at hoodman-blind ? 
[Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight. 
Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all, 
Or but a sickly part of one true sense so 

Could not so mope.] 

O shame ! where is thy blush ? Rebellious hell, 
If thou canst mutine in a matron’s bones, 

To flaming youth let virtue be as w 7 ax, 

And melt in her own fire. Proclaim no shame 
When the compulsive ardour gives the charge, 
Since frost itself as actively doth burn 87 

And reason panders will. 

Queen. O Hamlet, speak no more ! 

Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul, so 
And there I see such black and grained spots 
As will not leave their tinct. 

Ham. Nay, but to live 

In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, 

Stew’d in corruption, honeying and making 
love 

Over the nasty sty, — 

Queen. 0 , speak to me no more ! 

These w 7 ords like daggers enter in mine ears, so 
No more, sweet Hamlet! 

Ham. A murderer and a villain! 

A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe 
Of your precedent lord ! A vice of kings l 
A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, 99 






III. iv. 


HAMLET 


9 l 9 


That from a shelf the precious diadem stole, 
And put it in his pocket! 

Queen. No more! 

Enter Ghost. 

Ham. A king of shreds and patches, — 

Save me, and hover o’er me with your wings, 
You heavenly guards! What would your gra¬ 
cious figure ? 

Queen. Alas, he’s mad ! ios 

Ham. Do you not come your tardy son to 
chide. 

That, laps’d in time and passion, lets go by 
The important acting of your dread command ? 
O, say! 

Ghost. Do not forget! This visitation no 
Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. 
But, look, amazement on thy mother sits. 

O, step between her and her fighting soul. 
Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works. 
Speak to her, Hamlet. 

Ham. How is it with you, lady ? 

Queen. Alas, how is ’t with you, no 

That you do bend your eye on vacancy 
And with the incorporal air do hold discourse ? 
Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep, 
And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm, 120 
Your bedded hair, like life in excrements, 
Start up and stand on end. O gentle son, 

Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper 
Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look ? 
Ham. On him, on him ! Look you, how pale 
he glares! us 

His form and cause conjoin’d, preaching to 
stones, 

Would make them capable. Do not look upon 
me, 

Lest with this piteous action you convert 
My stern effects ; then what I have to do 
Will want true colour, tears perchance for 
blood. wo 

Queen. To whom do you speak this ? 

Ham. Do you see nothing there ? 

Queen. Nothing at all, yet all that is I see. 
Ham. Nor did you nothing hear ? 

Queen. No, nothing but ourselves. 

Ham. Why, look you there ! Look, how it 
steals away ! 

My father, in his habit as he lived ! 135 

Look, where he goes, even now, out, at the 
portal! \Exit Ghost. 

Queen. This is the very coinage of your brain. 
This bodiless creation ecstasy 
Is very cunning in. 

Ham. Ecstasy! 

My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep 

time, # 140 

And makes as healthful music. It is not mad¬ 
ness 

That I have uttered. Bring me to the test, 
And I the matter will re-word, which madness 
Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, 
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, mb 
T hat not your trespass, but my madness speaks. 
It will but skin and film the ulcerous place, 
Whilst rank corruption, mining all within, 
Infects unseen. Confess yourself to Heaven ; 


Repent what’s past, avoid what is to come, iso 
And do not spread the compost on the weeds, 
To make them rank. Forgive me this my virtue 
For in the fatness of these pursy times 
Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, 

Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good, iso 
Queen. 0 Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart 
in twain. 

Ham. 0 , throw away the worser part of it, 
And live the purer with the other half. 
Good-night; but £0 not to mine uncle’s bed. 
Assume a virtue, if you have it not. 100 

[That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat, 
Of habits devil, is angel yet in this, 

That to the use of actions fair and good 
He likewise gives a frock or livery, 

That aptly is put on.] Refrain to-night, ibb 
A nd that shall lend a kind of easiness 
To the next abstinence ; [the next more easy ; 
For use almost can change the stamp of nature, 
And either master the devil or throw him out, 
With wondrous potency.] Once more, good¬ 
night ; no 

And when you are desirous to be blest, 

I ’ll blessing beg of you. For this same lord, 

[Pointing to Polonius.\ 
I do repent; but Heaven hath pleas’d it so, 

To punish me with this and this with me, 

That I must be their scourge and minister, ns 
I will bestow him, and will answer well 
The death I gave him. So, again, good-night. 

I must be cruel, only to be kind. 

Thus bad begins and worse remains behind. 
[One word more, good lady.] 

Queen. What shall I do ? 

Ham. Not this, by no means, that I bid you 
do: i 8 i 

Let the bloat king tempt you again to bed, 
Pinch wanton on your cheek, call you his 
mouse, 

And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses, 

Or paddling in your neck with his damn’d 
fingers, iss 

Make you to ravel all this matter out, 

That I essentially am not in madness, 

But mad in craft. ’T were good you let him 
know ; 

For who, that’s but a queen, fair, sober, wise, 
Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib, 10* 
Such dear concernings hide ? Who would do so ? 
No, in despite of sense and secrecy, 

Unpeg the basket on the house’s top, 

Let the birds fly, and like the famous ape, 

To try conclusions, in the basket creep, wb 
A nd break your own neck down. 

Queen. Be thou assur’d, if words be made of 
breath, 

And breath of life, I have no life to breathe 
What thou hast said to me. 

Ham. I must to England ; you know that? 
Queen. AVack, 

I had forgot. ’T is so concluded on. 201 

Ham. [There’s letters sealed, and my two 
school-fellows, 

Whom I will trust as I will adders fang’d, 
They bear the mandate. They must sweep my 
way, 






920 


HAMLET 


iv. ii 


And marshal me to knavery. Let it work ; 205 
For ’t is the sport to have the enginer 
Hoist with his own petar ; and ’t shall go hard 
But I will delve one yard below their mines, 
And blow them at the moon. 0 , ’t is most 
sweet, 

When in one line two crafts directly meet.] 210 
This man shall set me packing. 

I ’ll lug the guts into the neighbour room. 
Mother, good-night. Indeed this counsellor 
Is now most still, most secret, and most grave, 
Who was in life a foolish prating knave. 216 
Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you. 
Good-night, mother. 

[.Exeunt [severally ,] Hamlet tugging 
in Potonius. 


[ACT IV] 

[Scene I. A room in the castle.'] 

Enter King [Queen, Rosencrantz, and Guild- 
enstern]. 

King. There’s matter in these sighs; these 
profound heaves 

You must translate; ’t is fit we understand 
them. 

Where is your son ? 

Queen. [Bestow this place on us a little 
while.] 

. [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guilden- 
stern.] 

Ah, my good lord, what have I seen to-night! 5 
King. What, Gertrude ? How does Hamlet ? 
Queen. Mad as the seas and wind, when both 
contend 

Which is the mightier. In his lawless fit, 
Behind the arras hearing something stir, 

He whips his rapier out, and cries, “A rat, a 
rat!” . _ io 

And, in his hrainish apprehension, kills 
The unseen good old man. 

King. O heavy deed! 

It had been so with us, had we been there. 

His liberty is full of threats to all, 

To you yourself, to us, to every one. 15 

Alas, how shall this bloody deed he answered ? 
It will be laid to us, whose providence 
Should have kept short, restrain’d, and out of 
haunt, 

This mad young man. But so much was our 
love, 

We would not understand what was most fit, 20 
But, like the owner of a foul disease. 

To keep it from divulging, let it feed 
Even on the pith of life. Where is he gone ? 

Queen. To draw apart the body he hath kill’d, 
O’er whom his very madness, like some ore 26 
Among a mineral of metals base, 

Shows itself pure ; he weeps for what is done. 

King. 0 Gertrude, come away ! 

The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch, 
But we will ship him hence, and this vile deed 
We must, with all our majesty and skill, 31 
Both countenance and excuse. Ho, Guilden- 
stern! 


[ Re-]enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 

Friends both, go join you with some further 
aid. 

Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain, 

And from his mother’s closet hath he dragg’d 
him. 35 

Go seek him out; speak fair, and bring the 
body 

Into the chapel. I pray you, haste in this. 

[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guilden¬ 
stern. 

Come, Gertrude, we ’ll call up our wisest 
friends 

To let them know both what we mean to do 
And what’s untimely done ; [so, haply, slander] 
[Whose whisper o’er the world’s diameter, 41 
As level as the cannon to his blank, 

Transports his poisoned shot, may miss our 
name, 

And hit the woundless air.] O, come away ! 

My soul is full of discord and dismay. « 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. Another room in the castle.] 
Enter Hamlet. 

Ham. Safely stowed. 

Gull. | ( Within.) Hamlet! Lord Hamlet! 

Ham. What noise ? Who calls on Hamlet ? 
0 , here they come. 

Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 

Ros. What have you done, my lord, with the 
dead body ? 6 

Ham. Compounded it with dust, whereto 
’tis kin. 

Ros. Tell us where ’tis, that we may take 
it thence 

And hear it to the chapel. 

Ham. Do not believe it. 

Ros. Believe what ? 10 

Ham. That I can keep your counsel and not 
mine own. Besides, to be demanded of a 
sponge! What replication should be made by 
the son of a king ? 

Ros. Take you me for a sponge, my lord ? is 
Ham. Ay, sir, that soaks up the King’s 
countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But 
such officers do the King best service in the 
end. He keeps them, as an ape doth nuts, in 
the corner of his jaw ; first mouth’d, to be last 
swallowed. When he needs what you have 
glean’d, it is hut squeezing you, and, sponge, 
you shall be dry again. 23 

Ros. I understand you not, my lord. 

Ham. I am glad of it. A knavish speech 
sleeps in a foolish ear. 

Ros. My lord, you must tell us where the 
body is, and go with us to the King. 28 

Ham. The body is with the King, hut the 
King is not with the body. The King is a 
thing — 

Guil. A thing, my lord ! 

Ham. Of nothing. Bring me to him. Hide 
fox, and all after. [Exeunt. 33 





IV. IV. 


HAMLET 


921 


[Scene III. Another room in the castle .] 

Enter King [and two or three]. 

King. I have sent to seek him, and to find 
the body. 

How dangerous is it that this man goes loose ! 
Yet must not we put the strong law on him. 

He’s lov’d of the distracted multitude, 

Who like not in their judgement, but their eyes, 
And where ’tis so, the offender’s scourge is 
weigh’d, « 

But never the offence. To bear all smooth and 
even, 

This sudden sending him away must seem 
Deliberate pause. Diseases desperate grown 
By desperate appliance are relieved, io 

Or not at all. 

Enter Rosencrantz. 

How now ! What hath befallen ? 
Kos. Where the dead body is bestow’d, my 
lord, 

We cannot get from him. 

King. But where is he ? 

Kos. Without, my lord, guarded, to know 
your pleasure. 

King. Bring him before us. 15 

Kos. Ho, Guildenstern ! bring in my lord. 

Enter Hamlet and Guildenstern. 

King. Now, Hamlet, where’s Polonius? 
Ham. At supper. 

King. At supper ! Where ? 19 

Ham. Not where he eats, but where he is 
eaten. A certain convocation of [politic] worms 
are e’en at him. Your worm is your only em¬ 
peror for diet. We fat all creatures else to fat 
us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat 
king and your lean beggar is but variable ser¬ 
vice, two dishes, but to one table; that’s the 
end. 26 

[King. Alas, alas ! 

Ham. A man may fish with the worm that 
hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath 
fed of that worm.] 30 

King. What dost thou mean by this ? 

Ham. Nothing but to show you how a king 
may go a progress through the guts of a beggar. 
King. Where is Polonius ? 34 

Ham. In heaven ; send thither to see. If 
your messenger find him not there, seek him i’ 
the other place yourself. But indeed, if you 
find him not [within] this month, you shall nose 
him as you go up the stairs into the lobby. 
King. Go seek him there. 4 ° 

[To some Attendants.] 
Ham. He will stay till ye come. 

[Exeunt Attendants.] 
King. Hamlet, this deed of thine, for thine 
especial safety, — 

Which we do tender, as we dearly grieve 
For that which thou hast done,—must send 
thee hence 

With fiery quickness; therefore prepare thyself. 
The bark is ready, and the wind at help, « 
The associates tend, and everything is bent 
For England. 


Ham. For England ? 

King. Ay, Hamlet. 

Ham. Good. 

King. So is it, if thou knew’st our purposes. 
Ham. I see a cherub that sees them. But, 
come, for England ! Farewell, dear mother. 61 
King. Thy loving father, Hamlet. 

Ham. My mother. Father and mother is man 
and wife, man and wife is one flesh, and so, my 
mother. Come, for England ! [Exit, be 

King. Follow him at foot, tempt him with 
speed aboard. 

Delay it not; I ’ll have him hence to-night. 
Away ! for everything is seal’d and done 
That else leans on the affair. Pray you, make 
haste. 

[Exeunt Kosencrantz and Guilden¬ 
stern.] 

And, England, if my love thou hold’st at 
aught, — «• 

As my great power thereof may give thee sense, 
Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red 
After the Danish sword, and thy free awe 
Pays homage to us — thou mayst not coldly set 
Our sovereign process, which imports at full, es 
By letters conjuring to that effect, 

The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England ; 
For like the hectic in my blood he rages, 

And thou must cure me. Till I know’t is done, 
Howe’er my haps, my joys were ne’er begun, io 

[Exit. 

■ [Scene IV. A plain in Denmark.] 

Enter Fortinbras, [a Captain,] and army , 
[marching]. 

For. Go, captain, from me greet the Danish 
king. 

Tell him that, by his license, Fortinbras 
Claims the conveyance of a promis’d march 
Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous. 
If that his Majesty would aught with us, b 
W e shall express our duty in his eye ; 

And let him know so. 

Cap. I will do’t, my lord. 

For. Go softly on. 

[Exeunt Fortinbras [and Soldiers], 

[Enter Hamlet, Rosencrantz, and others. 

Ham. Good sir, whose powers are these ? 
Cap. They are of Norway, sir. 10 

Ham. How purpos’d, sir, I pray you ? 

Cap. Against some part of Poland. 

Ham. Who commands them, sir ? 

Cap. The nephew to old Norway, Fortin¬ 
bras. 

Ham. Goes it against the main of Poland, 
sir, is 

Or for some frontier ? 

Cap. Truly to speak, and with no addition, 
We go to gain a little patch of ground 
That hath in it no profit but the name. 

To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it; 20 
Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole 
A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee. 

Ham. Why, then the Polack never "will de- 
fend it, 




922 


HAMLET 


IV. V. 


Cap. Yes, it is already garrison’d. 

Ham. Two thousand souls and twenty thou¬ 
sand ducats 25 

Will not debate the question of this straw. 

This is the imposthume of much wealth and 
peace, 

That inward breaks, and shows no cause with¬ 
out 

Why the man dies. I humbly thank you, sir. 
Cap. God buy you, sir. [Exit,] 

Bos. Will’t please you go, my lord? 30 

Ham. I’ll be with you straight. Go a little 
before. [Exeunt all except Hamlet.] 

How all occasions do inform against me, 

And spur my dull revenge ! What is a man, 

If his chief good and market of his time 
Be but to sleep and feed ? A beast, no more. 35 
Sure, He that made us with such large dis¬ 
course, 

Looking before and after, gave us not 
That capability and god-like reason 
To fust in us unus’d. Now, whether it be 
Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple 40 
Of thinking too precisely on the event, — 

A thought which, quarter’d, hath but one part 
wisdom 

And ever three parts coward, — I do not know 
Why yet I live to say, “ This thing’s to do,” 
Sith I have cause and will and strength and 
means 45 

To do’t. Examples gross as earth exhort me ; 
Witness this army of such mass and charge 
Led by a delicate and tender prince, 

Whose spirit with divine ambition puff’d 
Makes mouths at the invisible event, bo 

Exposing what is mortal and unsure 
To all that fortune, death, and danger dare, 
Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to be great 
Is not to stir without great argument, 

But greatly to find quarrel in a straw 55 

When honour’s at the stake. How stand I 
then, 

That have a father kill’d, a mother stain’d, 
Excitements of my reason and my blood, 

And let all sleep, while to my shame I see 
The imminent death of twenty thousand men, 
That for a fantasy and trick of fame 6i 

Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot 
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, 
Which is not tomb enough and continent 
To hide the slain ? 0, from this time forth, cs 
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth !] 

[Exit. 

[Scene V. Elsinore. A room in the castle .] 
Enter Queen, Horatio [and a Gentleman]. 

Queen. I will not speak with her. 

[Gent.] She is importunate, indeed distract. 
Her mood will needs be pitied. 

Queen. What would she have ? 

[Gent.] She speaks much of her father; says 
she hears 

There’s tricks i’ the world, and hems, and 
beats her heart, 5 

Spurns enviously at straws, speaks things in 
doubt 


That carry but half sense. Her speech is 
nothing, 

Yet the unshaped use of it doth move 
The hearers to collection. They aim at it 
And botch the words up fit to their own 
thoughts ; _ 10 

Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures 
yield them, 

Indeed would make one think there would be 
thought, 

Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. 
[Hor.] ’Twere good she were spoken with, 
for she may strew 

Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds, is 
Let her come in. [Exit Gentleman.] 

Queen. [Aside.]. To my sick soul, as sin’s 
true nature is, 

Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss ; 
So full of artless jealousy is guilt, 

It spills itself in fearing to be spilt. 20 

Enter Ophelia, distracted. 

Oph. Where is the beauteous majesty of 
Denmark ? 

ueen. How now, Ophelia ! 
ph. [/Sings.] 

“ How should I your true love know 
From another one ? 

By his cockle hat and staff, 25 

And his sandal shoon.” 

Queen. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this 
song ? 

Oph. Say you ? Nay, pray you, mark. 
[/Sing's.] “ He is dead and gone, lady, 

He is dead and gone ; 30 

At his head a grass-green turf 
At his heels a stone.” 

Enter King. 

Queen. Nay, but, Ophelia, — 

Oph. Pray you, mark. 

[/Sings.] “ White his shroud as the mountain 
snow,” — 35 

Queen. Alas, look here, my lord. 

Oph. [/Sings.] 

“ Larded with sweet flowers ; 

Which bewept to the grave did not go 
With true-love showers.” 

King. How do you, pretty lady ? 40 

Oph. Well, God ’ild you ! They say the owl 
was a baker’s daughter. Lord, we know what 
we are, but know not what we may be. God 
be at your table ! 

King. Conceit upon her father. 45 

Oph. Pray you, let’s have no words of this, 
but when they ask you what it means, say you 
this : 

[Sings.] “ To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day, 
All in the morning betime, 

And I a maid at your window, bo 
To be your Valentine. 

“Then up he rose and donn’d his 
clothes, 

And dupp’d the chamber door ; 
Let in the maid, that out a maid 
Never departed more.” bb 





IV. V. 


HAMLET 


9 2 3 


King. Pretty Ophelia! 

Oph. Indeed, la, without an oath I ’ll make 
an end on’t. 

“ By gis, and by Saint Charity, 

Alack ! and, Fie for shame ! co 

Young men will do’t, if they come to’t; 
By Cock, they are to blame. 


“ Quoth she, ‘ Before you tumbled me, 

You promis’d me to wed.’ 

‘ So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun, 05 
An thou hadst not come to my bed.’ ” 
King. How long hath she been thus ? 

Oph. I hope all will be well. We must be 
patient; but I cannot choose but weep, to 
think they should lay him i’ the cold ground. 
My brother shall know of it; and so I thank [to 
you for your good counsel. Come, my coach ! 
Good-night, ladies ; good-night, sweet ladies; 
good-night, good-night. [Exit. 

King. Follow her close; give her good 
watch, I pray you. \Kxeunt some.] 76 
O, this is the poison of deep grief ; it springs 
All from her father’s death. O Gertrude, 
Gertrude, 

When sorrows come, they come not single 
spies, 

But in battalions. First, her father slain; 79 

Next, your son gone ; and he most violent author 
Of his own just remove ; the people muddied, 
Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and 
whispers, 

For good Polonius’ death; and we have done 
but greenly 

In hugger-mugger to inter him ; poor Ophelia 
Divided from herself and her fair judgement, 86 
Without the which we are pictures, or mere 
beasts; 

Last, and as much containing as all these, 

Her brother is in secret come from France, 
Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds, 
And wants not buzzers to infect his ear »o 

With pestilent speeches of his father’s death, 
Wherein necessity, of matter beggar’d, 

Will nothing stick our persons to arraign 
In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, 

Like to a murdering-piece, in many places 95 
Gives me superfluous death. [ A noise within. 

Enter a Messenger. 


Queen. Alack, what noise is this ? 

King. Where are my Switzers? Let them 
guard the door. 

What is the matter ? 

Mess. Save yourself, my lord ! 

The ocean, overpeering of his list, 

Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste 
Than young Laertes, in a riotous head, 101 
O’erbears your officers. The rabble call him 


lord ; 

And, as the world were now but to begin, 

A ntiquity forgot, custom not known, 

(The ratifiers and props of every word,) i»6 
They cry, “Choose we! Laertes shall be king! ” 
Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the 
clouds, 

“ Laertes shall be king, Laertes king ! ” 


Queen. How cheerfully on the false trail 
they cry! 

0, this is counter, you false Danish dogs I no 


Enter Laertes [armed ; Danes following ]. 

King. The doors are broke. [ Noise within. 

Laer, Where is this king ? Sirs, stand you 
all without. 

Danes. No, let’s come in. 

Laer. I pray you, give me leave. 

Danes. We will, Ave will. 

[They retire without the door.] 
Laer. I thank you; keep the door. 0 thou 
vile king, 115 

Give me my father ! 

Queen. Calmly, good Laertes. 

Laer. That drop of blood that’s calm pro¬ 
claims me bastard, 

Cries cuckold to my father, brands the harlot 
Even here, between the chaste unsmirched 
brows 

Of my true mother. 

King. What is the cause, Laertes, 

That thy rebellion looks so giant-like ? m 

Let him go, Gertrude ; do not fear our per¬ 


son. 

There’s such divinity doth hedge a king, 

That treason can but peep to what it would, 
Acts little of his will. Tell me, Laertes, 126 
Why thou art thus incens’d. Let him go, 
Gertrude. 

Speak, man. 

Laer. Where’s my father ? 

King. Dead. 

Queen. But not by him. 

King. Let him demand his fill. 

Laer. How came he dead ? I ’ll not be jug¬ 
gl’d with. iso 

To hell, allegiance ! Vows, to the blackest 
devil! 

Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit! 

I dare damnation. To this point I stand, 

That both the worlds I give to negligence, 

Let come Avhat comes ; only I ’ll be reveng’d iss 
Most throughly for my father. 

King. Who shall stay you ? 

Laer. My will, not all the world. 

And for my means, I ’ll husband them so 
well, 

They shall go far with little. 

King. Good Laertes, 

If you desire to know the certainty wo 

Of your dear father’s death, is’t writ in your 


revenge 

That, swoopstake, you will draw both friend 
and foe, 

Winner and loser ? 

Laer. None but his enemies. 

King. Will you know them then ? 

Laer. To his good friends thus wide I ’ll ope 
my arms, . we 

And like the kind life-rend’ring pelican, 
Repast them with my blood. 

King. Why, now you speak 

Like a good child and a true gentleman. 

That I am guiltless of your father’s death, 

And am most sensibly in grief for it, wo 






924 


HAMLET 


iv. vi. 


It shall as level to your judgement pierce 
As day does to your eye. 

[A noise within: “ Let her come in! ” 

Re-enter Ophelia. 

Laer. How now ! what noise is that ? 

0 heat, dry up my brains! Tears seven times 
salt 

Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye ! isc 
By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by 
weight 

Till our scale turns the beam. O rose of 
May! 

Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia ! 

0 heavens ! is ’t possible, a young maid’s wits 
Should be as mortal as an old man’s life ? i6o 
Nature is fine in love, and where ’tis fine, 

It sends some precious instance of itself 
After the thing it loves. 

Oph. [Szngrs.] 

“ They bore him barefac’d on the bier ; 

Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny ; i65 

And on his grave rains many a tear,” — 
Fare you well, my dove ! 

Laer. Hadst thou thy wits and didst per¬ 
suade revenge, 

It could not move thus. 

Oph. You must sing, “ Down a-down, and [m 
you call him a-down-a.” 0, how the wheel be¬ 
comes it! It is the false steward, that stole his 
master’s daughter. 

Laer. This nothing’s more than matter, m 
Oph. There’s rosemary, that’s for remem¬ 
brance ; pray, love, remember; and there is 
pansies, that’s for thoughts. 

Laer. A document in madness, thoughts and 
remembrance fitted. 179 

Oph. There’s fennel for you, and colum¬ 
bines ; there’s rue for you, and here’s some for 
me; we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. 
O, you must wear your rue with a difference. 
There’s a daisy. I would give you some vio¬ 
lets, but they wither’d all when my father 
died. They say he made a good end, — iss 
[Singw.] “For bonny sweet Robin is all my 

i°y-” 

Laer. Thought and affliction, passion, hell 
itself, 

She turns to favour and to prettiness. 

Oph. [Sings.] 

“ And will he not come again ? wo 

And will he not come again ? 

No, no, he is dead ; 

Go to thy death-bed ; 

He never will come again. 

“ His beard as white as snow, 195 

All flaxen was his poll. 

He is gone, he is gone, 

And we cast away moan. 

God ha’ mercy on his soul! ” 

And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God 
buy ye. _ [Exit. 200 

Laer. Do you see this, you gods ? 

King. Laertes, I must commune with your 
grief. 

Or you deny me right. Go but apart, 


Make choice of whom your wisest friends you 
will, 

And they shall hear and judge ’twixt you and 
me. 20s 

If by direct or by collateral hand 
They find us touch’d, we will our kingdom 
give, 

Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours, 
To you in satisfaction ; but if not, 

Be you content to lend your patience to us, 210 
And we shall jointly labour with your soul 
To give it due content. 

Laer. Let this be so. 

His means of death, his obscure burial — 

No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o’er his 
bones, 

No noble rite nor formal ostentation — 215 

Cry to be heard, as ’t were from heaven to 
earth, 

That I must call’t in question. 

King. So you shall; 

And where the offence is let the great axe fall. 
I pray you, go with me. [Exeunt. 


[Scene VI. Another room in the castle .] 
Enter Horatio with an Attendant. 

Hor. What are they that would speak with 
me ? 

Att. Sailors, sir. They say they have letters 
for you. 

Hor. Let them come in. [ Exit Attendant .] 
I do not know from what part of the world 
I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet, e 

Enter Sailor. 

Sail. God bless you, sir. 

Hor. Let Him bless thee too. 

Sail. He shall, sir, an’t please Him. There’s 
a letter for you, sir — it comes from the ambas¬ 
sador that was bound for England — if your 
name be Horatio, as I am let to know it is. 11 

[Hor.] (Reads.) “ Horatio, when thou shalt 
have overlook’d this, give these fellows some 
means to the King ; they have letters for him. 
Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of 
very warlike appointment gave us chase. [15 
Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on 
a compelled valour. In the grapple 1 boarded 
them. On the instant they got clear of our 
ship, so I alone became their prisoner. They 
have dealt with me like thieves of mercy, [29 
but they knew what they did: ,1 am to do a 
good turn for them. Let the King have the 
letters I have sent, and repair thou to me with 
as much haste as thou wouldest fly death. I 
have words to speak in your ear will make 
thee dumb, yet are they much too light for [25 
the bore of the matter. These good fellows will 
bring thee where I am. Rosencrantz and Guild- 
enstern hold their course for England ; of them 
I have much to tell thee. Farewell. 30 

“ He that thou knowest thine, 

Hamlet.” 

Come, I will give you way for these your let¬ 
ters ; 






IV. Vll. 


HAMLET 


9 2 5 


And do ’t the speedier, that you may direct me 
To him from whom you brought them. 

[Exeunt. 


[Scbne VII. Another room in the castle.] 

Enter King and Laertes. 

King. Now must your conscience my acquit¬ 
tance seal; 

And you must put me in your heart for friend, 
Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear, 
That he which hath your noble father slain 
Pursued my life. 

Laer. It well appears. But tell me 

Why you proceeded not against these feats, e 
So crimeful and so capital in nature, 

As by your safety, wisdom, all things else, 

You mainly were stirr’d up. 

King. 0, for two special reasons, 

Which may to you, perhaps, seem much un¬ 
sinew’d, 10 

And yet to me they are strong. The Queen his 
mother 

Lives almost by his looks ; and for myself — 
My virtue or my plague, be it either which — 
She ’s so conjunctive to my life and soul, 

That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, i6 
I could not but by her. The other motive 
Why to a public count I might not go. 

Is the great love the general gender bear him ; 
Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, 
Would, like the spring that turneth wood to 
stone, 20 

Convert his gyves to graces ; so that my arrows, 
Too slightly timb’red for so loud a wind, 
Would have reverted to my bow again, 

And not where I had aim’d them. 

Laer. And so have I a noble father lost, 2s 
A sister driven into desperate terms, 

Whose worth, if praises may go back again, 
Stood challenger on mount of all the age 
For her perfections. But my revenge will come. 
King. Break not your sleeps for that. You 
must not think so 

That we are made of stuff so flat and dull 
That we can let our beard be shook with danger 
And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear 
more. 

I lov’d your father, and we love ourself, 

And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine — se 

Enter a Messenger with letters. 


How now ! What news ? 

Mess. Letters, my lord, from Hamlet. 

This to your Majesty ; this to the Queen. 

King. From Hamlet! Who brought them ? 
Mess. Sailors, my lord, they say ; I saw them 
not. 

They were given me by Claudio. He receiv’d 
them 40 

[Of him that brought them]. 

King. Laertes, you shall hear them. 

Leave us. [Exit Messenger. 

[Reads.] “ High and mighty, You shall know 
I am set naked on your kingdom. To-morrow 
shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes, when 
I shall, first asking your pardon thereunto, re¬ 


count the occasions of my sudden and more 
strange return. « 

Hamlet.” 

What should this mean ? Are all the rest come 
back ? 

Or is it some abuse, or no such thing ? 

Laer. Know you the hand ? 

King. ’T is Hamlet’s character. “Naked I” 
And in a postscript here, he says, “ alone.” 

Can you advise me ? 

Laer. I’m lost in it, my lord. But let him 
come. es 

It warms the very sickness in my heart 
That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, 

“ Thus didest thou.” 

King. If it be so, Laertes, — 

As how should it be so ? How otherwise ? — 
Will you be rul’d by me ? 

Laer. [Ay, my lord,] eo 

If so you ’ll not o’errule me to a peace. 

King. To thine own peace. If he be now re¬ 
turn’d, 

As checking at his voyage, and that he means 
No more to undertake it, I will work him 
To an exploit, now ripe in my device, m 

Under the which he shall not choose but fall; 
And for his death no wind of blame shall 
breathe, 

But even his mother shall uncharge the practice 
And call it accident. 

[Laer. My lord, I will be rul’d ; 

The rather, if you could devise it so to 

That I might be the organ. 

King. It falls right. 

You have been talk’d of since your travel 
much, 

And that in Hamlet’s hearing, for a quality 
Wherein, they say, you shine. Your sum of 
parts 

Did not together pluck such envy from him ib 
A s did that one, and that, in my regard, 

Of the unworthiest siege. 

Laer. What part is that, my lord ? 

King. A very riband in the cap of youth, 

Yet needful too ; for youth no less becomes 
The light and careless livery that it wears «o 
Than settled age his sables and his weeds, 
Importing health and graveness.] Two months 
since, 

Here was a gentleman of Normandy ; — 

I’ve seen myself, and serv’d against, the French, 
And they can well on horseback; but this 
gallant ®s 

Had witchcraft in’t. He grew unto his seat, 
And to such wondrous doing brought his horse, 
As had he been incorps’d and demi-natur’d 
With the brave beast. So far he pass’d my 
thought, 

That I, in forgery of shapes and tricks, »o 
Come short of what he did. 

Laer. A Norman, was’t? 

King. A Norman. 

Laer. Upon my life, Lamound. 

King. The very same. 

Laer. I know him well. He is the brooch 
indeed 

And gem of all the nation. ac 





926 


HAMLET 


IV. vii. 


King. He made confession of you, 

And gave you such a masterly repoi't 
For art and exercise in your defence, 

And for your rapier most especially, 

That he cried out, ’t would be a sight indeed too 
If one could match you. [The scrimers of their 
nation, 

He swore, had neither motion, guard, nor eye, 
If you oppos’d them.] Sir, this report of his 
Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy 
That he could nothing do but wish and beg 105 
Your sudden coming o’er to play with him. 
Now, out of this — 

Laer. What out of this, my lord ? 

King. Laertes, was your father dear to you ? 
Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, 

A face without a heart ? 

Laer. Why ask you this ? no 

King. Not that I think you did not love your 
father, 

But that I know love is begun by time, 

And that I see, in passages of proof. 

Time qualifies the spark and fire of it. 

[There lives within the very flame of love us 
A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it, 

And nothing is at a like goodness still; 

For goodness, growing to a plurisy, 

Dies in his own too much. That we would do, 
We should do when we would; for this 
“ would ” changes, 120 

And hath abatements and delays as many 
As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents ; 
And then this “should” is like a spendthrift 
sigh, 

That hurts by easing. But, to the quick o’ the 
ulcer: —] 

Hamlet comes back. What would you under¬ 
take, 125 

To show yourself your father’s son in deed 
More than in words ? 

Laer. To cut his throat i’ the church. 

King. No place, indeed, should murder sanc- 
tuarize ; 

Revenge should have no bounds. But, good 
Laertes, 

Will you do this, keep close within your cham¬ 
ber ? 130 

Hamlet return’d shall know you are come 
home. 

We ’ll put on those shall praise your excellence 
And set a double varnish on the fame 
The Frenchman gave you, bring you in fine 
together 

And wager on your heads. He, being remiss, 135 
Most generous and free from all contriving, 
Will not peruse the foils, so that, with ease, 

Or with a little shuffling, you may choose 
A sword unbated, and in a pass of practice 
Requite him for your father. 

Laer. Iwilldo’t; 140 

And, for that purpose, I ’ll anoint my sword. 

I bought an unction of a mountebank, 

So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, 

Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, 
Collected from all simples that have virtue 145 
Under the moon, can save the thing from 
death 


That is but scratch’d withal. I ’ll touch my 
point 

With this contagion, that, if I gall him 
slightly, 

It may be death. 

King. Let’s further think of this, 

Weigh what convenience both of time and 
means > 16 ° 

May fit us to our shape. If this should fail, 
And that our drift look through our bad per¬ 
formance, 

’T were better not assay’d; therefore this pro¬ 
ject 

Should have a back or second, that might hold 
If this should blast in proof. Soft! let me see. 
We’ll make a solemn wager on your cun¬ 
nings, — iso 

I ha’t! 


When in your motion you are hot and dry — 
As make your bouts more violent to that end — 
And that he calls for drink, I ’ll have prepar’d 
him iso 

A chalice for the nonce, whereon but sipping, 
If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck, 
Our purpose may hold there. 


Enter Queen. 


How, sweet queen! 
Queen. One woe doth tread upon another’s 
heel, 

So fast they follow. Your sister’s drown’d, 
Laertes. ios 

Laer. Drown’d ! 0 , where ? 

Queen. There is a willow grows aslant a 
brook, 

That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream. 
There with fantastic garlands did she come 
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long pur¬ 
ples 170 

That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, 
But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call 
them; 

There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds 
Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke, 
When down her weedy trophies and herself ns 
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread 
wide, 

And, mermaid-like, a while they bore her up ; 
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes, 
As one incapable of her own distress, 

Or like a creature native and indued iso 

Unto that element. But long it could not be 
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, 
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay 
To muddy death. 

Laer. Alas, then, is she drown’d ? 

Queen. Drown’d, drown’d. ibs 

Laer. Too much of water hast thou, poor 
Ophelia, 

And therefore I forbid my tears. But yet 
It is our trick. Nature her custom holds, 

Let shame say what it will; when these are 
g° ne , 

The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord ; wo 
I have a speech of fire that fain would blaze, 
But that this folly douts it. [ Exit. 

King. Let’s follow, Gertrude. 





HAMLET 


9 2 7 


v. i. 


How much I had to do to calm his rage ! 
Now fear I this will give it start again, 
Therefore let’s follow. [ Exeunt . 


[ACT V] 

[Scene I. A churchyard.] 

Enter two Clowns [with spades and pickaxes]. 

1 . Clo. Is she to be buried in Christian burial 
that wilfully seeks her own salvation ? 

2. Clo. I tell thee she is, and therefore make 

her grave straight. The crowner hath sat on 
her, and finds it Christian burial. 5 

1 . Clo. How can that be, unless she drown’d 
herself in her own defence ? 

2. Clo. Why, ’t is found so. 

1 . Clo. It must be “se offendendo ,” it can¬ 
not be else. For here lies the point: if I [10 
drown myself wittingly, it argues an act, and 
an act hath three branches; it is, to act, to do, 
and to perform; argal, she drown’d herself 
wittingly. 

2. Clo. Nay, but hear you, goodman del- 

ver, — is 

1. Clo. Give me leave. Here lies the water ; 
good. Here stands the man ; good. If the man 
go to this water and drown himself, it is, will 
he, nill he, he goes,—mark you that? But if 
the water come to him and drown him, he 
drowns not himself ; argal, he that is not guilty 
of his own death shortens not his own life. 22 

2. Clo. But is this law ? 

1. Clo. Ay, marry, is’t; crowner’s quest law. 

2. Clo. Will you ha’ the truth on’t ? If this 

had not been a gentlewoman, she should have 
been buried out o’ Christian burial. 28 

1 . Clo. Why, there thou say’st; and the 

more pity that great folk should have counte¬ 
nance in this world to drown or hang them¬ 
selves, more than their even Christian. Come, 
my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but 
gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers; they 
hold up Adam’s profession. 35 

2. Clo. Was he a gentleman ? 

1 . Clo. He was the first that ever bore arms. 

2. Clo. Why, he had none. so 

1 . Clo. What, art a heathen ? How dost thou 
understand the Scripture ? The Scripture says 
Adam digg’d ; could he dig without arms ? I ’ll 
put another question to thee. If thou answerest 
me not to the purpose, confess thyself — 

2. Clo. Go to. 45 

1 . Clo. What is he that builds stronger than 
either the mason, the shipwright, or the car¬ 
penter ? 

2. Clo. The gallows-maker; for that frame 

outlives a thousand tenants. # bo 

1 . Clo. I like thy wit well, in good faith. 

The gallows does well; but how does it well ? 
It, does well to those that do ill. Now, thou 
dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than 
the church, argal, the gallows may do well to 
thee. To’t again, come. 66 

2. Clo. “ Who builds stronger than a mason, 
3 shipwright, or a carpenter ? ” 


1. Clo. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke. 

2. Clo. Marry, now I can tell. ea 

1 . Clo. To’t. 

2. Clo. Mass, I cannot tell. 

Enter Hamlet and Horatio, afar off. 

1. Clo. Cudgel thy brains no more about it, 
for your dull ass will not mend his pace with 
beating ; and, when you are ask’d this question 
next, say “a grave-maker”; the houses that 
he makes lasts till doomsday. Go, get thee to 
Yaughan ; fetch me a stoup of liquor. os 

[Exit 2. Clown.] 
[He digs , and] sings. 
“ In youth, when I did love, did love, 

Methought it was very sweet, 

To contract, O, the time for-a my behove, 

O, methought, there was nothing meet.” n 
Ham. Has this fellow no feeling of his busi¬ 
ness, that he sings at grave-making ? 

Hor. Custom hath made it in him a property 
of easiness. 

Ham. ’Tis e’en so. The hand of little em¬ 
ployment hath the daintier sense. 78 

1. Clo. (Sings.) 

“ But age, with his stealing steps, 

Hath claw’d me in his clutch, 

And hath shipped me intil the land, 

As if I had never been such.” «2 

[Throws up a skull.] 
Ham. That skull had a tongue in it, and 
could sing once. How the knave jowls it to the 
ground, as if it were Cain’s jaw-bone, that did 
the first murder! It might be the pate of a 
politician, which this ass now o’erreaches ; one 
that would circumvent God, might it not ? 

Hor. It might, my lord. so 

Ham. Or of a courtier, which could say, 
“ Good morrow, sweet lord ! How dost thou, 
good lord ? ” This might be my lord sueh-a- 
one, that prais’d my lord such-a-one’s horse, 
when he meant to beg it; might it not ? 

Hor. Ay, my lord. nc 

Ham. Why, e’en so ; and now my Lady 
Worm’s; chapless, and knock’d about the 
mazzard with a sexton’s spade. Here’s fine 
revolution, if we had the trick to see’t. Hid 
these bones cost no more the breeding, but to 
play at loggats with ’em ? Mine ache to think 
on’t. im 

1. Clo. (Sings.) 

“ A pick-axe, and a spade, a spade 
For and a shrouding sheet: 

0 , a pit of clay for to be made 
For such a guest is meet.” 1 »s 

[ Throws up another skull.] 
Ham. There’s another. Why might not that 
be the skull of a lawyer ? Where be his quid- 
dits now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and 
his tricks ? Why does he suffer this rude knave 
now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty 
shovel, and will not tell him of his action of [no 
battery? Hum! This fellow might be in’s 
time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, 
his recognizances, his fines his double vouch¬ 
ers, his recoveries. Is this the fine of his fines, 
and the recovery of his recoveries, to have [us 








928 


HAMLET 


his fine pate full of fine dirt ? Will his vouch¬ 
ers vouch him no more of his purchases, and 
double ones too, than the length and breadth 
of a pair of indentures ? The very conveyances 
of his lands will hardly lie in this box, and must 
the inheritor himself have no more, ha ? 121 

Hor. Not a jot more, my lord. 

Ham. Is not parchment made of sheep-skins ? 
Hor. Ay, my lord, and of calf-skins too. 
Ham. They are sheep and calves that seek 
out assurance in that. I will speak to this fel¬ 
low. Whose grave ’s this, sir ? 127 

1. Clo. Mine, sir. 

[$in<7s.] “ 0 , a pit of clay for to be made 
For such a guest is meet.” 

Ham. I think it be thine indeed, for thou 
liest in’t. 132 

1. Clo. You lie out on ’t, sir, and therefore 
it is not yours. For my part, I do not lie in ’t, 
and yet it is mine. 

Ham. Thou dost lie in ’t, to be in’t and 
say’t is thine. ’T is for the dead, not for the 
quick, therefore thou liest. 138 

1 . Clo. ’T is a quick lie, sir ; ’t will away 
again, from me to you. 

Ham. What man dost thou dig it for ? 

1. Clo. For no man, sir. 

Ham. What woman, then ? 

1. Clo. For none, neither. 

Ham. Who is to be buried in ’t ? 145 

1. Clo. One that was a Avoman, sir ; but, rest 
her soul, she’s dead. 

Ham. How absolute the knave is ! We must 
speak by the card, or equivocation will undo 
us. By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I 
have taken note of it; the age is grown so [iso 
picked that the toe of the peasant comes so 
near the heels of our courtier, he galls his kibe. 
How long hast thou been a grave-maker ? 154 

1 . Clo. Of all the days i’ the year, I came 
to ’t that day that our last king Hamlet o’er- 
came Fortinbras. 

Ham. How long is that since ? iss 

1. Clo. Cannot you tell that ? Every fool can 
tell that. It was the very day that young Ham¬ 
let was born ; he that was mad, and sent into 
England. io* 

Ham. Ay, marry, why was he sent into Eng¬ 
land ? 

1. Clo. Why, because ’a was mad. He shall 
recover his wits there ; or, if he do not, it’s no 
great matter there. 

Ham. . Why ? 

1 . Clo. ’T will not be seen in him there ; 
there the men are as mad as he. no 

Ham. How came he mad ? 

1 . Clo. Very strangely, they say. 

Ham. How u strangely” ? 

1. Clo. Faith, e’en with losing his wits. 

Ham. Upon what ground ? 175 

1. Clo. Why, here in Denmark. I have been 
sexton here, man and boy, thirty years. 

Ham. How long will a man lie i’ the earth 
ere he rot ? 179 

1 . Clo. I’ faith, if he be not rotten before he 
die — as we have many pocky corses now-a- 
days, that will scarce hold the laying in — he 


V. \ 


will last you some eight year or nine year. A 
tanner will last jmu nine year. 

Ham. Why he more than another ? isb 

1. Clo. Why, sir, his hide is so tann’d with 
his trade that he will keep out water a great 
while, and your water is a sore decayer of your 
whoreson dead body. Here’s a skull now ; this 
skull has lain in the earth threfe and twenty 
years. m 

Ham. Whose was it ? 

1 . Clo. A whoreson mad fellow’s it was. 
Whose do you think it was ? 

Ham. Nay, I know not. 195 

1. Clo. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue I 
’A pour’d a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. 
This same skull, sir, was Yorick’s skull, the 
King’s jester. 

Ham. This ? 200. 

1 . Clo. E’en that. 

Ham. Let me see. [Takes the skull.] Alas, 
poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio ; a fellow 
of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He 
hath borne me on his back a thousand times. 
And now how abhorred in my imagination [205 
it is ! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those 
lips that I have kiss’d I know not how oft. 
Where be your gibes now, your gambols, your 
songs, your flashes of merriment, that were 
wont to set the table on a roar ? Not one [210 
now, to mock your own grinning? Quite chop- 
fallen ? Now get you to my lady’s chamber, 
and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this 
favour she must come. Make her laugh at that. 
Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing. 210 

Hor. What’s that, my lord ? 

Ham. Dost thou think Alexander look’d o’ 
this fashion i’ the earth ? 

Hor. E’en so. 220 

Ham. And smelt so ? Pah ! 

[Puts down the skull.] 

Hor. E’en so, my lord. 

Ham. To what base uses we may return, 
Horatio ! Why may not imagination trace the 
noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping 
a bung-hole ? 220 

Hor. ’T were to consider too curiously, to 
consider so. 

Ham. No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him 
thither with modesty enough and likelihood 
to lead it; as thus: Alexander died, Alex- [230 
ander was buried, Alexander returneth into 
dust, the dust is earth, of earth we make loam, 
and why. of that loam whereto he was con¬ 
verted might they not stop a beer-barrel ? 235 

Imperial Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay, 

Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. 

0 , that that earth, which kept the world in 
awe, 

Should patch a wall to expel the winter’s flaw ! 
But soft! but soft! Aside ! Here comes the 
King, 240 

Hnter [Priests, etc., in procession;] Kino, 
Queen, Laertes, and a Coffin , with Lords 
attendant. 

The Queen, the courtiers. Who is that they 
follow ? * 






HAMLET 


v. u. 


9 2 9 


And with such maimed rites ? This doth be¬ 
token 

The corse they follow did with desperate hand 
Fordo it own life. ’T was of some estate. 

Couch we a while, and mark. 245 

[Retiring with Horatio .] 
Laer. What ceremony else ? 

Ham. That is Laertes, a very noble youth. 
Mark. 

Laer. What ceremony else ? 

Priest. Her obsequies have been as far en¬ 
larg’d 

As we have warrantise. Her death was doubt¬ 
ful ; 250 

And, but that great command o’ersways the 
order, 

She should in ground unsanctified have lodg’d 
Till the last trumpet; for charitable prayer, 
Shards, flints, and pebbles should be thrown on 
her. 

Yet here she is allowed her virgin rites, 255 
Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home 
Of bell and burial. 

Laer. Must there no more be done ? 

Priest. No more be done. 

We should profane the service of the dead 
To sing such requiem and such rest to her 200 
As to peace-parted souls. 

Laer. Lay her i’ the earth, 

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring ! I tell thee, churlish priest, 
A minist’ring angel shall my sister be, 

When thou liest howling. 

Ham. What, the fair Ophelia ! 

Queen. Sweets to the sweet; farewell! 2«« 

[Scattering .flowers.] 
I hop’d thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s 
wife. 

I thought thy bride-bed to have deck’d, sweet 
maid, 

And not to have strew’d thy grave. 

Laer. O, treble woe 

Fall ten times treble on that cursed head 270 
Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense 
Depriv’d thee of ! Hold off the earth a while, 
Till I have caught her once more in mine arms. 

[Leaps in the grave. 

Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead, 
Till of this flat a mountain you have made 276 
To o’ertop old Pelion, or the skyish head 
Of blue Olympus. 

Ham. [Advancing.] What is he whose grief 
Bears such an emphasis, whose phrase of sor¬ 
row 

Conjures the wand’ring stars and makes them 
stand . . 

Like wonder-wounded hearers ? This is I, 28» 
Hamlet, the Dane ! [Leaps into the grave.] 

Laer. The devil take thy soul! 

[Grappling with him.] 
Ham. Thou pray’st, not well. 

I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat, 

For, though I am not splenitive and rash, 

Yet have I something in me dangerous, 286 
Which let thy wiseness fear. Away thy hand ! 
King. Pluck them asunder. 

Queen. Hamlet, Hamlet! 


[All. Gentlemen, — 

Hor.] Good my lord, be quiet. 

[The Attendants part them , and they 
come out of the grave .] 

Ham. Why, I will fight with him upon this 
theme 

Until my eyelids will no longer wag. 290 

Queen. O my son, what theme ? 

Ham. I lov’d Ophelia. Forty thousand bro¬ 
thers 

Could not, with all their quantity of love, 
f Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her ? 
^ King. O, he is mad, Laertes. 295 

Queen. For love of God, forbear him. 

Ham. [’Swounds,] show me what thou ’It do. 
Woo’t weep? Woo ’t fight? [Woo ’t fast?] 
Woo ’t tear thyself ? 

Woo ’t drink up eisel ? Eat a crocodile ? 

I ’ll do’t. Dost thou come here to whine ? 300 

To outface me with leaping in her grave ? 

Be buried quick with her, and so will I; 

And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw 
Millions of acres on us, till our ground, 
Singeing his pate against the burning zone, so*. 
Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou ’It mouth, 
I ’ll rant as well as thou. 

[Queen.] This is mere madness, 

Ana thus a while the fit will work on him. 
Anon, as patient as the female dove, 

When that her golden couplets are disclos’d, 310 
His silence will sit drooping. 

Ham. Hear you, sir, 

What is the reason that you use me thus ? 

I lov’d you ever. But it is no matter. 

Let Hercules himself do what he may, 

The cat will mew and dog will have his day. 316 

[Exit. 

King. I pray you, good Horatio, wait upon 
him. [Exit Horatio.] 

[To Laertes.] Strengthen your patience in our 
last night’s speech; 

We ’ll put the matter to the present push. 

Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son. 
This grave shall have a living monument. 320 
An hour of quiet shortly shall we see ; 

Till then, in patience our proceeding be. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. A hall in the castle.] 

Enter Hamlet and Horatio. 

Ham. So much for this, sir ; now let me see 
the other. 

You do remember all the circumstance? 

Hor. Remember it, my lord ! 

Ham. Sir, in my heart there was a kind of 
fighting, 

That would not let me sleep. Methought I lay » 
Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. 
Rashly, — 

And prais’d be rashness for it; let us know 
Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well 
When our deep plots do pall; and that should 
teach us 

There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, 10 
Rough-hew them how we will, — 

Hor. That is most certain. 




930 


HAMLET 


v. it 


Ham. Up from my cabin, 

My sea-gown scarf’d about me, in the dark 
Grop’d I to find out them ; had my desire; 
Finger’d their packet; and in fine withdrew is 
To mine own room again, making so bold, 

My fears forgetting manners, to unseal 
Their grand commission; where I found, Ho¬ 
ratio, — 

0 royal knavery ! —an exact command, 

Larded with many several sorts of reason 20 
Importing Denmark’shealthand England’s too, 
With, ho ! such bugs and goblins in my life, 
That, on the supervise, no leisure bated, 

No, not to stay the grinding of the axe, 

My head should be struck off. 

Hor. Is’t possible ? 25 

Ham. Here’s the commission; read it at 
more leisure. 

But wilt thou hear me how I did proceed ? 

Hor. I beseech you. 

Ham. Being thus be-netted round with vil¬ 
lainies, — 

Ere I could make a prologue to my brains, 30 
They had begun the play, — I sat me down, 
Devis’d a new commission, wrote it fair. 

I once did hold it, as our statists do, 

A baseness to write fair, and labour’d much 
How to forget that learning ; but, sir, now 35 
It did me yeoman’s service. Wilt thou know 
The effect of what I wrote ? 

Hor. Ay, good my lord. 

Ham. An earnest conjuration from the King, 
As England was his faithful tributary, 

As love between them as the palm should flour¬ 
ish, 40 

As Peace should still her wheaten garland wear 
And stand a comma ’tween their amities, 

And many such-like as-es of great charge, 

That, on the view and know of these contents, 
Without debatement further, more or less, 45 
He should the bearers put to sudden death, 

Not shriving time allow’d. 

Hor. ' How was this seal’d ? 

Ham. Why, even in that was Heaven ordi- 
nant. 

I had my father’s signet in my purse, 

Which was the model of that Danish seal; eo 
Folded the writ up in form of the other, 
Subscrib’d it, gave’t the impression, plac’d it 
safely. 

The changeling never known. Now, the next 
day 

Was our sea-fight; and what to this was se¬ 
quent 

Thou know’st already. 55 

Hor. So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz ero 
to’t. 

Ham. Why, man, they did make love to this 
employment; 

They are not near ray conscience. Their defeat 
Doth by their own insinuation grow. 

’T is dangeixms when the baser nature comes eo 
Between the pass and fell incensed points 
Of mighty opposites. 

Hor. Why, what a king is this ! 

Ham. Does it not, thinks’t thee, stand me 
now upon — 


He that hath kill’d my king and whor’d my 
inother, 

Popp’d in between the election and my hopes, ee 
Thrown out his angle for my proper life, 

And with such cozenage — is’t not perfect com 
science, 

To quit him with this arm ? And is ’t not to 
be damn’d, 

To let this canker of our nature come 
In further evil ? 7 c 

Hor. It must be shortly known to him from 
England 

What is the issue of the business there. 

Ham. It will be short; the interim is mine, 
And a man’s life’s no more than to say “ One.’ 
But I am very sorry, good Horatio, it. 

That to Laertes I forgot myself ; 

For, by the image of my cause, I see 
The portraiture of his. I ’ll court his favours. 
But, sure, the bravery of his grief did put me 
Into a tow’ring passion. 

Hor. Peace! who comes here ? 8 » 

Enter young Osric. 

Osr. Your lordship is right welcome back 
to Denmark. 

Ham . I humbly thank you, sir. — Dost know 
this water-fly ? 

Hor. No, my good lord. 85 

Ham. Thy state is the more gracious, for’t is 
a vice to know him. He hath much land, and 
fertile; let a beast be lord of beasts, and his 
crib shall stand at the King’s mess. ’T is a 
chough, but, as I say, spacious in the posses¬ 
sion of dirt. 9 o 

Osr. Sweet lord, if your lordship were at 
leisure, I should impart a thing to you from his 
Majesty. 

Ham. I will receive it with all diligence of 
spirit. Put your bonnet to his right use; ’t is 
for the head. 9 * 

Osr. I thank your lordship, ’t is very hot. 
Ham. No, believe me, ’t is very cold ; the 
wind is northerly. 

Osr. It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed. 100 
Ham. Methinks it is very sultry and hot for 
my complexion. 

Osr. Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sul¬ 
try, — as’t were, — I cannot tell how. But, my 
lord, his Majesty bade me signify to you that 
he has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, 
this is the matter, — 107 

Ham. I beseech you, remember — 

[Hamlet moves him to put on his hat.] 
Osr. Nay, in good faith; for mine ease, in 
good faith. [Sir, here is newly come to court [110 
Laertes, believe me, an absolute gentleman, 
full of most excellent differences, of very soft 
society and great showing; indeed, to speak 
feelingly of him, he is the card or calendar of 
gentry, for you shall find in him the continent 
of what part a.gentleman would see. m 

Ham. Sir, his definement suffers no perditioi 
in you; though, I know, to divide him inven- 
torially would dizzy the arithmetic of memory, 
and yet. but yaw neither, in respect of his 
quick sail. But, in the verity of extolment, [120 






V. 11. 


HAMLET 


93i 


I take him to be a soul of great article ; and 
his infusion of such dearth and rareness, as, to 
make true diction of him, his semblable is his 
mirror; and who else would trace him, his 

umbrage, nothing more. 125 

Osr. Your lordship speaks most infallibly of 
him. 

Ham. The concernancy, sir? Why do we 
wrap the gentleman in our more rawer breath ? 
Osr. Sir? 130 

Hor. Is ’t not possible to understand in an¬ 
other tongue? You will do ’t, sir, really. 

Ham. What imports the nomination of this 
gentleman ? 

Osr. Of Laertes ? 135 

Hor. His purse is empty already. All’s 

golden words are spent. 

Ham. Of him, sir. 

Osr. I know you are not ignorant— 139 

Ham. I would you did, sir; yet, in faith, if 
you did, it would not much approve me. Well, 
sir ? ] 

Osr. You are not ignorant of what excel¬ 
lence Laertes is — 144 

[Ham. I dare not confess that, lest I should 
compare with him in excellence ; but to know 
a man well were to know himself. 

Osr. I mean, sir, for his weapon ; but in the 
imputation laid on him by them, in his meed 
he’s unfellowed.J iso 

Ham. What’s his weapon ? 

Osr. Rapier and dagger. 

Ham. That’s two of his weapons ; but well. 
Osr. The King, sir, has wag’d with him six 
Barbary horses, against the which he has [iss 
impon’d, as I take it, six French rapiers and 
poniards, with their assigns, as girdle, hanger, 
or so. Three of the carriages, in faith, are 
very dear to fancy, very responsive to the hilts, 
most delicate carriages, and of very liberal 

conceit. # 160 

Ham. What call you the carriages ? 

[Hor. I knew you must be edified by the 
margent ere you had done.] 

Osr. The carriages, sir, are the hangers. 104 
Ham. The phrase would be more germane 
to the matter, if we could carry cannon by our 
sides; I would it might be hangers till then. 
But, on : six Barbary horses against six French 
swords, their assigns, and three liberal-con¬ 
ceited carriages ; that’s the French bet against 
the Danish. Why is this “ impon’d,” as you 
call it ? 171 

Osr. The King, sir, hath laid that in a dozen 
passes between you and him, he shall not ex¬ 
ceed you three hits ; he hath laid on twelve for 
nine ; and that would come to immediate trial, 
if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer. 
Ham. How if I answer no ? 477 

Osr. I mean, my lord, the opposition of your 
person in trial. 

Ham. Sir, I will walk here in the hall ; if it 
please his Majesty, ’t is the breathing time of 
day with me. Let the foils be brought, the 
gentleman willing, and the King hold his pur¬ 
pose, I will win for him if I can ; if not, I ’ll 
train nothing but my shame and the odd hits, is* 


Osr. Shall I re-deliver you e’en so ? 

Ham. To this effect, sir ; after what flourish 
your nature will. ws 

Osr. I commend my duty to your lordship. 
Ham. Yours, yours. [Exit Osric .] He does 
well to commend it himself; there are no 
tongues else for’s turn. 

Hor. This lapwing runs away with the shell 
on his head. 194 

Ham. He did comply with his dug before he 
suck’d it. Thus has he, and many more of the 
same bevy that I know the drossy age dotes on, 
only got the tune of the time and outward 
habit of encounter ; a kind of yesty collection, 
which carries them through and through the 
most fond and winnowed opinions; and [200 
do but blow them to their trials, the bubbles 
are out. 

[Enter a Lord. 

Lord. My lord, his Majesty commended him 
to you by young Osric, who brings back to him, 
that you attend him in the hall. He sends to 
know if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes, 
or that you will take longer time. 207 

Ham. I am constant to my purposes ; they 
follow the King’s pleasure. If his fitness 
speaks, mine is ready, now or whensoever, pro¬ 
vided I be so able as now. 211 

Lord. The King and Queen and all are com¬ 
ing down. 

Ham. In happy time. 214 

Lord. The Queen desires you to use some 
gentle entertainment to Laertes before you fall 
to play. 

Ham. She well instructs me.] [Exit Lord.] 
Hor. You will lose this wager, my lord. 219 
Ham. I do not think so ; since he went into 
France, I have been in continual practice. I 
shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not 
think how ill all’s here about my heart. But 
it is no matter. 

Hor. Nay, good my lord, — . 224 

Ham. It is but foolery ; but it is such a kind 
of gain-giving, as would perhaps trouble a wo¬ 
man. 

Hor. If your mind dislike anything, obey it. 
I will forestall their repair hither, and say you 
are not fit. 22 » 

Ham. Not a whit; we defy augury. There ’3 
a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. 
If it be now, ’tis not to come ; if it be not to 
come, it will be now ; if it be not now, yet it 
will come ; the readiness is all. Since no man 
has aught of what he leaves, what is’t to leave 
betimes ? [Let be.] 235 

Enter King, Queen, Laf.rtes, [Osric,] Lords , 
and other Attendants with foils and gauntlets ; 
a table and flagons of wine on it. 

King. Come, Hamlet, come, and take this 
hand from me. 

[The King puts Laertes's hand into 
Hamlet's.] 

Ham. Give me your pardon, sir. I’ve done 
you wrong, 

But pardon’t, as you are a gentleman* 




932 


HAMLET 


v. u. 


This presence knows, 

And you must needs have heard, how I am 
punish’d 240 

With sore distraction. What I have done 
That might your nature, honour, and exception 
Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness. 
Was’t Hamlet wrong’d Laertes ? Never Ham¬ 
let! 

If Hamlet from himself he ta’en away, 245 

And when he’s not himself does wrong Laertes, 
Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it. 
Who does it, then ? His madness. If’t be so, 
Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong’d ; 

His madness is poor Hamlet’s enemy. 250 

Sir, in this audience, 

Let my disclaiming from a purpos’d evil 
Free me so far in your most generous thoughts, 
That I have shot mine arrow o’er the house 
And hurt my brother. 

Laer. I am satisfied in nature, 

Whose motive, in this case, should stir me 

most 256 

To my revenge ; but in my terms of honour 
I stand aloof, and will no reconcilement, 

Till by some elder masters of known honour 
I have a voice and precedent of peace, 260 

To keep my name ungor’d. But, till that time, 
I do receive your offer’d love like love, 

And will not wrong it. 

Ham. I embrace it freely, 

And will this brother’s wager frankly play. 
Give us the foils. Come on. 

Laer. Come, one for me. 

Ham. I ’ll be your foil, Laertes; in mine 
ignorance 266 

Your skill shall, like a stari’ the darkest night, 
Stick fiery off indeed. 

Laer. You mock me, sir. 

Ham. No, by this hand. 

King. Give them the foils, young Osric. 
Cousin Hamlet, ' 270 

You know the wager ? 

Ham. Very well, my lord. 

Your Grace hath laid the odds o’ the weaker 
side. 

King. I do not fear it, I have seen you both ; 
But since he is better’d, we have therefore 
odds. 

Laer. This is too heavy, let me see another. 
Ham. This likes me well. These foils have 
all a length ? [They prepare to play. 276 
Osr. Ay, my good lord. 

King. Set me the stoups of wine upon that 
table. 

If Hamlet give the first or second hit, 

Or quit in answer of the third exchange, 280 
Let all the battlements their ordnance fire. 

The King shall drink to Hamlet’s better 
breath, 

And in the cup an union shall he throw, 

Richer than that which four successive kings 
In Denmark’s crown have worn. Give me the 
cups, 285 

And let the kettle to the trumpets speak, 

The trumpet to the cannoneer without, 

The cannons to the heavens, the heaven to 
earth, 


“ Now the King drinks to Hamlet.” Come, 
begin ; 

And you, the judges, bear a wary eye. * 290 

Ham. Come on, sir. 

Laer. Come, my lord. [They play. 

Ha m. One. 

Laer. No. 

Ham. Judgement. 

Osr. A hit, a very palpable hit. 

Laer. Well; again. 

King. Stay, give me drink. Hamlet, this 
pearl is thine ; 

Here’s to thy health ! Give him the cup. 

[Trumpets sound , and shot g’oes off 
[within]. 

Ham. I ’ll play this bout first; set it by a 
while. 295 

Come. [They play.] Another hit; what say 
you ? 

Laer. A touch, a touch, I do confess. 

King. Our son shall win. 

Queen. He’s fat, and scant of breath. 

Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows. 
The Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet, 300 
Ham. Good madam! 

King. Gertrude, do not drink. 

Queen. I will, my lord ; I pray you, pardon 


me. 

King. [Aside.] It is the poison’d cup; it is 
too late. 

Ham. I dare not drink yet, madam ; by and 
by. 

Queen. Come, let me wipe thy face. 306 

Laer. My lord, I ’ll hit him now. 

King. I do not think’t. 

Laer. [Aside.] And yet ’t is almost ’gainst 
my conscience. 

Ham. Come, for the third, Laertes; you 
but dally. 

I pray you, pass with your best violence. 

I am afeard you make a wanton of me. 310 

Laer. Say you so? Come on. [They play. 

Osr. Notliing, neither way. 

Laer. Have at you now I 

[Laertes wounds Hamlet; then^]in 
scuffling , they change rapiers. 

King. Part them ; they are incens’d. 

Ham. Nay, come, again. 

[Hamlet wounds Laertes. The 
Queen falls.] 

Osr. Look to the Queen there ! Ho ! 

Hor. They bleed on both sides. How is’t, 
my lord ! as 

Osr. How is’t, Laertes ? 

Laer. Why, as a woodcock to mine own 
springe, Osric ; 

I am justly kill’d with mine own treachery. 

Ham. How does the Queen ? 

King. She swounds to see them bleed. 

Queen. No, no, the drink, the drink, — O 
my dear Hamlet, — 320 

The drink, the drink ! I am poison’d. [Dies.) 

Ham. 0 villainy! Ho! let the door be 
lock’d : 

Treachery ! Seek it out. 

Laer. It is here, Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art 
slain. 




v. ii. 


HAMLET 


933 


No medicine in the world can do thee good ; 325 
In thee there is not half an hour of life. 

The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, 
Unbated and envenom’d. The foul practice 
Hath turn’d itself on me. Lo, here I lie, 

Never to rise again. Thy mother ’s poison’d. 330 
I can no more: — the King, the King’s to blame. 

Ham. The point envenom’d too ! 

Then, venom, to thy work. [ Hurts the King. 

All. Treason ! treason ! 

King. 0 , yet defend me, friends ; I am but 
hurt. 336 

Ham. Here, thou incestuous, murderous, 

damned Dane, 

Drink off this potion ! Is thy union here ? 
Follow my mother ! [King dies. 

Laer. He is justly serv’d ; 

It is a poison temp’red by himself. 339 

Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet. 
Mine and my father’s death come not upon 
thee, 

Nor thine on me ! [Dies. 

Ham. Heaven make thee free of it! I follow 
thee. 

I am dead, Horatio. Wretched queen, adieu ! 
You that look pale and tremble at this chance, 
That are but mutes or audience to this act, 346 
Had I but time— as this fell sergeant, Death, 

Is strict in his arrest — O, I could tell you — 

But let it be. Horatio, I am dead ; 

Thou liv’st. Report me and my cause aright 350 
To the unsatisfied. 

Hot. Never believe it. 

I am' more an antique Roman than a Dane ; 
Here’s yet some liquor left. 

Ham. As thou ’rt a man, 

Give me the cup. Let go! By heaven, I ’ll 
have ’t! 

0 good Horatio, what a wounded name, 355 
Things standing thus unknown, shall live be¬ 
hind me ! 

If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, 

Absent thee from felicity a while 
And in this harsh world draw thy breath in 
pain 

To tell my story. 

[March afar off, and shot within. 
What warlike noise is this? 
Osr. Young Fortinbras, with conquest come 
from Poland, sei 

To the ambassadors of England gives 
This warlike volley. 

Ham. 0 , I die, Horatio; 

The potent poison quite o’er-crows my spirit. 

I cannot live to hear the news from England, 
But I do prophesy the election lights 366 

On Fortinbras ; he has my dying voice. 

So tell him, with the occurrents, more and 
less, 

Which have solicited — The rest is silence. 

[Dies. 

Hot. Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, * 
sweet prince, 37 °^ 


And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! 
Why does the drum come hither ? 

[March within .] 

Enter Fortinbras and the English Ambassa¬ 
dor, with drum , colours , and Attendants. 

Fort. Where is this sight ? 

Hor. What is it ye would see ? 

If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search. 
Fort. This quarry cries on havoc. 0 proud 

Death, 378 

What feast is toward in thine eternal cell, 

That thou so many princes at a shot 
So bloodily hast struck ? 

Amb. The sight is dismal, 

And our affairs from England come too late. 
The ears are senseless that should give us hear¬ 
ing, 380 

To tell him his commandment is fulfill’d, 

That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. 
Where should we have our thanks ? 

Hor. Not from his mouth, 

Had it the ability of life to thank you. 384 

He never gave commandment for their death. 
But since, so jump upon this bloody question, 
You from the Polack wars, and you from Eng¬ 
land, 

Are here arrived, give order that these bodies 
High on a stage be placed to the view ; 389 

And let me speak to the yet unknowing w^orld 
How these things came about. 80 shall you hear 
Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts, 

Of accidental judgements, casual slaughters, 

Of deaths put on by cunning and forc’d cause, 
And, in this upshot, purposes mistook 395 

Fallen on the inventors’ heads: all this can I 
Truly deliver. 

Fort. Let us haste to hear it, 

And call the noblest to the audience. 

For me, with sorrow I embrace tny fortune. 

1 have some rights of memory in this kingdom, 
Which now to claim, my vantage doth invite 
me. “»oi 

Hor. Of that 1 shall have also cause to speak, 
And from his mouth whose voice will draw on 


more. 

But let this same be presently perform’d 
Even while men’s minds are wild, lest more mis¬ 
chance, ‘os 

On plots and errors, happen. 

Fort. Let four captains 

Bear Hamlet, like a soldier, to the stage, 

For he was likely, had he been put on, 

To have prov’d most royally ; and, for his pas¬ 
sage, 

The soldiers’ music and the rites of war 410 
Speak loudly for him. 

Take up the bodies. Such a sight as this 
Becomes the field, but here show s much amiss. 
Go, bid the soldiers shoot. 

[Exeunt marching , [bearing cff the 
dead bodies ;] after which a peal 
of ordnance are shot off. 




OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE 


Othello is notable among Shakespeare’s plays as being the only one published between liis 
death and the appearance of the First Folio. No First Quarto had appeared after 1609 till that 
of Othello was issued in 1622 . The First Folio text, which is much superior to that of the First 
Quarto and forms the basis of the present edition, was printed from an independent manuscript. 
The Second Quarto ( 1630 ) was printed from a copy of the First, corrected, in part at least, from 
the First Folio. The First Quarto is shorter by over 160 lines than the later editions, the defi¬ 
ciencies being in some cases due to cuts, in others to accidental omissions, and in still others, 
perhaps, to later additions to the play. 

The statement by Malone that Othello was acted at Hallowmas, 1604 , is generally accepted, 
though the documents from which he drew his information have disappeared. The presence in 
the First Quarto of numerous oaths that have been removed or toned down in the later copies, 
points to the inference that the manuscript from which that edition was printed was written be¬ 
fore the passing of the act of 1605 against swearing and other abuses on the stage. An earlier 
limit is afforded by the publication in 1601 of Holland’s translation of Pliny, from which Shake¬ 
speare derived several figures and allusions. The metrical tests agree with Malone’s statement 
in placing the date of composition about 1604 . 

The plot of the tragedy is drawn from the seventh novel of the third decade of Giraldi Cinthio’3 
Tlecatommithi ( 1565 ). This was translated into French in 1583 - 84 , but no English translation 
seems to have been made before 1795 . Desdemona alone is given a name in the Italian ; and the 
outlines of her character, with those of Othello and Iago, are there faintly indicated. Hardly so 
much can be said of Emilia, Bianca, Brabantio, and the official persons in Venice and Cyprus; 
while Roderigo is entirely absent. The threat of a Turkish attack on Cyprus, the separate voy¬ 
ages of Othello and Desdemona, the episode of Cassio’s drunkenness, Emilia’s part in the stealing 
of the handkerchief and Bianca’s connection with it, are all lacking in Cinthio. The arrangement 
of the catastrophe is also quite different. In the novel, Iago, carrying out a plan approved by 
Othello, beats the heroine to death with a stocking filled with sand; and they disguise their 
guilt by pulling down the ceiling and making it appear that she was killed by a falling beam. 
Afterwards Othello, brooding on the memory of Desdemona, comes to hate the ancient and dis¬ 
charges him ; and he in revenge accuses Othello to Cassio of having cut off the lieutenant’s leg 
and caused Desdemona’s death. Othello is tried and tortured, but refuses to confess. He is 
later slain in banishment by his wife’s relatives. Iago dies from the effects of torture inflicted 
in connection with another charge. The contrast between this sordid and dragged out conclusion 
and the swiftness and dignity of Shakespeare's terrible close need not be detailed. The tone of 
the novel may be gathered from a remark made by the heroine: “I fear I shall prove an example 
to young girls not to marry against the wishes of their parents, and that the Italian ladies may 
learn from me not to marry a man whom nature, heaven, and manner of life have separated from 
us.” 

One or two notable features in the earlier part of the story Shakespeare dispenses with. Thus 
Cinthio’s villain is a disappointed lover of Desdemona’s, whose passion has changed to hate. 
Only a trace of this is left in Iago, and the character of Roderigo is built up on the suggestion 
it affords. The handkerchief is stolen by Iago himself in the novel, being snatched from Desde¬ 
mona’s girdle when she is playing with his little girl. The captain who in Cinthio represents 
Cassio is married, and the ocular proof of Desdemona’s guilt is given by Iago’s bringing Othello 
to see Cassio’s wife sitting at a window making a copy of the lost handkerchief. In the Italian, 
Cassio is on his way to visit a courtezan when he is attacked by Iago; and it was apparently from 
this hint that Shakespeare created Bianca to take the place of Cassio’s wife; leaving, perhaps 
by an oversight, one sole allusion to this feature of his source in the line, “ A fellow almost 
damn’d in a fair wife.” (i. i. 21.) 

Thus, as usual, we find that the strength, the complexity, and the delicacy of the character¬ 
drawing, with the compactness and impressiveness of the action, are due to Shakespeare, the 
original tale supplying merely a sordid melodramatic sketch. 




OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE 


[DRAMATIS 

Duke of Venice. 

Brabantio, [a senator,] father to Desdemona. 

[Other] Senators. 

Gratiano, [brother to Brabantlo,] ) two ^pble Vene- 
Lurxmco, [kinsman to Brabantio,] | tians. 

Othello, the Moor [in the military service of Venice]. 
Cassio, an honourable lieutenant. 

Iago, [an ensign,] a villain. 


PERSONS] 

Roderigo, a gulled gentleman. 

Montano, governor of Cyprus [before Othello]. 

Clown [servant to Othello]. 

Desdemona, [daughter to Brabantio and] wife to 
Othello. 

Emilia, wife to Iago. 

Bianca, a courtezan. 


Gentlemen of Cyprus, Sailors [Officers, Messenger, Herald, Musicians, and Attendants]. 


[Scene : Venice ; a sea-port in Cyprus.~\ 


ACT I 

Scene I. [ Venice. A street .] 

Enter Roderigo and Iago. 

Rod. Tush ! never tell me! I take it much 
unkindly 

That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse 
As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of 
this. 

Iago. ’Sblood, but you ’ll not hear me. 

If ever I did dream of such a matter, s 

Abhor me. 

Rod. Thou told’st me thou didst hold him 
in thy hate. 

Iago. Despise me, if I do not. Three great 
ones of the city, 

In personal suit to make me his lieutenant, 
Off-capp’d to him ; and, by the faith of man, 10 
I know my price ; I am worth no worse a place. 
But he, as loving his own pride and purposes, 
Evades them with a bombast circumstance 
Horribly stuff’d with epithets of war, 

[And, in conclusion,] 15 

Nonsuits my mediators; for, “ Certes,” says 
he, 

“I have already chose my officer.” 

And what was he ? 

Forsooth, a great arithmetician, 

One Michael Cassio, a Florentine, 20 

A fellow almost damn’d in a fair wife ; 

That never set a squadron in the field, 

Nor the division of a battle knows 
More than a spinster, unless the bookish the- 
oric, 

Wherein the toged consuls can propose 26 

As masterly as he. Mere prattle without prac¬ 
tice 

Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the elec¬ 
tion ; 

And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof 
At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds 
Christen’d and heathen, must be be-lee’d and 
calm’d so 

By debitor and creditor; this counter-caster, 


He, in good time, must his lieutenant be, 

And I — God bless the mark ! — his Moorship’s 
ancient. 

Rod. By heaven, I rather would have been 
his hangman. 

Iago. Why, there’s no remedy. ’Tis the 
curse of service, 35 

Preferment goes by letter and affection, 

And not by old gradation, where each second 
Stood heir to the first. Now, sir, be judge your¬ 
self 

Whether I in any just term am affin’d 
To love the Moor. 

Rod. I would not follow him then. 

Iago. O, sir, content you ; 41 

I follow’ him to serve my turn upon him. 

We cannot all be masters, nor all masters 
Cannot be truly follow’d. You shall mark 
Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave, « 
That, doting on his own obsequious bondage, 
Wears out his time, much like his master’s 
ass, 

For nought but provender, and when he’s old, 
cashier’d. 

Whip me such honest knaves. Others there 
are 

Who, trimm’d in forms and visages of duty, so 
Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves, 
And, throwing but shows of service on their 
lords, 

Do well thrive by them, and when they have 
lin’d their coats 

Do themselves homage. These fellows have 
some soul; 

And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir, sc 
It is as sure as you are Roderigo, 

Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago. 

In following him, I follow but myself ; 

Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, 
But seeming so, for my peculiar end ; go 

For when my outward action doth demonstrate 
The native act and figure of my heart 
In compliment extern, ’t is not long after 
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve 
For daws to peck at. 1 am not what I am. es 




93<5 


OTHELLO 


I. i. 


Rod. What a full fortune does the thick-lips 
owe, 

If he can carry ’t thus ! 

Iago. Call up her father, 

Rouse him. Make after him, poison his delight, 
Proclaim him in the streets. Incense her kins¬ 
men, 

And, though he in a fertile climate dwell, to 
P lague him with flies. Though that his joy he 
joy, 

Yet throw such changes of vexation on ’t, 

As it may lose some colour. 

Rod. Here is her father’s house ; I ’ll call 
aloud. 

Iago. Do, with like timorous accent and dire 
yell to 

As when, by night and negligence, the fire 
Is spied in populous cities. 

Rod. What, ho, Brabantio! Signior Bra- 
bantio, ho! 

Iago. Awake ! what, ho, Brabantio ! thieves ! 
thieves! 

Look to your house, your daughter, and your 
bags! so 

Thieves! thieves! 

Brabantio [appears] above , at a window. 

Bra. What is the reason of this terrible sum¬ 
mons ? 

What is the matter there ? 

Rod. Signior, is all your family within ? 
Iago. Are your doors lock’d ? 

Bra. Why ? wherefore ask you this ? 

Iago. ’Zounds, sir, you ’re robb’d! For 
shame, put on your gown. se 

Your heart is burst, you have lost half your 
soul; 

Even now, now, very now, an old black ram 
Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise ! 
Awake the snorting citizens with the bell, 90 
Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you. 
Arise, I say! 

Bra. What, have you lost your wits ? 

Rod. Most reverend signior, do you know 
my voice ? 

Bra. Not I. What are you ? 

Rod. My name is Roderigo. 

Bra. The worser welcome ; 

I have charg’d thee not to haunt about my 
doors. so 

In honest plainness thou hast heard me say 
My daughter is not for thee ; and now, in mad¬ 
ness, 

Being full of supper and distemp’ring draughts, 
Upon malicious bravery dost thou come 100 

To start my quiet. 

Rod. Sir, sir, sir, — 

Bra. But thou must needs be sure 

My spirits and my place have in their power 
To make this bitter to thee. 

Rod. Patience, good sir. 

Bra. What tell’st thou me of robbing ? 
This is Venice ; ios 

My house is not a grange. 

Rod. Most grave Brabantio, 

In simple and pure soul I come to you. 

Iago. ’Zounds, sir, you are one of those that 


will not serve God, if the devil bid you. Be¬ 
cause we come to do you service and you think 
we are ruffians, you ’ll have your daughter [n* 
cover’d with a Barbary horse; you ’ll have 
your nephews neigh to you ; you ’ll have cours¬ 
ers for cousins, and gennets for germans. 

Bra. What profane wretch art thou ? m> 
Iago. I am one, sir, that comes to tell you 
your daughter and the Moor are now making 
the beast with two backs. 

Bra. Thou art a villain. 

Iago. You are — a senator. 

Bra. This thou shalt answer ; I know thee, 
Rod#rigo. 12# 

Rod. Sir, I will answer anything. But, I 
beseech you, 

If’t be your pleasure and most wise consent, 
As partly I find it is, that your fair daughter, 
At this odd-even and dull watch o’ the night, 
Transported, with no worse nor better guard ns 
But with a knave of common hire, a gondo¬ 
lier, 

To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor, — 

If this be known to you and your allowance, 

We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs ; 
But if you know not this, my manners tell 
me 130 

We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe 
That, from the sense of all civility, 

I thus would play and trifle with your rever¬ 
ence. 

Your daughter, if you have not given her 
leave, 

I say again, hath made a gross revolt; iss 

Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes 
In an extravagant and wheeling stranger 
Of here and everywhere. Straight satisfy your¬ 
self. 

If she be in her chamber or your house, 

Let loose on me the justice of the state wo 
For thus deluding you. 

Bra. Strike on the tinder, ho ! 

Give me a taper ! Call up all my people ! 

This accident is not unlike my dream ; 

Belief of it oppresses me already. m 

Light, I say ! light I [Exit [above], 

Iago. Farewell; for I must leave you. 

It seems not meet, nor wholesome to my 
place, 

To be produc’d — as, if I stay, I shall — 
Against the Moor; for, I do know, the state, 
However this may gall him with some check, 
Cannot with safety cast him, for he’s em¬ 
bark’d 150 

With such loud reason to the Cyprus wars, 
Which even now stands in act, that, for their 
souls, 

Another of his fathom they have none, 

To lead their business ; in which regard, 
Though I do hate him as I do hell-pains, is* 
Yet, for necessity of present life, 

I must show out a flag and sign of love, 

Which is indeed but sign. That you shall surely 
find him, 

Lead to the Sagittary the raised search ; 

And there will I be with him. So, farewell, iso 

[Exit. 





1.11. 


OTHELLO 


937 


Enter [below,] Brabantio in his night-gown , 
and Servants with torches. 

Bra. It is too true an evil; gone she is ; 

And what’s to come of my despised time 
Is nought but bitterness. Now, Roderigo, 
Where didst thou see her ? 0 unhappy girl! 
With the Moor, say’st thou ? Who would be a 
father! ies 

How didst thou know’t was she ? 0 , she de¬ 
ceives me 

Past thought! What said she to you? Get 
moe tapers ; 

Raise all my kindred. Are they married, think 
you? 

Rod. Truly, I think they are. 

Bra. 0 heaven ! How got she out ? 0 trea¬ 
son of the blood ! no 

Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters’ 
minds 

By what you see them act. Is there not charms 
By which the property of youth and maidhood 
Maybe abus’d ? Have you notread, Roderigo, 
Of some such thing ? 

Rod. Yes, sir, I have indeed. 

Bra. Call up my brother. O, would you had 
had her! no 

Some one way, some another. Do you know 
Where we may apprehend her and the Moor ? 

Rod. I think I can discover him, if you please 
To get good guard and go along with me. no 
Bra. Pray you, lead on. At every house I ’ll 
call; 

I may command at most. Get weapons, ho! 
And raise some special officers of night. 

On, good Roderigo ; I ’ll deserve your pains. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [Another street .] 

Enter Othello, Iago, and Attendants with 
torches. 

Iago. Though in the trade of war I have 
slain men, 

Yet do I hold it very stuff o’ the conscience 
To do no contriv’d murder. I lack iniquity 
Sometimes to do me service. Nine or ten times 
I’d thought to have yerk’d him here under the 
ribs. 6 

Oth. ’T is better as it is. 

Iago. Nay, but he prated, 

And spoke such scurvy and provoking terms 
Against your honour 
That, with the little godliness I have, 

I did full hard forbear him. But, I pray you, 
sir, 10 

Are you fast married ? Be assur’d of this, 
That the magnifico is much belov’d, 

And hath in his effect a voice potential 
As double as the Duke’s. He will divorce you ; 
Or put upon you what restraint or grievance io 
The law, with all his might to enforce it on, 
Will give him cable. 

Oth. Let him do his spite ; 

My services which I have done the signiory 
Shall out-tongue his complaints. ’Tis yet to 
know, — 


Which, when I know that boasting is an hon¬ 
our, 29 

I shall promulgate — I fetch my life and being 
From men of royal siege, and my demerits 
May speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune 
As this that I have reach’d ; for know, Iago, 
But that I love the gentle Desdemona, 2s 

I would not my unhoused free condition 
Put into circumscription and confine 
For the sea’s worth. But, look ! what lights 
come yond ? 

Enter Cassio, with lights , Officers, and torches. 

Iago. Those are the raised father and his 
friends. 

You were best go in. 

Oth. Not I; I must be found. 

My parts, my title, and my perfect soul 31 
Shall manifest me rightly. Is it they ? 

Iago. By Janus, I think no. 

Oth. The servants of the Duke, and my lieu¬ 
tenant. 

The goodness of the night upon you, friends! ss 
What is the news ? 

Cas. The Duke does greet you, general, 
And he requires your haste-post-haste appear¬ 
ance, 

Even on the instant. 

Oth. What is the matter, think you ? 

Cas. Something from Cyprus, as I may di¬ 
vine ; 

It is a business of some heat. The galleys <o 
Have sent a dozen sequent messengers 
This very night at one another’s heels, 

And many of the consuls, rais’d and met, 

Are at the Duke’s already. You have been 
hotly call’d for; 

When, being not at your lodgingto be found, « 
The Senate hath sent about three several quests 
To search you out. 

Oth. ’T is well I am found by you. 

I will but spend a word here in the house, 

And go with you. [Exit. 

Cas. Ancient, what makes he here ? 

Iago. Faith, he to-night hath boarded a land 
carack. bo 

If it prove lawful prize, he’s made for ever. 
Cas. I do not understand. 

Iago. He’s married. 

Cas. To who ? 

[Re-enter Othello.] 

Iago. Marry, to— Come, captain, will you go ? 
Oth. Have with you. 

Cas. Here comes another troop to seek for 
you. 

Enter Brabantio, Roderigo, and Officers 
with torches and weapons. 

Iago. It is Brabantio. General, be advis’d ; 6 b 
H e comes to bad intent. 

Oth. Holla! stand there I 

Rod. Signior, it is the Moor. . 

Bra. Down with him, thief ! 

[They draw on both sides.] 
Iago. You, Roderigo ! come, sir, I am for 
you. 





938 


OTHELLO 


Oth. Keep up your bright swords, for the 
dew will rust them. 

Good signior, you shall more command with 
years eo 

Than with your weapons. 

Bra. 0 thou foul thief, where hast thou 
stow’d my daughter ? 

Damn’d as thou art, thou hast enchanted her; 
For I ’ll refer me to all things of sense, 

If she in chains of magic were not hound, ec 
Whether a maid so tender, fair, and happy, 

So opposite to marriage that she sliunn’d 
The wealthy curled darlings of our nation, 
Would ever have, to incur a general mock, 

Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom 70 
Of such a thing as thou ; to fear, not to de- 
light. 

Judge me the world, if ’tis not gross in sense 
That thou hast practis’d on her with foul 
charms, 

Abus’d her delicate youth with drugs or min¬ 
erals 

That weakens motion. I ’ll have’t disputed on ; 
’T is probable, and palpable to thinking. 76 
I therefore apprehend and do attach thee 
For an abuser of the world, a practiser 
Of arts inhibited and out of warrant. 

Lay hold upon him ; if he do resist, so 

Subdue him at his peril. 

Oth. Hold your hands, 

Both you of my inclining, and the rest. 

Were it my cue to fight, I should have known 
it 

Without a prompter. Where will you that I go 
To answer this your charge ? 

Bra. To prison, till fit time 

Of law and course of direct session se 

Call thee to answer. 

Oth. What if I do obey ? 

How may the Duke be therewith satisfi’d, 
Whose messengers are here about my side 
Upon some present business of the state «o 
To bring me to him ? 

Off. _ ’T is true, most worthy signior. 

The Duke’s in council; and your noble self, 

I am sure, is sent for. 

Bra. How ! the Duke in council! 

In this time of the night! Bring him away ; 
Mine’s not an idle cause. The Duke himself, as 
Or any of my brothers of the state, 

Cannot but feel this wrong as’t were their own ; 
For if such actions may have passage free, 
Bond-slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. [A council-chamber .] 

The Duke and Senators set at a table , with 
lights; Officers attending. 

Duke. There is no composition in these news 
That gives them credit. 

1 . Sen. Indeed, they are disproportioned ; 
My letters say a hundred and seven galleys. 

Duke. And mine, a hundred forty. 

2. Sen. And mine, two hundred ! 

But though they jump not on a just account,— 
As in these cases, where the aim reports, e 


I. iii. 


’T is oft with difference — yet do they all con¬ 
firm 

A Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus. 
Duke. Nay, it is possible enough to judge¬ 
ment. 

I do not so secure me in the error 
But the main article I do approve 
In fearful sense. 

Sailor. [Within.) What, ho! what, ho! 
what, ho! 

Enter a Sailor. 

Off. A messenger from the galleys. 

Duke. Now, what’s the business ? 

Sail. The Turkish preparation makes for 
Rhodes; 

So was I bid report here to the state is 

By Signior Angelo. 

Duke. How say you by this change ? 

1 . Sen. This cannot be, 

By no assay of reason ; ’t is a pageant, 

To keep us in false gaze. When we consider 
The importancy of Cyprus to the Turk, 20 
And let ourselves again but understand 
That, as it more concerns the Turk than 
Rhodes, 

So may he with more facile question bear it, 

For that it stands not in such warlike brace, 
But altogether lacks the abilities 2® 

That Rhodes is dress’d in ; if we make thought 
of this, 

We must not think the Turk is so unskilful 
To leave that latest which concerns him first, 
Neglecting an attempt of ease and gain 
To wake and wage a danger profitless. 30 

Duke. Nay, in all confidence, he ’s not for 
Rhodes. 

Off. Here is more news. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. The Ottomites, reverend and gracious, 
Steering with due course towards the isle of 
Rhodes, 

Have there injointed them with an after fleet. 
1. Sen. Ay, so I thought. How many, as 
you guess ? 30 

Mess. Of thirty sail; and now they do re¬ 
stem 

Their backward course, bearing with frank ap¬ 
pearance 

Their purposes toward Cyprus. Signior Mon¬ 
tano, 

Your trusty and most valiant servitor, 40 

With his free duty recommends you thus, 

And prays you to believe him. 

Duke. ’T is certain, then, for Cyprus. 

Marcus Luecicos, is not he in town ? 

1 . Sen. He’s now in Florence. 45 

Duke. Write from us to him ; post-post-haste 
dispatch. 

1. Sen. Here comes Brabantio and the valiant 
Moor. 

Enter Brabantio, Othello, Cassio, Iago, 
Roderigo, and Officers. 

Duke. Valiant Othello, we must straight em¬ 
ploy you 




I. iii. 


OTHELLO 


939 


Against the general enemy Ottoman. 

[To Brabantio.] I did not see you; welcome, 
gentle signior; r>o 

We lack’d your counsel and your help to-night. 
Bra. So did I yours. Good your Grace, par¬ 
don me ; 

Neither my place nor aught I heard of busi¬ 
ness 

Hath rais’d me from my bed, nor doth the gen¬ 
eral care 

Take hold on me ; for my particular grief 65 
Is of so flood-gate and o’erbearing nature 
That it engluts and swallows other soitows 
And it is still itself. 

Duke. Why, what’s the matter ? 

Bra. My daughter ! O, my daughter ! 

Sen. Dead ? 

Bra. Ay, tome; 

She is abus’d, stolen from me, and corrupted oo 
By spells and medicines bought of mounte¬ 
banks ; 

For nature so preposterously to err, 

Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense, 
Sans witchcraft could not. 

Duke. Whoe’er he be that in this foul pro¬ 
ceeding 6fi 

Hath thus beguil’d your daughter of herself 
And you of her, the bloody book of law 
You shall yourself read in the bitter letter 
After your own sense, yea, though our proper 
son 

Stood in your action. 

Bra. Humbly I thank your Grace. 

Here is the man,—this Moor, whom now, it 
seems, 71 

Your special mandate for the state affairs 
Hath hither brought. 

All. We are very sorry for’t. 

Duke. [To Othello .] What, in your own part, 
can you say to this ? 

Bra. Nothing, but this is so. 7 b 

Oth. Most potent, grave, and reverend sign- 
iors, 

My very noble and approv’d good masters, 

That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter, 
It is most true ; true, I have married her : 

The very head and front of my offending so 
Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my 
speech, 

And little bless’d with the soft, phrase of peace ; 
For since these arms of mine had seven years’ 
pith 

Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have 
us’d 

Their dearest action in the tented field, as 
And little of this great world can I speak 
More than pertains to feats of broils and battle, 
And.therefore little shall I grace my cause 
In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious 
patience, 

I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver »o 

Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what 
charms, 

What conjuration and what mighty magic, 

(For such proceeding I am charg’d withal,) 

I won his daughter. 

Bra. A maiden never bold ; 


Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion »s 
Blush’d at herself ; and she, in spite of nature, 
Of years, of country, credit, everything, 

To fall in love with what she fear’d to look on ! 
It is a judgement maim’d and most imperfect 
That will confess perfection so could err ioo 
Against all rules of nature, and must be driven 
To find out practices of cunning hell, 

Why this should be. I therefore vouch again 
That with some mixtures powerful o’er the 
blood, 

Or with some dram conjur’d to this effect, ioe 
He wrought upon her. 

[Duke.] To vouch this is no proof, 

Without more wider and more overt test 
Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods 
Of modern seeming do prefer against him. 

[i.] Sen. But, Othello, speak. no 

Did you by indirect and forced courses 
Subdue and poison this young maid’s affec¬ 
tions ? 

Or came it by request and such fair question 
As soiil to soul affordeth ? 

Oth. I do beseech you, 

Send for the lady to the Sagittary, ns 

And let her speak of me before her father. 

If you do find me foul in her report, 

The trust, the office I do hold of you, 

Not only take away, but let your sentence 
Even fall upon my life. 

Duke. Fetch Desdemona hither. 

[Exeunt two or three. 
Oth. Ancient, conduct them ; you best know 
the place. [Exit Iago.) 121 

And, till she come, as truly as to heaven 
I do confess the vices of my blood, 

So justly to your grave ears I ’ll present 
How I did thrive in this fair lady’s love, 125 
And she in mine. 

Duke. Say it, Othello. 

Oth. Her father lov’d me ; oft invited me ; 
Still question’d me the story of my life 
From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes, 
That I have pass’d. m 

I ran it through, even from my boyish days, 

To the very moment that he bade me tell it; 
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances, 

Of moving accidents by flood and field, 135 
Of hair-breadth scapes i’ the imminent deadly 
breach, 

Of being taken by the insolent foe 

And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence 

And portance in my travel’s history ; 

Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle, no 
Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads 
touch heaven, 

It was my hint to speak,—such was my 
process, — 

And of the Cannibals that each other eat. 

The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads 
Do grow beneath their shoulders. These to 
hear ns 

Would Desdemona seriously incline ; 

But still the house-affairs would draw her 
thence, 

Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, 
She’d come again, and with a greedy ear 




940 


OTHELLO 


I. iii. 


Devour up my discourse : which I observing, xbo 
T ook once a pliant hour, and found good means 
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart 
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, 
Whereof by parcels she had something heard, 
But not intentively. I did consent, ibs 

And often did beguile her of her tears 
When I did speak of some distressful stroke 
That my youth suffer’d. My story being done, 
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs. 

She swore, in faith, ’t was strange, ’t was pass¬ 
ing strange, iso 

’T was pitiful, ’t was wondrous pitiful. 

She wish’d she had not heard it; yet she wish’d 
That Heaven had made her such a man. She 
thank’d me, 

And bade me, if I had a friend that lov’d her, 

I should but teach him how to tell my story, 
And that would woo her. Upon this hint I 

spake: iso 

She lov’d me for the dangers I had pass’d, 

And I lov’d her that she did pity them. 

This only is the witchcraft I have us’d. 

Here comes the lady ; let her witness it. i?o 

Enter Desdemona., Iago, and Attendants. 


Duke. I think this tale would win my 
daughter too. 

Good Brabantio, 

Take up this mangled matter at the best; 

Men do their broken weapons rather use 
Than their bare hands. 

Bra. I pray you, hear her speak. 

If she confess that she was half the wooer, i76 
Destruction on my head, if my bad blame 
Light on the man! Come hither, gentle mis¬ 
tress. 

Do you perceive in all this noble company 
Where most you owe obedience ? 

Des. My noble father, 

I do perceive here a divided duty. m 

To you I am bound for life and education ; 

My life and education both do learn me 
How to respect you ; you are the lord of duty ; 
I am hitherto your daughter. But here’s my 
husband; iss 

And so much duty as my mother show’d 
To you, preferring you before her father, 

So much I challenge that I may profess 
Due to the Moor, my lord. 

Bra.' God be with you ! I have done. 

Please it your Grace, on to the state-affairs, iso 
I had rather to adopt a child than get it. 

Come hither, Moor. 

I here do give thee that with all my heart 
Which, but thou hast already, with all my 
heart 

I would keep from thee. For your sake, jewel, 
I am glad at soul I have no other child ; lae 
For thy escape would teach me tyranny, 

To hang clogs on them. I have done, my lord. 
Duke. Let me speak like yourself, and lay a 
sentence, 

Which, as a grise or step, may help these 
lovers 200 

[Into your favour]. 

When remedies are past, the griefs are ended 


By seeing the worst, which late on hopes de¬ 
pended. 

To mourn a mischief that is past and gone 
Is the next way to draw new mischief on. 200 
What cannot be preserv’d when fortune takes, 
Patience her injury a mockery makes. 

The robb’d that smiles steals something from 
the thief ; 

He robs himself that spends a bootless grief. 

Bra. So let the Turk of Cyprus us beguile ; 
We lose it not, so long as we can smile. 211 
He bears the sentence well that nothing hears 
But the free comfort which from thence he 
hears, 

But he bears both the sentence and the sorrow 
That, to pay grief, must of poor patience bor¬ 
row. 215 

These sentences, to sugar, or to gall, 

Being strong on both sides, are equivocal: 

But words are words ; I never yet did hear 
That the bruis’d heart was pierced through the 
ear. 

I humbly beseech you, proceed to the affairs of 
state. 220 

Duke. The Turk with a most mighty prepa¬ 
ration makes for Cyprus. Othello, the fortitude 
of the place is best known to you ; and though 
we have there a substitute of most allowed suf¬ 
ficiency, yet opinion, a sovereign mistress of ef¬ 
fects, throws a more safer voice on you. You 
must therefore be content to slubber the gloss 
of your new fortunes with this more stubborn 
and boisterous expedition. 229 

Oth. The tyrant custom, most grave senators, 
Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war 
My thrice-driven bed of down. I do agnize 
A natural and prompt alacrity 
I find in hardness, and do undertake 
These present wars against the Otto mites. js6 
Most humbly therefore bending to your state, 

I crave fit disposition for my wife, 

Due reference of place and exhibition, 

With such accommodation and besort 
As levels with her breeding. 

Duke. If you please, no 

Be’t at her father’s. 

Bra. I ’ll not have it so. 

Oth. Nor I. 

Des. Nor I; I would not there reside, 

To put my father in impatient thoughts 
By being in his eye. Most gracious duke, 

To my unfolding lend your prosperous ear ; 245 

And let me find a charter in your voice, 

To assist my simpleness. 

Duke. What would you, Desdemona ? 

Des. That 1 did love the Moor to live with 
him. 

My downright violence and storm of fortunes 
May trumpet to the world. My heart’s sub¬ 
du’d 251 

Even to the very quality of my lord. 

I saw Othello’s visage in his mind, 

And to his honours and his valiant parts 
Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate. 266 
So that, dear lords, if I be left behind, 

A moth of peace, and he go to the war, 

The rites for which I love him are bereft me, 





OTHELLO 


941 


I. iii. 


And I a heavy interim shall support 
By his dear absence. Let me go with him. 260 
Oth. Let her have your voice. 

Vouch with me, Heaven, I therefore beg it not 
To please the palate of my appetite, 

Nor to comply with heat, the young affects 
In my defunct and proper satisfaction, 265 
But to be free and bounteous to her mind ; 

And Heaven defend your good souls, that you 
think 

I will your serious and great business scant 
When she is with me. No, when light-wing’d 
toys 

Of feather’d Cupid seel with wanton dullness 270 
My speculative and offic’d instruments 
That my disports corrupt and taint my business, 
Let housewives make a skillet of my helm, 

And all indign and base adversities 
Make head against my estimation ! 275 

Duke. Be it as you shall privately determine, 
Either for her stay or going. The affair cries 
haste, 

And speed must answer it. 

1 . Sen. You must away to-night, 

f Des. To-night, my lord ? 

Duke. This night.] 

Oth. With all my heart. 

Duke. At nine i’ the morning here we ’ll 
meet again. 280 

Othello, leave some officer behind, 

And he shall our commission bring to you, 

And such things else of quality and respect 
As doth import you. 

Oth. So please your Grace, my ancient; 
A man he is of honesty and trust. 2*5 

To his conveyance I assign my wife, 

With what else needful your good Grace shall 
think 

To be sent after me. 

Duke. Let it be so. 

Good-night to every one. [To Bra.] And, noble 
signior, 

If virtue no delighted beauty lack, 290 

Your son-in-law is far more fair than black. 

1 . Sen. Adieu, brave Moor ; use Desdemona 
well. 

Bra. Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to 
see; 

She has deceiv’d her father, and may thee. 

[Exeunt [Duke, Senators, Officers, 
etc.]. 

Oth. My life upon her faith ! Honest Iago, 
My Desdemona must I leave to thee. 296 

I prithee, let thy wife attend on her; 

And bring them after in the best advantage. 
Come, Desdemona ; I have but an hour 
Of love, of worldly matters and direction, 300 
To spend with thee. We must obey the time. 

[Exeunt Othello and Desdemona. 

W^iat say’st thou, noble heart ? 

What will I do, think’st thou ? 

Why, go to bed, and sleep. 306 

I will incontinently drown myself. 

If thou dost, I shall never love thee 


Bod. 

Iago. 

Bod. 

Iago. 

Bod. 

Iago. 


after. Why, thou silly gentleman ! 

Bod. It is silliness to live when to live is tor¬ 


ment ; and then have we a prescription to die 
when Death is our physician. 311 

Iago. 0 villanous! I have look’d upon the 
world for four times seven years ; and since I 
could distinguish betwixt a benefit and an in¬ 
jury, I never found man that knew how to love 
himself. Ere I would say I would drown my¬ 
self for the love of a guinea-hen, I would change 
my humanity with a baboon. 318 

Bod. What should I do ? I confess it is my 
shame to be so fond, but it is not in my virtue 
to amend it. 321 

Iago. Virtue! a fig! ’tis in ourselves that 
we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gar¬ 
dens, to the which our wills 3 re gardeners; so 
that if we will plant nettles, or sow lettuce, set 
hyssop and weed up thyme, supply it with [325 
one gender of herbs, or distract it with many, 
either to have it sterile with idleness, or ma¬ 
nured with industry, why, the power and cor¬ 
rigible authority of this lies in our wills. If the 
balance of our lives had not one scale of rea- [330 
son to poise another o. sensuality, the blood and 
baseness of our natures would conduct us to 
most preposterous conclusions; but we have 
reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal 
stings, our unbitted lusts, whereof I take this 
that you call love to be a sect or scion. 337 

Bod. It cannot be. 

Iago. It is merely a lust of the blood and a 
permission of the will. Come, be a man. Drown 
thyself ! drown cats and blind puppies. I have 
profess’d me thy friend, and I confess me knit 
to thy deserving, with cables of perdurable 
toughness; I could never better stead thee 
than now. Put money in thy purse; follow 
thou the wars; defeat thy favour with an [345 
usurp’d beard. I say, put money in thy purse. 
It cannot be long that Desdemona should con¬ 
tinue her love to the Moor, — put money in thy 
purse, — nor he his to her. It was a violent 
commencement in her, and thou shalt see [330 
an answerable sequestration. Put but money 
in thy purse. These Moors are changeable in 
their wills ; — fill thy purse with money ; —the 
food that to him now is as luscious as locusts, 
shall be to him shortly as bitter as colo- [35c 
quintida. She must change for youth; when 
she is sated with his body, she will find the 
error of her choice; [she must have change, 
she must:] therefore put money in thy purse. 
If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it a more 
delicate way than drowning. Make all the [360 
money thou canst. If sanctimony and a frail 
vow betwixt an erring barbarian and a super- 
subtle Venetian be not too hard for my wits 
and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her; 
therefore make money. A pox of drowning [366 
thyself! it is clean out of the way. Seek thou 
rather to be hang’d in compassing thy joy than 
to be drown’d and go without her. 

Bod. Wilt thou be fast to my hopes, if I de¬ 
pend on the issue ? 370 

Iago. Thou art sure of me. Go, make money. 
I had told thee often, and I re-tell thee again 
and again, 1 hate the Moor. My cause is 
hearted ; thine hath no less reason. Let us be 




942 


OTHELLO 


ii. L 


conjunctive in our revenge against him. If thou 
canst cuckold him, thou dost thyself a [a 7 e 
pleasure, me a sport. There are many events in 
the womb of time which will be delivered. 
Traverse ! go, provide thy money. We will 
have more of this to-morrow. Adieu. 38 o 

Rod. Where shall we meet i 1 the morning ? 
Iago. At my lodging. 

Rod. I ’ll be with thee betimes. 

Iago. Go to ; farewell. Do you hear, Rod- 
erigo ? 385 

[Rod. What say you ? 

Iago. No more of drowning, do your hear ? 
Rod. I am chang’d ;] I ’ll go sell all my land. 

* [Exit. 

Iago. Thus do I ever make my fool my 

purse; 

For I mine own gain’d knowledge should pro¬ 
fane 390 

If I would time expend with such a snipe 
But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor ; 
And it is thought abroad that ’twixt my sheets 
He has done my office. I know not if’t be 
true; 

But I, for mere suspicion in that kind, 395 

Will do as if for surety. He holds me well; 
The better shall my purpose work on him. 
Cassio’s a proper man: let me see now : 

To get his place and to plume up my will 
In double knavery — How, how ? — Let ’s 
see: — 400 

After some time, to abuse Othello’s ear 
That he is too familiar with his wife. 

He hath a person and a smooth dispose 
To be suspected, fram’d to make women false. 
The Moor is of a free and open nature, 405 
That thinks men honest that but seem to 
be so, 

And will as tenderly be led by the nose 
As asses are. 

I have’t. It is engend’red. Hell and night 
Must bring this monstrous birth to the world’s 
light. [Exit. 410 

ACT II 

Scene I. [A sea-port in Cyprus. An open 
place near the quay.] 

Enter Montano and two Gentlemen. 

Mon. What from the cape can you discern 
at sea ? 

1 . Gent. Nothing at all; it is a high-wrought 

flood. 

I cannot, ’twixt the l»eaven and the main, 
Descry a sail. 

Mon. Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud 
at land ; 5 

A fuller blast ne’er shook our battlements. 

If it hath ruffian’d so upon the sea, 

What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on 
them, 

Can hold the mortise ? What shall we hear of 
this ? 

2 . Gent. A segregation of the Turkish 

fleet. 10 

For do but stand upon the foaming shore, 


The chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds ; 
The wind-shak’d surge, with high and mon¬ 
strous mane, 

Seems to cast water on the burning bear 
And quench the guards of the ever-fixed 
pole. 

I never did like molestation view 
On the enchafed flood. 

Mon. If that the Turkish fleet 

Be not enshelter’d and embay’d, they are 
drown’d; 

It is impossible to bear it out. 

Enter a third Gentleman. 

3 . Gent. News, lads ! our wars are done. 20 
The desperate tempest hath so bang’d the 
Turks, 

That their designment halts. A noble ship of 
Venice 

Hath seen a grievous wreck and sufferance 
On most part of their fleet. 

Mon. How ! is this true ? 

3 . Gent. The ship is here put in. 

A Veronese, Michael Cassio, 26 

Lieutenant to the warlike Moor Othello, 

Is come on shore ; the Moor himself at sea, 

And is in full commission here for Cyprus. 
Mon. I am glad on’t; ’t is a worthy gov¬ 
ernor. 30 

3 . Gent. But this same Cassio, though he 
speak of comfort 

Touching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly, 
And prays the Moor be safe ; for they were 
parted 

With foul and violent tempest. 

Mon. Pray heavens he be ; 

For I have serv’d him, and the man commands 35 
Like a full soldier. Let’s to the seaside, ho ! 
As well to see the vessel that’s come in 
As to throw out our eyes for brave Othello, 
Even till we make the main and the aerial blue 
An indistinct regard. 

3 . Gent. Come, let’s do so; 40 

For every minute is expectancy 
Of more arrivance. 

Enter Cassio. 

Cas. Thanks, you the valiant of this warlike 
isle, 

That so approve the Moor ! 0 , let the heavens 
Give him defence against the elements, 45 
For I have lost him on a dangerous sea. 

Mon. Is he well shipp’d ? 

Cas. His bark is stoutly timber’d, and his 
pilot 

Of very expert and approv’d allowance ; 
Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death, eo 
Stand in bold cure. 

[ Within , “ A sail, a sail, a sail! ” 

Enter a [fourth Gentleman]. 

Cas. What noise ? 

[ 4 .] Gent. The town is empty ; on the brow 
o’ the sea 

Stand ranks of people, and they cry, “ A sail! ” 
Cas. My hopes do shape him for the governor. 

[A shot. 




OTHELLO 


943 


II. i. 


2 . Gent. They do discharge their shot of 
courtesy. 6 e 

Our friends at least. 

I pray you, sir, go forth, 
And give us truth who’t is that is arriv’d. 

2 . Gent. I shall. [Exit. 

Mon. But, good lieutenant, is your general 
wiv’d ? eo 

Cas. Most fortunately. He hath achiev’d a 
maid 

That paragons description and wild fame ; 

One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens, 
And in the essential vesture of creation 
Does tire the ingener. 

Re-enter second Gentleman. 

How now ! who has put in ? 
2 . Gent. ’T is one Iago, ancient to the gen¬ 
eral. 66 

Cas. He has had most favourable and happy 
speed. 

Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling 
winds. 

The gutter’d rocks and congregated sands, 
Traitors ensteep’d to clog the guiltless keel, to 
A s having sense of beauty do omit 
Their mortal natures, letting go safely by 
The divine Desdemona. 

Mon. What is she ? 

Cas. She that I spake of, our great captain’s 
captain, 

Left in the conduct of the bold Iago, is 

Whose footing here anticipates our thoughts 
Ase’nnight’sspeed. Great Jove, Othello guard, 
And swell his sail with thine own powerful 
breath, 

That he may bless this bay with his tall ship, 
Make love’s quick pants in Desdemona’s arms, 
Give renew’d fire to our extincted spirits, si 
[And bring all Cyprus comfort!] 

Enter Desdemona, Emilia, Iago, Roderigo 
[and Attendants ]. 

0 , behold, 

The riches of the ship is come on shore ! 

You men of Cyprus, let her have your knees. 
Hail to thee, lady ! and the grace of heaven, 
Before, behind thee, and on every hand, «0 
Enwheel thee round ! 

Des. I thank you, valiant Cassio. 

What tidings can you tell me of my lord ? 

Cas. He is not yet arriv’d ; nor know I aught 
But that he’s wen and will be shortly here. »o 
Des. 0 . but I fear — How lost you company ? 
Cas. The great contention of the sea and 
skies 

Parted our fellowship. — But, hark ! a sail. 

[Within. “A sail, a sail!” [Guns 
heard.1 

2 . Gent. They give their greeting to the cita¬ 
del. 96 

This likewise is a friend. 

Cas. See for the news. 

[Exit Gentleman. 1 
Good ancient, you are welcome. [To Emilia .] 
Welcome, mistress. 

Let it not gall your patience, good Iago, 


That I extend my manners ; ’tis my breeding 
That gives me this bold show of courtesy. ioo 

[Kissing her.~\ 

Iago. Sir, would she give you so much of her 
lips 

As of her tongue she oft bestows on me, 

You’d have enough. 

Des. Alas, she has no speech. 

Iago. In faith, too much ; 

I find it still, when I have list to sleep. 106 
Marry, before your ladyship, I grant, 

She puts her tongue a little in her heart, 

And chides with thinking. 

Emil. You have little cause to say so. 

Iago. Come on, come on; you are pictures 
out of doors, no 

Bells in your parlours, wild-cats in your kitch¬ 
ens, 

Saints in your injuries, devils being offended. 
Players in your housewifery, and housewives 
in your beds. 

Des. 0 , fie upon thee, slanderer! 

Iago. Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk. 
You rise to play and go to bed to work. ue 
Emil. You shall not write my praise. 

Iago. No, let me not. 

Des. What wouldst thou write of me, if thou 
shouldst praise me ? 

Iago. 0 gentle lady, do not put me to’t; 

For I am nothing, if not critical. 12# 

Des. Come on, assay. — There ’s one gone to 
the harbour ? 

Iago. Ay, madam. 

Des. I am not merry ; but I do beguile 
The thing I am, by seeming otherwise. — 
Come, how wouldst thou praise me ? 125 

Iago. I am about it; but indeed my inven¬ 
tion 

Comes from my pate as birdlime does from 
frieze; 

It plucks out brains and all. But my Muse 
labours, 

And thus she is deliver’d : 

If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit, 130 
The one’s for use, the other useth it. 

Des. Well prais’d ! How if she be black and 
witty ? 

Iago. If she be black, and thereto have a wit, 
She ’ll find a white that shall her blackness fit. 
Des. Worse and worse. 135 

Emil. How if fair and foolish ? 

Iago. She never yet was foolish that was 
fair ; 

For even her folly help’d her to an heir. 

Des. These are old fond paradoxes to make 
fools laugh i’ the alehouse. What miserable 
praise hast thou for her that’s foul and fool¬ 
ish ? \ 

Iago. There’s none so foul and foolish there¬ 
unto, 

But does foul pranks which fair and wise ones 
do. 

Des. i) heavy ignorance! thou praisest the 
worst best. But what praise couldst thou be¬ 
stow on a deserving woman indeed, one that, 
in the authority of her merit, did justly put on 
the vouch of very malice itself ? 






944 


OTHELLO 


ii. i. 


Iago. She that was ever fair and never proud, 
Had tongue at will and yet was never loud, 
Never lack’d gold and yet went never gay, 
Fled from her wish and yet said, “ Now I may,” 
She that being ang’red, her revenge being 
nigh, 

Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure fly, 
She that in wisdom never was so frail iss 

To change the cod’s head for the salmon’s tail, 
She that could think and ne’er disclose her 
mind, 

See suitors following and not look behind, 

She was a wight, if ever such wights were, — 
Des. To do what ? ioo 

Iago. To suckle fools and chronicle small 
beer. 

Des. 0 most lame and impotent conclusion ! 
Do not learn of him, Emilia, though he be thy 
husband. How say you, Cassio ? Is he not a 
most profane and liberal counsellor ? i6s 

Cas. He speaks home, madam. You may 
/•elish him more in the soldier than in the 
scholar. 

Iago. [Aside.] He takes her by the palm ; 
ay, well said, whisper. With as little a web as 
this will I ensnare as great a fly as Cassio. Ay, 
smile upon her, do ; I will gyve thee in thine [ito 
own courtship. — You say true ; ’t is so, indeed. 
— If such tricks as these strip you out of your 
lieutenantry, it had been better you had not 
kiss’d your three fingers so oft, which now 
again you are most apt to play the sir in. [its 
V ery good; well kiss’d! an excellent curtsy! 
’T is so, indeed. Yet again your fingers to your 
lips ? Would they were clyster-pipes for your 
sake ! ( Trumpet within.) — The Moor ! I know 
his trumpet. iso 

Cas. ’T is truly so. 

Des. Let’s meet him and receive him. 

Cas. Lo, where he comes ! 

Enter Othello and Attendants. 

Oth. 0 my fair warrior ! 

Des. My dear Othello ! 

Oth. It gives me wonder great as my content 
To see you here before me. 0 my soul’s joy ! ise 
If after every tempest come such calms, 

May the winds blow till they have waken’d 
death! 

And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas 
Olympus-high, and duck again as low i»o 

As hell’s from heaven ! If it were now to die, 
’T were now to be most happy ; for, I fear, 

My soul hath her content so absolute 

That not another comfort like to this is* 

Succeeds in unknown fate. 

Des. The heavens forbid 

But that our loves and comforts should in¬ 
crease, 

Even as our days do grow ! 

Oth. Amen to that, sweet powers ! 

I cannot speak enough of this content; 

It stops me here ; it is too much of joy. 9 
And this, and this, the greatest discords he 200 

[Kissing her. 

That e’er our hearts shall make ! 

Iago. [Aside.] 0 , you are well tun’d now ! 


But I’ll set down the pegs that make this 
music, 

As honest as I am. 

Oth. Come, let us to the castle. 

News, friends: our wars are done, the Turks 
are drown’d. 

How does my old acquaintance of this isle ? 206 
Honey, you shall he well desir’d in Cyprus ; 

I have found great love amongst them. 0 my 
sweet, 

I prattle out of fashion, and I dote 
In mine own comforts. I prithee, good Iago, 
Go to the bay and disembark my coffers. 21# 
Bring thou the master to the citadel; 

He is a good one, and his worthiness 
Does challenge much respect. Come, Desde- 
mona, 

Once more, well met at Cyprus. 214 

[Exeunt Othello , Desdemona [and 
Attendants). 

Iago. Do thou meet me presently at the har¬ 
bour. Come hither. If thou be’st valiant, — as, 
they say, base men being in love have then a 
nobility in their natures more than is native 
to them, — list me. The lieutenant to-night 
watches on the court of guard ; — first, I must 
tell thee this: Desdemona is directly in love 
with him. 221 

Rod. With him ! why, ’t is not possible. 

Iago. Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul 
be instructed. Mark me with what violence 
she first lov’d the Moor, but for bragging and 
telling her fantastical lies. To love him [226 
still for prating, — let not thy discreet heart 
think it. Her eye must be fed; and what de¬ 
light shall she have to look on the devil ? When 
the blood is made dull with the act of sport, 
there should be, again to inflame it, and to [230 
give satiety a fresh appetite, loveliness in favour, 
sympathy in years, manners, and beauties ; all 
which the Moor is defective in. Now, for want 
of these requir’d conveniences, her delicate ten¬ 
derness will find itself abus’d, begin to heave [235 
the gorge, disrelish and abhor the Moor. Very 
nature will instruct her in it, and compel her to 
some second choice. Now, sir, this granted, — 
as it is a most pregnant and unforc’d posi¬ 
tion — who stands so eminent in the degree [240 
of this fortune as Cassio does ? a knave very 
voluble ; no further eonscionable than in put¬ 
ting on the mere form of civil and humane 
seeming, for the better compassing of his salt 
and most hidden loose affection ? Why, none ; 
why, none ; a slipper and subtle knave, a [245 
finder of occasion, that has an eye can stamp 
and counterfeit advantages, though true ad¬ 
vantage never present itself ; a devilish knave. 
Besides, the knave is handsome, young, and 
hath all those requisites in him that folly [200 
and green minds look after ; a pestilent com¬ 
plete knave, and the woman hath found him 
already. 

Rod. I cannot believe that in her ; she’s full 
of most bless’d condition. 255 

Iago. Bless’d fig’s-end ! The wine she drinks 
is made of grapes. If she had been bless’d, she 
would never have lov’d the Moor. Bless’d pud' 




it. iii. 


OTHELLO 


945 


ding! Didst thou not see her paddle with the 
palm of his hand ? Didst not mark that ? 200 

Rod. Yes, that 1 did; but that was but 
courtesy. 

lago. Lechery, by this hand ; an index and 
obscure prologue to the history of lust and foul 
thoughts. They met so near with their lips 
that their breaths embrac’d together. Vil- [205 
lanous thoughts, Roderigo! When these mutu¬ 
alities so marshal the way, hard at hand comes 
the master and main exercise, the incorporate 
conclusion. Pish ! But, sir, be you rul’d by me ; 

I have brought you from Venice. Watch [270 
you to-night; for the command, I ’ll lay ’t upon 
you. Cassio knows you not. I ’ll not be far 
from you. Do you find some occasion to anger 
Cassio, either by speaking too loud, or tainting 
his discipline ; or from what other course [275 
you please, which the time shall more favour¬ 
ably minister. 

Rod. Well ? 

Iago. Sir, he ’s rash and very sudden in 
choler, and haply may strike at you. Provoke 
him, that he may; for even out of that [280 
will I cause these of Cyprus to mutiny, whose 
qualification shall come into no true taste again 
but by the displanting of Cassio. So shall you 
have a shorter journey to your desires by the 
means I shall then have to prefer them ; [2S6 
and the impediment most profitably removed, 
without the which there were no expectation of 
our prosperity. 

Rod. 1 will do this, if you can bring it to any • 
opportunity. 290 

lago. I warrant thee. Meet me by and by 
at the citadel; 1 must fetch his necessaries 
ashore. Farewell. 

Rod. Adieu. [Exit. 

lago. That Cassio loves her, I do well be¬ 
lieve ’t; 295 

That she loves him, ’t is apt and of great 
credit; 

The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not, 

Is of a constant, loving, noble nature, 

And I dare think he ’ll prove to Desdemona 
A most dear husband. Now, I do love her 
too; 300 

Not out of absolute lust, though peradven¬ 
ture 

I stand accountant for as great a sin, 

But partly led to diet my revenge, 

For that 1 do suspect the lusty Moor 
Hath leap’d into my seat; the thought 
whereof , 305 

Doth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my in¬ 
wards ; 

And nothing can or shall content my soul 
Till I am even’d with him, wife for wife ; 

Or failing so, yet that I put the Moor 
At least into a jealousy so strong sio 

That judgement cannot cure. Which thing to 
do, 

If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash 
For his quick hunting, stand the putting on, 

I ’ll have our Michael Cassio on the hip. 

Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb — sis 
For I fear Cassio with my night-cap too — 


Make the Moor thank me, love me, and reward 
me, 

For making him egregiously an ass 
And practising upon his peace and quiet 
Even to madness. ’T is here, but yet con¬ 
fus’d ; 820 

Knavery’s plain face is never seen till us’d. 

[Exit. 

Scene II. [A street .] 

Enter Othello's Herald, with a proclamation 
[People following ]. 

Her. It is Othello’s pleasure, our noble and 
valiant general, that, upon certain tidings now 
arriv’d importing the mere perdition of the 
Turkish fleet, every man put himself into 
triumph ; some to dance, some to make bon¬ 
fires, each man to what sport and revels his [b 
addiction leads him; for, beside these bene¬ 
ficial new s, it is the celebration of his nuptial. 
So much was his pleasure should be proclaimed. 
All offices are open, and there is full liberty of 
feasting from this present hour of five till [10 
the bell have told eleven. Heaven bless the isle 
of Cyprus and our noble general Othello! 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III. A hall in the castle.] 

Enter Othello, Desdemona, Cassio, and 
Attendants. 

Oth. Good Michael, look you to the guard 
to-night. 

Let’s teach ourselves that honourable stop, 
Not to outsport discretion. 

Cas. lago hath direction what to do ; 

But, notwithstanding, with my personal eye b 
W ill I look to’t. 

Oth. lago is most honest. 

Michael, good-night; to-morrow with your ear¬ 
liest 

Let me have speech with you. [To Desdemona.] 
Come, my dear love. 

The purchase made, the fruits are to ensue; » 
That profit’s yet to come ’tween me and you. 
Good-night. 

[Exeunt [ Othello , Desdemona , and 
Attendants]. 

Enter Iago. 

Cas. Welcome, Iago; we must to the 
watch. 

Iago. Not this hour, lieutenant;’t is not yet 
ten o’ the clock. Our general cast us thus early 
for the love of his Desdemona ; who let us not 
therefore blame. He hath not yet made wan¬ 
ton the night with her; and she is sport for 
Jove. 17 

Cas. She’s a most exquisite lady. 

Iago. And, I ’ll warrant her, full of game. 
Cas. Indeed, she’s a most fresh and delicate 
creature. . 27 

Iago. What an eye she has ! Methinks it 
sounds a parley to provocation. 

Cas. An inviting eye; and yet methinks 
right modest. 





946 


OTHELLO 


II. iii. 


Iago. And when she speaks, is it not an 
alarum to love ? 27 

Cas. She is indeed perfection. 

Iago. Well, happiness to their sheets! 
Come, lieutenant, I have a stoup of wine ; and 
here without are a hrace of Cyprus gallants that 
would fain have a measure to the health of 
black Othello. 33 

Cas. Not to-night, good Iago. I have very 
poor and unhappy brains for drinking; I could 
well wish courtesy would invent some other 
custom of entertainment. 

Iago. 0 , they are our friends. But one cup ; 
I ’ll drink for you. 39 

Cas. I have drunk hut one cup to-night, and 
that was craftily qualified too, and, behold, 
what innovation it makes here. I am unfor¬ 
tunate in the infirmity, and dare not task my 
weakness with any more. 44 

Iago. What, man ! ’t is a night of revels. 
The gallants desire it. 

Cas. Where are they ? 

Iago. Here at the door; I pray you, call 
them in. 

Cas. I ’ll do’t; hut it dislikes me. [Exit. 
Iago. If I can fasten but one cup upon him, 50 
With that which he hath drunk to-night 
already, 

He ’ll be as full of quarrel and offence 
As my young mistress’ dog. Now, my sick fool 
Roderigo, 

Whom love hath turn’d almost the wrong side 
out, 

To Desdemona hath to-night carous’d 55 

Potations pottle-deep ; and he’s to watch. 
Three else of Cyprus, noble swelling spirits 
That hold their honours in a wary distance, 

The very elements of this warlike isle, 

Have I to-night fluster’d with flowing cups, eo 
And they watch too. Now, ’mongst this flock 
of drunkards 

Am I to put our Cassio in some action 
That may offend the isle. But here they come. 

Re-enter Cassio; with him Montano and 
Gentlemen [Servants follow with wine\. 

If consequence do but approve my dream, 

My boat sails freely, both with wind and 
stream. 05 

Cas. ’Fore God, they have given me a rouse 
already. 

Mon. Good faith, a little one ; not past a 
pint, as I am a soldier. 

Iago. Some wine, ho ! 70 

[Sings.] “And let me the canakin clink, clink ; 
And let me the canakin clink. 

A soldier’s a man ; 

0 , man’s life’s but a span ; 

Why, then, let a soldier drink.” 75 
Some wine, boys! 

Cas. ’Fore God, an excellent song. 

Iago. I learn’d it in England, where, indeed, 
they are most potent in potting; your Dane, 
your German, and your swag-belli’d Hollander 
— Drink, ho ! — are nothing to your English. 81 
Cas■. Is your Englishman so exquisite in his 
drinking ? 


Iago. Why, he drinks you, with facility, your 
Dane dead drunk ; he sweats not to overthrow 
your Almain ; he gives your Hollander a vomit 
ere the next pottle can be till’d. 87 

Cas. To the health of our general! 

Mon. I am for it, lieutenant; and I ’ll do you 
justice. 90 

Iago. 0 sweet England ! 

“King Stephen was and-a worthy peer, 

His breeches cost him but a crown ; 

He held them sixpence all too dear, 

With that he call'd the tailor lown. as 

“He was a wight of high renown, 

And thou art but of low degree. 

’T is pride that pulls the country down ; 
And take thy auld cloak about thee.” 
Some wine, ho ! 

Cas. Why, this is a more exquisite song 
than the other. 

Iago. W r ill you hear’t again ? 

Cas. No ; for I hold him to be unworthy of 
his place that does those things. Well, God’s 
above all; and there be souls must be saved, 
and there be souls must not be saved. 107 

Iago. It’s true, good lieutenant. 

Cas. For mine own part, — no offence to the 
general, nor any man of quality, — I hope to be 
saved. m 

Iago. And so do I too, lieutenant. 

Cas. Ay, but, by your leave, not before me ; 
the lieutenant is to be saved before the ancient. 
Let’s have no more of this ; let’s to our af¬ 
fairs. — God forgive us our sins ! — Gentle- [ns 
men, let’s look to our business. Do not think, 
gentlemen, I am drunk. This is my ancient; 
this is my right hand, and this is my left. I 
am not drunk now ; 1 can stand well enough, 
and I speak well enough. 120 

Gent. Excellent well. 

Cas. Why, very well then ; you must not 
think then that I am drunk. [ Exit. 

Mon. To the platform, masters ; come, let ’’s 
set the watch. 125 

Iago. You see this fellow that is gone before: 
He is a soldier fit to stand by Csesar 
And give direction ; and do but see his vice. 

’T is to his virtue a just equinox, 

The one as long as the other ; ’t is pity of him. 
I fear the trust Othello puts him in, 131 

On some odd time of his infirmity, 

Will shake this island. 

Mon. But is he often thus ? 

Iago. ’T is evermore his prologue to his sleep. 
He ’ll watch the horologe a double set, ise 
If drink rock not his cradle. 

Mon. It were well 

The general were put in mind of it. 

Perhaps he sees it not; or his good nature 
Prizes the virtue that appears in Cassio, 139 
And looks not on his evils. Is not this true ? 

Enter Roderigo. 

Iago. [Aside to him.] How now, Roderigo ! 

I pray you, after the lieutenant; go. 

[Exit Roderigo. 

Mon. And’t is great pity that the noble Moor 






OTHELLO 


947 


II. iii. 


Should hazard such a place as his own second 
With one of an ingraft infirmity. 145 

It were an honest action to say 
So to the Moor. 

Iago. Not I, for this fair island. 

I do love Cassio well; and would do much 
To cure him of this evil. — But, hark ! what 
noise? [Cry within: “Help! help!”] 

Re-enter Cassio, pursuing Roderigo. 

Cas. ’Zounds, you rogue ! you rascal! 

Mon. What’s the matter, lieutenant ? 

Cas. A knave teach me my duty ! iei 

1 ’ll beat the knave into a twiggen bottle. 

Rod. Beat me! 

Cas. Dost thou prate, rogue ? 

[Striking Roderigo.] 

Mon. Nay, good lieutenant; 

[Staying him .J 

I pray you, sir, hold your hand. 

Cas. Let me go, sir, 

Or I ’ll knock you o’er the mazzard. 

Mon. Come, come, you ’re drunk, iss 

Cas. Drunk ! [Theyfight. 

Iago. [Aside to Roderigo.\ Away, I say ; go 
out, and cry a mutiny. [Exit Roderigo. 
Nay, good lieutenant, — God’s will, gentle¬ 
men ; — 

Help, ho ! — Lieutenant, — sir, — Montano, — 
sir ; — 

Help, masters ! — Here’s a goodly watch in¬ 
deed ! [Bell rings. 

Who’s that which rings the bell ? — Diablo, 
ho! i 6 <> 

The town will rise. God’s will, lieutenant, 
hold! 

You will be sham’d for ever. 

Re-enter Othello and Attendants. 

Oth. What is the matter here ? 

Mon. ’Zounds, I bleed still; I am hurt to 
the death. He dies ! 

Oth. Hold, for your lives ! 16 s 

Iago. Hold, ho ! Lieutenant, — sir, — Mon¬ 
tano, — gentlemen, — 

Have you forgot all sense of place and duty ? 
Hold ! the general speaks to you ; hold, for 
shame ! 

Oth. Why, how now, ho ! from whence 
ariseth this ? 

Are we turn’d Turks, and to ourselves do that 
Which Heaven hath forbid the Ottomites ? m 
For Christian shame, put by this barbarous 
brawl. 

He that stirs next to carve for his own rage 
Holds his soul light; he dies upon his motion. 
Silence that dreadful bell; it frights the isle 
From her propriety. What is the matter, mas¬ 
ters ? 176 

Honest Iago, that looks dead with grieving. 
Speak, who began this ? On thy love, I charge 
thee. 

Iago. I do not know. Friends all but now, 
even now, _ # 179 

In quarter, and in terms like bride and groom 
Devesting them for bed ; and then, but now — 
As if some planet had unwitted men — 


Swords out, and tilting one at other’s breast, 

In opposition bloody. I cannot speak 
Any beginning to this peevish odds ; ws 

And would in action glorious I had lost 
Those legs that brought me to a part of it! 

Oth. How comes it, Michael, you are thus 
forgot ? 

Cas. I pray you, pardon me ; I cannot speak. 
Oth. Worthy Montano, you were wont to be 
civil; i»o 

The gravity and stillness of your youth 
The world hath noted, and your name is great 
In mouths of wisest censure. What’s the mat¬ 
ter, 

That you unlace your reputation thus, 

And spend your rich opinion for the name i»s 
Of a night-brawler ? Give me answer to it. 

Mon. Worthy Othello, I am hurt to danger. 
Your officer, Iago, can inform you — 

While I spare speech, which something now of¬ 
fends me — 

Of all that I do know ; nor know I aught 200 
By me that’s said or done amiss this night, 
Unless self-charity be sometimes a vice, 

And to defend ourselves it be a sin 
When violence assails us. 

Oth. Now, by heaven, 

My blood begins my safer guides to rule ; 205 

And passion, having my best judgement collied, 
Assays to lead the way. If I once stir 
Or do but lift this arm, the best of you 
Shall sink in my rebuke. Give me to know 
How this foul rout began, who set it on ; 210 

And he that is approv’d in this offence, 

Though he had twinn’d with me, both at a 
birth, 

Shall lose me. What! in a town of war, 

Yet wild, the people’s hearts brimful of fear, 
To manage private and domestic quarrel, 215 
In night, and on the court and guard of safety ! 
’T is monstrous. Iago, who began’t ? 

Mon. If partially affin’d, or leagu’d in office, 
Thou dost deliver more or less than truth, 

Thou art no soldier. 

Iago. Touch me not so near. 220 

I had rather have this tongue cut from my 
mouth 

Than it should do offence to Michael Cassio ; 
Yet, I persuade myself, to speak the truth 
Shall nothing wrong him. Thus it is, general : 
Montano and myself being in speech, 225 

There comes a fellow crying out for help ; 

And Cassio following him with determin’d 
sword 

To execute upon him. Sir, this gentleman 
Steps in to Cassio and entreats his pause ; 
Myself the crying fellow did pursue, 230 

Lest by his clamour — as it so fell out — 

The town might fall in fright. He, swift of 
foot, 

Outran my purpose ; and I return’d the rather 
For that I heard the clink and fall of swords, 
And Cassio high in oath ; which till to-night 235 
I ne’er might say before. When I came back — 
For this was brief — I found them close to¬ 
gether, 

At blow and thrust; even as again they were 




948 


OTHELLO 


ii. iii. 


When you yourself did part them. 

More of this matter cannot I report. 240 

But men are men ; the best sometimes forget. 
Though Cassio did some little wrong to him, 

As men in rage strike those that wish them 
best, 

Yet surely Cassio, I believe, receiv’d 

From him that fled some strange indignity 245 

Which patience could not pass. 

Oth. I know, Iago, 

Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter, 
Making it light to Cassio. Cassio, I love thee ; 
But never more be officer of mine. 

Re-enter Desdemona, attended. 

Look, if my gentle love be not rais’d up ! 250 

I ’ll make thee an example. 

Des. What’s the matter, dear ? 

Oth. All’s well now, sweeting; come away 
to bed. 

Sir, for your hurts, myself will be your sur¬ 
geon. — 

Lead him off. [To Montano, who is led off.] 
Iago, look with care about the town, 255 

And silence those whom this vile brawl dis¬ 
tracted. 

Come, Desdemona ; ’t is the soldiers’ life 
To have their balmy slumbers wak’d with 
strife. [Exeunt all but Iago and Cassio. 
Iago. What, are you hurt, lieutenant ? 

Cas. Ay, past all surgery. 260 

Iago. Marry, God forbid ! 

Cas. Reputation, reputation, reputation ! 0 , 
I have lost my reputation ! I have lost the im¬ 
mortal part of myself, and what remains is 
bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation ! 265 
Iago. As I am an honest man, I thought you 
had received some bodily wound ; there is more 
sense in that than in reputation. Reputation 
is an idle and most false imposition; oft got 
without merit, and lost without deserving. You 
have lost no reputation at all, unless you re- [270 
pute yourself such a loser. What, man ! there 
are more ways to recover the general again. 
You are but now cast in his mood, a punish¬ 
ment more in policy than in malice ; even so as 
one would beat his offenceless dog to affright 
an imperious lion. Sue to him again, and he’s 
yours. 277 

Cas. I will rather sue to be despis’d than to 
deceive so good a commander with so slight, so 
drunken, and so indiscreet an officer. Drunk ? 
and speak parrot ? and squabble ? swagger ? 
swear ? and discourse fustian with one’s own 
shadow ? O thou invisible spirit of wine, if 
thou hast no name to be known by, let us call 
thee devil! 284 

Iago. What was he that you follow’d with 
your sword ? W’hat had he done to you ? 

Cas. I know not. 

Iago. Is’t possible ? 288 

Cas. I remember a mass of things, but no¬ 
thing distinctly ; a quarrel, but nothing where¬ 
fore. 0 God, that men should put an enemy in 
their mouths to steal away their brains ! That 
we should, with joy, pleasance, revel, and ap¬ 
plause, transform ourselves into beasts! 2114 


Iago. Why, but you are now well enough. 
How came you thus recovered ? 

Cas. It hath pleas’d the devil drunkenness 
to give place to the devil wrath. One unper¬ 
fectness shows me another, to make me frankly 
despise myself. so* 

Iago. Come, you are too severe a moraler. 
As the time, the place, and the condition of 
this country stands, I could heartily wish this 
had not befallen ; but, since it is as it is, mend 
it for your own good. 305 

Cas. I will ask him for my place again ; he 
shall tell me I am a drunkard ! Had I as many 
mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop 
them all. To be now a sensible man, by and 
by a fool, and presently a beast! O strange ! 
Every inordinate cup is unbless’d and the in¬ 
gredient is a devil. 3« 

Iago. Come, come, good wine is a good fa¬ 
miliar creature, if it be well us’d ; exclaim no 
more against it. And, good lieutenant, I think 
you think I love you. si« 

Cas. I have well approved it, sir. I drunk ! 
Iago. You or any man living may be drunk 
at a time, man. I ’ll tell you what you shall do. 
Our general’s wife is now the general; — I may 
say so in this respect, for that he hath de- [320 
voted and given up himself to the contempla¬ 
tion, mark, and denotement of her parts and 
graces ; — confess yourself freely to her ; im¬ 
portune her help to put you in your place again. 
She is of so free, so kind, so apt, so blessed [325 
a disposition, she holds it a vice in her goodness 
not to do more than she is requested. This 
broken joint between you and her husband en¬ 
treat her to splinter ; and, my fortunes against 
any lay worth naming, this crack of your love 
shall grow stronger than it was before. 331 

Cas. You advise me well. 

Iago. I protest, in the sincerity of love and 
honest kindness. 334 

Cas. I think it freely; and betimes in the 
morning I will beseech the virtuous Desdemona 
to undertake for me. I am desperate of my 
fortunes if they check me here. 

Iago. You are in the right. Good-night, 
lieutenant; I must to the watch. 340 

Cas. Good-night, honest Iago. [Exit. 

Iago. And what’s he then that says I play 
the villain ? 

When this advice is free I give and honest, 
Probal to thinking and indeed the course 
To win the Moor again ? For ’t is most easy 345 
The inclining Desdemona. to subdue 
In any honest suit; she’s fram’d as fruitful 
As the free elements. And then for her 
To win the Moor, were ’t to renounce his bap¬ 
tism, 

All seals and symbols of redeemed sin, 350 
His soul is so enfetter’d to her love, 

That she may make, unmake, do what she list, 
Even as her appetite shall play the god 
With his weak function. How am I then a 
villain 

To counsel Cassio to this parallel course, 355 
Directly to his good ? Divinity of hell! 

When devils will the blackest sins put on, 






III. 1. 


OTHELLO 


949 


They do suggest at first with heavenly shows, 
As I do now ; for whiles this honest fool 
Plies Desdemona to repair his fortunes 3eo 
And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor, 

I ’ll pour this pestilence into his ear, 

That she repeals him for her body’s lust; 

And by how much she strives to do him good, 
She shall undo her credit with the Moor. 366 
So will I turn her virtue into pitch, 

And out of her own goodness make the net 
That shall enmesh them all. 

Re-enter Roderigo. 

How now, Roderigo! 
Rod. I do follow here in the chase, not like 
a hound that hunts, but one that fills up the 
cry. My money is almost spent; I have [370 
been to-night exceedingly well cudgell’d; and 
I think the issue will be, I shall have so much 
experience for my pains ; and so, with no money 
at all and a little more wit, return again to 
Venice. 375 

Iago. How poor are they that have not 
patience ! 

What wound did ever heal but by degrees ? 
Thou know’st we work by wit, and not by 
witchcraft; 

And wit depends on dilatory time. 

Does’t not go well ? Cassio hath beaten thee, 
And thou, by that small hurt, hast cashier’d 
Cassio. 38 i 

Though other things grow fair against the sun, 
Yet fruits that blossom first will first be ripe. 
Content thyself a while. By the mass, ’t is 
morning; 

Pleasure and action make the hours seem short. 
Retire thee ; go where thou art billeted. 386 

Away, I say ; thou shalt know more hereafter. 
Nay, get thee gone. [Exit Roderigo .] Two 

things are to be done : 

My wife must move for Cassio to her mistress ; 
I ’ll set her on ; 390 

Myself the while to draw the Moor apart, 

And bring him jump when he may Cassio find 
Soliciting his wife. Ay, that’s the way ; 

Dull not device by coldness and delay. [Exit. 


ACT III 

Scene I. [Before the castle.] 

Enter Cassio, with Musicians. 

Cas. Masters, play here ; I will content your 
pains; 

Something that’s brief ; and bid “ Good mor¬ 
row, general.” [They play. 

Enter Clown. 

Clo. Why, masters, have your instruments 
been in Naples, that they speak i’ the nose thus ? 
1 . Mus. How, sir, how ? 6 

Clo. Are these, I pray you, wind-instru¬ 
ments ? 

1. Mus. Ay, marry, are they, sir. 

Clo. O, thereby hangs a tail. 

1 . Mus. Whereby hangs a tale, sir ? p 


Clo. Marry, sir, by many a wind-instrument 
that I know. But, masters, here’s money for 
you ; and the general so likes your music, that 
he desires you, for love’s sake, to make no 
more noise with it. 

1 . Mus. Well, sir, we will not. is 

Clo. If you have any music that may not be 
heard, to ’t again ; but, as they say, to hear 
music the general does not greatly care. 

1 . Mus. We have none such, sir. 

Clo. Then put up your pipes in your bag, for 
I,’ll away. Go, vanish into air, away ! . . 21 

[Exeunt Musicians. 

Cas. Dost thou hear, mine honest friend ? 

Clo. No, I hear not your honest friend; I 
hear you. 24 

Cas. Prithee, keep up thy quillets. There’s 
a poor piece of gold for thee. If the gentle¬ 
woman that attends the general’s wife be stir¬ 
ring, tell her there’s one Cassio entreats her a 
little favour of speech. Wilt thou do this ? 

Clo. She is stirring, sir. If she will stir 
hither, I shall seem to notify unto her. 3 i 

Cas. [Do, good my friend.] [Exit Clown. 

Enter Iago. 

In happy time, Iago. 

Iago. You have not been a-bed, then ? 

Cas. Why, no ; the day had broke 
Before we parted. I have made bold, Iago, »» 
To send in to your wife. My suit to her 
Is, that she will to virtuous Desdemona 
Procure me some access. 

Iago. I ’ll send her to you presently; 

And I ’ll devise a mean to draw the Moor 
Out of the way, that your converse and busi¬ 
ness 40 

May be more free. 

Cas. I humbly thank you for’t. [Exit Iago.] 
I never knew 

A Florentine more kind and honest. 


Enter Emilia. 

Emil. Good morrow, good lieutenant. I am 
sorry 

For your displeasure; but all will sure be 
well. # 45 

The general and his wife are talking of it, 

And she speaks for you stoutly. The Moor re¬ 
plies, 

That he you hurt is of great fame in Cyprus 
And great affinity, and that in wholesome wis¬ 
dom 

He might not but refuse you ; but he protests 
he loves you, ... 60 

And needs no other suitor but his likings 
[To take the safest occasion by the front] 

To bring you in again. 

Cas. Yet, I beseech you, 

If you think fit, or that it may be done, 

Give me advantage of some brief discourse se 
With Desdemon alone. 

Emil. Pray you, come in. 

I will bestow you where you shall have time 
To speak your bosom freely. 

Cas. I aip numb bound to you. 

[Exeunt. 





9 So 


OTHELLO 


hi. in. 


Scene II. [A room in the castle .] 

Enter Othello, Iago, and Gentlemen. 

Oth. These letters give, Iago, to the pilot; 
And by him do my duties to the Senate. 

That done, I will be walking on the works ; 
Repair there to me. 

logo. Well, my good lord, I ’ll do’t. 

Oth. This fortification, gentlemen, shall we 
see’t ? a 

Gent. We ’ll wait upon your lordship. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. [The garden of the castle .] 
Enter Desdemona, Cassio, and Emilia. 

Des. Be thou assur’d, good Cassio, I will do 
All my abilities in thy behalf. 

Emil. Good madam, do. 1 warrant it grieves 
my husband 

As if the cause were his. 

Des. 0 , that’s an honest fellow. Do not 
doubt, Cassio, s 

But I will have my lord and you again 
As friendly as you were. 

Cas. Bounteous madam, 

Whatever shall become of Michael Cassio, 

He’s never anything but your true servant. 
Des. I know’t; I thank you. You do love 
my lord ; io 

You have known him long; and be you well 
assur’d 

He shall in strangeness stand no farther off 
Than in a politic distance. 

Cas. Ay, but, lady, 

That policy may either last so long, 

Or feed upon such nice and waterish diet, is 

Or breed itself so out of circumstances, 

That, 1 being absent and my place suppli’d, 

My general will forget my love and service. 

Des. Do not doubt that; before Emilia here 
I give thee warrant of thy place. Assure thee, 
If 1 do vow a friendship, I ’ll perform it 21 
To the last article. My lord shall never rest; 

I ’ll watch him tame, and talk him out of pa¬ 
tience ; 

His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift; 
I ’ll intermingle everything he does 25 

With Cassio’s suit. Therefore be merry, Cassio ; 
For thy solicitor shall rather die 
Than give thy cause away. 

Enter Othello and Iago. 

Emil. Madam, here comes my lord. 

Cas. Madam, I’ll take my leave. 30 

Des. Why, stay, and hear me speak. 

Cas. Madam, not now ; I am very ill at ease, 
Unfit for mine own purposes. 

Des. Well, do your discretion. [Exit Cassio. 
Iago. Ha ! I like not that. 

Oth. What dost thou say ? 

Iago. Nothing, my lord ; or if — I know not 
what. so 

Oth. Was not that Cassio parted from my 
wife ? 

Iago. Cassio, my lord ! No, sure, I cannot 
think it, 


That he would steal away so guilty-like, 

Seeing your coming. 

Oth. I do believe’t was he. « 

Des. How now, my lord ! 

I have been talking with a suitor here, 

A man that languishes in your displeasure. 

Oth. Who is ’t you mean ? 

Des. Why, your lieutenant, Cassio. Good 
my lord, 46 

If I have any grace or power to move you, 

His present reconciliation take ; 

For if he be not one that truly loves you, 

That errs in ignorance and not in cunning, 

I have no judgement in an honest face. 

I prithee, call him back. 

Oth. Went he hence now ? 

Des. Yes, faith ; so humbled 
That he hath left part of his grief with me, 

To suffer with him. Good love, call him back. 
Oth. Not now, sweet Desdemon; some other 
time. 66 

Des. But shall’t be shortly ? 

Oth. The sooner, sweet, for you. 

Des. Shall’t be to-night at supper ? 

Oth. No, not to-night. 

Des. To-morrow dinner, then ? 

Oth. I shall not dine at home ; 

I meet the captains at the citadel. 

Des. Why, then, to-morrow night; on Tues¬ 
day morn; eo 

On Tuesday noon, or night; on Wednesday 
morn. 

I prithee, name the time, but let it not 
Exceed three days. In faith, he’s penitent; 
And yet his trespass, in our common reason — 
Save that, they say, the wars must make ex¬ 
ample 66 

Out of their best — is not almost a fault 
To incur a private check. When shall he come ? 
Tell me, Othello. I wonder in my soul, 

What you would ask me, that I should deny, 
Or stand so mamm’ring on. What! Michael 
Cassio, 70 

That came a-wooing with you, and so many a 
time, 

When I have spoke of you dispraisingly, 

Hath ta’en your part, — to have so much to do 
To bring him in 1 Trust me, I could do 
much, — 

Oth. Prithee, no more ; let him come when 
he will 76 

I will deny thee nothing. 

Des. Why, this is not a boon. 

’T is as I should entreat you wear your gloves, 
Or feed on nourishing dishes, or keep you warm, 
Or sue to you to do a peculiar profit 
To your own person. Nay, when I have a suit 
Wherein I mean to touch your love indeed, 8* 
It shall be full of poise and difficult weight 
And fearful to be granted. 

Oth. I will deny thee nothing ; 

Whereon, I do beseech thee, grant me this, 

To leave me but a little to myself. 86 

Des. Shall I deny you ? No. Farewell, my 
lord. 

Oth. Farewell, my Desdemona ; I ’ll come 
to thee straight. 




OTHELLO 


95 1 


III. iii. 


Des. Emilia, come. — Be as your fancies 
teach you; 

Whate’er you be, I am obedient. 

[Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia. 

Oth. Excellent wretch ! Perdition catch my 
soul, 80 

But I do love thee ! and when I love thee not, 
Chaos is come again. 

laqo. My noble lord, — 

Oth. What dost thou say, Iago ? 

Iago. Did Michael Cassio, when you woo’d 
mv lady, 

Know of your love ? os 

Oth. He did, from first to last. Why dost 
thou ask ? 

Iago. But for a satisfaction of my thought; 
No further harm. 

Oth. Why of thy thought, Iago? 

Iago. I did not think he had been acquainted 
with her. 

Oth. O, yes; and went between us very oft. 

Iago. Indeed! 101 

Oth. Indeed! ay, indeed. Discern’st thou 
aught in that ? 

Is he not honest ? 

Iago. Honest, my lord ? 

Oth. Honest! ay, honest. 

Iago. My lord, for aught I know. 

Oth. What dost thou think ? 

Iago. Think, my lord ? 

Oth. Think, my lord ! 

By heaven, he echoes me, ioo 

As if there were some monster in his thought 
Too hideous to be shown. — Thou dost mean 
something. 

I heard thee say even now, thou lik’st not that, 
When Cassio left my wife. What didst not 
like ? no . 

And when I told thee he was of my counsel, * 
Of my whole course of wooing, thou criedst, 

“ Indeed ! ” 

And didst contract and purse thy brow to¬ 
gether, 

As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain 
Some horrible conceit. If thou dost love me, us 
Show me thy thought. 

Iago. My lord, you know I love you. 

Oth. I think thou dost; 

And, for I know thou ’rt full of love and hon¬ 
esty, 

And weigh’st thy words before thou giv’st them 
breath, 

Therefore these stops of thine fright me the 
more; 120 

For such things in a false disloyal knave 
Are tricks of custom ; but in a man that’s 
just 

They ’re close delations, working from the 
heart 

That passion cannot rule. 

Iago. For Michael Cassio, 

I dare be sworn I think that he is honest. 125 

Oth. I think so too. 

Iago. Men should be what they seem ; 

Or tfiose that be not, would they might seem 
none! 

Oth. Certain, men should be what they seem. 


Iago. Why, then, I think Cassio’s an honest 
man. 

Oth. Nay, yet there’s more in this. 130 

I prithee, speak to me as to thy thinkings, 

As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of 
thoughts 

The worst of words. 

Iago. Good my lord, pardon me. 

Though I am bound to every act of duty, 

I am not bound to that all slaves are free to. 135 
Utter my thoughts? Why, say they are vile 
and false; 

As where ’s that palace whereinto foul things 
Sometimes intrude not ? Who has a breast so 
pure 

But some uncleanly apprehensions 

Keep leets and law-days and in sessions sit uo 

With meditations lawful ? 

Oth. Thou dost conspire against thy friend, 
Iago, 

If thou but think’st him wrong’d and mak’st 
his ear 

A stranger to thy thoughts. 

Iago. I do beseech you — 

Though I perchance am vicious in my guess, 145 
As, I confess, it is my nature’s plague 
To spy into abuses, and oft my jealousy 
Shapes faults that are not — that your wisdom 
yet, 

From one that so imperfectly conceits, 

Would take no notice, nor build yourself a 
trouble 150 

Out of his scattering and unsure observance. 

It were not for your quiet nor your good, 

Nor for my manhood, honesty, and wisdom, 

To let you know my thoughts. 

Oth. What dost thou mean ? 

Iago. Good name in man and woman, dear 

my lord, i6s 

Is the immediate jewel of their souls. 

Who steals my purse steals trash ; ’t is some¬ 
thing, nothing ; 

’T was mine, ’t is his, and has been slave to 
thousands; 

But he that filches from me my good name 
Robs me of that which not enriches him, ioo 

And makes me poor indeed. 

Oth. [By heaven,] I ’ll know thy thoughts. 
Iago. You cannot, if my heart were in your 
hand ; 

Nor shall not, whilst ’t is in my custody. im 
Oth. Ha! 

Iago. 0 , beware, my lord, of jealousy ; 

It is the green-ey’d monster which doth mocK 
The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in 
bliss 

Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger ; 
But, 0 , what damned minutes tells he o’er 
Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet soundly 
loves! i7o 

Oth. O misery! 

Iago. Poor and content is rich and rich 
enough, 

But riches fineless is as poor as winter 
To him that ever fears he shall be poor. 

Good heaven, the souls of all my tnbe defend 
From jealousy ! 







95 2 


OTHELLO 


hi. iii. 


Oth. Why, why is this ? iw 

Think’st thou I ’d make a life of jealousy, 

To follow still the changes of the moon 
With fresh suspicions? No! to be once in 
doubt 

Is once to be resolv’d. Exchange me for a goat, 
When I shall turn the business of my soul m 
To such exsufflicate and blown surmises, 
Matching thy inference. ’T is not to make me 
jealous 

To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves com¬ 
pany, 

Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well; 
Where virtue is, these are more virtuous. iso 
Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw 
The smallest fear or doubt of her revolt; 

For she had eyes, and chose me. No, Iago ; isa 
I,’11 see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove ; 
And on the proof, there is no more but this, — 
Away at once with love or jealousy ! 

Iago. I am glad of this, for now I shall have 
reason 

To show the love and duty that I bear you is* 
With franker spirit; therefore, as I am bound, 
Receive it from me. I speak not yet of proof. 
Look to your wife ; observe her well with Gas- 
sio ; 

Wear your eyes thus, not jealous nor secure. 

I would not have your free and noble nature, 
Out of self-bounty, be abus’d ; look to’t. 200 

I know our country disposition well; 

In Venice they do let Heaven see the pranks 
They dare not show their husbands. Their best 
conscience 

Is not to leave’t undone, but keep’t unknown. 
Oth. Dost thou say so ? 205 

Iago. She did deceive her father, marrying 
you; 

And when she seem’d to shake and fear your 
looks, 

She lov’d them most. 

Oth. And so she did. 

Iago. Why, go to then. 

She that, so young, could give out such a seem- 
ing, 

To seel her father’s eyes up close as oak — 210 

He thought’t was witchcraft — but I am much 
to blame. 

I humbly do beseech you of your pardon 
For too much loving you. 

Oth. I am bound to thee for ever. 

Iago. I see this hath a little dash’d your 
spirits. 

Oth. Not a jot, not a jot. 

Iago. I’ faith, I fear it has. 

I hope you will consider what is spoke 210 

Comes from my love. But I do see you ’re 
mov’d. 

I am to pray you not to strain my speech 
To grosser issues nor to larger reach 
Than to suspicion. 220 

Oth. I will not. 

Iago. Should you do so, my lord, 

My speech should fall into such vile success 
Which my thoughts aim’d not at, Cassio’s my 
worthy friend, — 

My lord, I see you ’re mov’d. 


Oth. No, not much mov’d. 

I do not think but Desdemona’s honest. 225 
Iago. Long live she so ! and long live you to 
think so! 

Oth. And yet, how nature erring from it¬ 
self, — 

Iago. Ay, there’s the point; as — to be bold 
with you — 

Not to affect many proposed matches 
Of her own clime, complexion, and degree, 330 
Whereto we see in all things nature tends — 
Foh ! one may smell in such, a will most 
rank, 

Foul disproportions, thoughts unnatural. 

But pardon me ; I do not in position 
Distinctly speak of her; though I may fear 236 
Her will, recoiling to her better judgement, 
May fall to match you with her country forms, 
And happily repent. 

Oth. Farewell, farewell! 

If more thou dost perceive, let me know more; 
Set on thy wife to observe. Leave me, Iago.\ 
Iago. [Going.] My lord, I take my leave. 
Oth. Why did I marry ? This honest creature 
doubtless 

Sees and knows more, much more, than he un¬ 
folds. 

Iago. [Returning .] My lord, I would I might 
entreat your honour 

To scan this thing no farther; leave it to 
time. 245 

Although’t is fit that Cassio have his place, 
For, sure, he fills it up with great ability, 

Yet, if you please to hold him off a while, 

You shall by that perceive him and his means. 
Note if your lady strain his entertainment 250 
With any strong or vehement importunity ; 
Much wid be seen in that. In the mean time, 
Let me be thought too busy in my fears — 

As worthy cause I have to fear I am — 

And hold her free, I do beseech your honour. 
Oth. Fear not my government. 256 

Iago. I once more take my leave. [Exit. 
Oth. This fellow ’s of exceeding honesty, 
And knows all qualities, with a learn’d spirit, 
Of human dealings. If I do prove her hag¬ 
gard, . 260 

Though that her jesses were my dear heart¬ 
strings, 

I’d whistle her off and let her down the wind 
To prey at fortune. Haply, for I am black 
And have not those soft parts of conversation 
That chamberers have, or for I am declin’d 265 
Into the vale of years, — yet that’s not much — 
She ’s gone. I am abus’d ; and my relief 
Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage, 
That we can call these delicate creatures ours, 
And not their appetites ! I had rather be a 
toad 270 

And live upon the vapour of a dungeon, 

Than keep a corner in the thing I love 
For others’ uses. Yet, ’t is the plague of great 
ones; 

Prerogativ’d are they less than the base. 

’T is destiny unshunnable, like death. 275 

Even then this forked plague is fated to us 

When we do quicken. Look where she comes. 




OTHELLO 


953 


III. iii. 


Re-enter Desdemona and Emilia. 

If she be false, O, then heaven mocks itself 1 
I ’ll not believe ’t. 

Des. How now, my dear Othello ! 

Your dinner, and the generous islanders 280 

By you invited, do attend your presence. 

Oth. I am to blame. 

Des. Why do you speak so faintly ? 

Are you not well ? 

Oth. I have a pain upon my forehead here. 
Des. Faith, that ’s with watching ; ’t will 
away again. 286 

Let me but bind it hard, within this hour 
It will be well. 

Oth. Your napkin is too little ; 

[He puts the handkerchief from him ; 
and it drops.] 

Let it alone. Come, I ’ll go in with you. 

Des. I am very sorry that you are not well. 

[Exeunt [Othello and Desdemona ]. 
Emil. I am glad I have found this napkin ; 
This was her first remembrance from the 
Moor. 29 i 

My wayward husband hath a hundred times 
Woo’d me to steal it; but she so loves the 
token, 

For he conjur’d her she should ever keep it, 
That she reserves it evermore about her 295 
To kiss and talk to. I ’ll have the work ta’en 
out, 

And give’t Iago. What he will do with it 
Heaven knows, not I; 

I nothing but to please his fantasy. 

Re-enter Iago. 

Iago. How now ! what do you here alone ? 
Emil. Do not you chide ; I have a thing for 
you. < 301 

Iago. A thing for me ? It is a common 
thing — 

Emil. Ha! 

Iago. To have a foolish wife. 

Emil. 0 , is that all ? What will you give me 
now 305 

For that same handkerchief ? 

Iago. What handkerchief ? 

Emil. What handkerchief! 

Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona ; 
That which so often you did bid me steal. 

Iago. Hast stolen it from her ? sto 

Emil. No, faith; she let it drop by negli¬ 
gence, 

And, to the advantage, I, being here, took ’t up. 
Look, here it is. 

Iago. A good wench ; give it me. 

Emil. What will you do with’t, that you 
have been so earnest 
To have me filch it ? 

Iago. [Snatching it.] Why, what is that to 
you ? . 316 

Emil. If it be not for some purpose of im¬ 
port, 

Give’t me again. Poor lady, she ’ll run mad 
When she shall lack it. 

Iago. Be not acknown on ’t; I have use for 
it. 


Go, leave me. [Exit Emilia. 32* 

I will in Cassio’s lodging lose this napkin, 

And let him find it. Trifles light as air 
Are to the jealous confirmations strong 
As proofs of holy writ; this may do something. 
The Moor already changes with my poison. 325 
Dangerous conceits are, in their natures, poi¬ 
sons, 

Which at the first are scarce found to distaste, 
But with a little act upon the blood, 

Burn like the mines of sulphur. I did say so. 

Re-enter Othello. 

Look, where he comes ! Not poppy, nor man- 
dragora, 330 

Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world 
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep 
Which thou ow’dst yesterday. 

Oth. Ha ! ha ! false to me ? 

Iago. Why, how now, general! no more of 
that. 

Oth. Avaunt! be gone ! thou hast set me on 
the rack. 33c 

I swear’t is better to be much abus’d 
Than but to know’t a little. 

Iago. How now, my lord! 

Oth. What sense had I of her stolen hours of 
lust ? 

I saw’t not, thought it not, it harm’d not me. 
I slept the next night well, fed well, was free 
and merry; _ 340 

I found not Cassio’s kisses on her lips. 

He that is robb’d, not wanting what is stolen, 
Let him not know ’t, and he’s not robb’d at all. 
Iago. I am sorry to hear this. 

Oth. I had been happy, if the general camp, 
Pioners and all, had tasted her sweet body, 34c 
So I had nothing known. O, now, for ever 
Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell con¬ 
tent ! 

Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars, 
That makes ambition virtue ! 0 , farewell! 350 
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill 
trump, 

The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, 
The royal banner, and all quality, 

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war ! 
And, 0 you mortal engines, whose rude throats 
The immortal Jove’s dread clamours counter¬ 
feit, 366 

Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone ! 

Iago. Is’t possible, my lord ? 

Oth. Villain, be sure thou prove my love a 
whore, 

Be sure of it; give me the ocular proof; 3 eo 
Or, by the worth of mine eternal soul, 

Thou hadst been better have been born a dog 
Than answer my wak’d wrath ! 

Iago. Is’t come to this ? 

Oth. Make me to see’t; or, at the least, so 
prove it, 

That the probation bear no hinge nor loop 365 
To hang a doubt on ; or woe upon thy life ! 
Iago. My noble lord, — 

Oth. If thou dost slander her and torture me. 
Never pray more : abandon all remorse ; 

On horror’s head horrors accumulate ; s?o 




954 


OTHELLO 


hi. iii. 


Do deeds to make heaven weep, all earth 
amaz’d ; 

For nothing canst thou to damnation add 
Greater than that. 

Iago. O grace ! 0 Heaven forgive me ! 

Are you a man ? Have you a soul or sense ? 
God buy you; take mine office. 0 wretched 
fool, _ 375 

That lov’st to make thine honesty a vice ! 

O monstrous world! Take note, take note, 0 
world, 

To be direct and honest is not safe. 

I thank you for this profit; and from hence 
I ’ll love no friend, sith love breeds such of¬ 
fence. 880 

Oth. Nay, stay. Thou shouldst be honest. 
Iago. I should be wise, for honesty’s a fool 
And loses that it works for. 

Oth. By the world, 

I think my wife be honest and think she is not; 
I think that thou art just and think thou art 
not. 383 

I’ll have some proof. Her name, that was as 
fresh 

As Dian’s visage, is now begrim’d and black 
As mine own face. If there be cords, or knives, 
Poison, or fire, or suffocating streams, 

I ’ll not endure it. Would I were satisfied ! 390 
Iago. I see, sir, you are eaten up with pas¬ 
sion ; 

I do repent me that I put it to you. 

You would be satisfied ? 

Oth. Would ! nay, I will. 

Iago. And may; but, how ? How satisfied, 
my lord ? 

Would you, the supervisor, grossly gape on — ssb 
B ehold her topp’d ? 

Oth. Death and damnation ! 0 ! 

Iago. It were a tedious difficulty, I think, 
To bring them to that prospect; damn them 
then, 

If ever mortal eyes do see them bolster 
More than their own ! What then ? How then ? 
What shall I say ? Where’s satisfaction ? 401 

It is impossible you should see this. 

Were they as prime as goats, as hot as mon¬ 
keys, 

As salt as wolves in pride, and fools as gross 
As ignorance made drunk. But yet, I say, 4 os 
If imputation and strong circumstances, 

Which lead directly to the door of truth, 

Will give you satisfaction, you might have’t. 
Oth. Give me a living reason she’s disloyal. 
Iago. I do not like the office ; 410 

But, sith I am ent’red in this cause so far, 
Prick’d to’t by foolish honesty and love, 

I will go on. I lay with Cassio lately ; 

And, being troubled with a raging tooth, 

I could not sleep. 415 

There are a kind of men so loose of soul, 

That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs ; 
One of this kind is Cassio. 

In sleep I heard him say, “ Sweet Desdemona, 
Let us be wary, let us hide our loves ; ” 420 

And then, sir, would he gripe and wring my 
hand, 

Cry, “ 0 sweet creature ! ” then kiss me hard, 


As if he pluck’d up kisses by the roots 
That grew upon my lips ; then lay his leg 
Over my thigh, and sigh, and kiss ; and then 
Cry, “ Cursed fate that gave thee to the 
Moor ! ” «« 

Oth. 0 monstrous ! monstrous ! 

Iago. Nay, this was but his dream. 

Oth. But this denoted a foregone conclusion. 
’T is a shrewd doubt, though it be but a dream. 
Iago. And this may help to thicken other 
proofs 430 

That do demonstrate thinly. 

Oth. I ’ll tear her all to pieces. 

Iago. Nay, but be wise ; yet we see nothing 
done. 

She may be honest yet. Tell me but this, 

Have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief 
Spotted with strawberries in your wife’s hand ? 
Oth. I gave her such a one ; ’t was my first 
gift. 438 

Iago. I know not that; but such a handker¬ 
chief — 

I am sure it was your wife’s — did I to-day 
See Cassio wipe his beard with. 

Oth. If it be that, — 

Iago. If it be that, or any that was hers, 440 
It speaks against her with the other proofs. 

Oth. 0 , that the slave had forty thousand 
lives ! 

One is too poor, too weak for my revenge. 

Now do I see ’tis true. Look here, Iago ; 

All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven. 445 
’T is gone. 

Arise, black vengeance, from the hollow hell! 
Yield up, 0 love, thy crown and hearted throne 
To tyrannous hate ! Swell, bosom, with thy 
fraught, 

For’t is of aspics’ tongues ! 

Iago. Yet be content. 

Oth. O, blood, blood, blood ! 451 

Iago. Patience, I say; your mind [perhaps] 
may change. 

Oth. Never, Iago. Like to the Pontic Sea, 
Whose icy current and compulsive course 
Ne’er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on 455 
To the Propontic and the Hellespont, 

Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace, 
Shall ne’er look back, ne’er ebb to humble love, 
Till that a capable and wide revenge 
Swallow them up. Now, by yond marble hea¬ 
ven, 400 

In the due reverence of a sacred vow [Kneels.] 
I here engage my words. 

Iago. Do not rise yet. 

Witness, you ever-burning lights above, 

You elements that clip us round about, 

[ Kneels. 

Witness that here Iago doth give up 465 

The execution of his wit, hands, heart, 

To wrong’d Othello’s service ! Let him com¬ 
mand, 

And to obey shall be in me remorse, 

What bloody business ever. [They rise.] 

Oth. ' ' I greet thy love, 

Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance 
bounteous, 470 

And will upon the instant put thee to’t: 






III. IV. 


OTHELLO 


955 


Within these three days let me hear thee say 
That Cassio ’s not alive. 

Iago. My friend is dead ; ’t is done at your 
request. 

But let her live. 

Oth. Damn her, lewd minx ! 0 , damn her! 
damn her! 475 

Come, go with me apart; I will withdraw 
To furnish me with some swift means of death 
For the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant. 

Iago. I am your own for ever. [Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [Before the castle.] 

Enter Desdemona, Emilia, and Clown. 

Des. Do you know, sirrah, where Lieutenant 
Cassio lies ? 

Clo. I dare not say he lies anywhere. 

Des. Why, man ? 

Clo. He ’s a soldier, and for me to say a sol¬ 
dier lies,’t is stabbing. 6 

Des. Go to ! Where lodges he ? 

Clo. To tell you where he lodges, is to tell 
you where I lie. 

Des. Can anything be made of this ? 10 

Clo. I know not where he lodges, and for me 
to devise a lodging and say he lies here or he 
lies there, were to lie in mine own throat. 

Des. Can you inquire him out, and be edified 
by report ? 15 

Clo. I will catechize the world for him ; that 
is, make questions, and by them answer. 

Des. Seek him, bid him come hither. Tell 
him I have mov’d my lord on his behalf, and 
hope all will be well. 20 

Clo. To do this is within the compass of 

man’s wit; and therefore I will attempt the 
doing it. [Exit. 

Des. Where should I lose the handkerchief, 
Emilia ? 

Emil. I know not, madam. 

Des. Believe me, I had rather have lost my 

purse 25 

Full of crusadoes ; and, but my noble Moor 
Is true of mind and made of no such baseness 
As jealous creatures are, it were enough 
To put him to ill thinking. 

Emil. Is he not jealous ? 

Des. Who, he ? I think the sun where he was 
born . so 

Drew all such humours from him. 

Emil. Look, where he comes. 

Enter Othello. 

Des. I will not leave him now till Cassio 
Be call’d to him. — How is’t with you, my 
lord? 

Oth. Well, my good lady. [Aside.] 0 , hard¬ 
ness to dissemble! — 

How do you, Desdemona ? 

Des. Well, my good lord. 

Oth. Give me your hand. This hand is moist, 
my lady. 36 

Des. It yet hath felt no age nor known no 
sorrow. 

Oth. This argues fruitfulness and liberal 
heart; 


Hot, hot, and moist. This hand of yours re¬ 
quires 

A sequester from liberty, fasting and prayer, 40 
Much castigation, exercise devout; 

For here’s a young and sweating devil here, 
That commonly rebels. ’T is a good hand, 

A frank one. 

Des. You may, indeed, say so ; 

For’t was that hand that gave away my heart. 
Oth. A liberal hand. The hearts of old gave 
hands; a 

But our new heraldry is hands, not hearts. 

Des. I cannot speak of this. Come now, your 
promise. 

Oth. What promise, chuck ? 

Des. I have sent to bid Cassio come speak 
with you. so 

Oth. I have a salt and sorry rheum offends 
me ; 

Lend me thy handkerchief. 

Des. Here, my lord. 

Oth. That which I gave you. 

Des. I have it not about me. 

Oth. Not? 

Des. No, indeed, my lord. 

Oth. That’s a fault. That handkerchief 33 
Did an Egyptian to my mother give ; 

She was a charmer, and could almost read 
The thoughts of people. She told her, while 
she kept it 

’T would make her amiable and subdue my 
father 

Entirely to her love, but if she lost it, 00 

Or made a gift of it, my father’s eye 
Should hold her loathed and his spirits should 
hunt 

After new fancies. She, dying, gave it me ; 
And bid me, when my fate would have me 
wiv’d, 

To give it her. I did so ; and take heed on’t; es 
Make it a darling like your precious eye. 

To lose’t or give’t away were such perdition 
As nothing else could match. 

Des. Is’t possible ? 

Oth. ’T is true ; there’s magic in the web of 
it. 

A sibyl, that had numb’red in the world 70 
The sun to course two hundred compasses, 

In her prophetic fury sew’d the work ; 

The worms were hallowed that did breed the 
silk; 

And it was dy’d in mummy which the skilful 
Conserv’d of maidens’ hearts. 

Des. Indeed ! is’t true ? 

Oth. Most veritable; therefore look to’t 
well. 76 

Des. Then would to God that 1 had never 
seen’t! 

Oth. Ha ! wherefore ? 

Des. Why do you speak so startingly and 
rash ? 

Oth. Is’t lost ? Is’t gone ? Speak, is’t out 
o’ the way ? *> 

Des. Heaven bless us I 
Oth. Say you ? 

Des. It is not lost; but what an if it were ? 
Oth. How ? 






OTHELLO 


III. IV. 


95 6 


Des. I say, it is not lost. 

Oth. Fetch ’t, let me see’t. »e 

Des. Why, so I can, sir, but I will not now. 
This is a trick to put me from my suit. 

Pray you, let Cassio be receiv’d again. 

Oth. Fetch me the handkerchief; my mind 
misgives. 

Des. Come, come ; so 

You ’ll never meet a more sufficient man. 

Oth. The handkerchief! 

[Des. I pray, talk we of Cassio. 

Oth. The handkerchief!] 

Des. A man that all his time 

Hath founded his good fortunes on your love, 
Shar’d dangers with you, — os 

Oth. The handkerchief! 

Des. I’ faith, you are to blame. 

Oth. ’Zounds! [Exit. 

Emil. Is not this man jealous ? 

Des. I ne’er saw this before. 100 

Sure, there’s some wonder in this handker¬ 
chief ; 

I am most unhappy in the loss of it. 

Emil. ’T is not a year or two shows us a man. 
They are all but stomachs, and we all but food ; 
They eat us hungerly, and when they are full 
They belch us. 

Enter Cassio and Iago. 

Look you, Cassio and my husband ! 106 
Iago. There is no other way, ’t is she must 
do’t; 

And, lo, the happiness ! Go, and importune her. 
Des. How now, good Cassio! what’s the 
news with you ? 

Cas. Madam, my former suit. I do beseech 
you no 

That by your virtuous means I may again 
Exist, and be a member of his love 
Whom I with all the office of my heart 
Entirely honour. I would not be delay’d. 

If my offence be of such mortal kind us 

That nor my service past, nor present sorrows, 
Nor purpos’d merit in futurity 
Can ransom me into his love again, 

But to know so must be my benefit; 

So shall I clothe me in a forc’d content, 120 
And shut myself up in some other course, 

To fortune’s alms. 

Des. Alas, thrice-gentle Cassio ! 

My advocation is not now in tune. 

My lord is not my lord; nor should I know 
him 

Were he in favour as in humour alter’d. 125 
So help me every spirit sanctified 
As I have spoken for you all my best 
And stood within the blank of his displeasure 
For my free speech! You must a while be 
patient. 

What 1 can do I will; and more I will 130 

Than for myself I dare. Let that suffice you. 
Iago. Is my lord angry ? 

Emil. He went hence but now, 

And certainly in strange unquietness. 

Iago. Can he be angry ? I have seen the 
cannon 

When it hath blown his ranks into the air, us 


And, like the devil, from his very arm 
Puff’d his own brother : — and is he angry ? 
Something of moment then. I will go meet 
him. 

There’s matter in’t indeed, if he be angry. 

[Exit Iago. 

Des. I prithee, do so. Something, sure, of 
state, 140 

Either from Venice, or some unhatch’d practice 
Made demonstrable here in Cyprus to him, 
Hath puddled his clear spirit; and in such cases 
Men’s natures wrangle with inferior things, 
Though great ones are their object. ’T is even 
so; 144 

For let our finger ache, and it indues 
Our other healthful members even to a sense 
Of pain. Nay, we must think men are not gods, 
Nor of them look for such observancy 
As fit the bridal. Beshrew me much, Emilia, iso 
I was, unhandsome warrior as I am, 

Arraigning his unkindness with my soul; 

But now I find I had suborn’d the witness, 

And he’s indicted falsely. 

Emil. Pray Heaven it be state-matters, as 
you think, 1 55 

And no conception nor no jealous toy 
Concerning you. 

Des. Alas the day ! I never gave him cause. 
Emil. But jealous souls will not be answer’d 
so; 

They are not ever jealous for the cause, uso 
But jealous for they ’re jealous. It is a mon¬ 
ster 

Begot upon itself, born on itself. 

Des. Heaven keep the monster from 
Othello’s mind! 

Emil. Lady, amen. 

Des. I will go seek him. Cassio, walk here¬ 
about ; i«6 

If I do find him fit, I ’ll move your suit 
And seek to effect it to my uttermost. 

Cas. I humbly thank your ladyship. 

[Exeunt [Desdemona ana Emilia ]. 

Enter Bianca. 

Bian. Save you, friend Cassio ! 

Cas. What make you from home ? 

How is it with you, my most fair Bianca ? 170 

I’ faith, sweet love, I was coming to your house. 
Bian. And I was going to your lodging, 
Cassio. 

What, keep a week away ? seven days and 
nights ? 

Eightscore eight hours? and lovers’ absent 
hours, 

More tedious than the dial eightscore times ? 

0 weary reck’ning ! 

Cas. Pardon me, Bianca. i7« 

I have this while with leaden thoughts been 
press’d; 

But I shall, in a more continuate time, 

Strike off this score of absence. Sweet Bianca, 
[Giving her Desdemona's handker¬ 
chief.] 

Take me this work out. 

Bian. O Cassio, whence came this? 

This is some token from a newer friend ; i»i 






IV. 1. 


OTHELLO 


957 


To the felt absence now I feel a cause. 

Is ’t come to this ? Well, well. 

Cas. Go to, woman! 

Throw your vile guesses in the devil’s teeth, 
From whence you have them. You are jealous 
now i86 

That this is from some mistress, some remem¬ 
brance. 

No, by my faith, Bianca. 

Bian. Why, whose is it ? 

Cas. I know not, sweet; I found it in my 
chamber. 

I like the work well; ere it be demanded — 

As like enough it will — I’d have it copied, wo 
Take it, and do’t; and leave me for this time. 
Bian. Leave you ! Wherefore ? 

Cas. I do attend here on the general; 

And think it no addition, nor my wish, i»4 
To have him see me woman’d. 

Bian. Why, I pray you ? 

Cas. Not that I love you not. 

Bian. But that you do not love me. 

I pray you, bring me on the way a little, 

And say if I shall see you soon at night. 

Cas. ’T is but a little way that I can bring 
you, 

For I attend here ; but I ’ll see you soon. 200 
Bian. ’T is very good; I must be circum- 
stanc’d. [ Exeunt. 

ACT IV 

Scene I. [ Cyprus. Before the castle.\ 
Enter Othello and Iago. 

Iago. Will you think so ? 

Oth. Think so, Iago! 

Iago. What, 

To kiss in private ? 

Oth. An unauthoriz’d kiss. 

Iago. Or to be naked with her friend in bed 
An hour or more, not meaning any harm ? 

Oth. Naked in bed, Iago, and not mean 
harm! « 

It is hypocrisy against the devil. 

They that mean virtuously, and yet do so, 

The devil their virtue tempts, and they tempt 
heaven. 

Iago. If they do nothing, ’t is a venial slip ; 
But if I give my wife a handkerchief, — 10 

Oth. What then ? 

Iago. Why, then, ’t is hers, my lord; and, 
being hers, 

She may, I think, bestow’t on any man. 

Oth. She is protectress of her honour too ; 
May she give that ? « 

Iago. Her honour is an essence that’s not 
seen; 

They have it very oft that have it not: 

But, for the handkerchief,— 

Oth. By heaven, I would most gladly have 
forgot it. 

Thou said’st — 0 , it comes o’er my memory, 20 
As doth the raven o’er the infected house, 
Boding to all — he had my handkerchief. 

Iago. Ay, what of that ? 

Qth. That’s not so good now. 


Iago. What 

If I had said I had seen him do you wrong ? 

Or heard him say, — as knaves be such abroad, 
Who having, by their own importunate suit, 26 
Or voluntary dotage of some mistress. 
Convinced or suppli’d them, cannot choose 
But they must blab — 

Oth. Hath he said anything ? 

Iago. He hath, my lord; but be you well 
assur’d, 30 

No more than he ’ll unswear. 

Oth. What hath he said ? 

Iago. Faith, that he did — I know not what 
he did. 

Oth. What? what? 

Iago. Lie — 

Oth. With her ? 

Iago. With her, on her ; what you will. 

Oth. Lie with her! lie on her! We say lie 
on her, when they belie her. Lie with her! [36 
’Zounds, that’s fulsome ! — Handkerchief — 
confessions — handkerchief! — To confess, and 
be bang’d for his labour ; — first, to be hang’d, 
and then to confess. — I tremble at it. Nature 
would not invest herself in such shadowing [40 
passion without some instruction. It is not 
words that shakes me thus. Pish ! Noses, ears, 
and lips.— Is’t possible ? — Confess — handker¬ 
chief ! — 0 devil! • [ Falls in a trance. 

Iago. Work on, 45 

My medicine, work ! Thus credulous fools are 
caught; 

And many worthy and chaste dames even thus, 
All guiltless, meet reproach. — What, ho ! my 
lord! 

My lord, I say! Othello ! 

Enter Cassio. 

How now, Cassio! 

Cas. What’s the matter ? so 

Iago. My lord is fallen into an epilepsy. 

This is his second fit; he had one yesterday. 
Cas. Rub him about the temples. 

Iago. ' [No, forbear;] 

The lethargy must have his quiet course ; 

If not, he foams at mouth and by and by ss 
Breaks out to savage madness. Look, he stirs. 
Do you withdraw yourself a little while, 

He will recover straight. When he is gone, 

I would on great occasion speak with you. 

[Exit Cassio. 

How is it, general ? Have you not hurt your 
head ? 60 

Oth. Dost thou mock me ? 

Iago. I mock you not, by heaven. 

Would you would bear your fortune like a 
man ! 

Oth. A horned man’s a monster and a beast. 
Iago. There’s many a beast then in a popu¬ 
lous city. 

And many a civil monster. ee 

Oth. Did he confess it ? 

Iago. Good sir, be a man ; 

Think every bearded fellow that’s but yok’d 
May draw with you. There’s millions now 
alive 

That nightly lie in those unproper beds 




95 8 


OTHELLO 


iv. L 


Which they dare swear peculiar; your case is 
better. 79 

0 , ’t is the spite of hell, the fiend’s arch-mock, 
To lip a wanton in a secure couch, 

And to suppose her chaste ! No, let me know ; 
And knowing what I am, I know what she 
shall be. 

Oth. O, thou art wise ; ’t is certain. 

Iago. Stand you a while apart; 

Confine yourself but in a patient list. 76 

Whilst you were here o’erwhelmed with your 
grief — 

A passion most unsuiting such a man — 

Cassio came hither. I shifted him away, 

And laid good ’scuse upon your ecstasy ; so 
Bade him anon return and here speak with 
me, 

The which he promis’d. Do but encave your¬ 
self, 

And mark the fleers, the gibes, and notable 
scorns, 

That dwell in every region of his face ; 

For I will make him tell the tale anew, ss 

Where, how, how oft, how long ago, and when 
He hath, ana is again to cope your wife. 

I say, but mark his gesture. Marry, patience ; 
Or I shall say you ’re all in all in spleen, 89 
And nothing of a man. 

Oth. Dost thou hear, Iago ? 

I will be found most cunning in my patience ; 
But — dost thou hear ? —most bloody. 

Iago. That’s not amiss ; 

But yet keep time in all. Will you withdraw ? 

[Othello retires .] 

Now will I question Cassio of Bianca, 

A housewife that by selling her desires or 

Buys herself bread and clothes. It is a creature 
That dotes on Cassio ; — as’t is the strumpet’s 
plague 

To beguile many and be beguil’d by one ; — 

He, when he hears of her, cannot refrain 
From the excess of laughter. Here he comes: 

Re-enter Cassio. 

As he shall smile, Othello shall go mad ; 101 

And his unbookish jealousy must construe 
Poor Cassio’s smiles, gestures, and light be¬ 
haviours 

Quite in the wrong. How do you, lieutenant ? 
Cas. The worser that you give me the addi¬ 
tion 105 

Whose want even kills me. 

Iago. Ply Desdemona well, and you are sure 
on’t. 

[Speaking lower.] Now, if this suit lay in Bian¬ 
ca’s power, 

How quickly should you speed ! 

Cas. Alas, poor caitiff ! 

Oth. Look, how he laughs already ! no 

Iago. I never knew woman love man so. 

Cas. Alas, poor rogue ! I think, i’ faith, she 
loves me. 

Oth. Now he denies it faintly, and laughs it 
out. 

Iago. Do you hear, Cassio ? ns 

Oth. Now he importunes him 
To tell it o’er. Go to ; well said, well said. 


Iago. She gives it out that you shall marry 
her. 

Do you intend it ? 

Cas. Ha, ha, ha! «o 

Oth. Do ye triumph, Roman ? Do you tri¬ 
umph ? 

Cas. I marry her! What ? a customer! 
Prithee, bear some charity to my wit; do not 
think it so unwholesome. Ha, ha, ha ! 125 

Oth. So, so, so, so ; they laugh that wins. 
Iago. Faith, the cry goes that you shall marry 
her. 

Cas. Prithee, say true. 

Iago. I am a very villain else. 

Oth. Have you scor’d me ? Well. iso 

Cas. This is the monkey’s own giving out. 
She is persuaded I will marry her, out of her 
own love and flattery, not out of my promise. 

Oth. Iago beckons me; now he begins the 
story. i35 

Cas. She was here even now ; she haunts me 
in every place. I was the other day talking 
on the sea-bank with certain Venetians ; and 
thither comes the bauble, and, [by this hand, 
she] falls me thus about my neck— wo 

Oth. Crying, “ O dear Cassio I ” as it were; 
his gesture imports it. 

Cas. So hangs, and lolls, and weeps upon 
me ; so shakes and pulls me. Ha, ha. ha ! m 
Oth. Now he tells how she pluck’d him to 
my chamber. 0, I see that nose of yours, but 
not that dog I shall throw it to. 

Cas. Well, I must leave her company. 

Iago. Before me ! look, where she comes. i» 

Enter Bianca. 

Cas. ’T is such another fitchew! Marry, a 
erfum’d one. — What do you mean by this 
aunting of me ? 

Bian. Let the devil and his dam haunt you! 
What did you mean by that same handker¬ 
chief you gave me even now ? I was a fine fool 
to take it. I must take out the work ? — A [155 
likely piece of work, that you should find it in 
your chamber, and know not who left it there ! 
This is some minx’s token, and I must take out 
the work ? There; give it your hobby-horse. 
Wheresoever you had it, I ’ll take out no work 
on’t. i6i 

Cas. How now, my sweet Bianca ! how now I 
how now ! 

Oth. By heaven, that should be my handker¬ 
chief ! 165 

Bian. If you ’ll come to supper to-night, you 
may ; if you will not, come when you are next 
prepar’d for. [Exit. 

Iago. After her, after her. 

Cas. Faith, I must; she ’ll rail in the streets 
else. ^ i7i 

Iago. Will you sup there ? 

Cas. Yes, I intend so. 

Iago. Well, I may chance to see you; for I 
would very fain speak with you. its 

Cas. Prithee, come ; will you ? 

Iaao. Go to ; say no more. [Exit Cassio. 
Oth. [Advancing.] How shall I murder him, 
Iago? 






IV. 1. 


OTHELLO 


959 


Iago. Did you perceive how he laugh’d at 
his vice ? m 

Oth. 0 Iago! 

Iago. And did you see the handkerchief ? 
Oth. Was that mine ? 

Iago. Yours, by this hand. And to see how he 
prizes the foolish woman your wife ! She gave 
it him, and he hath given it his whore. m 
Oth. I would have him nine years a-killing. 
A fine woman ! a fair woman ! a sweet woman ! 
Iago. Nay, you must forget that. i»o 

Oth. Ay, let her rot, and perish, and be 
damn’d to-night; for she shall not live. No, 
my heart is turn’d to stone ; I strike it, and it 
hurts my hand. O, the world hath not a sweeter 
creature! She might lie by an emperor’s side 
and command him tasks. i 9 « 

Iago. Nay, that’s not your way. 

Oth. Hang her! I do but say what she is. 
So delicate with her needle ! an admirable mu¬ 
sician ! 0 ! she will sing the savageness out of 
a bear. Of so high and plenteous wit and in¬ 
vention ! 201 

Iago. She’s the worse for all this. 

Oth. O, a thousand thousand times. And 
then, of so gentle a condition ! 

Iago. Ay, too gentle. 206 

Oth. Nay, that’s certain. But yet the pity 
of it, Iago ! O Iago, the pity of it, Iago ! 

Iago. If you are so fond over her iniquity, 
give her patent to offend ; for, if it touch not 
you, it comes near nobody. 210 

Oth. I will chop her into messes. Cuckold 
me! 

Iago. 0 , ’t is foul in her. 

Oth. With mine officer! 

Iago. That’s fouler. 216 

Oth. Get me some poison, Iago; this night. 
I ’ll not expostulate with her, lest her body and 
beauty unprovide my mind again. This night, 
Iago. 219 

Iago. Do it not with poison ; strangle her in 
her bed, even the bed she hath contaminated. 

Oth. Good, good; the justice of it pleases ; 
very good. 

Iago. And for Cassio, let me be his under¬ 
taker. You shall hear more by midnight. 225 

[.A trumpet. 


Enter Lodovico, Desdemona, and Attendants. 

Oth. Excellent good. What trumpet is that 
same ? 

Iago. I warrant, something from Venice. 

’T is Lodovico, this, comes from the Duke. 

See, your wife’s with him. 

Lod. God save the worthy general! 

Oth. With all my heart, sir. 

Lod. The Duke and senators of Venice 
greet you. [Gives him a letter.] 230 

Oth. I kiss the instrument of their pleasures. 

[Opens the letter , and reads.] 

Des. And what’s the news, good cousin Lo¬ 
dovico ? 

Iago. I am very glad to see you, signior ; 

Welcome to Cyprus. 

Lod. I thank you. How does Lieutenant 
Cassio ? 236 


’s fallen between him 


Iago. Lives, sir. 

Des. Cousin, there 
and my lord 
An unkind breach ; but you shall make all 
well. 

Oth. Are you sure of that ? 

Des. My lord ! 

Oth. [.Reads.] “This fail you not to do, as 
you will ”— 240 

Lod. He did not call; he ’s busy in the 
paper. 

Is there division ’twixt my lord and Cassio ? 
Des. A most unhappy one. I would do 
much 

To atone them, for the love I bear to Cassio. 
Oth. Fire and brimstone ! 

Des. My lord ? 

Oth. Are you wise ? 24s 

Des. What, is he angry ? 

Lod. May be the letter mov’d him ; 

For, as I think, they do command him home, 
Deputing Cassio in his government. 

Des. Trust me, I am glad on’t. 

Oth. Indeed! 

Des. My lord ? 

Oth. I am glad to see you mad. 

Des. Why, sweet Othello, — 

Oth. [Striking her.] Devil! _ 251 

Des. I have not deserv’d this. 

Lod. My lord, this would not be believ’d in 
Venice 

Though I should swear I saw’t. ’T is very 
much. 

Make her amends: she weeps. 

Oth. 0 devil, devil ! 

If that the earth could teem with woman’s 
tears, __ 256 

Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile. 
Out of my sight! 

Des. I will not stay to offend you. 

[Going.] 

Lod. Truly, an obedient lady: 

I do beseech your lordship, call her back. 200 
Oth. Mistress ! 

Des. My lord ? 

Oth. What would you with her, sir ? 

Lod. Who, I, my lord ? 

Oth. Ay; you did wish that I would make 
her turn. 

Sir, she can turn, and turn, and yet go on, 

And turn again ; and she can weep, sir, weep; 
And she’s obedient, as you say, obedient, 2 gs 
V ery obedient. Proceed you in your tears. 
Concerning this, sir, — O well-painted pas¬ 
sion ! — 

I am commanded home. — Get you away ; 

I ’ll send for you anon. — Sir, I obey the man¬ 
date, 270 

And will return to Venice. — Hence, avaunt! — 

[Exit Desdemona .] 
Cassio shall have my place. And, sir, to-night, 
1 do entreat that we may sup together. 

You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus. — Goats and 
monkeys! [Exit. 

Lod. Is this the noble Moor whom our full 
Senate 275 

Call all in all sufficient ? Is this the nature 




960 


OTHELLO 


iv. ii. 


Whom passion could not shake ? whose solid 
virtue 

The shot of accident nor dart of chance 
Could neither graze nor pierce ? 

Iago. He is much chang’d. 

Lod. Are his wits safe ? Is he not light of 
brain ? 280 

Iago. He’s that he is ; I may not breathe 
my censure 

What he might be. If what he might he is 
not, 

I would to heaven he were ! 

Lod. What, strike his wife ! 

Iago. Faith, that was not so well; yet would 
I knew 

That stroke would prove the worst! 

Lod. Is it his use ? 

Or did the letters work upon his blood, 286 
And new-create this fault ? 

Iago. Alas, alas! 

It is not honesty in me to speak 
What I have seen and known. You shall ob¬ 
serve him, 

And his own courses will denote him so 290 
That I may save my speech. Do but go after, 
And mark how he continues. 

Lod. I am sorry that I am deceiv’d in him. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [A room in the castle.] 

Enter Othello and Emilia. 

Oth. You have seen nothing then ? 

Emil. Nor ever heard, nor ever did suspect. 
Oth. Yes, you have seen Cassio and she to- 

? ether. 

. But then I saw no harm, and then I 
heard 

Each syllable that breath made up between 
them. ^ B 

Oth. What, did they never whisper ? 

Emil. Never, my lord. 

Oth. Nor send you out o’ the way ? 

Emil. Never. 

Oth. To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, 
nor nothing ? 

Emil. Never, my lord. 10 

Oth. That’s strange. 

Emil. I durst, my lord, to wager she is 
honest, 

Lay down my soul at stake. If you think other, 
Remove your thought; it doth abuse your 
bosom. 

If any wretch have put this in your head, is 
Let Heaven requite it with the serpent’s curse ! 
For, if she be not honest, chaste, and true, 
There’s no man happy ; the purest of their 
wives 

Is foul as slander. 

Oth. Bid her come hither ; go. 

[Exit Emilia. 

She says enough ; yet she’s a simple bawd 20 
That cannot say as much. This is a subtle 
whore, 

A closet lock and key of villanous secrets ; 

And yet she ’ll kneel and pray ; I have seen her 
do’t. 


Enter Desdemona with Emilia. 


Des. My lord, what is your will ? 

Oth. Fray, chuck, come hither. 

Des. What is your pleasure ? 

Oth. Let me see your eyes ; 26 


Look in my face. 

Des. What horrible fancy’s this i 

Oth. [To Emilia.] Some of your function, 


mistress ; 

Leave procreants alone and shut the door; 
Cough, or cry “ hem,” if anybody come. 

Your mystery, your mystery; nay, dispatch. 30 

[Exit Emilia. 

Des. Upon my knee, what doth your speech 
import ? 

I understand a fury in your words, 

[But not the words.] 

Oth. Why, what art thou ? 

Des. Your wife, my lord ; your true 

And loyal wife. 

Oth. Come, swear it, damn thyself, 

Lest, being like one of heaven, the devils them¬ 
selves 36 

Should fear to seize thee ; therefore be double 


damn’d, 

Swear thou art honest. 

Des. Heaven doth truly know it. 

Oth. Heaven truly knows that thou art false 
as hell. 

Des. To whom, my lord? With whom? 

How am I false ? « 

Oth. Ah, Desdemon ! Away ! away ! away ! 
Des. Alas the heavy day! Why do you 
weep ? 

Am I the motive of these tears, my lord ? 

If haply you my father do suspect 
An instrument of this your calling back, « 
Lay not your blame on me. If you have lost him, 
Why, I have lost him too. 

Oth. Had it pleas’d Heaven 

To try me with affliction ; had they rain’d 
All kind of sores and shames on my bare head, 
Steep’d,me in poverty to the very lips, so 

Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes, 

I should have found in some place of my soul 
A drop of patience ; but, alas, to make me 
The fixed figure for the time of scorn 
To point his slow and moving finger at! s& 
Yet could I bear that too, well, very well; 

But there, where I have garner’d up my heart, 
Where either I must live, or bear no life ; 

The fountain from the which my current runs, 
Or else dries up ; to be discarded thence ! eo 
Or keep it as a cistern for foul toads 
To knot and gender in ! Turn thy complexion 
there, 

Patience, thou young and rose-lipp’d cherubin, 
Ay, there look grim as hell! 

Des. I hope my noble lord esteems me hon¬ 
est. 66 


Oth. 0 , ay; as summer flies are in the 
shambles, 

That quicken even with blowing. 0 thou weed, 
Who art so lovely fair and smell’st so sweet 
That the sense aches at thee, would thouhadst 
ne’er been born! 







IV. 11. 


OTHELLO 


961 


Des. Alas, what ignorant sin have I com¬ 
mitted ? 70 

Oth. Was this fair paper, this most goodly 
book, 

Made to write “whore” upon? What com¬ 
mitted ! 

Committed ! 0 thou public commoner ! 

I should make very forges of my cheeks, 

That would to cinders burn up modesty, 75 
Did I but speak thy deeds. What committed ! 
Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon 
winks, 

The bawdy wind, that kisses all it meets, 

Is hush’d within the hollow mine of earth, 

And will not hear it. Wbat committed ! »o 
[Impudent strumpet!] 

Des. By heaven, you do me wrong. 

Oth. Are not you a strumpet ? 

Des. No, as I am a Christian. 

If to preserve this vessel for my lord 
From any other foul unlawful touch 
Be not to be a strumpet, I am none. 85 

Oth. What, not a whore ? 

Des. No, as I shall be sav’d. 

Oth. Is ’t possible ? 

Des. 0 , Heaven forgive us ! 

Oth. I cry you mercy, then. 

I took you for that cunning whore of Venice 
That married with Othello. [liaising his 
voice. ] — You, mistress, »o 

Re-enter Emilia. 

That have the office opposite to Saint Peter, 
And keeps the gate of hell! You, you, ay, 
you! 

We have done our course ; there’s money for 
your pains. 

I pray you, turn the key and keep our counsel. 

[Exit. 

Emil. Alas, what does this gentleman con¬ 
ceive ? 96 

How do you, madam ? How do you, my good 
lady ? 

Des. Faith, half asleep. 

Emil. Good madam, what’s the matter with 
my lord ? 

Des. With who ? 

Emil. Why, with my lord, madam. 100 

Des. Who is thy lord ? 

Emil. He that is yours, sweet lady. 

Des. I have none. Do not talk to me, 
Emilia ; 

I cannot weep, nor answers have I none 
But what should go by water. Prithee, to¬ 
night # 104 

Lay on my bed my wedding sheets, remember ; 
And call thy husband hither. 

Emil. Here’s a change indeed! 

[Exit. 

Des. ’T is meet I should be us’d so, very 
meet. 

How have I been behav’d, that he might stick 
The small’st opinion on my least misuse ? 

Re-enter Emilia with Iago. 

Iago. What is your pleasure, madam ? How 
is ’t with you ? 110 


Des. I cannot tell. Those that do teach 
young babes 

Do it with gentle means and easy tasks. 

He might have chid me so ; for, in good faith, 

I am a child to chidine. 

Iago. What’s the matter, lady ? 

Emil. Alas, Iago, my lord hath so bewhor’d 
her, iw 

Thrown such despite and heavy terms upon her, 
That true hearts cannot bear. 

Des. Am I that name, Iago ? 

Iago. What name, fair lady ? 

Des. Such as she said my lord did say I was. 

Emil. He call’d her whore. A beggar in his 
drink, i*> 

Could not have laid such terms upon his callet. 

Iago. Why did he so ? 

Des. I do not know ; I am sure I am none 
such. 

Iago. Do not weep, do not weep. Alas the 
day ! 

Emil. Hath she forsook so many noble 
matches, 

Her father and her country and her friends, 

To be call’d whore? Would it not make one 
weep ? 

Des. It is my wretched fortune. 

Iago. Beshrew him for’t! 

How comes this trick upon him ? 

Des. Nay, Heaven doth know. 

Emil. I will be hang’d, if some eternal vil¬ 
lain, iso 

Some busy and insinuating rogue, 

Some cogging, cozening slave, to get some office, 
Have not devis’d this slander. I ’ll be hang’d 
else. 

Iago. Fie, there is no such man ; it is impos¬ 
sible. 

Des. If any such there be, Heaven pardon 
him! 136 

Emil. A halter pardon him ! and hell gnaw 
his bones! 

Why should he call her whore ? Who keeps her 
company ? 

What place ? what time ? what form ? what 
likelihood ? 

The Moor’s abus’d by some most villanous 
knave, 

Some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow. 
0 heavens, that such companions thou ’dst un¬ 
fold, # 141 

And put in every honest hand a whip 
To lash the rascals naked through the world 
Even from the east to the west! 

Iago. Speak within door. 

Emil. 0 , fie upon them ! Some such squire 
he was 146 

That turn’d your wit the seamy side without, 
And made you to suspect me with the Moor. 

Iago. You are a fool; go to. 

Des. Alas, Iago, 

What shall I do to win my lord again ? 

Good friend, go to him; for, by this light of 
heaven, 150 

I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel: 

If e’er my will did trespass ’gainst his love, 
Either in discourse of thought or actual deed, 




962 


OTHELLO 


iv. iii. 


Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense 
Delighted them in any other form ; 155 

Or that I do not yet, and ever did, 

And ever will — though he do shake me off 
To beggarly divorcement — love him dearly, 
Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do 
much; 

And his unkindness may defeat my life, i«o 
But never taint my love. I cannot say “ whore.” 
It does abhor me now I speak the word; 

To do the act that might the addition earn 
Not the world’s mass of vanity could make me. 
Iago. I pray you, be content; ’tis but his 
humour. ies 

The business of the state does him offence, 
[And he does chide with you.] 

Des. If ’t were no other,— 

Iago. It is but so, I warrant. 

[Trumpets within .] 
Hark, how these instruments summon to sup¬ 
per ! 

The messengers of Venice stays the meat. 170 
Go in, and weep not; all things shall be well. 

[Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia. 

Enter Roderigo. 

IIow now, Roderigo! 

Rod. I do not find that thou deal’st justly 
with me. 

Iago. What in the contrary ? 175 

Rod. Every day thou daff’st me with some 
device, Iago; and rather, as it seems to me 
now, keep’st from me all conveniency than sup¬ 
plies!, me with the least advantage of hope. I 
will indeed no longer endure it, nor am I yet 
persuaded to put up in peace what already I 
have foolishly sufE’red. 132 

Iago. Will you hear me, Roderigo ? 

Rod. Faith, I have heard too much, for your 
words and performances are no kin together. 
Iago. You charge me most unjustly. 186 

Rod. With nought but truth. I have wasted 
myself out of my means. The jewels you have 
had from me to deliver Desdemona would half 
have corrupted a votarist. You have told me 
she hath receiv’d them and return’d me expec¬ 
tations and comforts of sudden respect and ac¬ 
quaintance, but I find none. 193 

Iago. Well; go to ; very well. 

Rod. Very well! go to ! I cannot go to, man ; 
nor’t is not very well. By this hand, I say’t is 
scurvy, and begin to find myself fobb’d in it. 
Iago. Very well. 198 

Rod. I tell you ’tis not very well. I will 
make myself known to Desdemona. If she will 
return me my jewels, I will give over my suit 
and repent my unlawful solicitation; if not, 
assure yourself I will seek satisfaction of you. 
Iago. You have said now. 

Rod. Ay, and said nothing but what I pro¬ 
test intendment of doing. 206 

Iago. Why, now I see there’s mettle in thee, 
and even from this instant do build on thee a 
better opinion than ever before. Give me thy 
hand, Roderigo. Thou hast taken against me a 
most just exception ; but yet, I protest, I have 
dealt most directly in thy affair. 212 


Rod. It hath not appear’d. 

Iago. I grant indeed it hath not appear’d, 
and your suspicion is not without wit and judge¬ 
ment. But, Roderigo, if thou hast that in 
thee indeed, which I have greater reason to [216 
believe now than ever, I mean purpose, courage, 
and valour, this night show it. If thou the next 
night following enjoy not Desdemona, take me 
from this world with treachery and devise en¬ 
gines for my life. 222 

Rod. Well, what is it? Is it within reason 
and compass ? 

Iago. Sir, there is especial commission come 
from Venice to depute Cassio in Othello’s place. 

Rod. Is that true ? Why, then Othello and 
Desdemona return again to Venice. 228 

Iago. O, no ; he goes into Mauritania and 
taketh away with him the fair Desdemona, un¬ 
less his abode be ling’red here by some accident; 
wherein none can be so determinate as the re¬ 
moving of Cassio. 233 

Rod. How do you mean, removing him ? 

Iago. Why, by making him uncapable of 
Othello’s place ; knocking out his brains. 

Rod. And that you would have me to do ? 237 

Iago. Ay, if you dare do yourself a profit 
and a right. He sups to-night with a harlotry, 
and thither will I go to him; he knows not 
yet of his honourable fortune. If you will [240 
watch his going thence, which I will fashion to 
fall out between twelve and one, you may take 
him at your pleasure. I will be near to second 
your attempt, and he shall fall between us. 
Come, stand not amaz’d at it, but go along [245 
with me; I will show you such a necessity in 
his death that you shall think yourself bound to 
put it on him. It is now high supper-time, and 
the night grows to waste. About it. 250 

Rod. I will hear further reason for this. 

Iago. And you shall be satisfi’d. [Exeunt. 

Scene III. [ Another room in the castle .] 

Enter Othello, Lodovico, Desdemona, 
Emilia, and Attendants. 

Lod. I do beseech you, sir, trouble yourself 
no further. 

Oth. 0 , pardon me; ’t will do me good to 
walk. 

Lod. Madam, good-night; I humbly thank 
your ladyship. 

Des. Your honour is most welcome. 

Oth. Will you walk, sir ? 

0 , — Desdemona, — e 

Des. My lord ? 

Oth. Get you to bed on the instant; I will be 
return’d forthwith. Dismiss your attendant 
there. Look’t be done. 

Des. I will, my lord. 10 

[Exeunt [ Othello , Lodovico , and 
Attendants]. 

Emil. How goes it now ? He looks gentler 
than he did. 

Des. He says he will return incontinent; 

And hath commanded me to go to bed, 

And bade me to dismiss you. 

Emil. Dismiss me 1 





OTHELLO 


963 


iv. iii. 


Des. It was his bidding; therefore, good 
Emilia, 15 

Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu. 

We must not now displease him. 

j Emil. I would you had never seen him ! 

Des. So would not I. My love doth so ap¬ 
prove him, 

That even his stubbornness, his checks, his 

frowns, — 20 

Prithee, unpin me, — have grace and favour [in 
them]. 

Emil. I have laid those sheets you hade me 
on the bed. 

Des. All’s one. Good faith, how foolish are 
our minds! 

If I do die before, prithee, shroud me 24 

In one of those same sheets. 

Emil. Come, come, you talk. 

Des. My mother had a maid call’d Barbara ; 
She was in love, and he she lov’d prov’d mad 
And did forsake her. She had a song of “ wil¬ 
low ” ; 

An old thing’t was, but it express’d her for¬ 
tune, 

And she died singing it. That song to-night 30 
Will not go from my mind ; I have much to do 
But to go hang my head all at one side 
And sing it like poor Barbara. Prithee, dis¬ 
patch. 

Emu. Shall I go fetch your night-gown ? 
Des. No, unpin me here. 

This Lodovico is a proper man. as 

Emil. A very handsome man. 

Des. He speaks well. 

Emil. I know a lady in Venice would have 
walk’d barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his 
nether lip. 40 

Des. [ Singing .] 

“ The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree, 
Sing all a green willow ; 

Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee, 
Sing willow, willow, willow. 

The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur’d 
her moans ; 4fl 

Sing willow, willow, willow ; 

Her salt tears fell from her, and soft’ned the 
stones; 

Sing willow, willow, willow ; ” 

Lay by these ; — 

[Sinmng.l “ Willow, willow ; ” — 

Prithee, hie thee ; he ’ll come anon ; — ao 


1 kji/iyiny • j 

u Sing* all a grreen willow must be my parland. 

Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve,” — 

Nay, that’s not next. — Hark ! who is ’t that 
knocks ? 

Emil. It’s the wind. 

Des. [Singing.] 

“ I call’d my love false love ; but what said 
he then ? 55 

Sing willow, willow, willow. 

If I court moe women, you ’ll couch with moe 
men.” — 

So, get thee gone ; good-night. Mine eyes do 
itch ; 

Doth that bode weeping ? 

Emil. ’T is neither here nor there. 


Des. I have heard it said so. 0 , these men, 
these men! «o 

Dost thou in conscience think, — tell me, 
Emilia, — 

That there be women do abuse their husbands 
In such gross kind ? 

Emil. There be some such, no question. 
Des. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the 
world ? 64 

Emil. Why, would not you ? 

Des. No, by this heavenly light! 

Emil. Nor I neither by this heavenly light; 

I might do’t as well i’ the dark. 

Des. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the 
world ? 

' Emil. The world ’s a huge thing; it is a 
great price 69 

For a small vice. 

Des. In troth, I think thou wouldst not. 
Emil. In troth, I think I should ; and undo’t 
when I had done. Marry, I would not do such 
a thing for a joint-ring, nor for measures of 
lawn, nor for gowns, petticoats, nor caps, nor 
any petty exhibition ; but, for all the whole 
world, — ’ud’s pity, who would not make [tb 
her husband a cuckold to make him a mon¬ 
arch ? I should venture purgatory for’t. 

Des. Beshrew me, if I would do such a 
wrong 

For the whole world. ™ 

Emil. Why, the wrong is but a wrong i’ the 
v orld ; and having the world for your labour, 
’t is a wrong in your own world, and you might 
quickly make it right. 

Des. I do not think there is any such 
woman. 84 

Emil. Yes, a dozen; and as many to the 
vantage as would store the world they play’d 
for. 

But I do think it is their husbands’ faults 
If wives do fall. Say that they slack their 
duties 

And pour our treasures into foreign laps, 

Or else break out in peevish jealousies, " 

Throwing restraint upon us ; or say they strike 
us, 

Or scant our former having in despite ; 

Why, we have galls, and though we have some 
grace, 

Yet have we some revenge. Let husbands 
know 

Their wives have sense like them; they see 
and smell 96 

And have their palates both for sweet and 
sour 

As husbands have. What is it that they do 
When they change us for others ? Is it sport ? 

I think it is. And doth affection breed it ? 

I think it doth. Is’t frailty that thus errs ? 100 
It is so too. And have not we affections, 
Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have ? 
Then let them use us well; else let them know, 
The ills we do, their ills instruct us so. 

Des. Good-night, good-night. Heaven me 
such uses send, 106 

Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend. 

[Exeunt, 




9 6 4 


OTHELLO 


v. L 


ACT V 

Scene I. [ Cyprus. A street .] 

Enter Iago and Roderigo. 

Iago. Here, stand behind this bulk ; straight 
will he come. 

Wear thy good rapier bare, and put it home. 
Quick, quick; fear nothing; I ’ll be at thy 
elbow. 

It makes us, or it mars us ; think on that, 

And fix most firm thy resolution. e 

Hod. Be near at hand; I may miscarry 
in ’t. 

Iago. Here, at thy hand ; be bold, and take 
thy stand. [Betires.] 

Bod. I have no great devotion to the deed, 
And yet he hath given me satisfying reasons. 

’T is but a man gone. Forth, my sword: he 
dies. 10 

Iago. I have rubb’d this young quat almost 

to the sense, 

And he grows angry. Now, whether he kill 
Cassio, 

Or Cassio him, or each do kill the other, 

Livery way makes my gain. Live Roderigo, 
e calls me to a restitution large is 

Of gold and jewels that I bobb’d from him, 

As gifts to Desdemona; 

It must not be. If Cassio do remain, 

He hath a daily beauty in his life 
That makes me ugly ; and, besides, the Moor 20 
May unfold me to him ; there stand I in much 
peril. 

No, he must die. But so ; I heard him coming. 
Enter Cassio. 

Bod. I know his gait, ’t is he. — Villain, 
thou diest! [Makes a pass at Cassio .] 
Cas. That thrust had been mine enemy in¬ 
deed, 

But that my coat is better than thou know’st. 25 
I will make proof of thine. 

[Draws, and wounds Boderigo.} 
Bod. 0 , I am slain . 

[Iago from behind wounds Cassio 
in the leg , and exit.] 

Cas. I am maim’d for ever. Help, ho ! mur¬ 
der ! murder! [Falls.] 

Enter Othello. 

Oth. The voice of Cassio! Iago keeps his 
word. 

Bod. 0 , villain that I am ! 

Oth. It is even so. 

Cas. 0 , help, ho ! light! a surgeon ! so 

Oth. ’T is he! — 0 brave Iago, honest and 
just, 

That hast such noble sense of thy friend’s 
wrong! 

Thou teachest me. Minion, your dear lies dead, 
And your unblest fate hies ; strumpet, I come. 
Forth of my heart those charms, thine eyes, 
are blotted ; 35 

Thy bed, lust.-stain’d, shall with lust’s blood be 
spotted. [Exit. 


Enter Lodovico and Gratiano. 

Cas. What, ho! no watch ? no passage ? 
Murder! murder! 

Gra. ’T is some mischance ; the voice is very 
direful. 

Cas. 0 , help! 

Lod. Hark ! 40 

Bod. O wretched villain ! 

Lod. Two or three groan. ’T is heavv night, 
These may be counterfeits ; let’s think’t un¬ 
safe 

To come in to the cry without more help. 

Bod. Nobody come ? Then shall I bleed to 
death. 4s 

Be-enter Iago, with a light. 

Lod. Hark ! 

Gra. Here’s one comes in his shirt, with 
light and weapons. 

Iago. Who’s there? Whose noise is this 
that cries on murder ? 

Lod. We do not know. 

Iago. Do not you hear a cry ? 

Cas. Here, here! for Heaven’s sake, help 
me! 

Iago. What’s the matter ? 60 

Gra. This is Othello’s ancient, as I take it. 
Lod. The same indeed ; a very valiant fel¬ 
low. 

Iago. What are you here that cry so griev¬ 
ously ? 

Cas. Iago ? O, I am spoil’d, undone by vil¬ 
lains ! 

Give me some help. bb 

Iago. 0 me, lieutenant! what villains have 
done this ? 

Cas. I think that one of them is hereabout, 
And cannot make away. 

Iago. 0 treacherous villains ! 

What are you there ? — Come in, and give 
some help. [To Lodovico and Gratiano.] 
Bod. 0 , help me there ! eo 

Cas. That’s one of them. 

Iago. O murderous slave ! O villain ! 

[Thrusts [ Boderigo] in. 
Bod. 0 damn’d Iago ! 0 inhuman dog! 

Iago. Kill men i’ the dark! —Where be 
these bloody thieves ? — 

How silent is this town ! — Ho ! murder! mur¬ 
der ! — 

What may you be ? Are you of good or evil ? 
Lod. As you shall prove us, praise us. es 
Iago. Signior Lodovico ? 

Lod. He, sir. 

logo. I cry you mercy. Here’s Cassio hurt 
by villains. 

Gra. Cassio! 7c 

Iago. How is’t, brother ! 

Cas. My leg is cut in two. 

Iago. Marry, heaven forbidJ 

Light, gentlemen ! I ’ll bind it with my shirt. 

Enter Bianca. 

Bian. What is the matter, ho ? Who is ’t 
that cried ? 

Iago. Who is’t that cried 1 75 






v. ii. 


OTHELLO 


9 6 5 


Bian. O my dear Cassio ! my sweet Cassio ! 
0 Cassio, Cassio, Cassio ! 

lago. 0 notable strumpet! Cassio, may you 
suspect 

Who they should be that have thus mangled 
you ? 

Cas. No. so 

Gra. I am sorry to find you thus; I have 
been to seek you. 

Iago. Lend me a garter. So. O, for a chair, 
To bear him easily hence ! 

B ian. Alas, he faints! O Cassio, Cassio, 
Cassio! 

Iago. Gentlemen all, I do suspect this trash 
To be a party in this injury. so 

Patience a while, good Cassio. Come, come ; 
Lend me a light. Know we this face or no ? 
Alas, my friend and my dear countryman 
Roderigo ! No : —yes, sure: — 0 heaven ! Rod- 
erigo. so 

Gra. What, of Venice ? 

Iago. Even he, sir; did you know him ? 

Gra. Know him ! ay. 

Iago. Signior Gratiano ? I cry your gentle 
pardon; 

These bloody accidents must excuse my man¬ 
ners, 

That so neglected you. 

Gra. I am glad to see you. 

Iago. How do you, Cassio ? 0 , a chair, a 
chair! oc 

Gra. Roderigo ! 

Iago. He, he, ’t is he. [A chair brought in.] 
0 , that’s well said ; the chair. 

Some good man bear him carefully from hence ; 
I ’ll fetch the general’s surgeon. [To Bianca. ] 
For you, mistress, «o 

Save you your labour. He that lies slain here, 
Cassio, 

Was my dear friend. What malice was be¬ 
tween you ? 

Cas. None in the world ; nor da I know the 
man. 

Iago. [To Bian.] What, look you pale ? O, 
bear him out o’ the air. 

[Cassio and Roderigo are borne off.] 
Stay you, good gentlemen. Look you pale, 
mistress ? 105 

Do you perceive the gastness of her eye ? 

Nay, if you stare, we shall hear more anon. 
Behold her well; I pray you, look upon her. 
Do you see, gentlemen ? Nay, guiltiness will 
speak, 

Though tongues were out of use. 110 

Enter Emilia. 


Emil. Alas, what’s the matter ? What’s 
the matter, husband ? 

Iago. Cassio hath here been set on in the dark 
By Roderigo and fellows that are scap’d. 

He’s almost slain, and Roderigo quite dead. 
Emil. Alas, good gentleman! alas, good 
Cassio I 116 

Iago. This is the fruits of whoring. Prithee, 
Emilia, 

Go know of Cassio where he supp’d to-mght. 
[To Bianca.] What, do you shake at that ? 


Bian. He supp’d at my house ; but I there¬ 
fore shake not. 

lago. O, did he so ? I charge you, go with 
me. 120 

Emil. Oh, fie upon thee, strumpet! 

Bian. I am no strumpet, but of life as honest 
As you that thus abuse me. 

Emil. As I? Fie upon thee! 

Iago. Kind gentlemen, let’s go see poor 
Cassio dress’d. 

Come, mistress, you must tell’s another tale. 
Emilia, run you to the citadel, m 

And tell my lord and lady what hath happ’d. 
Will you go on afore ? [Aside.] This is the 
night 

That either makes me or fordoes me quite. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [A bedchamber in the castle :] Des- 
demona in bed [asleep]. 

Enter Othello with a light. 

Oth. It is the cause, it is the cause, my 
soul, — 

Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars ! — 
It is the cause. Yet I ’ll not shed her blood, 
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, 
And smooth as monumental alabaster. s 

Yet she must die, else she ’ll betray more men. 
Put out the light, and then put out the light. 

If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, 

I can again thy former light restore, 

Should I repent me ; but once put out thy 
light, io 

Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature, 

I know not where is that Promethean heat 
That can thy light relume. When I have 
pluck’d the rose 

I cannot give it vital growth again, 

It needs must wither ; I ’ll smell it on the 
tree. [ Kisses her. « 

Oh, balmy breath, that dost almost persuade 
Justice to break her sword I One more, one 
more. 

Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill 
thee 

And love thee after. One more, and that’s the 
last; 

So sweet was ne’er so fatal. I must weep, 20 
But they are cruel tears. This sorrow’s hea¬ 
venly ; 

It strikes where it doth love. She wakes. 

Des. Who’s there ? Othello ? 

Oth. Ay, Desdemona. 

Des. Will you come to bed, my lord ? 

Oth. Have you pray’d to-night, Desdemon ? 
Des. Ay, my lord. 

Oth. If you bethink yourself of any crime 26 
Unreconcil’d as yet to Heaven and grace, 
Solicit for it straight. 

Des. Alack, my lord, what may you mean 
by that ? 

Oth. Well, do it, and be brief ; I will walk 
by. so 

I would not kill thy unprepared spirit; 

No; heavens forfend ! I would not kill thy soul. 
Des. Talk you of killing ? 




9 66 


Oth. Ay, I do. 

Des. Then Heaven 

Have mercy on me ! 

Oth. Amen, with all my heart! 

Des. If you say so, I hope you will not kill 
me. 35 

Oth. Hum ! 

Des. And yet I fear you; for you ’re fatal 
then 

When your eyes roll so. Why I should fear I 
know not, 

Since guiltiness I know not; but yet I feel 
I fear. 

Oth. Think on thy sins. 

Des. They are loves I bear to you. 

Oth. Ay, and for that thou diest. « 

Des. That death ’s unnatural that kills for 
loving. 

Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip ? 

Some bloody passion shakes your very frame. 
These are portents ; but yet I hope, I hope, « 
They do not point on me. 

Oth. Peace, and be still! 

Des. I will so. What’s the matter ? 

Oth. That handkerchief which I so lov’d and 
gave thee 

Thou gav’st to Cassio. 

Des. No, by my life and soul! 

Send for the man, and ask him. 

Oth. Sweet soul, take heed, 

Take heed of perjury ; thou art on thy death¬ 
bed. ei 

Des. Ay, but not yet to die. 

Oth. Yes, presently: 

Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin ; 

For to deny each article with oath 
Cannot remove nor choke the strong conception 
That I do groan withal. Thou art to die. 66 
Des. 0, Heaven, have mercy on me ! 

Oth. I say, amen. 

Des. And have you mercy too ! I never did 
Offend you in my life ; never lov’d Cassio 
But with such general warranty of heaven «o 
As I might love ; I never gave him token. 

Oth. By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in’s 
hand. 

0 perjur’d woman ! thou dost stone my heart, 
And makes me call what I intend to do 
A murder, which I thought a sacrifice. 65 

I saw the handkerchief. 

Des. He found it then ; 

I never gave it him. Send for him hither ; 

Let him confess a truth. 

Oth. He hath confess’d. 

Des. What, my lord ? 69 

Oth. That he hath us’d thee. 

Des. How? unlawfully? 

Oth. Ay. 

Des. He will not say so. 

Oth. No, his mouth is stopp’d ; 

Honest Iago hath ta’en order for ’t. 

Des. 0! my fear interprets. What, is he 
dead ? 

Oth. Had all his hairs been lives, my great 
revenge 

Had stomach for them all. w 

Des. Alas ! he is betray’d and I undone. 


v. ii. 


Oth. Out, strumpet! weep’st thou for him to 
my face ? 

Des. 0, banish me, my lord, but kill me not! 
Oth. Down, strumpet! 

Des. Kill me to-morrow; let me live to¬ 
night ! 80 

Oth. Nay, if you strive, — 

Des. But half an hour ! 

Oth. Being done, there is no pause. 

Des. But while I say one prayer! 

Oth. It is too late. 

[He smothers her. 
Emil. (At the door.) My lord, my lord! 

What, ho ! my lord, my lord ! 

Oth. What noise is this ? Not dead ? not yet 
quite dead ? 8e 

I that am cruel am yet merciful; 

1 would not have thee linger in thy pain. 

So, so. 

Emil. (Within.) What, ho! my lord, my 
lord! 

Oth. Who’s there ? 

Emil. [Within.] 0, good my lord, I would 
speak a word with you ! 90 

Oth. Yes : — ’t is Emilia.— By and by.— She’s 
dead. 

’T is like she comes to speak of Cassio’s death. 
The noise was high. Ha ! no more moving ? 
Still as the grave. Shall she come in ? Were’t 
good ? — 

I think she stirs again : — no. What’s best to 
do? 98 

If she come in, she ’ll sure speak to my wife. 
My wife! my wife! what wife ? I have no 
wife. 

0, insupportable ! O heavy hour ! 

Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse 
Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe 
Did yawn at alteration. 

Emil. [Within.) I do beseech you 101 
That I may speak with you, 0, good my lord ! 

Oth. I had forgot thee. O, come in, Emilia. 
Soft; by and by. — Let me the curtains draw. — 
Where art thou ? [Unlocks the door.] 

Enter Emilia. 

What’s the matter with thee now ? ios 
Emil. 0, my good lord, yonder’s foul mur¬ 
ders done ! 

Oth. What, now ? 

Emil. But now, my lord. 

Oth. It is the very error of the moon ; 

She comes more nearer earth than she was 
wont, no 

And makes men mad. 

Emil. Cassio, my lord, hath kill’d a young 
V enetian 
Call’d Roderigo. 

Oth. Roderigo kill’d! 

And Cassio kill’d! 

Emil. No, Cassio is not kill’d. 

Oth. Not Cassio kill’d ! Then murder’s out 
of tune, ns 

And sweet revenge grows harsh. 

Des. 0, falsely, falsely murder’d ! 

Emil. 0 Lord, what cry is that ? 

Oth. That! what ? 


OTHELLO 






v. ii. 


OTHELLO 


967 


Emil. Out, and alas! that was my lady’s 
voice. 119 

Help ! help, ho ! help ! O lady, speak again ! 
Sweet Desdemona ! O sweet mistress, speak ! 
Des. A guiltless death I die. 

Emil. 0, who hath done this deed ? 

Des. Nobody; I myself. Farewell! 
Commend me to my kind lord. 0, farewell! 125 

[Dies. 

Oth. Why, how should she be murd’red ? 
Emil. Alas, who knows ? 

Oth. You hear her say herself, it was not I. 
Emil. She said so; I must needs report the 
truth. 

Oth. She’s, like a liar, gone to burning hell. 
’T was I that kill’d her. 

Emil. 0, the more angel she, 

And you the blacker devil! 131 

Oth. She turn’d to folly, and she was a whore. 
Emil. Thou dost belie her, and thou art a 
devil. 

Oth. She was false as water. 

Emil. Thou art rash as fire, to say 

That she was false : O, she was heavenly true ! 
Oth. Cassio did top her; ask thy husband 
else. 136 

0, I were damn’d beneath all depth in hell 
But that I did proceed upon just grounds 
To this extremity. Thy husband knew it all. 
Emil. My husband ! 140 

Oth. Thy husband. 

Emil. That she was false to wedlock ? 

Oth. Ay, with Cassio. Nay, had she been true, 
If Heaven would make me such another world 
Of one entire and perfect chrysolite, 14 s 

I’d not have sold her for it. 

Emil. My husband! 

Oth. Ay, ’t was he that told me on her first. 
An honest man he is, and hates the slime 
That sticks on filthy deeds. 

Emil. My husband! 

Oth. What needs this iterance, woman? I 
say thy husband. ieo 

Emil. 0 mistress, villainy hath made mocks 
with love! 

My husband say that she was false ! 

Oth. He, woman; 

I say thy husband ; dost understand the word ? 
My friend, thy husband, honest, honest Iago. 

Emil. If he say so, may his pernicious soul 
Rot half a grain a day ! He lies to the heart. 166 
She was too fond of her most filthy bargain. 
Oth. Ha! 

Emil. Do thy worst! i8« 

This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven 
Than thou wast worthy her. 

Oth. Peace, you were best. 

Emil. Thou hast not half that power to do 
me harm 

As I have to be hurt. 0 gull! 0 dolt! 

As ignorant as dirt! Thou hast done a deed — 
I care not for thy sword; I ’ll make thee 
known, . 165 

Though I lost twenty lives. — Help ! help, ho ! 
help! 

The Moor hath kill’d my mistress ! Murder! 
murder! 


Enter Montano, Gratlano, Iago, and others. 

Mon. What is the matter? How now, gen¬ 
eral ! 

Emil. 0, are you come, Iago ? You have 
done well, 

That men must lay their murders on your neck. 

Gra. What is the matter ? 111 

Emil. Disprove this villain, if thou be’st a 
man. 

He says thou told’st him that his wife was 
false. 

I know thou didst not, thou ’rt not such a vil¬ 
lain. 

Speak, for my heart is full. ns 

Iago. I told him what I thought, and told 
no more 

Than what he found himself was apt and true. 

Emil. But did you ever tell him she was 
false ? 

Iago. I did. 

Emil. You told a lie, an odious, damned lie ; 
Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie. m 

She false with Cassio! — did you say with 
Cassio ? 

Iago. With Cassio, mistress. Go to, charm 
your tongue. 

Emil. I will not charm my tongue; I am 
bound to speak. 

My mistress here lies murdered in her bed, — m 

All.. 0 heavens forfend ! 

Emil. And your reports have set the mur¬ 
derer on. 

Oth. Nay, stare not, masters; it is true, 
indeed. 

Gra. ’T is a strange truth. 

Mon. 0 monstrous act! 

Emil. Villainy, villainy, villainy ! 

1 think upon ’t,—I think I smell ’t, — 0 vil¬ 
lainy ! 191 

I thought so then, — I ’ll kill myself for grief — 
0 villainy, villainy! 

Iago. What, are you mad ? I charge you, get 
you home. 

Emu. Good gentlemen, let me have leave to 
speak; 191 

’T is proper I obey him, but not now. 
Perchance, Iago, 1 will ne’er go home. 

Oth. 0! 0 ! 0! [He falls on the bed. 

Emil. Nay, lay thee down and roar ; 

For thou hast kill’d tne sweetest innocent 
That e’er did lift up eye. 

Oth. [-Rmn< 7 .] 0, she was foul! 200 

I scarce did know you, uncle ; there lies your 
niece, 

Whose breath, indeed, these hands have newly 
stopp’d. 

I know this act shows horrible and grim. 

Gra. Poor Desdemon ! I am glad thy father’s 
dead. 204 

Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief 
Shore his old thread in twain. Did he live now, 
This sight would make him do a desperate turn, 
Yea, curse his better angel from his side, 

And fall to reprobance. 

Oth. ’T is pitiful; but yet Iago knows 210 
That she with Cassio hath the act of shame 




968 


OTHELLO 


v. iL 


A thousand times committed. Cassio confess’d 
it; 

And she did gratify his amorous works 
With that recognizance and pledge of love 
Which I first gave her. I saw it in his hand ; 215 
It was a handkerchief, an antique token 
My father gave my mother. 

Emil. 0 Heaven! O heavenly powers! 

Iago. ’Zounds, hold your peace. 

Emil. ’T will out, ’t will out! I peace ! 

No, I will speak as liberal as the north. 220 

Let Heaven and men and devils, let them all, 
All, all, cry shame against me, yet I ’ll speak. 
Iago. Be wise, and get you home. 

Emil. I will not, 

[Iago offers to stab Emilia.] 

Gra. Fie! 

Your sword upon a woman ? 

Emil. 0 thou dull Moor! that handkerchief 
thou speak’st of 225 

I found by fortune and did give my husband ; 
For often, with a solemn earnestness, 

More than indeed belong’d to such a trifle, 

He begg’d of me to steal it. 

Iago. Villanous whore! 

Emil. She give it Cassio! No, alas I I found 

it, 230 

And I did give’t my husband. 

Iago. Filth, thou liest! 

Emil. By heaven, I do not, I do not, gentle¬ 
men. 

O murderous coxcomb! what should such a 
fool 

Do with so good a wife ? 

Oth. Are there no stones in heaven 

But what serves for the thunder? — Precious 
villain! 235 

[He runs at Iago: Iago kills Emilia. 
Gra. The woman falls; sure, he hath kill’d 
his wife. 

Emil. Ay, ay! O, lay me by my mistress’ 
side. [Exit Iago. 

Gra. He’s gone, but his wife’s kill’d. 

Mon. ’T is a notorious villain. Take you 
this weapon 

Which I have here recover’d from the Moor. 2*0 
Come, guard the door without; let him not 
pass, 

But kill him rather. I ’ll after that same vil¬ 
lain, 

For ’tis a damned slave. 

[Exeunt Montano and Gratiano. 
Oth. I am not valiant neither, 

But every puny whipster gets my sword. 

But why should honour outlive honesty ? 245 

Let it go all. 

Emil. What did thy song bode, lady ? 
Hark, canst thou hear me ? I will play the 
swan, 

And die in music. [Singing.'] “ Willow, willow, 
willow ! ” — 

Moor, she was chaste ; she lov’d thee, cruel 
Moor; 

So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true ; 250 

So speaking as I think, alas, I die. [Dies. 
Oth. I have another weapon in this cham¬ 
ber; 


It was a sword of Spain, the ice-brook’s tem¬ 
per,— 

0, here it is. Uncle, I must come forth. 

Gra. (Within.) If thou attempt it, it will 
cost thee dear: 255 

Thou hast no weapon, and perforce must suffer. 
Oth. Look in upon me then and speak with 
me. 

Or, naked as I am, I will assault thee. 

[Re-enter Gratiano.] 

Gra. What is the matter ? 

Oth. Behold, I have a weapon ; 

A better never did itself sustain 260 

Upon a soldier’s thigh. I have seen the day 
That, with this little arm and this good sword, 
I have made my way through more impediments 
Than twenty times your stop. But, O vain 
boast! 

Who can control his fate ? ’t is not so now. 233 
Be not afraid though you do see me weapon’d ; 
Here is my journey’s end, here is my butt 
And very sea-mark of my utmost sail. 

Do you go back dismay’d ? ’T is a lost fear ; 
Man but a rush against Othello’s breast 270 
And he retires. Where should Othello go ? 
Now, how dost thou look now ? 0 ill-starr’d 
wench! 

Pale as thy smock ! when we shall meet at 
compt, 

This look of thine will hurl my soul from hea¬ 
ven, 

And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl! 
Even like thy chastity. 0 cursed, cursed 
slave! 276 

Whip me, ye devils, 

From the possession of this heavenly sight! 
Blow me about in winds ! roast me in sulphur! 
Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire ! 280 
0 Desdemon ! dead, Desdemon ! dead ! 

Oh! Oh! 

Enter Lodovico, Montano, Cassio carried in 
a chair , and Officers, with Iago [prisoner]. 

Rod. Where is this rash and most unfortu¬ 
nate man ? 

Oth. That’s he that was Othello ; here I am. 
Lod. Where is that viper ? Bring the villain 
forth. 285 

Oth. I look down towards his feet; but 
that’s a fable. 

If that thou be’st a devil, I cannot kill thee. 

[ Wounds Iago.] 

Lod. Wrench his sword from him. 

Iago. I bleed, sir ; but not kill’d. 

Oth. I am not sorry neither. I’d have thee 
live ; 

For, in my sense, ’t is happiness to die. 290 
Lod. 0 thou Othello, that wert. once so good, 
Fallen in the practice of a cursed slave, 

What shall be said to thee ? 

Oth. Why, anything. 

An honourable murderer, if you will; 

For nought I did in hate, but all in honour. 295 
Lod. This wretch hath part confess’d his 
villainy. 

Did you and he consent in Cassio’s death ? 





v. ii. 


OTHELLO 


969 


Oth. Ay. 

Cas. Dear general, I never gave you cause. 
Oth. I do believe it, and 1 ask your pardon. 
Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil 301 
Why he hath thus ensnar’d my soul and body ? 
lago. Demand me nothing ; what you know, 
you know. 

From this time forth I never will speak word. 
Lod. What, not to pray ? 

Gra. Torments will ope your lips. 

Oth. Well, thou dost best. 306 

Lod. Sir, you shall understand what hath 
befallen, 

Which, as I think, you know not. Here is a 
letter 

Found in the pocket of the slain Roderigo, 

And here another. The one of them imports 
The death of Cassio to be undertook 311 

By Roderigo. 

Oth. O villain ! 

Cas. Most heathenish and most gross ! 

Lod. Now here’s another discontented paper, 
Found in his pocket too ; and this, it seems, 3ts 
Roderigo meant to have sent this damned 
villain; 

But that belike lago in the interim 
Came in and satisfi’d him. 

Oth. 0 thou pernicious caitiff ! — 

How came you, Cassio, by that handkerchief 
That was my wife’s ? 

Cas. I found it in my chamber ; 

And he himself confess’d but even now 321 
That there he dropp’d it for a special purpose 
Which wrought to his desire. 

Oth. * Ofool! fool! fool! 

Cas. There is besides in Roderigo’s letter, 
How he upbraids lago, that he made him 32« 
Brave me upon the watch, whereon it came 
That I was cast; and even but now he spake, 
After long seeming dead, lago hurt him, 
lago set him on. 

Lod. You must forsake this room, and go 
with us. # 330 

Your power and your command is taken off, 
And Cassio rules in Cyprus. For this slave, 

If there be any cunning cruelty 

That can torment him much and hold him long, 


It shall be his. You shall close prisoner rest, 
Till that the nature of your fault be known 336 
To the Venetian state. Come, bring away. 

Oth. Soft you ; a word or two before you go. 
I have done the state some service, and they 
know ’t. 

No more of that. I pray you, in your letters, 
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, 341 
Speak of me as I am ; nothing extenuate, 

Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you 
speak 

Of one that lov’d not wisely but too well; 344 

Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought 
Perplex’d in the extreme ; of one whose hand, 
Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away 
Richer than all his tribe ; of one whose subdu’d 
# eyes, 

Albeit unused to the melting mood, 

Drops tears as fast as the Arabian trees sso 
Their medicinal gum. Set you down this; 

And say besides, that in Aleppo once, 

Where a malignant and a turban’d Turk 
Beat a Venetian and traduc’d the state, 

I took by the throat the circumcised dog, 355 
And smote him, thus. [Stabs himself. 

Lod. 0 bloody period ! 

Gra. All that’s spoke is marr’d. 

Oth. 1 kiss’d thee ere I kill’d thee : no way 
but this. 

Killing myseli, to die upon a kiss. 

[Falls on the bed , and] dies. 
Cas. This did I fear, but thought he had no 
weapon; 300 

For he was great of heart. 

Lod. [To lago.] 0 Spartan dog, 

More fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea ! 
Look on the tragic loading of tnis bed ; 

This is thy work. The object poisons sight; 
Let it be hid. Gratiano, keep the house, see 
And seize upon the fortunes of the Moor, 

For they succeed on you. To you, lord gov¬ 
ernor, 

Remains the censure of this hellish villain ; 
The time, the place, the torture. 0, enforce it! 
Myself will straight aboard ; and to the state 
This heavy act with heavy heart relate. 371 

[Exeunt. 




THE TRAGEDY OF KING LEAR 


The later limit for the date of King Lear is fixed by an entry in the Stationers Register, 
which states that the play was performed at Whitehall at Christmas, 1606. An earlier limit is 
found in the date of Harsnett’s Declaration of Egregious Popish Impostures, entered March 16, 
1603, from which Shakespeare took such details as the names of the devils in the pretended rav¬ 
ings of Edgar. The chief attempt to find a more exact date is based on the opinion that a 
(probably) pirated edition of the old King Leir , entered May 8, 1605, was issued to take advan¬ 
tage of the interest revived by the production of Shakespeare’s play. Though this cannot be 
demonstrated, the date of composition pointed to, 1604-5, fits well the internal evidences of the 
relation of King Lear to Othello and Timon. But several good authorities prefer 1606. 

King Lear first appeared in print in 1608, when two quarto editions were issued, the earlier of 
which, known as the “ Pide Bull ” Quarto, exists in a variety of states, due to the fact that cor¬ 
rections were made while the work was being printed, corrected and uncorrected sheets being 
bound up together in a variety of combinations. The Second Quarto has no independent 
authority. Both Quartos vary widely from the Folio text. They are full of corruptions, and 
their chief value lies in their containing nearly 300 lines absent from the Folio. The Folio, in 
turn, has over 100 lines not found in the Quartos, and the text is much more accurate. It is 
accordingly used as the basis of the present edition. The omissions in both versions seem to be, 
at least in part, cuts made for acting purposes. Apart from the usual allowance of printers’ and 
copyists’ mistakes, many of the variations in the Quarto text seem to be such as may be accounted 
for by regarding the text as derived from a short-hand writer’s report of a performance in which 
the actors were by no means perfect in their parts. This does not exclude the possibility that the 
play had been revised and enlarged before the performance reported in the Quarto. 

The germ of the story is found, usually as a variant of the Cinderella tale, in the folk-lore of 
many ages and countries. Attached to the name of Lear, the legend assumes pseudo-historical 
form with Geoffrey of Monmouth, is handed down through the long line of Latin and English 
chroniclers, appears also in collections of tales such as the Gesta Bomanorum, finds a place in 
The Faerie Queene, and is dramatized in The True Chronicle History of King Leir and his Three 
Daughters, an anonymous play probably identical with one performed April 6, 1594. The chief 
sources used by Shakespeare seem to have been Geoffrey of Monmouth, The Mirror for Magis¬ 
trates , Holinshed, The Faerie Queene, and, most important of all, the old play. To Shakespeare 
himself is due the tragic catastrophe which takes the place of the traditional fortunate ending, 
according to which the French forces are victorious, and Lear is restored to his kingdom. He first 
makes Lear go mad; invents the banishment of Kent and his subsequent disguise; creates the 
Fool and Burgundy; and, finally, connects with Lear the whole story of Gloucester and his sons. 

This skilfully interwoven underplot is taken from the incident of the blind king of Paphla- 
gonia in Sidney’s Arcadia. This story tells of a king turned against his legitimate son by the 
slanders of his bastard, the usurpation of the kingdom and the blinding of the king by the 
bastard, the rescue of the father by the good son whom he had sought to murder, and the foil¬ 
ing of the father’s attempt to throw himself over a rock. The pretended madness of Edgar is 
purely an invention of Shakespeare’s; and the important elements both in plot and character 
which depend on the love of the wicked daughters for Edmund are all first found in the present 
play. 

But these details are not the only means by which this improbable legend is converted into the 
most tremendous of tragedies. This is done chiefly by the elevation and intensity with which 
the characters are conceived : the imperiousness and intellectual grasp of Lear, the force and 
subtlety of Edmund, the venom of the wicked daughters, the tenderness of Cordelia, the impas¬ 
sioned loyalty of Kent, the unselfishness of Edgar, and the poignant candor of the faithful Fool. 


THE TRAGEDY OF KING LEAR 


[DRAMATIS PERSONS 


Lear, King of Britain. 

Kino of France. 

Duke of Burgundy. 

Duke of Cornwall. 

Duke of Albany. 

Earl of Kent. 

Earl of Gloucester. 

Edoar, son to Gloucester. 

Edmund, bastard son to Gloucester. 
Curan, a courtier. 

Old Man, tenant to Gloucester. 


Doctor. 

Fool. 

Oswald, steward to Goneril. 

A Captain employed by Edmund. 
Gentleman attendant on Cordelia. 
A Herald. 

Servants to Cornwall. 


Goneril, ) 

Regan, > daughters to Lear. 
Cordelia, ) 

Knights of Lear’s train, Captains, Messengers, Soldiers, and Attendants. 


Scene : Britain.'] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [King Lear's palace.] 

Enter Kent, Gloucester, and Edmund. 

Kent. I thought the King had more affected 
the Duke of Albany than Cornwall. 

Glou. It did always seem so to us ; but now, 
in the division of the kingdom, it appears not 
which of the Dukes he values most; for quali¬ 
ties are so weigh’d, that curiosity in neither can 
make choice of either’s moiety. i 

Kent. Is not this your son, my lord ? 

Glou. His breeding, sir, hath been at my 
charge. I have so often blush’d to acknowledge 
hiin, that now I am braz’d to’t. u 

Kent. I cannot conceive you. 

Glou. Sir, this young fellow’s mother could ; 
whereupon she grew round-womb’d, and had, 
indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ere she 
had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a 
fault ? 

Kent. I cannot wish the fault undone, the 
issue of it being so proper. is 

Glou. But I have a son, sir, by order of law, 
some year elder than this, who yet is no dearer 
in my account. Though this knave came some¬ 
thing saucily into the world before he was sent 
for, yet was his mother fair ; there was good 
sport at his making, and the whoreson must be 
acknowledged. Do you know this noble gentle¬ 
man, Edmund ? 2 # 

Edm. No, my lord. 

Glou. My Lord of Kent. Remember him 
hereafter as my honourable friend. 

Edm. My services to your lordship. 

Kent. I must love you, and sue to know you 
better. # si 

Edm. Sir, I shall study deserving. 

Glou. He hath been out nine years, and away 
he shall again. The King is coming. 


Sennet. Enter one bearing a coronet , then King 
Lear, then the Dukes or Albany and 
Cornwall, next Goneril, Regan, Cor¬ 
delia, with followers. 

Lear. Attend the lords of France and Bur¬ 
gundy, Gloucester. 35 

Glou. I shall, my lord. 

[Exeunt [Gloucester and Edmund]. 
Lear. Meantime we shall express our darker 
purpose. 

Give me the map there. Know that we have 
divided 

In three our kingdom ; and’t is our fast intent 
To shake all cares and business from our age, 10 
Conferring them on younger strengths, while 
we 

Unburden’d crawl toward death. Our son of 
Cornwall, 

And you, our no less loving son of Albany, 

We have this hour a constant will to publish 
Our daughters’ several dowers, that future 
strife 45 

May be prevented now. The Princes, France 
and Burgundy, 

Great rivals in our youngest daughter’s love, 
Long in our court have made their amorous 
sojourn, 

And here are to be answer’d. Tell me, my 
daughters, — 

Since now we will divest us both of rule, co 
Interest of territory, cares of state, — 

Which of you shall we say doth love us most, 
That we our largest bounty may extend 
Where nature doth with merit challenge ? 
Goneril, 

Our eldest-born, speak first. w 

Gon. Sir, I love you more than word can 
wield the matter ; 

Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty * 
Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare ; 




972 


KING LEAR 


I. i. 


No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, 
honour; 

As much as child e’er lov’d, or father found ; eo 
A love that makes breath poor, and speech 
unable: 

Beyond all manner of so much I love you. 

Cor. [Aside .I What shall Cordelia speak ? 
Love and be silent. 

Lear. Of all these bounds, even from this 
line to this, 

With shadowy forests and with champains 
rich’d, 65 

With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads, 
We make thee lady. To thine and Albany’s 
issues 

Be this perpetual. What says our second 
daughter, 

Our dearest Regan, wife of Cornwall ? Speak. 
Leg. I am made of that self metal as my 
sister, 71 

And prize me at her worth. In my true heart 
I find she names my very deed of love ; 

Only she comes too short, that I profess 
Myself an enemy to all other joys 76 

Which the most precious square of sense pos¬ 
sesses ; 

And find I am alone felicitate 
In your dear Highness’ love. 

Cor. [Aside.] Then poor Cordelia ! 

And yet not so ; since, I am sure, my love’s 
More ponderous than my tongue. so 

Lear. To thee and thine hereditary ever 
Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom ; 
No less in space, validity, and pleasure, 

Than that conferr’d on Goneril. Now, our joy, 
Although our last and least, to whose young 
love sc 

The vines of France and milk of Burgundy 
Strive to be interess’d, what can you say to 
draw 

A third more opulent than your sisters ? Speak. 
Cor. Nothing, my lord. 

Lear. Nothing! 90 

Cor. Nothing. 

Lear. Nothing will come of nothing. Speak 
again. 

Cor. Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave 
My heart into my mouth. I love your Majesty 
According to my bond ; no more nor less. 95 

Lear. How, how, Cordelia! Mend your 

speech a little, 

Lest you may mar your fortunes. 

Cor. Good my lord, 

You have begot me, bred me, lov’d me : I 
Return those duties back as are right fit; 

Obey you, love you, and most honour you. 100 
Why have my sisters husbands, if they say 
They love you all ? Haply, when I shall wed, 
That lord whose hand must take my plight 
shall carry 

Half my love with him, half my care and duty. 
Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters 105 
[To love my father all]. 

Lear. But goes thy heart with this ? 

Cor. Ay, my good lord. 

Lear. So young, and so untender ? 

Cor. So young, my lord, and true. 


Lear. Let it be so; thy truth, then, be thy 
dower! no 

For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, 

The mysteries of Hecate, and the night; 

By all the operation of the orbs 

From whom we do exist, and cease to be ; 

Here I disclaim all my paternal care, m» 

Propinquity and property of blood, 

Ana as a stranger to my heart and me 
Hold thee, from this, for ever. The barbarous 
Scythian, 

Or he that makes his generation messes 
To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom 120 
Be as well neighbour’d, piti’d, and reliev’d, 

As thou my sometime (laughter. 

Kent. Good my liege, — 

Lear. Peace, Kent I 

Come not between the dragon and his wrath. 

I lov’d her most, and thought to set my rest 126 
On her kind nursery. [To Cor.] Hence, and 
avoid my sight! — 

So be my grave my peace, as here I give 
Her father’s heart from her ! Call France. — 
Who stirs ? 

Call Burgundy. Cornwall and Albany, 

With my two daughters’ dowers digest the 
third; 130 

Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her. 
I do invest you jointly with my power, 
Pre-eminence, and all the large effects 
That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly 


course, 

With reservation of an hundred knights, 13s 
By you to be sustain’d, shall our abode 
Make with you by due turn. Only we shall re¬ 
tain 

The name, and all the addition to a king ; 

The sway, revenue, execution of the rest, 
Beloved sons, be yours ; which to confirm, ho 
T his coronet part between you. 

Kent. Royal Lear, 

Whom I have ever honour’d as my king, 

Lov’d as my father, as my master follow’d 
As my great patron thought on in my prayers, — 
Lear. The bow is bent and drawn ; make 
from the shaft. i« 

Kent. Let it fall rather, though the fork 
invade 

The region of my heart: be Kent unmannerly 
When Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do, 
old man ? 

Thinkst thou that duty shall have dread to 
speak. 

When power to flattery bows ? To plainness 
honour’s bound, ieo 

When majesty falls to folly. Reserve thy state ; 
And, in thy best consideration, check 
This hideous rashness. Answer my life my 
judgement, 

Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least; 
Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sounds 
Reverb no hollowness. 

Lear. Kent, on thy life, no more, im 

Kent. My life I never held but as a pawn 
To wage against thy enemies, ne’er fear to lose 
it, 

Thy safety being motive. 






1.1. 


KING LEAR 


973 


Lear. Out of my sight! 

Kent. See better, Lear ; and let me still re¬ 
main ISO 

The true blank of thine eye. 

Lear. Now, by Apollo, — 

Kent. Now ? by Apollo, king, 

Thou swear’st thy gods in vain. 

Lear. O, vassal! miscreant! 

[Laying his hand on his sword.] 

Corn | ^ ear s * r > forbear. im 

Kent. Kill thy physician, and thy fee bestow 
Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift; 

Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat, 
I ’ll tell thee thou dost evil. 

Lear. Hear me, recreant! 

On thine allegiance, hear me ! 170 

That thou hast sought to make us bx*eak our 
vows, 

Which we durst never yet, and with strain’d 
pride 

To come betwixt our sentences and our power, 
Which nor our nature nor our place can bear, 
Our potency made good, take thy reward. 175 
Five days we do allot thee, for provision 
To shield thee from disasters of the world ; 
And on the sixth to turn thy hated back 
Upon our kingdom. If, on the tenth day fol¬ 
lowing, 179 

Thy banish’d trunk be found in our dominions, 
The moment is thy death. Away ! By Jupiter, 
This shall not be revok’d. 

Kent. Fare thee well, king ! Sith thus thou 
wilt appear, 

Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. 

[ To Cordelia.] The gods to their dear shelter 
take thee, maid, iw 

That justly think’st, and hast most rightly 
said ! 

[To Regan and Goneril.] And your large 
speeches may your deeds approve, 

That good effects may spring from words of 
love. 

Thus Kent, 0 princes, bids you all adieu ; 

He ’ll shape his old course in a country new. iao 

[Exit. 

Flourish. Re-enter Gloucester, with France, 
Burgundy, and Attendants. 

Glou. Here’s France and Burgundy, my no¬ 
ble lord. 

Lear. My Lord of Burgundy, 

We first address toward you, who with this 
king 

Hath rivall’d for our daughter. What, in the 
least, 

Will you require in present dower with her, ias 
Or cease your quest of love ? 

Bur. Most royal Majesty, 

I crave no more than what your Highness 
offer’d, 

Nor will you tender less. 

Lear. Right noble Burgundy, 

When she was dear to us, we did hold her so ; 
But now her price is fallen. Sir, there she 
/ stands: 200 

v If aught within that little-seeming substance, 


Or all of it, with our displeasure piec’d, 

And nothing more, may fitly like your Grace, 
She’s there, and sne is yours. 

Bur. I know no answer. 

Lear. Will you, with those infirmities she 
owes, 205 

Unfriended, new-adopted to our hate. 

Dower’d with our curse, and stranger’d with 
our oath, 

Take her, or leave her ? 

Bur. Pardon me, royal sir; 

Election makes not up in such conditions. 

Lear. Then leave her, sir ; for, by the power 
that made me, 210 

I tell you all her wealth. [To France.] For you, 
great king, 

I would not from your love make such a stray, 
To match you where I hate; therefore beseech 
you 

To avert your liking a more worthier way 
Than on a wretch whom Nature is asham’d 215 
Almost to acknowledge hers. 

France. This is most strange, 

That she, whom even but now was your best 
object, 

The argument of your praise, balm of your age, 
The best, the dearest, should in this trice of 
time 

Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle 220 
So many folds of favour. Sure, her offence 
Must be of such unnatural degree, 

That monsters it, or your fore-vouch’d affec¬ 
tion 

Fallen into taint; which to believe of her, 

Must be a faith that reason without miracle 225 
Should never plant in me. 

Cor. I yet beseech your Majesty, — 

If for I want that glib and oily art, 

To speak and purpose not; since what I well 
intend, 

I’ll do ’t before I speak, — that you make 
known 

It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness, 230 
No unchaste action, or dishonoured step, 

That hath depriv’d me of your grace and fa¬ 
vour ; 

But even for want of that for which I am 
richer, 

A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue 
That I am glad I have not, though not to have 

it 236 

Hath lost me in your liking. 

Lear. Better thou 

Hadst not been born than not to have pleas’d 
me better. 

France. Is it but this, — a tardiness in nature 
Which often leaves the history unspoke 23 * 
That it intends to do ? My Lord of Burgundy, 
What say you to the lady ? Love’s not love 
When it is mingled with regards that stands 
Aloof from the entire point. Will you have 
her ? 

She is herself a dowry. 

Bur. Royal king, 

Give but that portion which yourself propos’d, 
And here I take Cordelia by the hand, 2 « 
Duchess of Burgundy. 


V 






974 


KING LEAR 


i. 5L 


Lear. Nothing. I have sworn ; I am firm. 
Bur. I am sorry, then, you have so lost a 
father 

That you must lose a husband. 

Cor. Peace be with Burgundy ! 

Since that respect and fortunes are his love, 261 
I shall not be his wife. 

France. Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich 
being poor, 

Most choice forsaken, and most lov’d despis’d ! 
Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon, 265 
Be it lawful I take up what’s cast away. 

Gods, gods !’t is strange that from their cold’st 
neglect 

My love should kindle to inflam’d respect. 

Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my 
chance, 

Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France. 260 
Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy 
Can buy this unpriz’d precious maid of me. 

Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind ; 
Thou losest here, a better where to find. 

Lear. Thou hast her, France. Let her be 
thine ; for we 265 

Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see 
That face of hers again. — [To Cor.] There¬ 
fore be gone 

Without our grace, our love, our benison. — 
Come, noble Burgundy. 

[Flourish. Exeunt [all but France , 
Goneril , Regan , and Cordelia ]. 
France. Bid farewell to your sisters. 270 
Cor. The jewels of our father, with wash’d 
eyes 

Cordelia leaves you. I know you what you are ; 
And like a sister am most loath to call 
Your faults as they are named. Love well our 
father, 

To your professed bosoms I commit him ; 275 

But yet, alas, stood I within his grace, 

I would prefer him to a better place. 

So, farewell to you both. 

Reg. Prescribe not us our duty. 

Gon. Let your study 27# 

Be to content your lord, who hath receiv’d you 
At fortune’s alms. You have obedience scanted, 
And well are worth the want that you have 
wanted. 

Cor. Time shall unfold what plighted cun¬ 
ning hides; 

Who covers faults, at last shame them derides. 
W ell may you prosper ! 

France. Come, my fair Cordelia. 285 

[Exeunt [France and Cordelia ]. 
Gon. Sister, it is not little I have to say of 
what most nearly appertains to us both. I 
think our father will hence to-night. 

Reg. That ’s most certain, and with you; 
next month with us. 200 

Gon. You see how full of changes his age is ; 
the observation we have made of it hath not 
been little. He always lov’d our sister most; 
and with what poor judgement he hath now 
cast her off appears too grossly. 

Reg. ’T is the infirmity of his age; yet he 
hath ever but slenderly known himself. 297 
Gon. The best and soundest of his time hath 


been but rash ; then must we look from his age 
to receive not alone the imperfections of long- 
engraffed condition, but therewithal the unruly 
waywardness that infirm and choleric years 
bring with them. X3 

Reg. Such unconstant starts are we like to 
have from him as this of Kent’s banishment. 

Gon. There is further compliment of leave- 
taking between France and him. Pray you, let 
us hit together ; if our father carry authority 
with such disposition as he bears, this last sur¬ 
render of his will but offend us. »i<> 

Reg. We shall further think of it. 

Gon. We must do something, and i’ the heat. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [The Earl of Gloucester's castle.] 
Enter Bastard [Edmund with a letter ]. 

Edm. Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to 
thy law 

My services are bound. Wherefore should I 
Stand in the plague of custom, and permit 
The curiosity of nations to deprive me, 

For that I am some twelve or fourteen moon¬ 
shines 6 

Lag of a brother ? Why bastard ? Wherefore 
base ? 

When my dimensions are as well compact, 

My mind as generous, and my shape as true, 

As honest madam’s issue ? Why brand they us 
With base ? with baseness ? bastardy ? base, 
base ? 10 

Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take 
More composition and fierce quality 
Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed, 

Go to the creating a whole tribe of fops, 

Got ’tween asleep and wake ? Well, then, is 
Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land. 

Our father’s love is to the bastard Edmund 
As to the legitimate. Fine word, “ legiti¬ 
mate ” ! 

Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed 
And my invention thrive, Edmund the base 20 
Shall top the legitimate. I grow ; I prosper. 
Now, gods, stand up for bastards ! 

Enter Gloucester. 

Glou. Kent banish’d thus! and France in 
choler parted ! 

And the King gone to-night! subscrib’d his 
power! 

Confin’d to exhibition ! All this done 25 

Upon the gad! Edmund, how now! what news ? 
Edm. So please your lordship, none. 

[Putting up the letter.] 
Glou. Why so earnestly seek you to put up 
that letter ? 

Edm. I know no news, my lord. 

Glou. What paper were you reading ? 30 

Edm. Nothing, my lord. 

Glou. No ? What needed, then, that terrible 
dispatch of it into your pocket ? The quality 
of nothing hath not such need to hide itself. 
Let’s see. Come, if it be nothing, I shall not 
need spectacles. s# 

Edm. I beseech you, sir, pardon me. It is a 




KING LEAR 


975 


I. ii. 


letter from my brother, that I have not all o’er- 
read ; and for so much as I have perus’d, I find 
it not fit for your o’er-looking. 40 

Glou. Give me the letter, sir. 

Edm. I shall offend, either to detain or give 
it. The contents, as in part I understand them, 
are to blame. 

Glou. Let’s see, let’s see. 45 

Edm. I hope, for my brother’s justification, 
he wrote this but as an essay or taste of my 
virtue. 

Glou. (Reads.) “ This policy and reverence 
of age makes the world bitter to the best of our 
times ; keeps our fortunes from us till our old¬ 
ness cannot relish them. I begin to find an [00 
idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged 
tyranny ; who sways, not as it hath power, but 
as it is suffer’d. Come to me, that of this I 
may speak more. If our father would sleep till 
I wak'd him, you should enjoy half his rev- [05 
enue for ever, and live the beloved of your 
brother, Edgar.” 

Hum — conspiracy ! — “Sleep till I wake him, 
you should enjoy half his revenue ! ” — My son 
Edgar ! Had lie a hand to write this ? a heart 
and brain to breed it in ? — When came this to 
you ? Who brought it ? 62 

Edm. It was not brought me, my lord ; 
there’s the cunning of it. I found it thrown in 
at the casement of my closet. 

Glou. You know the character to be your 
brother’s ? 67 

Edm. If the matter were good, my lord, I 
durst swear it were his ; but, in respect of that, 
I would fain think it were not. 

Glou. It is his. 

Edm. It is his hand, my lord ; but I hope his 
heart is not in the contents. 75 

Glou. Has he never before sounded you in 
this business? 

Edm. Never, my lord ; but I have heard him 
oft maintain it to be fit that, sons at perfect 
age, and fathers declin’d, the father should be 
as ward to the son, and the son manage his 
revenue. 79 

Glou. 0 villain, villain ! His very opinion in 
the letter ! Abhorred villain ! Unnatural, de¬ 
tested, brutish villain! worse than brutish! 
Go, sirrah, seek him; I’ll apprehend him. 
Abominable villain ! Where is he ? *4 

Edm. I do not well know, my lord. If it 
shall please you to suspend your indignation 
against my brother till you can derive from him 
better testimony of his intent, you should run 
a certain course ; where, if you violently pro¬ 
ceed against him, mistaking his purpose, it 
would make a great gap in your own honour, [»o 
and shake in pieces the heart of his obedience. 
I dare pawn down my life for him, that he hath 
writ this to feel my affection to your honour, 
and to no other pretence of danger. 95 

Glou. Think you so ? 

Edm. If your honour judge it meet, I will 
place you where you shall hear us confer of this, 
and by an auricular assurance have your satis¬ 
faction ; and that without any further delay 
than this very evening. 101 


Glou. He cannot be such a monster — 

[Edm. Nor is not, sure. 

Glou. To his father, that so tenderly and en¬ 
tirely loves him. Heaven and earth !] Ed- [io« 
mund, seek him out; wind me into him, I pray 
you. Frame the business after your own wis¬ 
dom. I would unstate myself, to be in a due 
resolution. 

Edm. I will seek him, sir, presently ; convey 
the business as I shall find means, and acquaint 
you withal. m 

Glou. These late eclipses in the sun and moon 
portend no good to .us. Though the wisdom of 
nature can reason it thus and thus, yet nature 
finds itself scourg’d by the sequent effects. Love 
cools, friendship falls off, brothers divide: [ns 
in cities, mutinies; in countries, discord; in 
palaces, treason; and the bond crack’d ’twixt 
son and father. This villain of mine comes 
under the prediction; there’s son against 
father: the King falls from bias of nature ; [no 
there’s father against child. We have seen the 
best of our time ; machinations, hollowness, 
treachery, and all ruinous disorders, follow us 
disquietly to our graves. Find out this villain, 
Edmund ; it shall lose thee nothing; do it [126 
carefully. And the noble and true-hearted Kent 
banish’d ! his offence, honesty ! ’T is strange. 

[Exit. 

Edm. This is the excellent foppery of the 
world, that, when we are sick in fortune, — 
often the surfeits of our own behaviour, — we 
make guilty of our disasters the sun, the [130 
moon, and the stars, as if we were villains 
on necessity, fools by heavenly compulsion, 
knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical pre¬ 
dominance, drunkards, liars, and adulterers by 
an enforc’d obedience of planetary influ- [13s 
ence, and all that we are evil in, by a divine 
thrusting on. An admirable evasion of whore- 
master man, to lay his goatish disposition on 
the charge of a star! My father compounded 
with my mother under the dragon’s tail; and 
my nativity was under Ursa major ; so that [140 
it follows, I am rough and lecherous. Fut, I 
should have been that I am, had the maiden- 
liest star in the firmament twinkled on my bas¬ 
tardizing. Edgar — 145 

Enter Edgar. 

and pat he comes like the catastrophe of the 
old comedy. My cue is villanous melancholy, 
with a sign like Tom o’ Bedlam. — 0 , these 
eclipses do portend these divisions ! fa , sol , la, 
mi. 

Edg. How now, brother Edmund ! what se¬ 
rious contemplation are you in ? iei 

Edm. I am thinking, brother, of a predic¬ 
tion I read this other day, what should follow 
these eclipses. , 

Edg. Do you busy yourself with that ? iks 
Edm. I promise you, the effects he writes of 
succeed unhappily; [as of unnaturalness be¬ 
tween the child and the parent; death, dearth, 
dissolutions of ancient amities ; divisions in 
state, menaces and maledictions against king 
and nobles ; needless diffidences, banishment of 





976 


KING LEAR 


I. IV. 


friends, dissipation of cohorts, nuptial breaches, 
and I know not what. 163 

Edg. How long have you been a sectary 
astronomical ? 

Edm. Come, come;] when saw you my 
father last ? 

Edg. [Why,] the night gone by. 368 

Edm. Spake you with him ? 

Edg. Ay, two hours together. 

Edm. Parted you in good terms? Found 
you no displeasure in him by word nor counte¬ 
nance ? 

Edg. None at all. 173 

Edm. Bethink yourself wherein you may 
have offended him ; and at my entreaty forbear 
his presence until some little time hath quali¬ 
fied the heat of his displeasure, which at this 
instant so rageth in him, that with the mischief 
of your person it would scarcely allay. 

Edg. Some villain hath done me wrong, iso 
Edm. That ’s my fear. I pray you, have a 
continent forbearance till the speed of his rage 
goes slower ; and, as I say, retire with me to 
my lodging, from whence I will fitly bring you 
to hear my lord speak. Pray ye, go; there ’s 
my key. If you do stir abroad, go arm’d. ise 
Edg. Arm’d, brother! 

Edm. Brother, I advise you to the best; 
I am no honest man if there be any good mean¬ 
ing toward you. I have told you what I have 
seen and heard ; but faintly, nothing like the 
image and horror of it. Pray you, away. 102 
Edg. Shall I hear from you anon ? 

Edm. I do serve you in this business. 

[Exit Edgar. 

A credulous father, and a brother noble, 

Whose nature is so far from doing harms ioo 
That he suspects none ; on whose foolish hon¬ 
esty 

My practices ride easy. I see the business. 

Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit: 

All with me’s meet that I can fashion fit. 200 

[Exit. 

Scene III. [The Duke of Albany's palace.] 
Enter Goneril, and [Oswald, her] Steward. 

Gon. Did my father strike my gentleman 
for chiding of his Fool ? 

Osw. Ay, madam. 

Gon. By day and night he wrongs me ; every 
hour 

He flashes into one gross crime or other 
That sets us all at odds. I ’ll not endure it. 3 
His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids 
us 

On every trifle. When he returns from hunting, 
I will not speak with him ; say I am sick. 

If you come slack of former services, 

You shall do well; tli£ fault of it I ’ll answer. 10 
Osw. He’s coming, madam ; I hear him. 

[Horns within.] 

Gon. Put on what weary negligence you 
please, 

You and your fellows; I ’d have it come to 
question. 

If he distaste it, let him to my sister, 


Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are 
one, 16 

[Not to be over-rul’d. Idle old man, 

That still would manage those authorities 
That he hath given away ! Now, by my life, 
Old fools are babes again, and must be us’d 
With checks as flatteries, when they are seen 
abus’d.] 20 

Remember what I have said. 

Osw. Well, madam. 

Gon. And let his knights have colder looks 
among you; 

What grows of it, no matter. Advise your 
fellows so. 

[I would breed from hence occasions, and I 
shall, 

That I may speak.] I ’ll write straight to my 
sister, # 26 

To hold my [very] course. Prepare for dinner. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [A hall in the same.] 

Enter Kent [disguised]. 

Kent. If but as well I other accents bor¬ 
row, 

That can my speech defuse, my good intent 
May carry through itself to that full issue. 

For which I raz’d my likeness. Now, banish’d 
Kent, 

If thou canst serve where thou dost stand 

condemn’d, ® 

So may it come, thy master, whom thou lov’st, 
Shall find thee full of labours. 

Horns within. Enter Lear, [Knights] and 
Attendants. 

Lear. Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go 
get it ready. [Exit an attendant.] How now! 
what art thou ? u 

Kent. A man, sir. 

Lear. What dost thou profess? Whatwouldst 

thou with us ? is 

Kent. I do profess to be no less than I seem; 
to serve him truly that will put me in trust; 
to love him that is honest; to converse with 
him that is wise and says little ; to fear judge¬ 
ment ; to fight when I cannot choose ; and to 
eat no fish. is 

Lear. What art thou ? 

Kent. A very honest-hearted fellow, and as 
poor as the King. 

Lear. If thou be’st as poor for a subject as 
he’s for a king, thou art poor enough. What 
wouldst thou ? 24 

Kent. Service. 

Lear. Who wouldst thou serve ? 

Kent. You. 

Lear. Dost thou know me, fellow ? 

Kent. No, sir; but you have that in your 
countenance which I would fain call master, so 
Lear. What’s that ? 

Kent. Authority. 

Lear. What services canst thou do ? 33 

Kent. I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, 
mar a curious tale in telling it, and deliver a 
plain message bluntly. That which ordinary 





I. IV. 


KING LEAR 


977 


men are fit for, I am qualified in ; and the best 
of me is diligence. 38 

Lear. How old art thou ? 

Kent. Not so young, sir, to love a woman for 
singing, nor so old to dote on her for any¬ 
thing. I have years on my back forty-eight. 42 
Lear. Follow me; thou shalt serve me. If 
I like thee no worse after dinner, I will not 
part from thee yet. Dinner, ho, dinner ! 
Where’s my knave? my Fool? Go you, and 
call my Fool hither. [Exit an attendant. 

Enter Steward [Oswald]. 

You, you, sirrah, where’s my daughter? 

Osw. So please you, — [Exit. 

Lear. What says the fellow there ? Call the 
clotpoll back. [Exit a knight.) Where ’s my 
Fool, ho ? I think the world ’s asleep. 62 

[Re-enter Knight.] 


How now ! where’s that mongrel ? 

Knight. He says, my lord, your daughter is 
not well. 66 

Lear. Why came not the slave back to me 
when I call’d him ? 

Knight. Sir, he answered me in the roundest 
manner, he would not. 

Lear. He would not! «o 

Knight. My lord, I know not what the mat>- 
ter is ; but, to my judgement, your Highness is 
not entertain’d with that ceremonious affection 
as you were wont. There’s a great abatement 
of kindness appears as well in the general de¬ 
pendants as in the Duke himself also and your 
daughter. e? 

Lear. Ha ! say’st thou so ? 

Knight. I beseech you, pardon me, my lord, 
if I be mistaken ; for my duty cannot be silent 
when I think your Highness wrong’d. n 

Lear. Thou but rememb’rest, me of mine own 
conception. I have perceived a most faint neg¬ 
lect of late, which I have rather blamed as 
mine own jealous curiosity than as a very pre¬ 
tence and purpose of unkindness. I will look 
further into’t. But where’s my Fool ? I have 
not seen him this two days. n 

Knight. Since my young lady’s going into 
France, sir, the Fool hath much pined away. 

Lear. No more of that; I have noted it well. 
Go you, and tell my daughter I would speak 
with her. [Exit an attendant.) Go you, call 
hither my Fool. [Exit an attendant .] 84 

Re-enter Steward [Oswald]. 


O, you sir, you, come you hither, sir. Who am 
I, sir ? 

My lady’s father. 

“My lady’s father”! My lord’s 
You whoreson dog! you slave! you 

89 

I am none of these, my lord; I be¬ 
seech your pardon. 

Lear. Do you bandy looks with me, you 
rascal ? [Striking him.] 

Osw. I ’ll not be strucken, my lord. n * 

Kent. Nor tripp’d neither, you base foot-ball 
player. [Tripping up his heels.] 


Osw. 
Lear. 
knave! 
cur! 
Osw. 


Lear. I thank thee, fellow. Thou serv’st 
me, and I ’ll love thee. »a 

Kent. Come, sir, arise, away! I ’ll teach 
you differences. Away, away! If you will 
measure your lubber’s length again, tarry ; but 
away ! go to. Have you wisdom ? So. 

[Pushes Oswald ouf.] 
Lear. Now, my friendly knave, I thank 
thee. There’s earnest of thy service. m 

[Giving Kent money.] 

Enter Fool. 

Fool. Let me hire him too ; here’s my cox¬ 
comb. [Offering Kent his cap.] 

Lear. How now, my pretty knave! how 
dost thou ? 

Fool. Sirrah, you were best take my cox¬ 
comb. 

[Kent. Why, Fool ?] no 

Fool. Why? For taking one’s part that ’s 
out of favour. Nay, an thou canst not smile 
as the wind sits, thou ’It catch cold shortly. 
There, take my coxcomb. Why, this fellow 
has banish’d two on’s daughters, and did the 
third a blessing against his will; if thou follow 
him, thou must needs wear my coxcomb. — 
How now, nuncle ! W r ould I had two coxcombs 
and two daughters ! us 

Lear. Why, my boy ? 

Fool. If I gave them all my living, I’d keep 
my coxcombs myself. There’s mine ; beg an¬ 
other of thy daughters. 

Lear. Take heed, sirrah ; the whip. 123 

Fool. Truth ’s a dog must to kennel; he 
must be whipp’d out, when Lady the brach 
may stand by the fire and stink. 

Lear. A pestilent gall to me ! 

Fool. Sirrah, I ’ll teach thee a speech. 

Lear. Do. 

Fool. Mark it, nuncle : 130 

“ Have more than thou showest, 

Speak less than thou knowest, 

Lend less than thou owest, 

Ride more than thou goest, 

Learn more than thou trowest, 136 
Set less than thou throwest; 

Leave thy drink and thy whore, 

And keep in-a-door, 

And thou shalt have more 
Than two tens to a score.” ho 

Kent. This is nothing. Fool. 

Fool. Then’t is like the breath of an unfee’d 
lawyer ; you gave me nothing for’t. Can you 
make no use of nothing, nuncle? 

Lear. Why, no, boy; nothing can be made 
out of nothing. 

Fool. [To Kent.] Prithee, tell him so much 
the rent of his land comes to. He will not be¬ 
lieve a Fool. 

Lear. A bitter fool! no 

Fool. Dost thou know the difference, my 
boy, between a bitter fool and a sweet one ? 
Lear. No, lad ; teach me. 

[Fool. “ That lord that counsell’d thee 

To give away thy land, i 65 

Come place him here by me, 

Do thou for him stand : 




978 


KING LEAR 


I. IV. 


The sweet and bitter fool 
Will presently appear; 

The one in motley here, ieo 

The other found out there.” 

Lear. Dost thou call me fool, hoy ? 

Fool. All thy other titles thou hast given 
away ; that thou wast born with. 

Kent. This is not altogether fool, my lord. i66 
Fool. No, faith, lords and great men will not 
let me; if I had a monopoly out, they would 
have part on ’t. And ladies, too, they will not 
let me have all the fool to myself ; they ’ll be 
snatching.] Nuncle, give me an egg, and I ’ll 
give thee two crowns. 

Lear. What two crowns shall they be ? 112 

Fool. Why, after I have cut the egg i’ the 
middle, and eat up the meat, the two crowns of 
the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i’ the 
middle, and gav’st away both parts, thou bor’st 
thine ass on thy hack o’er the dirt. Thou hadst 
little wit in thy bald crown, when thou gav’st 
tliy golden one away. If I speak like myself in 
this, let him be whipp’d that first finds it so. iso 
“ Fools had ne’er less grace in a year ; 

For wise men are grown foppish, 

And know not how their wits to wear, 
Their maimers are so apish.” 

Lear. When were you wont to be so full of 
songs, sirrah ? ise 

Fool. I have used it, nuncle, e’er since thou 
mad’st thy daughters thy mothers; for when 
thou gav’st them the rod, and puttest down 
thine own breeches, 190 

“ Then they for sudden joy did weep, 

And I for sorrow sung, 

That such a king should play bo-peep, 

And go the fools among.” m 

Prithee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can 
teach thy Fool to lie. I would fain learn to lie. 

Lear. An you lie, sirrah, we ’ll have you 
whipp’d. 198 

Fool. I marvel what kin thou and thy daugh¬ 
ters are. They ’ll have me whipp’d for speak¬ 
ing true, thou ’It have me whipp’d for lying; 
and sometimes I am whipp’d for holding my 
peace. I had rather be any kind o’ thing than 
a Fool; and yet I would not be thee, nuncle ; 
thou hast pared thy wit o’ both sides, and left 
nothing i’ the middle. Here comes one o’ the 
parings. 2<* 

Enter Goneril. 

Lear. How now, daughter! what makes that 
frontlet on ? [Metninks] you are too much of 
late i’ the frown. 209 

Fool. Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou 
hadst no need to care for her frowning; now 
thou art an O without a figure. I am better 
than thou art now; I am a Fool, thou art no¬ 
thing. [To Gon .] Yes, forsooth, I will hold my 
tongue; so your face bids me, though you say 
nothing. Mum, mum, 216 

“ He that keeps nor crust nor crumb, 
Weary of all, shall want some.” 
[Pointing to Lear.] That’s a sheal’d peascod. 
Gon. Not only, sir, this your all-licens’d 
Fool, 


But other of your insolent retinue 221 

Do hourly carp and quarrel, breaking forth 
In rank and not-to-be-endured riots. Sir, 

I had thought, by making this well known unto 
you, 

To have found a safe redress; but now grow 
fearful, 225 

By what yourself, too, late have spoke and done, 
That you protect this course, and put it on 
By your allowance; which if you should, the 
fault 

Would not scape censure, nor the redresses 
sleep, 

Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal, 230 
Might in their working do you that offence, 
Which else were shame, that then necessity 
Will call discreet proceeding. 

Fool. For, you know, nuncle, 

“ The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long, 233 
That it had it head bit off by it young.” 

So, out went the candle, and we were left dark¬ 
ling. 

Lear. Are you our daughter ? 

Gon. [Come, sir,] 

I would you would make use of your good wis¬ 
dom, 240 

Whereof I know you are fraught, and put away 
These dispositions, which of late transport you 
From what you rightly are. 

Fool. May not an ass know when the cart 
draws the horse ? “ Whoop, Jug ! I love thee.” 
Lear. Doth any here know me ? This is not 
Lear. 24s 

Doth Lear walk thus ? speak thus ? Where are 
his eyes ? 

Either his notion weakens, his discernings 
Are lethargied — Ha ! waking ? ’T is not so. 
Who is it that can tell me who I am ? 250 

Fool. Lear’s shadow. 

[Lear. I would learn that; for, by the marks 
of sovereignty, knowledge, and reason, I should 
be false persuaded I had daughters. 

Fool. Which they will make an obedient 
father.] 26« 

Lear. Your name, fair gentlewoman ? 

Gon. This admiration, sir, is much o’ the 
savour 

Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you 
To understand my purposes aright. 260 

As you are old and reverend, you should he 
wise. 

Here do you keep a hundred knights and 

squires; 

Men so disorder’d, so debosh’d and bold, 

That this our court, infected with their man¬ 
ners, 

Shows like a riotous inn. Epicurism and lust 20* 
Makes it more like a tavern or a brothel 
Than a grac’d palace. The shame itself doth 
speak 

For instant remedy. Be then desir’d 
By her, that else will take the thing she begs, 
A little to disquantity your train ; 27* 

And the remainders, that shall still depend, 

To be such men as may besort your age, 

Which know themselves and you. 

Lear. Darkness and devils 1 




I. IV. 


KING LEAR 


979 


Saddle my horses ; call my train together ! 
Degenerate bastard ! I ’ll not trouble thee ; jts 
Y et have I left a daughter. 

Gon. You strike my people; and your dis¬ 
order’d rabble 

Make servants of their betters. 

Enter Albany. 

Lear. Woe, that too late repents ! — [ 0 , sir, 
are you come ?] 

Is it your will ? Speak, sir. — Prepare my 
horses. — 280 

Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend, 

More hideous when thou show’st thee in a child 
Than the sea-monster ! 

Alb. Pray, sir, be patient. 

Lear. [To Gon.] Detested kite! thou liest. 
My train are men of choice and rarest parts, 285 
That all particulars of duty know, 

And in the most exact regard support 
The worships of their name. O most small 
fault, 

How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show ! 

Which, like an engine, wrench’d my frame of 
nature 200 

From the fix’d place; drew from my heart all 
love. 

And added to the gall. 0 Lear, Lear, Lear ! 
Beat at this gate, that let thy folly in, 

[Striking his head.] 
And thy dear judgement out! Gro, go, my 
people. 

Alb. My lord, I am guiltless as I am igno¬ 
rant 29 5 

Of what hath moved you. 

Lear. It may be so, my lord. 

Hear, Nature ! hear, dear goddess, hear ! 
Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend 
To make this creature fruitful! 

Into her womb convey sterility ! soo 

Dry up in her the organs of increase, 

And from her derogate body never spring 
A babe to honour her! If she must teem, 
Create her child of spleen, that it may live 
And be a thwart disnatur’d torment to her ! 305 
Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth. 
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks, 
Turn all her mother’s pains and benefits 
To laughter and contempt, that she may feel 
How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is 310 
To have a thankless child ! — Away, away ! 

[Exit. 

Alb. Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes 
this ? 

Gon. Never afflict yourself to know more of 
it; 

But let his disposition have that scope 
As dotage gives it. 315 

Re-enter Lear. 

Lear. What, fifty of my followers at a clap ! 
Within a fortnight! 

Alb. What’s the matter, sir ? 

Lear. I ’ll tell thee. [To Gon.] Life and 
death ! I am asham’d 

That thou hast power to shake my manhood 
thus; 


That these hot tears, which break from me 
perforce; 320 

Should make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs 
upon thee! 

The untented woundings of a father’s curse 
Pierce every sense about thee ! Old fond eyes, 
Beweep this cause again, I ’ll pluck ye out, 
And cast you, with the waters that you loose, 
To temper clay. Ha ! [is it come to this ?] 32# 

Let it be so : I have another daughter, 

Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable. 
When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails 
She ’ll flay thy wolvish visage. Thou shalt find 
That I ’ll resume the shape which thou dost 
think 331 

I have cast off for ever. [Thou shalt, I warrant 
thee.] 

[Exeunt [ Lear , Kent, and atten¬ 
dants]. 

Gon. Do you mark that ? 

Alb. I cannot be so partial, Goneril, 

To the great love I bear you, — 33s 

Gon. Pray you, content. — What, Oswald, 
ho! 

[To the Fool.] You, sir, more knave than fool, 
after your master. 

Fool. Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry ! Take 
the Fool with thee. 

A fox, when one has caught her, 340 
And such a daughter, 

Should sure to the slaughter, 

If my cap would buy a halter. 

So the Fool follows after. [Exit. 

Gon. This man hath had good counsel, — a 
hundred knights! 345 

’T is politic and safe to let him keep 
At point a hundred knights; yes, that, on 
every dream, 

Each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike, 
He may enguard his dotage with their powers, 
And hold our lives in mercy. Oswald, I say! 350 
Alb. Well, you may fear too far. 

Gon. Safer than trust too far. 

Let me still take away the harms I fear, 

Not fear still to be taken. I know his heart. 
What he hath utter’d I have writ my sister. 

If she sustain him and his hundred knights, 355 
When I have show’d the unfitness, — 

Re-enter Steward [Oswald]. 

How now, Oswald! 

What, have you writ that letter to my sister ? 
Osw. Ay, madam. 

Gon. Take you some company, and away to 
horse. 

Inform her full of my particular fear; 3«o 

And thereto add such reasons of your own 
As may compact it more. Get you gone; 

And hasten your return. [Exit Oswald.] No, 
no, my lord, 

This milky gentleness and course of yours 
Though I condemn not, yet, under pardon, 366 
You are much more at task for want of wisdom 
Than prais’d for harmful mildness. 

Alb. How far your eyes may pierce I cannot 
tell. 

Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well. 






980 


KING LEAR 


n. 1. 


Gon. Nay, then— 370 

Alb. Well, well; the event. [Exeunt. 

Scene V. [ Court before the same.] 

Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool. 

Lear. Go you before to Gloucester with 

these letters. Acquaint my daughter no further 
with anything you know than comes from her 
demand out of the letter. If your diligence be 
not speedy, I shall be there afore you. e 

Kent. 1 will not sleep, my lord, till I have 
delivered your letter. [Exit. 

Fool. If a man’s brains were in ’s heels, 
were ’t not in danger of kibes ? 

Lear. Ay, boy. 10 

Fool. Then, I prithee, be merry; thy wit 
shall not go slip-shod. 

Lear. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Fool. Shalt see thy other daughter will use 
thee kindly ; for though she’s as like this as a 
crab’s like an apple, yet I can tell what I can 
tell. 10 

Lear. What canst tell, boy ? 

Fool. She will taste a 3 like this as a crab 
does to a crab. Thou canst tell why one’s nose 
stands i’ the middle on’s face ? 20 

Lear. No. 

Fool. Why, to keep one’s eyes of either side’s 
nose, that what a man cannot smell out, he 
may spy into. 

Lear. I did her wrong —- 25 

Fool. Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell ? 
Lear. No. 

Fool. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a 
snail has a house. 30 

Lear. Why ? 

Fool. Why, to put’s head in ; not to give it 
away to his daughters, and leave his horns with¬ 
out a case. 34 

Lear. I will forget my nature. So kind a 

father ! Be my horses ready ? 

Fool. Thy asses are gone about ’em. The 
reason why the seven stars are no moe than 
seven is a pretty reason. 

Lear. Because they are not eight ? 40 

Fool. Yes, indeed. Thou wouldst make a 
good Fool. 

Lear. To take ’t again perforce ! Monster in¬ 
gratitude ! 

Fool. If thou wert my Fool, nuncle, I’d have 
thee beaten for being old before thy time. 40 
Lear. How’s that ? 

Fool. Thou shouldst not have been old till 
thou hadst been wise. 

Lear. 0 , let me not be mad, not mad, sweet 
heaven! B0 

Keep me in temper ; I would not be mad ! 

[Enter Gentleman.] 

How now ! are the horses ready ? 

Gent. Ready, my lord. 

Lear. Come, boy. 

Fool. She that’s a maid now, and laughs at 
my departure, bs 

Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut 

shorter. [Exeunt. 


ACT II 

Scene I. [The Earl of Gloucester's castle.] 
Enter Bastard [Edmund] and Curan, severally. 

Edm. Save thee, Curan. 

Cur. And you, sir. I have been with your 
father, and given him notice that the Duke of 
Cornwall and Regan his duchess will be here 
with him this night. 5 

Edm. How comes that ? 

Cur. Nay, I know not. You have heard of 
the news abroad; I mean the whisper’d ones, 
for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments ? 
Edm. Not 1 . Pray you, what are they ? 10 

Cur. Have you heard of no likely wars 
toward, ’twixt the Dukes of Cornwall and 
Albany ? 

Edm. Not a word. 

Cur. You may do, then, in time. Fare you 
well, sir. [Exit. « 

Edm. The Duke be here to-night ? The bet¬ 
ter ! best! 

This weaves itself perforce into my business. 
My father hath set guard to take my brother; 
And I have one thing, of a queasy question, 
Which I must act. Briefness and fortune, 
work! 20 

Enter Edgar. 

Brother, a word ; descend. Brother, I say! 

My father watches ; O sir, fly this place ; 
Intelligence is given where you are hid ; 

You have now the good advantage of the night. 
Have you not spoken ’gainst the Duke of 
Cornwall ? 25 

He ’s coming hither, now, i’ the night, i’ the 
haste, 

And Regan with him. Have you nothing said 
Upon his party ’gainst the Duke of Albany ? 
Advise yourself. 

Edg. I am sure on’t, not a word. 

Edm. I hear my father coming. Pardon 
ine, 30 

Hi cunning I must draw my sword upon you. 
Draw ; seem to defend yourself ; now quit you 
well. 

Yield! Come before my father. Light, ho, 
here! — 

Fly, brother. — Torches, torches ! — So, fare- 
c ^ e11 ; , [Exit Edgar. 

borne blood drawn on me would beget opinion 35 

[ Wounds his arm.] 
Ui my more fierce endeavour. I have seen 
drunkards 

Do more than this in sport. — Father, father! — 
Stop, stop ! — No help ? 

Enter Gloucester, and Servants with torches. 

Now, Edmund, where’s the villain ? 
Edm. Here stood he in the dark, his sharp 
sword out, 40 

Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the 
moon 

To stand auspicious mistress, — 

But where is he ? 






II. 1. 


KING LEAR 


981 


Edm. Look, sir, I bleed. 

Glou. Where is the villain, Edmund ? 

Edm. Fled this way, sir. When by no means 
he could — 

Glou. Pursue him, ho! Go after. [ Exeunt 
some Servants .] By no means what ? 
Edm. Persuade me to the murder of your 
lordship; 

But that I told him, the revenging gods 
’Gainst parricides did all the thunder bend ; 
Spoke, with how manifold and strong a bond 
The child was bound to the father; sir, in 
fine, 50 

Seeing how loathly opposite I stood 
To his unnatural purpose, in fell motion, 

With his prepared sword, he charges home 
My unprovided body, latch’d mine arm ; 

And when he saw my best alarum’d spirits, 55 
Bold in the quarrel’s right, rous’d to the en¬ 
counter, 

Or whether gasted by the noise I made, 

Full suddenly he fled. 

Glou. Let him fly far. 

Not in this land shall he remain uncaught; 

And found,—dispatch. The noble Duke my 
master, «o 

My worthy arch and patron, comes to-night. 
Bv his authority I will proclaim it, 

That he which finds him shall deserve our 
thanks, 

Bringing the murderous coward to the stake ; 
He that conceals him, death. «» 

Edm. When I dissuaded him from his in¬ 
tent, 

And found him pight to do it, with curst speech 
I threaten’d to discover him ; he replied, 

“ Thou unpossessing bastard ! dost thou think, 
If I would stand against thee, would the re¬ 
posal # 70 

Of any trust, virtue, or worth in thee 
Make thy words faith’d ? No ! what I should 
deny, — 

As this I would ; ay, though thou didst produce 
My very character, — I’d turn it all 
To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practice ; 
And thou must make a dullard of the world 
If they not thought the profits of my death 
Were very pregnant and potential spurs 
To make thee seek it.” 

Glou. O strange and fast’ned villain ! 

Would he deny his letter ? [I never got him.] so 

[Tucket within. 

Hark, the Duke’s trumpets! I know not why 
he comes. 

All ports I ’ll bar, the villain shall not scape ; 
The Duke must grant me that. Besides, his 
picture 

I will send far and near, that all the kingdom 
May have due note of him ; and of my land, se 
Loyal and natural boy, I ’ll work the means 
To make thee capable. 

Enter Cornwall, Regan, and Attendants. 

Corn. How now, my noble friend ! since I 
came hither. 

Which I can call but now, I have heard strange 


Reg. If it be true, all vengeance comes too 
short 00 

Which can pursue the offender. How dost, iny 
lord ? 

Glou. 0 , madam, my old heart is crack’d, 
it’s crack'd! 

Reg. What, did my father’s godson seek 
your life ? 

He whom my father nam’d ? your Edgar ? 

Glou. 0 , lady, lady, shame would have it 
hid! 95 

Reg. Was he not companion with the riotous 
knights 

That tended upon my father ? 

Glou. I know not, madam. ’T is too bad, too 
bad. 

Edm. Yes, madam, he was of that consort. 

Reg. No marvel, then, though he were ill 
affected: 100 

’T is they have put him on the old man’s death, 
To have the expense and waste of his reve¬ 
nues. 

I have this present evening from my sister 
Been well inform’d of them; and with such 
cautions, 

That if they come to sojourn at my house, ios 
I ’ll not be there. 

Corn. Nor I, assure thee, Regan. 

Edmund, I hear that you have shown your 
father 

A child-like office. 

Edm. ’T was my duty, sir. 

Glou. He did bewray his practice; and re¬ 
ceiv’d 

This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him. 

Corn. Is he pursued ? 

Glou. Ay, my good lord, m 

Corn. If he be taken, he shall never more 
Be fear’d of doing harm. Make your own pur¬ 
pose, 

How in my strength you please. For you, Ed¬ 
mund, 

Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant 
So much commend itself, you shall be ours. 110 
Natures of such deep trust we shall much need ; 
You we first seize on. 

Edm. I shall serve you, sir, 

Truly, however else. 

Glou. For him I thank your Grace. 

Corn. You know not why we came to visit 
you, — t 120 

Reg. Thus out of season, threading dark¬ 
ey’d night ? 

Occasions, noble Gloucester, of some poise, 
Wherein we must have use of your advice. 

Our father he hath writ, so hath our sister, 

Of differences, which I best thought it fit no 
To answer from our home ; the several messen¬ 
gers 

From hence attend dispatch. Our good old 
friend, 

Lay comforts to your bosom ; and bestow 
Your needful counsel to our businesses, 

Which craves the instant use. 

Glou. I serve you, madam. 

Your Graces are right welcome. 1*1 

• [ Exeunt. Flourish. 




982 


KING LEAR 


11 . 11 . 


Scene II. [Before Gloucester's castle .] 
Enter Kent and Steward [Oswald], severally. 

Osw. Good dawning to thee, friend. Art of 
this house ? 

Kent. Ay. 

Osw. Where may we set our horses ? 

Kent. V the mire. s 

Osw. Prithee, if thou lov’st me, tell me. 
Kent. I love thee not. 

Osw. Why, then, I care not for thee. 

Kent. If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I 
would make thee care for me. 10 

Osw. Why dost thou use me thus ? I know 
thee not. 

Kent. Fellow, I know thee. 

Osw. What dost thou know me for ? u 
Kent. A knave ; a rascal; an eater of broken 
meats ; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three- 
suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking 
knave ; a lily-livered, action-taking, whoreson, 
glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue; 
one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst [20 
be a bawd, in way of good service, and art 
nothing but the composition of a knave, beg¬ 
gar, coward, pandar, and the son and heir of a 
mongrel bitch ; one whom I will beat into clam¬ 
orous whining, if thou deni’st the least syl¬ 
lable of thy addition. 26 

Osw. Why, what a monstrous fellow art 
thou, thus to rail on one that is neither known 
of thee nor knows thee ! 29 

Kent. What a brazen-fac’d varlet art thou, 
to deny thou knowest me ! Is it two days since 
I tripp’d up thy heels, and beat thee before the 
King ? Draw, you rogue; for, though it be 
night, yet the moon shines. I ’ll make a sop o’ 
the moonshine of you, you whoreson cullionly 
barber-monger! Draw! [Drawing his sword.] 36 
Osw. Away ! I have nothing to do with thee. 
Kent. Draw, you rascal! You come with 
letters against the King ; and take Vanity the 
puppet’s part against the royalty of her father. 
Draw, you rogue, or I ’ll so carbonado your 
shanks, — draw, you rascal! Come your ways. 42 
Osw. Help, ho ! murder ! help ! 

Kent. Strike, you slave! Stand, rogue, stand! 
You neat slave, strike. [Beating him.) 

Osw. Help, ho ! murder ! murder ! 46 

Enter Bastard [Edmund] with his rapier 
drawn , Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester, 
and Servants. 

Edm. How now ! What’s the matter ? Part. 
Kent. With you, goodman boy, if you please. 
Come, I ’ll flesh ye ; come on, young master. 

Glou. Weapons! arms! What’s the matter 
here ? oi 

Corn. Keep peace, upon your lives ! 

He dies that strikes again. What is the matter ? 

Reg. The messengers from our sister and the 
King. 05 

Corn. What is your difference ? Speak. 

Osw. I am scarce in breath, my lord. 

Kent. No marvel, you have so bestirr’d your 
valour. You cowardly rascal, Nature disclaims 
in thee. A tailor made thee. # «o 


Corn. Thou art a strange fellow. A tailor 
make a man ? 

Kent. A tailor, sir. A stone-cutter or a 
painter could not have made him so ill, though 
they had been but two years o’ the trade. es 
Corn. Speak yet, how grew your quarrel ? 
Osw. This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I 
have spar’d at suit of his grey beard, — m 
Kent. Thou whoreson zed ! thou unnecessary 
letter! My lord, if you will give me leave, I 
will tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and 
daub the wall of a jakes with him. Spare my 
grey beard, you wagtail ? 

Corn. Peace, sirrah! 

You beastly knave, know you no reverence ? to 
Kent. Yes, sir ; but anger hath a privilege. 
Corn. Why art thou angry ? 

Kent. That such a slave as this should wear 
a sword, 

Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as 
these, 

Like rats, oft bite the holy cords a-twain so 
Which are too intrinse to unloose; smooth every 
passion 

That in the natures of their lords rebel; 

Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods ; 
Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks 
With every gale and vary of their masters, «o 
Knowing nought, like dogs, but following. 

A plague upon your epileptic visage ! 

Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool ? 

Goose, if I had you upon Sarum Plain, 

I’d drive ye cackling home to Camelot. 90 
Corn. What, art thou mad, old fellow ? 

Glou. How fell you out ? Say that. 

Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy 
Than I and such a knave. 

Corn. Why dost thou call him knave ? What 
is his fault ? 90 

Kent. His countenance likes me not. 

Corn. No more, perchance, does mine, nor 
his, nor hers. 

Kent. Sir, ’t is my occupation to be plain; 

I have seen better faces in my time 

Than stands on any shoulder that I see 100 

Before me at this instant. 

Corn. This is some fellow 

Who, having been prais’d for bluntness, doth 
affect 

A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb 
Quite from his nature. He cannot flatter, he ; 
An honest mind and plain, he must speak 
truth! 106 

An they will take it, so ; if not, he’s plain. 
These kind of knaves I know, which in this 
plainness 

Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends 
Than twenty silly ducking observants 
That stretch their duties nicely. 1* 

Kent. Sir, in good sooth, in sincere verity, 
Under the allowance of your great aspect, 
Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire 
On flickering Phoebus’ front, — 

Corn. What mean’st by this ? m 

Kent. To go out of my dialect, which you 
discommend so much. I know, sir, I am no 
flatterer. He that beguil’d you in a plain ac- 





II. iv. 


KING LEAR 


9 8 3 


cent was a plain knave; which for my part I 
will not be, though I should win your displea¬ 
sure to entreat me to’t. 120 

Corn. What was the offence you gave him ? 
Osw. I never gave him any. 

It pleas’d the King his master very late 
To strike at me, upon his misconstruction ; 
When he, compact, and flattering his displea¬ 
sure, 125 

Tripp’d me behind; being down, insulted, 
rail’d, 

And put upon him such a deal of man 
That’t worthied him, got praises of the King 
For him attempting who was self-subdued ; 
And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit, 130 
Drew on me here again. 

Kent. None of these rogues and cowards 
But Ajax is their fool. 

Corn. Fetch forth the stocks ! 

You stubborn ancient knave, you reverend 
braggart, 

We ’ll teach you — 

Kent. Sir, 1 am too old to learn. 

Call not your stocks for me; I serve the 
King, 135 

On whose employment I was sent to you. 

You shall do small respects, show too bold 
malice 

Against the grace and person of my master, 
Stocking his messenger. 

Corn. Fetch forth the stocks! As I have 
life and honour, no 

There shall he sit till noon. 

Reg. Till noon ! Till night, my lord ; and all 
night too. 

Kent. Why, madam, if I were your father’s 
flog, 

You should not use me so. 

Reg. Sir, being his knave, I will. 

[Stocks brought out. 
Corn. This is a fellow of the self-same colour 
Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the 
stocks! ns 

Glou. Let me beseech your Grace not to do so. 
[His fault is much, and the good King his 
master 

Will check him for’t. Your purpos’d low cor¬ 
rection 

Is such as basest and contemned’st wretches no 
For pilferings and most common trespasses 
Are punish’d with.] The King must take it ill 
That he’s so slightly valued in his messenger, 
Should have him thus restrained. 

Corn. I ’ll answer that. 

Reg. My sister may receive it much more 
worse 156 

To have her gentleman abus’d, assaulted, 

[For following her affairs. Put in his legs.] 

[Kent is put in the s£oc&s.] 
Come, my good lord, away. 

[Exeunt [all but Gloucester and 
Kent]. 

Glou. I am sorry for thee, friend; ’t is the 
Duke’s pleasure, 

Whose disposition, all the world well knows, ieo 
Will not be rubb’d nor stopp’d. I ’ll entreat 
for thee. 


Kent. Pray, do not, sir. I have watch’d and 
travell’d hard ; 

Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I ’ll 
whistle. 

A good man’s fortune may grow out at heels. 
Give you good morrow ! 165 

Glou. The Duke’s to blame in this; ’twill 
be ill taken. [Exit. 

Kent. Good King, that must approve the 
common saw, 

Thou out of heaven’s benediction com’st 
To the warm sun ! 

Approach, thou beacon to this under globe, do 
T hat by thy comfortable beams I may 
Peruse this letter! N othing almost sees miracles 
But misery. I know’t is from Cordelia, 

Who hath most fortunately been inform’d 
Of my obscured course; [reads] “ — and shall 
find time 175 

From this enormous state — seeking to give 
Losses their remedies.” — All weary and o’er- 
watch’d, 

Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold 
This shameful lodging. 

Fortune, good-night! Smile once more ; turn 
thy wheel! [Sleeps.] do 

[Scene III. The same.] 

Enter Edgar. 

Edg. I heard myself proclaim’d ; 

And by the happy hollow of a tree 
Escap’d the hunt. No port is free ; no place 
That guard and most unusual vigilance 
Does not attend my taking. Whiles I may 
scape 5 

I will preserve myself, and am bethought 
To take the basest and most poorest shape 
That ever penury, in contempt of man, 

Brought near to beast. My face I ’ll grime with 
filth, 

Blanket my loins, elf all my hairs in knots, 10 
And with presented nakedness out-face 
The winds and persecutions of the sky. 

The country gives me proof and precedent 
Of Bedlam beggars, wno, with roaring voices, 
Strike in their numb’d and mortified arms 1 6 
Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary ; 
And with this horrible object, from low farms, 
Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills, 
Sometimes with lunatic bans, sometimes with 
prayers, 

Enforce their charity. Poor Turlygod! poor 
Tom! 20 

That’s something yet. Edgar I nothing am. 

[Exit. 

[Scene IV. The same.] 

Enter Lear, Fool, and Gentleman. [Kent 
in the sfoc&s.] 

Lear. ’Tis strange that they should so de¬ 
part from home, 

And not send back my messengers. 

Gent. As I learn’d, 

The night before there was no purpose in them 
Of this remove. 




9 8 4 


KING LEAR 


II. IV. 


Kent. Hail to thee, noble master ! 

Lear. Ha! s 

Mak’st thou this shame thy pastime ? 

Kent. No, my lord. 

Fool. Ha, ha! he wears cruel garters. 
Horses are tied by the heads, dogs and bears by 
the neck, monkeys by the loins, and men by 
the legs. When a man ’s over-lusty at legs, 
then he wears wooden nether-stocks. n 

Lear. What’s he that hath so much thy 
place mistook 
To set thee here ? 

Kent. It is both he and she; 

Your son and daughter. 

Lear. No. ib 

Kent. Yes. 

Lear. No, I say. 

Kent. I say, yea. 

[Lear. No, no, they would not. 

Kent. Yes, they have.] 20 

Lear. By Jupiter, I swear, no. 

Kent. By Juno, I swear, ay. 

Lear. They durst not do ’t; 

They could not, would not do ’t. ’T is worse 
than murder, 

To do upon respect such violent outrage. 
Resolve me, with all modest haste, which way 
Thou mightst deserve, or they impose, this 
usage, 26 

Coming from us. 

Kent. My lord, when at their home 

I did commend your Highness’ letters to them, 
Ere I was risen from the place that show’d 
My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post, 30 
Stew’d in his haste, half breathless, panting 
forth 

From Goneril his mistress salutations ; 

Deliver’d letters, spite of intermission, 

Which presently they read. On those contents, 
They summon’d up their meiny, straight took 
horse; 35 

Commanded me to follow, and attend 
The leisure of their answer; gave me cold 
looks: 

And meeting here the other messenger, 

Whose welcome, I perceiv’d, had poison’d 
mine, — 

Being the very fellow which of late 40 

Display’d so saucily against your Highness, — 
Having more man than wit about me, drew. 

He rais’d the house with loud and coward cries. 
Your son and daughter found this trespass 
worth 

The shame which here it suffers. 45 

Fool. Winter’s not gone yet, if the wild 
geese fly that way. 

“ Fathers that wear rags 

Do make their children blind ; 

But fathers that bear bags eo 

Shall see their children kind. 
Fortune, that arrant whore, 

Ne’er turns the key to the poor.” 

But, for all this, thou shalt have as many do¬ 
lours for thy daughters as thou canst tell in a 
year. 55 

Lear. 0 , how this mother swells up toward 
my heart t 


Hysterica passio , down, thou climbing sorrow, 
Thy element’s below ! — Where is this daugh- 
ter ? 

Kent. With the Earl, sir, here within. 

Lear. Follow me not; 

Stay here. [Exit, eo 

Gent. Made you no more offence but what 
you speak of ? 

Kent. None. 

How chance the King comes with so small a 
number ? 

Fool. An thou hadst been set i’ the stocks 
for that question, thou ’dst well deserv’d it. 66 

Kent. Why, Fool ? 

Fool. We ’ll set thee to school to an ant, to 
teach thee there’s no labouring i’ the winter. 
All that follow their noses are led by their 
eyes but blind men ; and there’s not a nose [70 
among twenty but can smell him that’s stink¬ 
ing. Let go thy hold when a great wheel runs 
down a hill, lest it break thy neck with fol¬ 
lowing ; but the great one that goes upward, 
let him draw thee after. When a wise man [75 
gives thee better counsel, give me mine again ; 
I would have none but knaves follow it, since 
a fool gives it. 

“ That sir which serves and seeks for gain, 
And follow's but for form, so 

Will pack when it begins to rain, 

And leave thee in the storm. 

But I will tarry ; the Fool will stay, 

And let the wise man fly. 

The knave turns fool that runs away; ss 
The Fool no knave, perdy.” 

Re-enter Lear and Gloucester. 

Kent. Where learn’d you this, Fool ? 

Fool. Not i’ the stocks, fool. 

Lear. Deny to speak with me ? They are 
sick ? They are weary ? 

They have travell’d all the night? Mere 
_ fetches; 90 

The images of revolt and flying off. 

Fetch me a better answer. 

Glou. My dear lord, 

You know the fiery quality of the Duke; 

How unremovable and fix’d he is 

In his own course. 95 

Lear. Vengeance ! plague! death 1 confu¬ 
sion ! 

“ Fiery ” ? What “ quality ” ? Why, Glouces¬ 
ter, Gloucester, 

I’d speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his 
wife. 

Glou. Well, my good lord, I have inform’d 
them so. 

Lear. “ Inform’d ” them ! Dost thou under¬ 
stand me, man ? 100 

Glou. Ay, my good lord. 

Lear. The King would speak with Cornwall; 
the dear father 

Would with his daughter speak, commands her 
service. 

Are they “ inform’d ” of this ? My breath and 
blood ! 

“ Fiery ” ? The fiery duke ? Tell the hot duke 
that — iof 





II. IV. 


KING LEAR 


985 


No, but not yet; may be he is not well. 
Infirmity doth still neglect all office 
Whereto our health is bound ; we are not our¬ 
selves 

When nature, being oppress’d, commands the 
mind 

To suffer with the body. I ’ll forbear j no 
And am fallen out with my more headier will, 
To take the indispos’d and sickly fit 
For the sound man. — Death on my state! 

wherefore [Looking on Kent.] 

Should he sit here ? This act persuades me 
That this remotion of the Duke and her us 
Is practice only. Give me my servant forth. 

Go tell the Duke and’s wife I’d speak with 
them, 

Now, presently. Bid them come forth and hear 
me, 

Or at their chamber-door I ’ll beat the drum 
Till it cry sleep to death. 120 

Glou. I would have all well betwixt you. 

[Exit. 

Lear. O me, my heart, my rising heart! But, 
down! 

Fool. Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did 
to the eels when she put ’em i’ the paste 
alive ; she knapp’d ’em o’ the coxcombs with 
a stick, and cried, “ Down, wantons, down! ” 
’T was her brother that, in pure kindness to 

his horse, buttered his hay. us 

Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester, and 

Servants. 

Lear. Good morrow to you both. 

Corn. Hail to your Grace ! 

[Kent is set at liberty. 
Reg. I am glad to see your Highness. 

Lear. Regan, I think you are; I know what 
reason 

I have to think so. If thou sliouldst not be 
glad, 132 

I would divorce me from thy mother’s tomb, 
Sepulchring an adulteress. [To Kent.] 0 , are 
you free ? 

Some other time for that. Beloved Regan, 

Thy sister’s naught. 0 Regan, she hath tied 
Sharp-tooth’d unkindness, like a vulture, here. 

[Points to his heart.] 
I can scarce speak to thee ; thou ’It not believe 
With how deprav’d a quality — 0 Regan ! 139 

Reg. I pray you, sir, take patience. I have 
hope 

You less know how to value her desert 
Than she to scant her duty. 

Lear. Say, how is that ? 

Reg. I cannot think my sister in the least 
Would fail her obligation. If, sir, perchance 
She have restrain’d the riots of your followers, 
’T is on such ground, and to such wholesome 
end, 146 

As clears her from all blame. 

Lear. My curses on her! 

Reg. O, sir, you are old ; 

Nature in you stands on the very verge 
Of her confine. You should be rul’d and led iso 
By some discretion that discerns your state 
Better than you yourself. Therefore, I pray you, 


That to our sister you do make return ; 

Say you have wrong’d her, sir. 

Lear. Ask her forgiveness ? 

Do you but mark how this becomes the house : 
“ Dear daughter, I confess that I am old ; iso 

[Kneeling*.] 

Age is unnecessary. On my knees I beg 
That you ’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and 
food.” 

Reg. Good sir, no more ; these are unsightly 
tricks. 

Return you to my sister. 

Lear. [jRisingr.] Never, Regan: wo 

She hath abated me of half my train ; 

Look’d black upon me; struck me with her 
tongue, 

Most serpent-like, upon the very heart. 

All the stor’d vengeances of heaven fall i«* 
On her ingrateful top ! Strike her young bones, 
You taking airs, with lameness ! 

Corn. Fie, sir, fie ! 

Lear. You nimble lightnings, dart your 
blinding flames 

Into her scornful eyes ! Infect her beauty, 

You fen-suck’d fogs, drawn by the powerful 
sun, 

To fall and blast her pride ! 1™ 

Reg. O the blest gods! so will you wish on 
me, 

When the rash mood is on. 

Lear. No, Regan, thou shalt never have my 
curse. 

Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give 
Thee o’er to harshness. Her eyes are fierce; 

but thine ws 

Do comfort and not burn. ’T is not in thee 
To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train, 

To bandy hasty words, to scant tny sizes, 

And in conclusion to oppose the bolt 
Against my coming in. Thou better know’st iso 
The offices of nature, bond of childhood, 

Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude. 

Thy half o’ the kingdom hast thou not forgot, 
Wherein I thee endow’d. 

Reg. Good sir, to the purpose. 

[Tucket within. 

Lear. Who put my man i’ the stocks ? 

Enter Steward [Oswald]. 

Corn. What trumpet’s that ? 

Reg. I know’t; my sister’s. This approves 
her letter, 186 

That she would soon be here. [To Oswald.] Is 
your lady come ? 

Lear. This is a slave whose easy-borrowed 
pride 

Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows. 
Out, varlet, from my sight! 

Corn. What means your Grace ? wo 

Enter Goneril. 

Lear. Who stock’d my servant? Regan, I 
have good hope 

Thou didst not know on ’t. Who comes here ? 
0 heavens, 

If you do love old men, if your sweet sway 
Allow obedience, if you yourselves are old, 





9 86 


KING LEAR 


ii. iv. 


Make it your cause; send down, and take my 
part! 196 

[To Gon .] Art not asham’d to look upon this 
beard ? 

O Regan, will you take her by the hand ? 

Gon. Why not by the hand, sir ? How have 
I offended ? 

All’s not offence that indiscretion finds 
And dotage terms so. 

Lear. 0 sides, you are too tough ; 

Will you yet hold? How came my man i’ the 
stocks ? _ < 201 

Corn. I set him there, sir; but his own dis¬ 
orders 

Deserv’d much less advancement. 

Lear. You ! did you ? 

Reg. I pray you, father, being weak, seem so. 
If, till the expiration of your month, 205 

You will return and sojourn with my sister. 
Dismissing half your train, come then to me. 

I am now from home, and out of that provision 
Which shall be needful for your entertainment. 
Lear. Return to her, and fifty men dis¬ 
miss’d ! _ 210 

No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose 
To wage against the enmity o’ the air ; 

To be a comrade with the wolf and owl, — 
Necessity’s sharp pinch. Return with her ? 
Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless 

took 215 

Our youngest born, I could as well be brought 
To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension 
beg 

To keep base life afoot. Return with her ? 
Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter 
To this detested groom. [ Pointing at Oswald.] 
Gon. At your choice, sir. 220 

Lear. I prifrhee, daughter, do not make me 
mad; 

I will not trouble thee, my child ; farewell! 

We ’ll no more meet, no more see one another. 
But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my 
daughter; 

Or rather a disease that’s in my flesh, 225 

Which I must needs call mine ; thou art a boil, 
A plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle, 

In my corrupted blood. But I ’ll not chide 
thee; 

Let shame come when it will, I do not call it. 

I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot, 230 

Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove. 
Mend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure. 
I can be patient; I can stay with Regan, 

I and my hundred knights. 

Reg. Not altogether so ; 

I look’d not for you yet, nor am provided 235 
For your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my 
sister ; 

For those that mingle reason with your passion 
Must be content to think you old, and so — 

But she knows what she does. 

Lear. Is this well spoken ? 

Reg. I dare avouch it, sir. What, fifty fol¬ 
lowers ! 240 

Is it not well ? What should you need of more ? 
Yea, or so many, sith that both charge and 
danger 


Speak ’gainst so great a number ? How, in one 
house, 

Should many people, under two commands, 
Hold amity ? ’T is hard ; almost impossible. 

Gon. Why might not you, my lord, receive 
attendance 

From those that she calls servants or from 
mine ? 

Reg. Why not, my lord ? If then they 
chanc’d to slack ye, 

We could control them. If you will come to 
me,— 

For now I spy a danger — I entreat you 250 
To bring but five and twenty ; to no more 
Will I give place or notice. 

Lear. I gave you all. 

Reg. And in good time you gave it. 

Lear. Made you my guardians, my deposi¬ 
taries ; 

But kept a reservation to be followed 251 

With such a number. What, must I come to 
you 

With five and twenty, Regan ? Said you so ? 

Reg. And speak’t again, my lord ; no more 
with me. 

Lear. Those wicked creatures yet do look 
w ell-favour’d 

When others are more wicked ; not being the 
worst 260 

Stands in some rank of praise. [To Gon.] I ’ll 
go with thee. 

Thy fifty yet doth double five and twenty, 

And thou art twice her love. 

Gon. Hear me, my lord: 

What need you five and twenty, ten, or five, 

To follow in a house where twice so many 265 
Have a command to tend you ? 

Reg. What need one ? 

Lear. O, reason not the need ! Our basest 
beggars 

Are in the poorest thing superfluous. 

Allow not nature more than nature needs, 
Man’s life is cheap as beast’s. Thou art a 
lady; 270 

If only to go warm were gorgeous, 

Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous 
wear’st, 

Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for 
true need, — 

You heavens, give me that patience, patience I 
need! 

You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, 

As full of grief as age ; wretched in both ! 

If it be you that stirs these daughters’ hearts 
Against their father, fool me not so much 
To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger, 
And let not women’s weapons, water-drops, 280 
Stain my man’s cheeks! No, you unnatural 
hags, 

I will have such revenges on you both 
That all the world shall — I will do such 
things, — 

What they are, yet I know not; but they shall 
be 

The terrors of the earth. You think I ’ll 
weep: 2M 

No, I ’ll not weep. 





ill. ii. 


KING LEAR 


987 


I have full cause of weeping ; but this heart 

(Storm and tempest.) 

Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws, 

Or ere I ’ll weep. 0 , Fool! I shall go mad ! 

[Exeunt Lear , Gloucester , Kent, and 
Fool. 

* Corn. Let us withdraw ; ’t will be a storm. 290 
Keg. This house is little ; the old man and’s 
people 

Cannot be well bestow’d. 

Gon. ’T is his own blame ; hath put himself 
from rest, 

And must needs taste his folly. 

Reg. For his particular, I ’ll receive him 
gladly, 296 

But not one follower. 

Gon. So am I purpos’d. 

Where is my Lord of Gloucester ? 

Re-enter Gloucester. 

Corn. Followed the old man forth. He is re¬ 
turn’d. 

Glou. The King is in high rage. 

Corn. Whither is he going? 

Glou. He calls to horse ; but will I know not 
whither. 300 

Corn. ’T is best to give him way ; he leads 
himself. 

Gon. My lord, entreat him by no means to 
stay. 

Glou. Alack, the night comes on, and the 
high winds 

Do sorely ruffle ; for many miles about 
There’s scarce a bush. 

Reg. 0 , sir, to wilful men, 

The injuries that they themselves procure soe 
Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your 
doors. 

He is attended with a desperate train ; 

And what they may incense him to, being 
apt 

To have his ear abus’d, wisdom bids fear. 310 
Corn. Shut up your doors, my lord ; ’t is a 
wild night: 

My Regan counsels well. Come out o’ the storm. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT III 

Scene I. [The open country near Gloucester" 1 s 
castle .] 

Storm still. Enter Kent and a Gentleman, 
severally. 

Kent. Who’s there, besides foul weather ? 
Gent. One minded like the weather, most 
unquietly. 

Kent. I know you. Where’s the King ? 
Gent. Contending with the fretful elements ; 
Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, c 
Or swell the curled waters ’bove the main, 
That things might change or cease ; [tears his 
white hair, 

Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage, 
Catch in their fury, and make nothing of ; 
Strives in his little world of man to out-scorn 10 
The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain. 


This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would 
couch, 

The lion and the belly-pinched wolf 
Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, 

And bids what will take all.] 

Kent. But who is with him ? 

Gent. None but the Fool; who labours to 
outjest is 

His heart-struck injuries. 

Kent. Sir, I do kndw you ; 

And dare, upon the warrant of my note, 
Commend a dear thing to you. There is di¬ 
vision, 

Although as yet the face of it is cover’d *« 
With mutual cunning, ’twixt Albany and Corn¬ 
wall ; 

Who have — as who have not, that their great 
stars 

Thron’d and set high? — servants, who seem 
no less, 

Which are to France the spies and speculations 
Intelligent of our state ; what hath been seen, 
Either in snuffs and packings of the Dukes, *« 
Or the hard rein which both of them have borne 
Against the old kind king, or something deeper, 
Whereof perchance these are but furnishings ; 
[But, true it is, from France there comes a 
power 30 

Into this scattered kingdom ; who already, 
Wise in our negligence, have secret feet 
In some of our best ports, and are at point 
To show their open banner. Now to you : 

If on my credit you dare build so far 36 

To make your speed to Dover, you shall find 
Some that will thank you, making just report 
Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow 
The King hath cause to plain. 

I am a gentleman of blood and breeding; *o 
And, from some knowledge and assurance, offer 
This office to you.] 

Gent. I will talk further with you. 

Kent. No, do not. 

For confirmation that I am much more 
Than my out-wall, open this purse, and take « 
What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia, — 
As fear not but you shall, — show her this ring ; 
And she will tell you who that fellow is 
That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm ! 
I will go seek the King. 60 

Gent. Give me your hand. Have you no 
more to say ? 

Kent. Few words, but, to effect, more than 
all yet; 

That, when we have found the King, — in 
which your pain 

That way, I ’ll this, — he that first lights on 
him 

Holla the other. [Exeunt [ severally ]. 66 

Scene II. [The same .] Storm still. 

Enter Lear and Fool. 

Lear. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks 1 
Rage! Blow! 

You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout 
Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d 
the cocks ! 




KING LEAR 


hi. iii. 


988 


You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, 
Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts, b 
S inge my white head! And thou, all-shaking 
thunder, 

Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world ! 
Crack nature’s moulds, all germens spill at 
once, 

That makes ingrateful man ! 9 

Fool. 0 nuncle, court holy-water in a dry 
house is better than this rain-water out o’ door. 
Good nuncle, in; ask thy daughters’ blessing. 
Here’s a night pities neither wise men nor 
fools. 

Lear. Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! 
Spout, rain! 

Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daugh¬ 
ters. _ IB 

I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness ; 

I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children ; 
You owe me no subscription. Then let fall 
Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand, your 
slave, 

A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man; 20 
But yet I call you servile ministers, 

That will with two pernicious daughters join 
Your high engender’d battles ’gainst a head 
So old and white as this. Oh ! Oh ! ’t is foul! 

Fool. He that has a house to put’s head in 
has a good head-piece. 26 

“ The cod-piece that will house 
Before the head has any, 

The head and he shall louse ; 

So beggars marry many. so 

The man that makes his toe 
What he his heart should make 
Shall of a corn cry woe, 

And turn his sleep to wake.” 

For there was never yet fair woman but she 
made mouths in a glass. 36 

Enter Kent. 

Lear. No, I will be the pattern of all pa¬ 
tience ; I will say nothing. 

Kent. Who’s there ? 

Fool. Marry, here’s grace and a cod-piece ; 
that’s a wise man and a fool. 41 

Kent. Alas, sir, are you here ? Things that 
love night 

Love not such nights as these; the wrathful 
skies 

Gallow the very wanderers of the dark, 

And make them keep their caves. Since I was 
man, 46 

Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid 
thunder. 

Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never 
Remember to have heard. Man’s nature can¬ 
not carry 

The affliction nor the fear. 

Lear. Let the great gods, 

That keep this dreadful pudder o’er our heads, 
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou 
wretch, bi 

That hast within thee undivulged crimes, • 
Unwhipp’d of justice ! Hide thee, thou bloody 
hand; 

Thou perjur’d, and thou simular of virtue 


That art incestuous ! Caitiff, to pieces shake, w 
That under covert and convenient seeming 
Has practis’d on man’s life! Close pent-up 
guilts, 

Rive your concealing continents, and cry 
These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man 
More sinn’d against than sinning. . 

Kent. Alack, bare-headed! 

Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; ei 
Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the 
tempest. 

Repose you there ; while I to this hard house — 
More harder than the stones whereof ’t is 
rais’d; 

Which even but now, demanding after you, 66 
Deni’d me to come in — return, and force 
Their scanted courtesy. 

Lear. My wits begin to turn. 

Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art 
cold ? 

I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my 
fellow ? 

The art of our necessities is strange, to 

And can make vile things precious. Come, your 
hovel. 

Poor Fool and knave, I have one part in my 
heart 

That \s sorry jret for thee. 

Fool. [Singing.] 

“ He that has and a little tiny wit, — 

With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain, — 75 
Must make content with his fortunes fit, 

For the rain it raineth every day.” 

Lear. True, boy. Come, bring us to this 
hovel. . [ Exeunt [Lear and Kent], 

Fool. This is a brave night to cool a cour¬ 
tezan. 

I ’ll speak a prophecy ere I go : so 

When priests are more in word than matter; 
When brewers mar their malt with water ; 
When nobles are their tailors’ tutors ; 

No heretics burn’d, but wenches’ suitors ; 
When every case in law is right; 85 

No squire in debt, nor no poor knight; 

When slanders do not live in tongues ; 

Nor cutpurses come not to throngs ; 

When usurers tell their gold i’ the field ; 

And bawds and whores do churches build ; oo 
Then shall the realm of Albion 
Come to great confusion. 

Then comes the time, who lives to see’t, 

That going shall be us’d with feet. 

This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live 
before his time. [Exit. 95 

Scene III. [ Gloucester's castle .] 

Enter Gloucester and Edmund. 

Glou. Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this 
unnatural dealing. When I desired their leave 
that I mi^ht pity him, they took from me the 
use of mine own house ; charg’d me, on pain 
of perpetual displeasure, neither to speak of 
him, entreat for him, or any way sustain him. 6 
Edm. Most savage and unnatural! 
t Glou. Go to ; say you nothing. There is di¬ 
vision between the Dukes, and a worse matter 







III. IV. 


KING LEAR 


989 


than that. I have received a letter this night; [10 
’t is dangerous to be spoken ; I have lock’d 
the letter in my closet. These injuries the 
King now bears will be revenged home ; there 
is part of a power already footed. We must 
incline to the King. I will look him, and privily 
relieve him. Go you and maintain talk with [is 
the Duke, that my charity be not of him per¬ 
ceived. If he ask for me, I am ill, and gone 
to bed. If I die for it, as no less is threat’ned 
me, the King my old master must be relieved. 
There is strange things toward, Edmund ; pray 
you, be careful. [Exit. 21 

Edm. This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the 
Duke 

Instantly know ; and of that letter too. 

This seems a fair deserving, and must draw 
me 

That which my father loses ; no less than all. 25 
The younger rises when the old doth fall. 

[Exit. 


Scene IV. [The open country. Before a hovel.\ 
Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool. 


Kent. Here is the place, my lord ; good my 
lord, enter. 

* The tyranny of the open night’s too rough 
For nature to endure. [Storm still. 

Lear. Let me alone. 

Kent. Good my lord, enter here. 

Lear. Wilt break my heart ? 

Kent. I had rather break mine own. Good 
my lord, enter. _ b 

Lear. Thou think’st’t is much that this con¬ 
tentious storm 

Invades us to the skin ; so’t is to thee ; 

But where the greater malady is fix’d, 

The lesser is scarce felt. Thou ’dst shun a bear ; 
But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea, 10 
Thou ’dst meet the bear i’ the mouth. When 
the mind’s free, 

The body’s delicate ; the tempest in my mind 
Doth from my senses take all feeling else 
Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude ! 

Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand is 
For lifting food to ’t ? But I will punish home. 
No, I will weep no more. In such a night 
To shut me out! Pour on ! I will endure. 

In such a night as this ! 0 Regan, Goneril! 
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave 
ail, — 20 

O, that way madness lies ; let me shun that; 
No more of that. 

Kent. Good my lord, enter here. 

Lear. Prithee, go in thyself ; seek thine own 


This tempest will not give me leave to ponder 
On things would hurt me more. But I ’ll go in. 20 
[To the Fool.] In, boy; go first. You house¬ 
less poverty,— 

Nay, get thee in. I ’ll pray, and then I ’ll sleep. 

[Exit [Foot]. 

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, 
How shall your houseless heads and unfed 
sides, 30 


Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend 
you 

From seasons such as these ? O, I have ta’en 
Too little care of this ! Take physic, pomp; 
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, 

That thou mayst shake the superflux to them, 
And show the heavens more just. 30 

Edg. [ WithinA Fathom and half, fathom 
and half! Poor Tom ! 

[ The Fool runs out from the hovel.] 

Fool. Come not in here, nunele, here’s a 
spirit. Help me, help me ! 40 

Kent. Give me thy hand. Who’s there ? 

Fool. A spirit, a spirit! He says his name’s 
poor Tom. 

Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there 
i’ the straw ? Come forth. 45 

[Enter Edgar, disguised as a madman.] 

Edg. Away! the foul fiend follows me ! 
“Through the sharp hawthorn blow the winds.” 
Hum ! go to thy bed, and warm thee. 

Lear. Did’st thou give all to thy daughters, 
and art thou come to this ? b* 

Edg. Who gives anything to poor Tom ? 
whom the foul fiend hath led through fire and 
through flame, and through ford and whirlpool, 
o’er bog and quagmire ; that hath laid knives 
under his pillow, and halters in his pew; set 
ratsbane by his porridge; made him proud [be 
of heart, to ride on a bay trotting-horse over 
four-inch’d bridges, to course his own shadow 
for a traitor. Bless thy five wits! Tom’s 
a-cold, — O, do de, do de, do de. Bless thee 
from whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking! [00 
Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend 
vexes. There could I have him now, — and 
there, — and there again, and there. 

[Storm still. 

Lear. Has his daughters brought him to this 
pass ? os 

Couldst thou save nothing? Wouldst thou give 
’em all ? 

Fool. Nay, he reserv’d a blanket, else we 
had been all sham’d. 

Lear. Now, all the plagues that in the pen¬ 
dulous air 

Hang fated o’er men’s faults light on thy 
daughters! to 

Kent. He hath no daughters, sir. 

Lear. Death, traitor! nothing could have 
subdu’d nature 

To such a lowness but his unkind daughters. 

Is it the fashion, that discarded fathers 
Should have thus little mercy on their flesh ? 75 
Judicious punishment! ’T was this flesh begot 
Those pelican daughters. 

Edg. “ Pillicock sat on Pillicock-hill.” 

Alow, alow, loo, loo ! 

Fool. This cold night will turn us all to fools 
and madmen. 

Edg. Take heed o’ the foul fiend. Obey thy 
parents; keep thy word justly; swear not; 
commit not with man’s sworn spouse ; set not 
thy sweet heart on proud array. Tom’s a-cold. 

Lear. What hast thou been ? 

Edg. A serving-man, proud in heart and 




$96 


KING LEAR 


hi. v. 


mind ; that curl’d my hair ; wore gloves in my 
cap ; serv’d the lust of my mistress’ heart, and 
did the act of darkness with her; swore as 
many oaths as I spake words, and broke [»o 
them in the sweet face of heaven: one that 
slept in the contriving of lust, and wak’d to do 
it. Wine lov’d I dearly, dice dearly ; and in 
woman out-paramour’d the Turk: false of 
heart, light of ear, bloody of hand; hog in [as 
sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in 
madness, lion in prey. Let not the creaking of 
shoes nor the rustling of silks betray thy poor 
heart to woman. Keep thy foot out of brothels, 
thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lenders’ 
books, and defy the foul fiend. 101 

“Still through the hawthorn blows the cold 
wind.” 

Says suum, mun, nonny. Dolphin my boy, boy, 
sessa! let him trot by. [Storm still: 

Lear. Thou wert better in a grave than [106 
to answer with thy uncover’d body this ex¬ 
tremity of the skies. Is man no more than 
this ? Consider him well. Thou ow’st the worm 
no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, 
the cat no perfume. Ha! here’s three on’s 
are sophisticated ! Thou art the thing it- [no 
self ; unaccommodated man is no more but such 
a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, 
off, you lendings ! come, unbutton here. m 
[ Tearing off his clothes .] 

Enter Gloucester, with a torch. 

Fool. Prithee, nunele, be contented ; ’t is a 
naughty night to swim in. Now a little fire in 
a wild field were like an old lecher’s heart; a 
small spark, all the rest on’s body cold. Look, 
here comes a walking fire. no 

Edg. This is the foul [fiend] Flibbertigibbet; 
he begins at curfew, and walks till the first 
cock ; he gives the web and the pin, squints the 
eye, and makes the hare-lip ; mildews the white 
wheat, and hurts the poor creature of earth. 

“ St. Withold footed thrice the ’old ; 125 

He met the night-mare, and her ninefold ; 
Bid her alight, 

And her troth plight, 

And, aroint thee, witch, aroint thee ! ” 
Kent. How fares your Grace ? 130 

Lear. What’s he ? 

Kent. Who’s there ? What is’t you seek ? 
Glou. What are you there ? Your names ? 
Edg. Poor Tom, that eats the swimming 
frog, the toad, the tadpole, the wall-newt, and 
the water ; that in the fury of his heart, when [135 
the foul fiend rages, eats cow-dung for salads ; 
swallows the old rat and the ditch-dog; drinks 
the green mantle of the standing pool; who is 
whipp’d from tithing to tithing, and stock’d, 
punish’d, and imprison’d; who hath three [ho 
suits to his back, six shirts to his body, 

Horse to ride, and weapon to wear ; 

But mice and rats, and such small deer, 

Have been Tom’s food for seven long year. 
Beware my follower. Peace, Smulkin ; peace, 
thou fiend! ue 

Glou. What, hath your Grace no better com¬ 
pany ? 


Edg. The prince of darkness is a gentleman. 
Modo he’s call’d, and Mahu. 

Glou. Our flesh and blood, my lord, is grown 
so vile iso 

That it doth hate what gets it. 

Edg. Poor Tom’s a-cold. 

Glou. Go in with me ; my duty cannot suffer 
To obey in all your daughters’ hard com¬ 
mands. 

Though their injunction be to bar my doors icc 
And let this tyrannous night take hold upon you, 
Yet have I ventur’d to come seek you out, 

And bring you where both fire and food is ready. 

Lear. First let me talk with this philosopher. 
What is the cause of thunder ? iw 

Kent. Good my lord, take his offer; go into 
the house. 

Lear. I ’ll talk a word with this same learned 
Theban. 

What is your study ? 

Edg. How to prevent the fiend, and to kill 
vermin. 

Lear. Let me ask you one word in private. 
Kent. Importune him once more to go, my 
lord; ice 

His wits begin to unsettle. 

Glou. Canst thou blame him ? 

[<Sform still. 

His daughters seek his death. Ah, that good 
Kent! 

He said it would be thus, poor banish’d man ! 
Thou say’st the King grows mad; I ’ll tell 
thee, friend, 170 

I am almost mad myself. I had a son, 

Now outlaw’d from my blood; he sought my 
life, 

But lately, very late. I lov’d him, friend, 

No father his son dearer ; true to tell thee. 

The grief hath craz’d my wits. What a night’s 
this! ns 

I do beseech your Grace, — 

Lear. . 0 , cry you mercy, sir. 

Noble philosopher, your company. 

Edg. Tom’s a-cold. 

Glou. In, fellow, there, into the hovel; keep 
thee warm. 

Lear. Come, let’s in all. 

Kent. This way, my lord. 

Lear. With him; 

I will keep still with my philosopher. m 

Kent. Good my lord, soothe him ; let him 
take the fellow. 

Glou. Take him you on. 

Kent. Sirrah, come on ; go along with us. 
Lear. Come, good Athenian. iss 

Glou. No words, no words : hush. 

Edg. “Child Rowland to the dark tower 
came; 

His word was still, ‘ Fie, foh, and fum, 

I smell the blooa of a British man.’ ” 

[Exeunt. 

Scene Y. [ Gloucester's castle .] 

Enter Cornwall and Edmund. 

Corn. I will have my revenge ere I depart 
his house. 





HI. VI. 


KING LEAR 


991 


Edm. How, ray lord, I may be censured that 
nature thus gives way to loyalty, something 
fears me to think of. s 

Corn. I now perceive, it was not altogether 
our brother’s evil disposition made him seek 
is death; but a provoking merit, set a-work 
by a reproveable badness in himself. » 

Edm. How malicious is my fortune, that I 
must repent to be just! This is the letter which 
he spoke of, which approves him an intelligent 
party to the advantages of France. 0 heavens! 
that this treason were not, or not I the de¬ 
tector ! 14 

Corn. Go with me to the Duchess. 

Edm. If the matter of this paper be certain, 
you have mighty business in hand. 

Corn. True or false, it hath made thee Earl 
of Gloucester. Seek out where thy father is, 
that he may be ready for our apprehension, jo 
Edm. [Aside.] If I find him comforting the 
King, it will stuff his suspicion more fully. — I 
will persevere in my course of loyalty, though 
the conflict be sore between that and n.y blood. 24 
Corn. I will lay trust upon thee ; and thou 
3halt find a dearer father in my love. [ Exeunt. 

•Scene VI. [A building attached to Gloucester's 
castle.] 

Enter Kent and Gloucester. 

Glou. Here is better than the open air ; take 
it thankfully. I will piece out the comfort 
with what addition I can. I will not be long 
from you. _ < [Exit. 

Kent. All the power of his wits have given 
way to his impatience. The gods reward your 
kindness! 6 

Enter Leak, Edgar, and Fool. 

Edg. Frateretto calls me ; and tells me Nero 
is an angler in the lake of darkness. Pray, inno¬ 
cent, and beware the foul fiend. 

Fool. Prithee, nuncle, tell me whether a 
madman he a gentleman or a yeoman ? u 

Lear. A king, a king ! 

Fool. No, he’s a yeoman that has a gentle¬ 
man to his son ; for he’s a mad. yeoman that 
sees his son a gentleman before him. 15 

Lear. To have a thousand with red burning 
spits 

Come hissing in upon ’em, — 

[Edg. The foul fiend bites my back. 

Fool. He’s mad that trusts in the tameness 
of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a 
whore’s oath. . 21 

Lear. It shall be done ; I will arraign them 
straight. 

[To Edgar.] Come, sit thou here, most learned 
justicer ; . . __ 

[To the Fool.] Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, 
you she foxes ! 

Edg. Look, where he stands and glares ! 2 c 
Wantest thou eyes at trial, madam ? 

“ Come o’er the bourn, Bessy, to me,”— 
Fool. “ Her boat hath a leak, 

And she must not speak 
Why she dares not come over to thee.” so 


Edg. The foul fiend haunts poor Tom in the 
voice of a nightingale. Hopdance cries in Tom’s 
belly for two white herring. Croak not, black 
angel; I have no food for thee. 

Kent. How do you, sir ? Stand you not so 
amaz’d: 35 

Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions? 

Lear. I ’ll see their trial first. Bring in their 
evidence. 

[To Edgar.] Thou robed man of justice, take 
thy place; 

[To the Fool.] And thou, his yoke-fellow of 
equity, 

Bench by liis side. [To Kent.] You are o’ the 
commission, 40 

Sit you too. 

Edg. Let us deal justly. 

“ Sleepest or wakest thou, jolly shepherd ? 
Thy sheep be in the corn ; 

And for one blast of thy minikin mouth, 45 
Thy sheep shall take no harm.” 

Purr ! the cat is grey. 

Lear. Arraign her first;’t is Goneril. I here 
take my oath before this honourable assembly, 
she kick’d the poor king her father. m 

Fool. Come hither, mistress. Is your name 
Goneril ? 

Lear. She cannot deny it. 

Fool. Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint- 
stool. 65 

Lear. And here’s another, whose warp’d 
looks proclaim 

What store her heart is made on. Stop her 
there! 

Arms, arms, sword, fire ! Corruption in the 
place ! 

False justicer, why hast thou let her scape ?] 

Edg. Bless thy five wits ! 88 

Kent. 0 pity ! Sir, where is the patience 
now 

That you so oft have boasted to retain ? 

Edg. [Aside.] My tears begin to take his part 
so much, 

They mar my counterfeiting. 

Lear. The little dogs and all, 

Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark 
at me. 

Edg. Tom will throw his head at them. 
Avaunt, you curs! 

Be thy mouth or black or white, 

Tooth that poisons if it bite ; to 

Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim, 
Hound or spaniel, brach or lym, 

Or bobtail tike or trundle-tail, 

Tom will make him weep and wail; 

For, with throwing thus my head, 76 

Dogs leapt the hatch, and all are fled. 

Do de, de, de. Sessa ! Come, march to wakes 
and fairs and market-towns. Poor Tom, thy 
horn is dry. 79 

Lear. Then let them anatomize Regan; see 
what breeds about her heart. Is there any 
cause in nature that make these hard hearts ? 
[To Edg.] You, sir, I entertain for one of my 
hundred ; only I do not like the fashion of your 
garments. You will say they are Persian, but 
let them be chang’d. 88 





99 2 


KING LEAR 


hi. vii. 


Re-enter Gloucester. 

Kent. Now, good my lord, lie here and rest 
a while. 

Lear. Make no noise, make no noise ; draw 
the curtains ; so, so, so. We ’ll go to supper i’ 
the morning. 01 

Fool. And I ’ll go to bed at noon. 

Glou. Come hither, friend; where is the 
King my master ? 

Kent. Here, sir; but trouble him not, his 
wits are gone. 

Glou. Good friend, I prithee, take him in 
thy arms; sb 

I have o’erheard a plot of death upon him. 
There is a litter ready ; lay him in ’t, 

And drive toward Dover, friend, where thou 
shalt meet 

Both welcome and protection. Take up thy 
master. 

If thou shouldst dally half an hour, his life, 100 
With thine, and all that offer to defend him, 
Stand in assured loss. Take up, take up ; 

And follow me, that will to some provision 
Give thee quick conduct. 

Kent. [Oppressed nature sleeps. 

This rest might yet have balm’d thy broken 
sinews, 105 

Which, if convenience will not allow, 

Stand in hard cure. [To the Fool.] Come, help 
to bear thy master t 
Thou must not stay behind.] 

Glou. Come, come, away. 

[Exeunt [all but Edgar]. 
[Edg. When we our betters see bearing our 
woes, 

We scarcely think our miseries our foes. no 
Who alone suffers, suffers most i’ the mind, 
Leaving free things and happy shows behind ; 
But then the mind much sufferance doth o’er- 
skip, 

When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship. 
How light and portable my pain seems now, ns 
When that which makes me bend makes the 
King bow, 

He childed as I fathered ! Tom, away ! 

Mark the high noises ; and thyself bewray, 
When false opinion, whose wrong thoughts 
defile thee, 

In thy just proof repeals and reconciles thee. 120 
What will hap more to-night, safe scape the 
King! 

Lurk, lurk.] [Exit.] 

Scene VII. [Gloucester's castle.] 

Enter Cornwall, Regan, Goneril, Bastard 
[Edmund], and Servants. 

Corn. [To Gon.] Post speedily to my lord 
your husband ; show him this letter. The army 
of France is landed.—Seek out the traitor 
Gloucester. . [Exeunt some of the Servants.] 
Reg. Hang him instantly. 

Gon. Pluck out his eyes. 5 

Corn. Leave him to my displeasure. — Ed¬ 
mund, keep you our sister company; the re¬ 
venges we are bound to take upon your 


traitorous father are not fit for your beholding. 
Advise the Duke, where you are going, to a 
most festinate preparation ; we are bound to 
the like. Our posts shall be swift and intelli¬ 
gent betwixt us. Farewell, dear sister; fare¬ 
well, my lord of Gloucester. 13 

Enter Steward [Oswald]. 

How now ! where’s the King ? 

Osw. My Lord of Gloucester hath convey’d 
him hence. 

Some five or six and thirty of his knights, i« 
Hot questrists after him, met him at gate, 
Who, with some other of the lords dependants, 
Are gone with him toward Dover, where they 
boast 

To have well-armed friends. 

Corn. Get horses for your mistress. 

Gon. Farewell, sweet lord, and sister. 21 
Corn. Edmund, farewell. 

[Exeunt [ Goneril , Edmund , and Os¬ 
wald]. 

Go seek the traitor Gloucester, 
Pinion him like a thief, bring him before us. 

[Exeunt other Servants.] 
Though well we may not pass upon his life 
Without the form of justice, yet our power 25 
Shall do a courtesy to our wrath, which men 
May blame, but not control. 

Enter Gloucester and Servants. 

Who’s there ? The traitor ? 
Reg. Ingrateful fox !’t is he. 

Corn. Bind fast his corky arms. 

Glou. What means your Graces ? Good my 
friends, consider ao 

You are my guests. Do me no foul play, friends. 
Corn. Bind him, I say. [Servants bind him.] 
Reg. Hard, hard. 0 filthy traitor! 

Glou. Unmerciful lady as you are, I’m none. 
Corn. To this chair bind him. Villain, thou 
shalt find — [Regan plucks his beard.] 
Glou. By the kind gods, ’t is most ignobly done 
To pluck me by the beard. 36 

Reg. So white, and such a traitor ! 

Glou. Naughty lady, 

These hairs, which thou dost ravish from my 
chin, 

Will quicken, and accuse thee. I am your host: 
With robber’s hands my hospitable favours 40 
You should not ruffle thus. What will you do ? 
Corn. Come, sir, what letters had you late 
from France ? 

Reg. Be simple-answer’d, for we know the 
truth. 

Corn. And what confederacy have you with 
the traitors 

Late footed in the kingdom ? 

Reg. To whose hands you have sent the lu¬ 
natic king. 

Speak. 

Glou. I have a letter guessingly set down, 
Which came from one that’s of a neutral 
heart, 

And not from one oppos’d. 

Corn. Cunning. 

Reg- And false. 





iv. i. 


KING LEAR 


993 


Corn. Where hast thou sent the King ? bo 
Glou. To Dover. 

Beg. Wherefore to Dover? Wast thou not 
charg’d at peril — 

Corn. Wherefore to Dover ? Let him answer 
that. 

Glou. I am tied to the stake, and I must 
stand the course. 

Beg. Wherefore to Dover ? bs 

Glou. Because I would not see thy cruel 
nails 

Pluck out his poor old eyes ; nor thy fierce sis- 
ter 

In his anointed flesh stick boarish fangs. 

The sea, with such a storm as his bare head 
In hell-black night endur’d, would have buoy’d 

Up 60 

And quench’d the stelled fires ; 

Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to 
rain. 

If wolves had at thy gate howl’d that stern 
time, 

Thou shouldst have said, “ Good porter, turn 
the key.” 

All cruels else subscribe ; but I shall see 65 
The winged vengeance overtake such children. 
Corn. See ’t shalt thou never. Fellows, hold 
the chair. 

Upon these eyes of thine I ’ll set my foot. 

Glou. He that will think to live till he be 
old, 

Give me some help ! — 0 cruel! 0 you gods ! w 
Beg. One side will mock another ; the other 
too. 

Corn. If you see vengeance, — 

[7.] Serv. Hold your hand, my lord ! 

I have serv’d you ever since I was a child ; 

But better service have I never done you 
Than now to bid you hold. 

Beg. How now, you dog! 

[7.] Serv. If you did wear a beard upon your 
chin, 76 

I’d shake it on this quarrel. What do you 
mean ? 

Corn. My villain ! [They draw and fight.] 
[7.] Serv. Nay, then, come on, and take the 
chance of anger. 

Beg. Give me thy sword. A peasant stand 
up thus? 80 

[Takes a sword , and runs at him 
behind. 

[7.] Serv. Oh, I am slain ! My lord, you have 
one eye left 

To see some mischief on him. Oh ! [Dies.] 
Corn. Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile 
jelly ! 

Where is thy lustre now ? 

Glou. All dark and comfortless. Where’s 
my son Edmund ? 86 

Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature, 

To quit this horrid act. 

Beg. Out, treacherous villain ! 

Thou call’st on him that hates thee. It was he 
That made the overture of thy treasons to us, 
Who is too good to pity thee. 90 

Glou. 0 my follies ! then Edgar was abus’d. 
Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him ! 


Beg. Go thrust him out at gates, and let him 
smell 

His way to Dover. {Exit [one] with Gloucester.) 
How is’t, my lord ? How look you ? 
Corn. I have received a hurt; follow me, 
lady. on 

Turn out that eyeless villain ; throw this slave 
Upon the dunghill. Regan, 1 bleed apace ; 
Untimely comes this hurt. Give me your arm. 

[Exit Cornwall , led by Began.) 
[2. Serv. I ’ll never care what wickedness I 
do, 

If this man come to good. 

3. Serv. If she live long, mo 

And in the end meet the old course of death, 
Women will all turn monsters. 

2. Serv. Let’s follow the old earl, and get 

the Bedlam 

To lead him where he would : his roguish mad¬ 
ness 

Allows itself to anything. 105 

3. Serv. Go thou: I ’ll fetch some flax and 

whites of eggs 

To apply to his bleeding face. Now, Heaven 
help him!] [Exeunt [severally]. 


ACT IV 

Scene I. [The open country near Gloucester's 
castle.] 

Enter Edgar. 

Edg. Yet better thus, and known to be con¬ 
temn’d, 

Than, still contemn’d and flatter’d, to be worst. 
The lowest and most dejected thing of fortune 
Stands still in esperancej lives not in fear. 

The lamentable change is from the best; s 
The worst returns to laughter. Welcome, then, 
Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace ! 

The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst 
Owes nothing to thy blasts. 

Enter Gloucester, led by an Old Man. 

But who comes here ? 
My father, poorly led ? World, world, 0 world ! 
But that thy strange mutations make us hate 
thee, ii 

Life would not yield to age. 

Old Man. 0, my good lord, I have been your 
tenant, and your father’s tenant, these four¬ 
score years. ib 

Glou. Away, get thee away! Good friend, 
be gone ; 

Thy comforts can do me no good at all; 

Thee they may hurt. 

Old Man. [Alack, sir,] you cannot see your 
way. 

Glou. I have no way, and therefore want no 
eyes; jo 

I stumbled when I saw. Full oft ’tis seen, 

Our means secure us, and our mere defects 
Prove our commodities. 0 dear son Edgar, 
The food of thy abused father’s wrath ! 

Might I but. live to see thee in my touch, *b 

I’d say I had eyes again J 





994 


KING LEAR 


IV. 11. 


Old Man. How now ! Who’s there ? 

Edg. [Aside.] 0 gods! Who is’t can say, 
“ I am at the worst ” ? 

I am worse than e’er I was. 

Old Man. ’T is poor mad Tom. 

Edg. [Aside.] And worse I may be yet; the 
worst is not 

So long as we can say, “ This is the worst.” 30 
Old Man. Fellow, where goest? 

Glou. Is it a beggar-man ? 

Old Man. Madman and beggar too. 

Glou. He has some reason, else he could not 
beg. 

I’ the last night’s storm I such a fellow saw, 
Which made me think a man a worm. My son 
Came then into my mind, and yet my mind se 
Was then scarce friends with him. I have heard 
more since. 

As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods, 
They kill us for their sport. 

Edg. [Aside.] How should this be ? 

Bad is the trade that must play fool to sor¬ 
row, 40 

Ang’ring itself and others. — Bless thee, mas¬ 
ter ! 

Glou. Is that the naked fellow ? 

Old Man. Ay, my lord. 

Glou. [Then, prithee,] get thee away. If, for 
my sake, 

Thou wilt o’ertake us, hence a mile or twain 
I’ the way toward Dover, do it for ancient 
love; 45 

And bring some covering for this naked soul, 
Which I ’ll entreat to lead me. 

Old Man. Alack, sir, he is mad. 

Glou. ’T is the time’s plague, when madmen 
lead the blind. 

Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure ; 
Above the rest, be gone. . 50 

Old Man. I ’ll bring him the best ’parel that 
I have, 

Come on’t what will. [Exit. 

Glou. Sirrah, naked fellow, — 

Edg. Poor Tom’s a-cold. [Aside.] I cannot 
daub it further. 

Glou. Come hither, fellow. 65 

Edg. [Aside.] And yet I must. — Bless thy 
sweet eyes, they bleed. 

Glou. Know’st thou the way to Dover ? 

Edg. Both stile and gate, horse-way and 
foot-path. Poor Tom hath been scar’d out of 
his good wits. Bless thee, good man’s son, from 
the foul fiend! [Five fiends have been in [oo 
poor Tom at once : of lust, as Obidicut; Hob- 
bididence, prince of dumbness ; Mahu, of steal¬ 
ing ; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of 
mopping and mowing, who since possesses cham¬ 
bermaids and waiting-women. So, bless thee, 
master!] 60 

Glou. Here, take this purse, thou whom the 
heavens’ plagues 

Have humbled to all strokes. That I am 
wretched 

Makes thee the happier; heavens, deal so 
still! 

Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man, 70 

That slaves your ordinance, that will not see 


Because he does not feel, feel your power 
quickly; 

So distribution should undo excess, 

And each man have enough. Dost thou know 
Dover ? 

Edg. Ay, master. 75 

Glou. There is a cliff, whose high and bend¬ 
ing head 

Looks fearfully in the confined deep. 

Bring me but to the very brim of it, 

And I ’ll repair the misery thou dost bear 
With something rich about me. From that 
place bo 

I shall no leading need. 

Give me thy arm; 

shall lead thee. [Exeunt. 


Edg. 

Poor Tom 


Scene II. [Before the Duke of Albany's 
palace.] 

Enter Goneril, Bastard [Edmund], and Stew¬ 
ard [Oswald]. 


Gon. Welcome, my lord ! I marvel our mild 
husband 

Not met us on the way. — Now, where’s your 
master ? 

Osw. Madam, within; but never man so 
chang’d. 

I told him of the army that was landed ; 

He smil’d at it. I told him you were coming ; 6 
His answer was, “ The worse.” Of Gloucester’s 
treachery, 

And of the loyal service of his son, 

When I inform’d him, then he call’d me sot, 
And told me I had turn’d the wrong side out. 
What most he should dislike seems pleasant to 
him; 10 

What like, offensive. 

Gon. [To Edm.] Then shall you go no fur¬ 
ther. 


It is the cowish terror of his spirit, 

That dares not undertake; he ’ll not feel 
wrongs 

Which tie him to an answer. Our wishes on the 
way 

May prove effects. Back, Edmund, to my 
brother; is 

Hasten his musters and conduct his powers. 

I must change names at home, and give the 
distaff 

Into my husband’s hands. This trusty ser¬ 
vant 

Shall pass between us. Ere long you are like to 
hear, 

If you dare venture in your own behalf, so 

A mistress’s command. Wear this; spare 
speech; 

Decline your head. This kiss, if it durst speak, 

Would stretch thy spirits up into the air. 

Conceive, and fare thee well. 

Edm. Yours in the ranks of death. [Exit. 

n G ? n * j-rr My most dear Gloucester! 

O, the difference of man and man ! so 

To thee a woman’s services are due ; 

My Fool usurps my body. 

Osw. Madam, here comes my lord. 

[Exit. 




iv. iii. 


KING LEAR 


995 


Enter the Duke of Albany. 


Gon. I have been worth the whistle. 

Alb. 0 Goneril! 

You are not worth the dust which the rude 
wind 30 

Blows in your face. [I fear your disposition. 
That nature which contemns its origin 
Cannot be bordered certain in itself. 

She that herself will sliver and disbranch 
From her material sap, perforce must wither 35 
And come to deadly use. 

Gon. No more ; the text is foolish. 

Alb. Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem 
vile; 

Filths savour but themselves. What have you 
done ? 

Tigers, not daughters, what have you per¬ 
form’d ? 40 

A father, and a gracious aged man, 

Whose reverence even the head-lugg’d bear 
would lick, 

Most barbarous, most degenerate! have you 
madded. 

Could my good brother suffer you to do it ? 

A man, a prince, by him so benefited ! « 

If that the heavens do not their visible spirits 
Send quickly down to tame these vile offences, 
It will come, 

Humanity must perforce prey on itself, 

Like monsters of the deep.] 

Gon. Milk-liver’d man! 60 

That bear’st a cheek for blows, a head for 


wrongs, 

Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning 
Thine honour from thy suffering, [that not 
know’st 

Fools do those villains pity who are punish’d 
Ere they have done their mischief, where’s thy 
drum ? 65 

France spreads his banners in our noiseless land, 
With plumed helm thy state begins to threat; 
Whiles thou, a moral fool, sits still, and criest, 
“ Alack, why does he so ? ”] 

Alb. See thyself, devil! 

Proper deformity seems not in the fiend «° 

So horrid as in woman. 

Gon. 0 vain fool! 

[Alb. Thou changed and self-cover’d thing, 
for shame! 

Be-monster not thy feature. Were’t my fitness 
To let these hands obey my blood, 

They are apt enough to dislocate and tear 65 
Thy flesh and bones. Howe’er thou art a 
fiend, 

A woman’s shape doth shield thee. 

Gon. Marry, your manhood — Mew 1 


Enter a Messenger. 


Alb. What news ?] 

Mess. O, my good lord, the Duke of Corn¬ 
wall ’s dead; # 70 

Slain by his servant, going to put out 
The other eye of Gloucester. 

AH), Gloucester’s eyes! 

Mess. A servant that he bred, thrill’d with 
remorse, 


Oppos’d against the act, bending his sword 
To his great master ; who, thereat enrag’d, is 
Flew on him, and amongst them fell’d him 
dead ; 

But not without that harmful stroke, which 
since 

Hath pluck’d him after. 

Alb. This shows you are above, 

You justicers, that these our nether crimes 
So speedily can venge! But, 0 poor Gloucester! 
Lost he his other eye ? 

Mess. Both, both, my lord, si 

This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer. 

’T is from your sister. 

Gon. [Aside.] One way I like this well; 

But being widow, and my Gloucester with 
her, ss 

May all the building in my fancy pluck 
Upon my hateful life. Another way, 

The news is not so tart. — I ’ll read, and an¬ 
swer. [Exit. 

Alb. Where was his son when they did take 
his eyes ? 

Mess. Come with my lady hither. 

Alb. He is not here. 

Mess. No, my good lord ; I met him back 
again. »i 

Alb. Knows he the wickedness ? 

Mess. Ay, my good lord ; ’t was he inform’d 
against him ; 

And quit the house on purpose, that their pun¬ 
ishment 9* 

Might have the freer course. 

Alb. Gloucester, I live 

To thank thee for the love thou show’dst the 
King, 

And to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, 
friend ; 

Tell me what more thou know’st. [Exeunt. 

[Scene III. The French camp near Dover. 
Enter Kent and a Gentleman. 

Kent. Why the King of France is so suddenly 
gone back, know you no reason ? 

Gent. Something he left imperfect in the 
state, which since his coming forth is thought 
of; which imports to the kingdom so much 
fear and danger that his personal return was 
most required and necessary. i 

Kent. Who hath he left behind him General ? 
Gent. The Marshal of France, Monsieur La 
Far. 

Kent. Did your letters pierce the Queen to 
any demonstration of grief ? r* 

Gent. Ay, sir; she took them, read them in 
my presence; 

And now and then an ample tear trill’d down 
Her delicate cheek. It seem’d she was a queen 
Over her passion, who, most rebel-like, 

Sought to be king o’er her. 

Kent. 0, then it mov’d her. 

Gent. Not to a rage; patienee and sorrow 
strove 

Who should express her goodliest. You have 
seen 

Sunshine and rain at once : her smiles and tears 





996 


KING LEAR 


IV. V. 


Were like a better way ; those happy smilets 21 
That play’d on her ripe lip seem’d not to know 
What guests were in her eyes, which, parted 
thence, 

As pearls from diamonds dropp’d. In brief, 
Sorrow would be a rarity most beloved, 2c 
If all could so become it. 

Kent. Made she no verbal question ? 

Gent. Faith, once or twice she heav’d the 
name of “ father ” 

Pantingly forth, as if it press’d her heart; 
Cried, “ Sisters ! sisters! Shame of ladies ! 
sisters ! 

Kent! father! sisters ! What, i’ the storm ? 

i’ the night ? 30 

Let pity not be believ’d! ” There she shook 
The holy water from her heavenly eyes; 

And, clamour-moistened, then away she started 
To deal with grief alone. 

Kent. It is the stars, 

The stars above us, govern our conditions ; 36 

Else one self mate and make could not beget 
Such different issues. You spoke not with her 
since ? 

Gent. No. 

Kent. Was this before the King return’d ? 
Gent. No, since. 

Kent. Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear’s 
i’ the town ; 40 

Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers 
What we are come about, and by no means 
Will yield to see his daughter. 

Gent. * Why, good sir ? 

Kent. A sovereign shame so elbows him. 
His own unkindness, 

That stripp’d her from his benediction, turn’d 
her 46 

To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights 
To his dog-hearted daughters, — these things 
sting 

His mind so venomously, that burning shame 
Detains him from Cordelia. 

Gent. Alack, poor gentleman ! 

Kent. Of Albany’s and Cornwall’s powers 
you heard not ? 60 

Gent. ’T is so, they are afoot. 

Kent. Well, sir, I ’ll bring you to our master 
Lear, 

And leave you to attend him. Some dear cause 
Will in concealment wrap me up a while ; 64 

When I am known aright, you shall not grieve 
Lending me this acquaintance. I pray you, go 
Along with me.] [Exeunt. 

Scene [IV. The same. A tent.) 

Enter , with drum and colours , Cordelia, Doc¬ 
tor, and Soldiers. 

Cor. Alack, ’t is he ! Why, he was met even 
now 

As mad as the vex’d sea, singing aloud, 
Crown’d with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, 
With hardocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flow¬ 
ers, 

Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow 6 
In our sustaining corn. A sentry send forth; 
Search every acre in the high-grown field, 


And bring him to our eye. [Exit an Officer.) 

What can man’s wisdom 
In the restoring his bereaved sense ? 

He that helps him take all my outward worth. 

Doct. There is means, madam. 11 

Our foster-nurse of nature is repose, 

The which he lacks ; that to provoke in him, 
Are many simples operative, whose power 
Will close the eye of anguish. 

Cor. All blest secrets, 

All you unpublish’d virtues of the earth, 16 
Spring with my tears ! be aidant and remediate 
In the good man’s distress ! Seek, seek for him, 
Lest his ungovern’d rage dissolve the life 
That wants the means to lead it. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess.. News, madam! 

The British powers are marching hitherward. 21 
Cor. ’T is known before ; our preparation 
stands 

In expectation of them. O dear father, 

It is thy business that I go about; 

Therefore great France 28 

My mourning and importune tears hath pitied. 
No blown ambition doth our arms incite, 

But love, dear love, and our ag’d father’s right. 
Soon may I hear and see him ! [Exeunt. 

Scene [V. Gloucester’’s castle.) 

Enter Regan and Steward [Oswald]. 

Beg. But are my brother’s powers set forth ? 
Osw. Ay, madam. 

Reg. Himself in person there ? 

Osw. Madam, with much ado. 

Your sister is the better soldier. 

Reg. Lord Edmund spake not with your lord 
at home ? 

Osw. No, madam. 6 

Reg. What might import my sister’s letter to 
him ? 

Osw. I know not, lady. 

Reg. Faith, he is posted hence on serious 
matter. 

It was great ignorance, Gloucester’s eyes being 
out, 

To let him live ; where he arrives he moves 10 
All hearts against us. Edmund, I think, is 
gone, 

In pity of his misery, to dispatch 
His nighted life ; moreover, to descry 
The strength o’ the enemy. 

Osw. I must needs after him, madam, with 
my letter. 15 

Reg. Our troops set forth to-morrow, stay 
with us; 

The ways are dangerous. 

^I may not, madam.* 
My lady charg’d my duty in this business. 

Reg. Why should she write to Edmund? 
Might not you 

Transport her purposes by word ? Belike 20 
Some things — I know not what. I ’ll love thee 
much, 

Let me unseal the letter. 

Osw. Madam, I had rather — 




IV. VI. 


KING LEAR 


997 


Reg. I know your lady does not love her 
husband; 

I am sure of that; and at her late being here 
She gave strange ceillades and most speaking 
looks 26 

To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom. 
Osw. I, madam ? 

Reg. I speak in understanding; y’ are, I 
know’t. 

Therefore I do advise you, take this note : 

My lord is dead ; Edmund and I have talk’d ; 30 
And more convenient is he for my hand 
Than for your lady’s. You may gather more. 

If you do find him, pray you, give him this; 

And when your mistress hears thus much from 
y°n, 

I pray, desire her call her wisdom to her. 36 
So, fare you well. 

If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor, 
Preferment falls on him that cuts him off. 

Osw. Would I could meet him, madam! I 
should show 
What party I do follow. 

Reg. Fare thee well. 40 

[Exeunt. 

Scene [VI. Fields near Dover.] 

Enter Gloucester, and Edgar [ dressed like a 
peasant ]. 

Glou. When shall I come to the top of that 
same hill ? 

Edg. You do climb up it now ; look, how we 
labour. 

Glou. Methinks the ground is even. 

Edg. Horrible steep. 

Hark, do you hear the sea ? 

Glou. No, truly. 

Edg. Why, then, your other senses grow im¬ 
perfect 6 

By your eyes’ anguish. 

Glou. So may it be, indeed. 

Methinks thy voice is alter’d, and thou speak’st 
In better phrase and matter than thou didst. 
Edg. You ’re much deceiv’d. In nothing am 
I chang’d 

But in my garments. 

Glou. Methinks you ’re better spoken. 

Edg. Come on, sir, here’s the place ; stand 
still. How fearful 11 

And dizzy’t is, to cast one’s eyes so low ! 

The crows and choughs that wing the midway 
air 

Show scarce so gross as beetles. Half way down 
Hangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful 
trade! # 15 

Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. 
The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, 
Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring 
bark, 

Diminish’d to her cock ; her cock, a buoy 
Almost too small for sight. The murmuring 
surge, 20 

That on the unnumb’red idle pebbles chafes, 
Cannot be heard so high. I ’ll look no more, 
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 
Topple down headlong. 


Glou. Set me where you stand. 

Edg. Give me your hand ; you are now with¬ 
in a foot 

Of the extreme verge. For all beneath the 
moon 

Would I not leap upright. 

Glou. Let go my hand. 

Here, friend, ’s another purse ; in it a jewel 
Well worth a poor man’s taking. Fairies and 
gods 

Prosper it with thee ! Go thou further off ; so 
Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going. 
Edg. Now fare ye well, good sir. 

Glou. With all my heart. 

Edg. Why I do trifle thus with his despair 
Is done to cure it. 

Glou. [Kneeling.] 0 you mighty gods ! 

This world I do renounce, and in your sights ss 
Shake patiently my great affliction off. 

If I could bear it longer, and not fall 
To quarrel with your great opposeless wills, 

My snuff and loathed part of nature should 
Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O bless him ! 40 
Now, fellow, fare thee well. 

Edg. Gone, sir; farewell! 

— And yet I know not how conceit may rob 
The treasury of life, when life itself 
Yields to the theft. [Glou. throws himself for¬ 
ward.] Had he been where he thought. 
By this had thought been past. Alive or 
dead ? — 46 

Ho, you sir ! friend ! Hear you, sir ! speak ! — 
Thus might he pass indeed ; yet he revives. — 
What are you, sir ? 

Glou. Away, and let me die. 

Edg. Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, 
feathers, air, 

So many fathom down precipitating, eo 

Thou ’dst shiver’d like an egg: but thou dost 
breathe; 

Hast heavy substance ; bleed’st not; speak’st; 
art sound. 

Ten masts at each make not the altitude 
Which thou hast perpendicularly fell. 

Thy life’s a miracle. Speak yet again. se 
Glou. But have I fallen, or no ? 

Edg. From the dread summit of this chalky 
bourn. 

Look up a-height; the shrill-gorg’d lark so far 
Cannot be seen or heard. Do but look up. 

Glou. Alack, I have no eyes. 00 

Is wretchedness depriv’d that benefit, 

To end itself by death ? ’T was yet some com¬ 
fort, 

When misery could beguile the tyrant’s rage, 
And frustrate his proud will. 

Edg. Give me your arm. 

Up : so. How is’t? Feel you your legs? You 
stand. 66 

Glou. Too well, too well. 

Edg. This is above all strangeness. 

Upon the crown o’ the cliff, what thing was 
that 

Which parted from you ? 

Glou. A poor unfortunate beggar. 

Edg. As I stood here below, methought his 
I eyes 




99 8 


KING LEAR 


IV. VI. 


Were two full moons; he had a thousand 
noses, to 

Horns whelfc’d and waved like the enridged sea. 

It was some fiend; therefore, thou happy 
father, 

Think that the clearest gods, who make them 
honours 

Of men’s impossibilities, have preserv’d thee. 

Glou. I do remember now. Henceforth I ’ll 
bear 75 

Affliction till it do cry out itself, 

“Enough, enough,” and die. That thing you j 
speak of, 

I took it for a man ; often’t would say, 

“The fiend, the fiend!” He led me to that 
place. 

Edg. Bear free and patient thoughts. 

Enter Lear [fantastically dressed with wild 
flowers]. 


But who comes here ? 
The safer sense will ne’er accommodate si 
His master thus. 

Lear. No, they cannot touch me for coining; 
I am the King himself. 

Edg. O thou side-piercing sight! 

Lear. Nature’s above art in that respect. 
There ’s your press-money. That fellow 
handles his bow like a crow-keeper ; draw me 
a clothier’s yard. Look, look, a mouse ! Peace, 
peace; this piece of toasted cheese will do ’t. 
There’s my gauntlet; I ’ll prove it on a giant. 
Bring up the brown bills. O, well flown, bird ! 
I’ the clout, i’ the clout! Hewgh! Give the 
word. 93 

Edg. Sweet marjoram. 

Lear. Pass. 

Glou. I know that voice. 

Lear. Ha! Goneril, with a white beard! 
They flatter’d me like a dog, and told me I had 
the white hairs in my beard ere the black ones 


were there. To say “ ay ” and “ no ” to every¬ 
thing that I said! “Ay” and “no” too was 


no good divinity. When the rain came to [101 
wet me once, and the wind to make me chat¬ 
ter ; when the thunder would not peace at my 
bidding ; there I found ’em, there I smelt ’em 
out. Go to, they are not men o’ their words: 
they told me I was everything; ’t is a lie, I am 
not ague-proof. iot 

Glou. The trick of that voice I do well re¬ 
member. 

Is’t not the King? 

Lear. Ay, every inch a king! 

When I do stare, see how the subject quakes. 

I pardon that man’s life. What was thy 
cause ? 111 

Adultery ? 

Thou shalt not die. Die for adultery ! No : 
The wren goes to ’t, and the small gilded fly 
Does lecher in my sight. 113 

Let copulation thrive ; for Gloucester’s bastard 


Was kinder to his father than my daughters 
Got ’tween the lawful sheets. 

To ’t, luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers. 
Behold yona simp’ring dame, 


Whose face between her forks presages snow, 
That minces virtue, and does shake the head 
To hear of pleasure’s name, — 

The fitchew, nor the soiled horse, goes to’t 
With a more riotous appetite. 125 

Down from the waist they are Centaurs, 

Though women all above ; 

But to the girdle do the gods inherit, 

Beneath is all the fiends’; 

There’s hell, there’s darkness, there’s the 
sulphurous pit, 130 

Burning, scalding, stench, consumption ; fie, \ 
fie, fie ! pah, pah ! *Give me an qupce of civet ; 
good apothecary, sweeten my imagination. \ 
There’s money for thee. 

Glou. 0 , let me kiss that hand ! iss 

Lear. Let me wipe it first; it smells of mor¬ 
tality. 

Glou. 0 ruin’d piece of nature! This great ' 
world 

Shall so wear out to nought. Dost thou know 
me ? 

Lear. I remember thine eyes well enough. 
Dost thou squiny at me? No, do thy worst, 
blind Cupid ; I ’ll not love. Read thou this 
challenge ; mark but the penning of it. 

Glou. Were all thy letters suns, I could not 
see. 

Edg. [Aside.] I would not take this from 
report. It is; 

And my heart breaks at it. 

Lear. Read. 

Glou. What, with the case of eyes ? 

Lear. 0 , ho, are you there with me ? No 
eyes in your head, nor no money in your purse ? 
Your eyes are in a heavy case, your purse in a 
light; yet you see how this world goes. 

Glou. I see it feelingly. w* 

Lear. What, art mad ? A man may see how 
this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine 
ears ; see how yond justice rails upon yond 
simple thief. Hark, in thine ear: change 
places, and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, 
which is the thief ? Thou hast seen a farmer’s 
dog bark at a beggar ? is* 

Glou. Ay, sir. 

Lear. And the creature run from the cur? 
There thou mightst behold the great image of 
authority: a dog’s obey’d in office. 

Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand ! 

Why dost thou lash that whore ? Strip thy own 
back; i«» 

Thou hotly lusts to use her in that kind 
For which thou whip’st her. The usurer hangs 
the cozener. 

Through tatter’d clothes great vices do appear; 
Robes and furr’d gowns hide all. Plate sins 
with gold, 

And the strong lance of justice hurtless 
breaks; tro 

Arm it in rags, a pigmy’s straw does pierce it. 
None does offend, none, I say, none ; I ’ll able 
’em. 

Take that of me, my friend, who have the 
power 

To seal the accuser’s lips. Get thee glass eyes, 
And, like a scurvy politician, seem 17* 







iv. vi. 


KING LEAR 


999 


To see the things thou dost not. Now, now, 
now, now. 

Pull off ray boots ; harder, harder: so. 

Edg. O, matter and impertinency mix’d ! 
Reason in madness ! 

Lear. If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take 
my eyes. iso 

I know thee well enough ; thy name is Glouces¬ 
ter. 

Thou must be patient; we came crying hither. 
Thou know’st, the first time that we smell the 
air, 

We wawl and cry. I will preach to thee; 
mark. 

Glou. Alack, alack the day ! iss 

Lear. When we are born, we cry that we 
are come 

To this great stage of fools.—This a good 
block. 

It were a delicate stratagem, to shoe 
A troop of horse with felt. 1 ’ll put’t in proof ; 
And when I have stol’n upon these son-in- 
laws, 190 

Then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill! 

Enter a Gentleman [with Attendants ]. 

Gent. O, here he is! Lay hand upon him. 
Sir, 

Your most dear daughter — 

Lear. No rescue ? What, a prisoner ? I am 
even 

The natural fool of fortune. Use me well; i»s 
You shall have ransom. Let me have surgeons ; 
I am cut to the brains. 

Gent. You shall have anything. 

Lear. No seconds ? All myself ? 

Why, this would make a man a man of salt, 

To use his eyes for garden water-pots, 200 

I Ay, and laying autumn’s dust. 

Gent. Good sir, —] 

Lear . I will die bravely, like a smug bride¬ 
groom. What! 

1 will be jovial. Come, come ; I am a king, 

My masters, know you that ? 

Gent. You are a royal one, and we obey 
you. 205 

Lear. Then there’s life in’t. Come, an you 
get it, you shall get it by running. Sa, sa, sa, 
sa. [Exit [running; attendants follow]. 

Gent. A sight most pitiful in the meanest 
wretch, 

Past speaking of in a king! Thou hast one 
daughter 

Who redeems Nature from the general curse 210 
Which twain have brought her to. 

Edg. Hail, gentle sir. 

Gent. Sir, speed you: what’s your will ? 

Edg. Do you hear aught, sir, of a battle 
toward ? 

Gent. Most sure and vulgar ; every one hears 
that, 

Which can distinguish sound. 

Edg. But, hy your favour, 

How near’s the other army ? «« 

Gent. Near and on speedy foot; the main 
descry 

Stands on the hourly thought. 


Edg. I thank you, sir ; that’s all. 

Gent. Though that the Queen on special 
cause is here, 

Her army is mov’d on. [Exit. 

Edg. I thank you, sir. 220 

Glou. You ever-gentle gods, take my breath 
from me; 

Let not my worser spirit tempt me again 
To die before you please ! 

Edg. Well pray you, father. 

Glou. Now, good sir, what are you ? 

Edg. A most poor man, made tame to for¬ 
tune’s blows; 226 

Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows, 
Am pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand, 
I ’ll lead you to some biding. 

Glou. Hearty thanks ; 

The bounty and the benison of Heaven 
To boot, and boot! 

Enter Steward [Oswald]. 

Osw. A proclaim’d prize ! Most happy ! 230 
That eyeless head of thine was first fram’d flesh 
To raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor, 
Briefly thyself remember ; the sword is out 
That must destroy thee. 

Glou. Now let thy friendly hand 

Put strength enough to’t. [Edgar interposes.] 
Osw. Wherefore, bold peasant, 235 

Dar’st thou support a publish’d traitor ? Hence; 
Lest that the infection of his fortune take 
Like hold on thee. Let go his arm. 

Edg. ’Chill not let go, zir, without vurther 
’casion. 

Osw. Let go, slave, or thou diest! 241 

Edg. Good gentleman, go your gait, and let 
poor volk pass. An ’chud ha’ bin zwagger’d 
out of my life, ’t would not ha’ bin zo long as 
’t is by a vortnight. Nay, come not near th’ old 
man ; keep out, ’che vor ye, or Ise try whether 
your costard or my hallow be the harder. ’Chill 
be plain with you. 248 

Osw. Out, dunghill! 

Edg. ’Chill pick your teeth, zir. Come, no 
matter vor your foins. ^ 251 

[They . fight , and Edgar knocks him 
down.] 

Osw. Slave, thou hast slain me. Villain, take 
my purse. 

If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body ; 

And give the letters which thou find’st about 
me 254 

To Edmund Earl of Gloucester ; seek him out 
Upon the English party. O, untimely death ! 
Death! [Dies. 

Edg. I know thee well; a serviceable villain, 

As duteous to the vices of thy mistress 
As badness would desire. 

Glou. What, is he dead ? 

Edg. Sit you down, father ; rest you. 200 

Let’s see these pockets; the letters that he 
speaks of 

May be my friends. He’s dead; I am only 
sorry 

He had no other death’s-man. Let us see. 
Leave, gentle wax ; and, manners, blame us 
not. 






IOOO 


KING LEAR 


IV. rii. 


To know our enemies’ minds, we rip their 
hearts ; 

Their papers, is more lawful. 266 

(Reads the letter.) “ Let our reciprocal vows 
he rememb’red. You have many opportunities 
to cut him off ; if your will want not, time and 
place will be fruitfully offer’d. There is no¬ 
thing done, if he return the conqueror ; then am 
I the prisoner, and his bed my gaol ; from the 
loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and sup¬ 
ply the place for your labour. 274 

“ Your — wife, so I would say — 

“ Affectionate servant, 

“ Goneril.” 

0 indistinguish’d space of woman's will! 

A plot upon her virtuous husband’s life ; 

And the exchange my brother! Here, in the 
sands, 280 

Thee I ’ll rake up, the post unsanctified 
Of murderous lechers ; and in the mature 
time 

With this ungracious paper strike the sight 
Of the death-practis’d duke. For him ’tis well 
That of thy death and business I can tell. 285 
Glou. The King is mad ; how stiff is my vile 
sense 

That I stand up and have ingenious feeling 
Of my huge sorrows ! Better I were distract; 
So should my thoughts be sever’d from my 
griefs, [Drum afar off. 

And woes by wrong imaginations lose 290 

The knowledge of themselves. 

Edg. Give me your hand. 

Far off, methinks, I hear the beaten drum. 
Come, father, I ’ll bestow you with a friend. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene VII. [A tent in the French camp.] 
Enter Cordelia, Kent, and Doctor. 

Cor. 0 thou good Kent, how shall I live and 
work 

To match thy goodness ? My life will be too 
short, 

And every measure fail me. 

Kent. To be acknowledg’d, madam, is o’er- 
paid. 

All my reports go with the modest truth ; 5 

Nor more nor clipp’d, but so. 

Cor. Be better suited ; 

These weeds are memories of those worser 
hours. 

I prithee, put them off. 

Kent. Pardon, dear madam ; 

Yet to be known shortens my made intent. 

My boon I make it, that you know me not 10 
Till time and I think meet. 

Cor. Then be’t so, my good lord. [To the Doc¬ 
tor.] How does the King ? 

Doct. Madam, sleeps still. 

Cor. 0 you kind gods, 

Cure this great breach in his abused nature ! is 
The untun’d and jarring senses, O, wind up 
Of this child-changed father 1 

Doct. So please your Majesty 

That we may wake the King ? He hath slept 
long. 


Cor. Be govern’d by your knowledge, and 
proceed 

I’ the sway of your own will. 

Enter Lear in a chair carried by Servants. 

[Gentleman in attendance.] 

Is he array’d ? 20 

Gent. Ay, madam ; in the heaviness of sleep 
We put fresh garments on him. 

Doct. Be by, good madam, when we do 
awake him ; 

I doubt not of his temperance. 

[Cor. Very well. 

Doct. Please you, draw near. — Louder the 
music there!] 25 

Cor. O my dear father ! Restoration hang 
Thy medicine on my lips ; and let this kiss 
Repair those violent harms that my two sisters 
Have in thy reverence made ! 

Kent. Kind and dear princess ! 

Cor. Had you not been their father, these 
white flakes 30 

Did challenge pity of them. Was this a face 
To be oppos’d against the warring winds ? 

[To stand against the deep dread-bolted thun¬ 
der P 

In the most terrible and nimble stroke 
Of quick, cross lightning? to watch—poor 
perdu ! — 35 

With this thin helm ?] Mine enemy’s dog, 
Though he had bit me, should have stood that 
night 

Against my fire; and wast thou fain, pooi 
father, 

To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn 
In short and musty straw ? Alack, alack ! * 

’T is wonder that thy life and wits at once 
Had not concluded all. He wakes ; speak to 
him. 

Doct. Madam, do you ; ’t is fittest. 

Cor. How does my royal lord ? How fares 
your Majesty ? 

Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o’ 
the grave. 46 

Thou art a soul in bliss ; but I am bound 
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears 
Do scald like molten lead. 

Cor. Sir, do you know me ? 

Lear. You are a spirit, I know; when did 
you die ? 

Cor. Still, still, far wide ! 50 

Doct. He’s scarce awake; let him alone 
a while. 

Lear. Where have I been ? Where am I ? 
Fair daylight ? 

I am mightily abus’d. I should even die with 

pity, 

To see another thus. I know not what to say. 

I will not swear these are my hands. Let’s 
see; 66 

I feel this pin prick. Would I were assur’d 
Of my condition ! 

Cor. 0 , look upon me, sir, 

And hold your hand in benediction o’er me. 

[No, sir,] you must not kneel. 

Lear. Pray, do not mock me. * 

I am a very foolish fond old man, 60 




V. 1. 


KING LEAR 


IOOV 


Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor 
less ; 

And, to deal plainly, 

I fear I am not in my perfect mind. 

Methinks I should know you, and know this 
man; 

Yet I am doubtful; for I am mainly ignorant 
What place this is, and all the skill I have 
Remembers not these garments ; nor I know 
not 

Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at 
me; 

For, as I am a man, I think this lady 
To be my child Cordelia. 

Cor. And so I am, I am. ^o 

Lear. Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I 
pray, weep not. 

If you have poison for me, I will drink it. 

I know you do not love me ; for your sisters 
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong: 74 

You have some cause, they have not. 

Cor. No cause, no cause. 

Lear. Am I in France ? 

Kent. In your own kingdom, sir. 

Lear. Do not abuse me. 

Doct. Be comforted, good madam ; the great 
rage, 

You see, is kill’d in him : [and yet it is danger 
To make him even o’er the time he has lost.] so 
Desire him to go in ; trouble him no more 
Till further settling. 

Cor. Will’t please your Highness walk ? 
Lear. You must bear with me. 

Pray you now, forget and forgive ; I am old 
and foolish. 

[Exeunt [all but Kent and Gentle¬ 
man ]. 

[Gent. Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of 
Cornwall was so slain ? «6 

Kent. Most certain, sir. 

Gent. Who is conductor of his people ? 

Kent. As’t is said, the bastard son of Glouces¬ 
ter. 

Gent. They say Edgar, his banish’d son, is 
with the Earl of Kent in Germany. 91 

Kent. Report is changeable. ’Tis time to 
look about; the powers of the kingdom ap¬ 
proach apace. 

Gent. The arbitrement is like to be bloody. 
Fare you well, sir. [Exit.] 

Kent. My point and period will be throughly 
wrought, 

Or well or ill, as this day’s battle’s fought.] 

[Exit. 


ACT V 

Scene I. [The British camp , near Dover.] 

Enter , with drum and colours. Edmund, Regan, 
Gentlemen, and Soldiers. 

Edm. Know of the Duke if his last purpose 
hold, 

Or whether since he is advis’d by aught 
To change the course. He’s full of alteration 
And self-reproving; bring his constant pleasure. 

[To a Gentleman , who goes out.] 


Beg. Our sister’s man is certainly miscarried. 
Earn. ’T is to be doubted, madam. 

Beg. Now, sweet lord, e 

You know the goodness I intend upon you. 

Tell me — but truly — but then speak the truth, 
Do you not love my sister ? 

Edm. In honour’d love. 

Beg. But have you never found my brother’s 
way 10 

To the forfended place ? 

[Edm. That thought abuses you. 

Beg. I am doubtful that you have been con¬ 
junct 

And bosom’d with her, — as far as we call hers.] 
Edm. No, by mine honour, madam. 

Beg. I never shall endure her. Dear my lord, 
Be not familiar with her. 

Edm. Fear me not. 1# 

She and the Duke her husband ! 

Enter , with drum and colours , Albany, Gon- 
eril, and Soldiers. 

[Gon. [Aside.] I had rather lose the battle 
than that sister 
Should loosen him and me.] 

Alb. Our very loving sister, well be-met. 20 
Sir, this I heard: the King is come to his 
daughter, 

With others whom the rigour of our state 
Forc’d to cry out. [Where I could not be hon¬ 
est, 

I never yet was valiant. For this business, 

It toucheth us, as France invades our land, 2s 
Not bolds the King, with others, whom, I fear, 
Most just and heavy causes make oppose. 

Edm. Sir, you speak nobly.] 

Beg. Why is this reason’d ? 

Gon. Combine together ’gainst the enemy ; 
For these domestic and particular broils 30 

Are not the question here. 

Alb. Let’s then determine 

With the ancient of war on our proceeding. 
[Edm. I shall attend you presently at your 
tent.] 

Beg. Sister, you ’ll go w r ith us ? 

Gon. No. 38 

Beg. ’T is most convenient; pray you, go 
with us. 

Gon. [Aside.] O, ho, I know the riddle. — I 
will go. [Exeunt both the armies. 

[As they are going out,] enter .Edgar [disguised. 
Albany remains]. 

Edg. If e’er your Grace had speech with man 
so poor, 

Hear me one word. 

Alb. I ’ll overtake you. —Speak. 

Edg. Before you fight the battle, ope this 
letter. 40 

If you have victory, let the trumpet sound 
For him that brought it. Wretched though I 
seem, 

I can produce a champion that will prove 
What is avouched there. If you miscarry, 
Your business of the world hath so an end, « 
And machination ceases. Fortune love you ! 
Alb. Stay till I have read the letter. 





1002 


KING LEAR 


v. iii. 


[Exit. 
I will o’erlook 

50 


Edg. I was forbid it. 

When time shall serve, let but the herald 
cry, 

And I ’ll appear again. 

Alb. Why, fare thee well; 
thy paper. 

Re-enter Edmund. 

Edm. The enemy’s in view ; draw up your 
powers. 

Here is the guess of their true strength and 
forces 

By diligent discovery ; but your haste 
Is now urg’d on you. 

Alb. We will greet the time. 

[Exit. 

Edm. To both these sisters have I sworn my 
love; 66 

Each jealous of the other, as the stung 
Are of the adder. Which of them shall I 
take ? 

Both ? one ? or neither ? Neither can be en¬ 
joy’d, 

If both remain alive. To take the widow 
Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril; 6 o 
And hardly shall I carry out my side. 

Her husband being alive. Now then we’ll 
use 

His countenance for the battle; which being 
done, 

Let her who would be rid of him devise 

His speedy taking off. As for the mercy 65 

Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia, 

The battle done, and they within our power, 
Shall never see his pardon ; for my state 
Stands on me to defend, not to debate. [Exit. 


Scene II. [Afield between the two camps.] 

Alarum within. Enter , with drum and colours , 

Lear, Cordelia , and Soldiers , over the stage ; 

and exeunt. 

Enter Edgar and Gloucester. 

Edg. Here, father, take the shadow of this 
tree 

For your good host; pray that the right may 
thrive. 

If ever I return to you again, 

I ’ll bring you comfort. 

Glou. Grace go with you, sir ! 

[Exit [Edgar]. 

Alarum and retreat within. Re-enter Edgar. 

Edg. Away, old man; give me thy hand ; 
away! _ 5 

King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta’en. 

Give me thy hand ; come on. 

Glou. No further, sir; a man may rot even 
here. 

Edg. What, in ill thoughts again? Men 
must endure 

Their going hence, even as their coming 
hither; 10 

Ripeness is all. Come on. 

Glou. And that’s true too. 

[Exeunt. 


Scene III. [The British camp near Dover.] 

Enter , in conquest , with drum and colours , Ed¬ 
mund ; Lear and Cordelia as prisoners: 

Captain, Soldiers, etc. 

Edm. Some officers take them away. Good 
guard, 

Until their greater pleasures first be known 
That are to censure them. 

Cor. We are not the first 

Who, with best meaning, have incurr’d the 
worst. 

For thee, oppressed king, I am east down ; e 
Myself could else out-frown false Fortune’s 
frown. 

Shall we not see these daughters and these sis¬ 
ters? 

Lear. No, no, no, no ! Come, let’s away to 
prison; 

We two alone will sing like birds i’ the cage. 
When thou dost ask me blessing, I ’ll kneel 
down io 

And ask of thee forgiveness. So we ’ll live, 
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and 
laugh 

At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues 
Talk of court news ; and we ’ll talk with them 
too, 

Who loses and who wins; who’s in, who ’s 
out; 15 

And take upon’s the mystery of things 
As if we were God’s spies ; and we ’ll wear out, 
In a wall’d prison, packs and sects of great 
ones, 

That ebb and flow by the moon. 

Edm. Take them away. 

Lear. Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, 20 
The gods themselves throw incense. Have I 
caught thee ? 

He that parts us shall bring a brand from 
heaven, 

And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes ; 
The good-years shall devour them, flesh ana 
fell, 

Ere they shall make us weep. We ’ll see ’em 
starv’d first. « 

Come. [Exeunt [Lear and Cordelia , guarded], 

Edm. Come hither, captain ; hark. 

Take thou this note [giving a paper] ; go follow 
them to prison. 

One step I have advanc’d thee; if thou dost 
As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way 
To noble fortunes. Know thou this, that men 
Are as the time is ; to be tender-minded ;* 
Does not become a sword. Thy great employ 
ment 

Will not bear question; either say thou ’It 
do’t, 

Or thrive by other means. 

Capt. I ’ll do’t, my lord. 

Edm. About it; and write happy when thou 
hast done. 35 

Mark, I say, instantly ; and carry it so 
As I have set it down. 

[Capt. I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried 
oats; 

If it be man’s work, I ’ll do’t.] [Exit. 






V. iii. 


KING LEAR 


1003 


Flourish. Enter Albany, Goneril, Regan, 
[another Captain] and Soldiers. 

Alb.. Sir, you have show’d to-day your val¬ 
iant strain, 40 

And fortune led you well. You have the cap¬ 
tives 

Who were the opposites of this day’s strife ; 

I do require them of you, so to use them 
As we shall find their merits and our safety 
May equally determine. 

Edm. Sir, I thought it fit 45 

To send the old and miserable king 
To some retention [and appointed guard]; 
Whose age had charms in it, whose title more, 
To pluck the common bosom on his side, 

And turn our impress’d lances in our eyes bo 
W hich do command them. With him I sent 
the Queen, 

My reason all the same ; and they are ready 
To-morrow, or at further space, to appear 
Where you shall hold your session. [At this 
time 

We sweat and bleed : the friend hath lost his 
friend; bb 

And the best quarrels, in the heat, are curs’d 
By those that feel their sharpness: 

The question of Cordelia and her father 
Requires a fitter place.] 

Alb. Sir, by your patience, 

I hold you but a subject of this war, bo 

Not as a brother. 

j Reg. That’s as we list to grace him. 

Methinks our pleasure might have been de¬ 
manded, 

Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers, 
Bore the commission of my place and person ; 
The which immediacy may well stand up, 66 
And call itself your brother. 

Gon. Not so hot. 

In his own grace he doth exalt himself, 

More than in your addition. 

Reg. In my rights, 

By me invested, he compeers the best. 

Alb. That were the most, if he should hus¬ 
band you. 70 

Rea. Jesters do oft prove prophets. 

Gon. Holla, holla! 

That eye that told you so look’d but a-squint. 
Reg. Lady, I am not well; else I should 
answer 

A*rom a full-flowing stomach. General, 

Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony ; 
Dispose of them, of me ; the walls are thine, re 
Witness the world, that I create thee here 
My lord and master. 

Gon. Mean you to enjoy him ? 

Alb. The let-alone lies not in your good will. 
Edm. Nor in thine, lord. 

Alb. Half-blooded fellow, yes. 

Reg. [To Edmund .] Let the drum strike, 
and prove my title thine. 81 

Alb. Stay yet; hear reason. Edmund, I ar¬ 
rest thee 

On capital treason ; and. in thy arrest, 

This gilded serpent. [Pointing to Gon.] For 
your claim, fair sister, 


I bar it in the interest of my wife. ss 

’T is she is sub-contracted to this lord, 

And I, her husband, contradict your bans. 

If you will marry, make your loves to me, 

My lady is bespoke. 

Gon. An interlude! 

Alb. Thou art armed, Gloucester; let the 
trumpet sound. «o 

If none appear to prove upon thy person 
Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons, 
There is my pledge [throwing down a glove]. 

I ’ll prove it on thy heart, 

Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less 
Than I have here proclaim’d thee. 

Reg. Sick, 0 , sick ! 

Gon. [Aside.] If not, I ’ll ne’er trust medi¬ 
cine. 96 

Edm. There’s my exchange [throwing down 
a glove]. What in the world he is 
That names me traitor, villain-like he lies. 

Call by the trumpet; — he that dares approach, 
On him, on you, who not ? I will maintain 100 
My truth and honour firmly. 

Alb. A herald, ho ! 

[Edm. A herald, ho, a herald !] 

Alb. Trust to thy single virtue ; for thy sol¬ 
diers, 

All levied in my name, have in my name 104 
Took their discharge. 

Reg. My sickness grows upon me. 

Alb. She is not well; convey her to my 
tent. [Exit Regan , led.] 

Enter a Herald. 

Come hither, herald, — Let the trumpet 
sound — 

And read out this. 

[Capt. Sound, trumpet!] 109 

[A trumpet sounds. 
Her. (Reads.) “ If any man of quality or 
degree within the lists of the army will main¬ 
tain upon Edmund, supposed Earl of Glouces¬ 
ter, that he is a manifold traitor, let him appear 
by the third sound of the trumpet. He is bold 
in his defence.” 114 

[Edm. Sound!] [First trumpet. 

Her. Again ! [Second trumpet. 

Her. Again ! [Third trumpet. 

[Trumpet answers within. 

Enter Edgar, at the third sound , armed , with 
a trumpet before him. 

Alb. Ask him his purposes, why he appears 
Upon this call o’ the trumpet. 

Her. What are you ? 

Your name, your quality ? and why you an¬ 
swer 12® 

This present summons ? 

Edg. Know, my name is lost, 

By treason’s tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit; 
Yet am I noble as the adversary 
I come to cope. 

Alb. Which is that adversary ? 

Edg. What’s he that speaks for Edmund 
Earl of Gloucester ? . ub 

Edm. Himself ; what say’st thou to him ? 
Edg. Draw thy sword. 






1004 


KING LEAR 


v. iii. 


That, if my speech offend a noble heart, 

Thy arm may do thee justice ; here is mine. 
Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours, 

My oath, and my profession. I protest, 130 
Maugre thy strength, place, youth, and emi¬ 
nence, 

Despite thy victor-sword and fire-new fortune, 
Thy valour, and thy heart, thou art a trai¬ 
tor’ 

False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father ; 
Conspirant ’gainst this high illustrious prince ; 
And, from the extremest upward of thy head i 36 
To the descent and dust below thy foot, 

A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou “ No,” 
This sword, this arm, and my best spirits are 
bent 

To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak, ho 
T hou liest. 

Edm. In wisdom I should ask thy name ; 
But, since thy outside looks so fair and war¬ 
like, 

And that thy tongue some ’say of breeding 
breathes, 

What safe and nicely I might well delay, 

By rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn. 145 
Back do I toss these treasons to thy head ; 
With the hell-hated lie o’erwhelm thy heart; 
Which, for they yet glance by and scarcely 
bruise, 

This sword of mine shall give them instant 
way, 

Where they shall rest for ever. Trumpets, 
speak! iso 

[Alarums. They fight. [Edmund 
falls.] 

Alb. Save him, save him ! 

Gon. This is [mere] practice, Gloucester. 
By the law of war thou wast not bound to an¬ 
swer 

An unknown opposite. Thou art not van¬ 
quish’d, 

But cozen’d and beguil’d. 

Alb. Shut your mouth, dame, 

Or with this paper shall I stop it. Holcl, sir. — 
Thou worse than any name, read thine own 
evil. iso 

No tearing, lady: I perceive you know it. 

Gon. Say, if I do, the laws are mine, not 
thine. 

Who can arraign me for’t ? [Exit.] 

Alb. Most monstrous ! oh ! — 

Know’st thou this paper ? 

Edm. Ask me not what I know. 

Alb. Go after her; she’s desperate ; govern 
her. lei 

Edm. What you have charg’d me with, that 
have I done; 

And more, much more; the time will bring 
it out. 

’T is past, and so am I. But what art thou 
That hast this fortune on me ? If thou ’rt 
noble, ns 

I do forgive thee. 

Edg. Let’s exchange charity. 

I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund ; 
If more, the more thou ’st wrong’d me. 

My name is Edgar, and thy father’s son. 


The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices i» 
Make instruments to plague us. 

The dark and vicious place where thee he got 
Cost him his eyes. 

Edm. Thou ’st spoken right, ’t is true. 

The wheel is come full circle ; I am here. 

Alb. Methouglit thy very gait did pro¬ 
phesy 176 

A royal nobleness. I must embrace thee. 

Let sorrow split my heart, if ever I 
Did hate thee or thy father ! 

Edg. Worthy prince, I know ’t. 

Alb. Where have you hid yourself ? 

How have you known the miseries of your 
father ? . . 18 “ 

Edg. By nursing them, my lord. List a brief 
tale; 

And when’t is told, oh, that my heart would 
burst! 

The bloody proclamation to escape, 

That follow’d me so near,— oh, our lives’ 

sweetness! 

That we the pain of death would hourly die i »5 
Rather than die at once ! —taught me to shift 
Into a madman’s rags, to assume a semblance 
That very dogs disdain’d ; and in this habit 
Met I my father with his bleeding rings, 

Their precious stones new lost; became his 
guide, 

Led him, begg’d for him, sav’d him from de¬ 
spair ; 

Never, — 0 fault! — reveal’d myself unto him, 
Until some half-hour past, when I was arm’d. 
Not sure, though hoping, of this good success, 

I ask’d his blessing, and from first to last ws 
Told him our pilgrimage ; but his flaw’d heart, 
Alack, too weak the conflict to support! 

’Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief, 
Burst smilingly. 

Edm. This speech of yours hath mov’d me, 
And shall perchance do good. But speak you 
on; 200 

You look as you had something more to say. 
Alb. If there be more, more woeful, hold it 
in ; 

For I am almost ready to dissolve, 

Hearing of this. 

[Edg. This would have seem’d a period 
To such as love not sorrow ; but another, 205 
To amplify too much, would make much more, 
And top extremity. 

Whilst I was big in clamour came there in a 
man, 

Who, having seen me in my worst estate, 
Shunn’d my abhorr’d society; but then, find¬ 
ing 21« 

Who ’t was that so endur’d, with his strong 
arms 

He fastened on my neck, and bellowed out 
As he’d burst heaven; threw him on my 
father; 

Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him 
That ever ear received ; which in recounting, 215 
His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life 
Began to crack. Twice then the trumpets 
sounded, 

And there I left him tranc’d. 







KING LEAR 


v. in. 


1005 


Alb. But who was this ? 

Edg. Kent, sir, the banish’d Kent; who in 
disguise 

Follow’d his enemy king, and did him service 
Improper for a slave.] 221 

Enter a Gentleman with a bloody knife. 

Gent. Help, help, O, help ! 

Edg. What kind of help ? 

Alb. Speak, man. 

Edg. What means this bloody knife ? 

Gent. ’T is hot, it smokes ; 

It came even from the heart of— 0 , she’s 
dead ! 

Alb. Who dead ? Speak, man. 225 

Gent. Your lady, sir, your lady ; and her 
sister 

By her is poison’d ; she confesses it. 

Edm. I was contracted to them both. All 
three 

Now marry in an instant. 

Edg. Here comes Kent. 

Enter Kent. 

Alb. Produce the bodies, be they alive or 
dead. 230 

This judgement of the heavens, that makes us 
tremble, 

Touches us not with pity. [Exit Gentleman .] 
— 0 , is this he ? 

The time will not allow the compliment 
Which very manners urges. 

Kent. I am come 

To bid ray king and master aye good-night. 235 
Is he not here ? 

Alb. Great thing of us forgot! 

Speak, Edmund, where’s the King ? and 
where’s Cordelia ? 

[ The bodies of Goneril and Began 
are brought in. 

See’st thou this object, Kent ? 

Kent. Alack, why thus ? 

Edm. Yet Edmund was belov’d ! 

The one the other poison’d for my sake, 240 
And after slew herself. 

Alb. Even so. Cover their faces. 

Edm. I pant for life. Some good I mean to 
do, 

Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send, 

Be brief in it, to the castle ; for my writ 246 
Is on the life of Lear and on Cordelia. 

Nay, send in time. 

Alb. Run, run, 0 , run ! 

Edg. To who, my lord ? Who has the office ? 
Send 

Thy token of reprieve. 

Edm. Well thought on. Take my sword, 250 
Give it the captain. 

Edg. Haste thee, for thy life. 

[Exit Gentleman.] 
Edm. He hath commission from thy wife 
and me 

To hang Cordelia in the prison, and 
To lay the blame upon her own despair, 

That she fordid herself. 265 

Alb. The gods defend her ! Bear him hence 
a while. [Edmund is borne qff.] 


Re-enter Lear with Cordelia in his arms 
[Gentleman following], 

Lear. Howl, howl, howl! 0 , you are men of 
stones! 

Had I your tongues and eyes, I ’d use them so 
That heaven’s vault should crack. She’s gone 
for ever! 259 

I know when one is dead, and when one lives; 
She’s dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass ; 
If that her breath will mist or stain the stone, 
Why, then she lives. 

Kent. Is this the promis’d end ? 

Edg. Or image of that horror ? 

Alb. Fall, and cease 1 

Lear. This feather stirs ; she lives! If it be 

SO, 206 

It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows 
That ever I have felt. 

Kent. [Kneeling.] 0 my good master! 

Lear. Prithee, away. 

Edg. ’T is noble Kent, your friend. 

Lear. A plague upon you, murderers, trai¬ 
tors all! 

I might have sav’d her; now she’s gone for 

evei'! 270 

Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha ! 

What is’t thou say’st ? Her voice was ever 
soft, 

Gentle, and low ; an excellent thing in woman. 

I kill’d the slave that was a-hanging thee. 

Gent. ’T is true, my lords, he did. 

Lear. Did I not, fellow ? 

I have seen the day, with my good biting fal¬ 
chion 276 

I would have made him skip. I am old now, 
And these same crosses spoil me. Who are you ? 
Mine eyes are not o’ the best. I ’ll tell you 
straight. 

Kent. If Fortune brag of two she lov’d and 
hated, 280 

One of them we behold. 

Lear. This is a dull sight. Are you not 
Kent ? 

Kent. The same. 

Your servant Kent. Where is your servant 
Caius ? 

Lear. He’s a good fellow, I can tell you 
that; 

He ’ll strike, and quickly too. He’s dead and 
rotten. 286 

Kent. No, my good lord; I am the very 
man, — 

Lear. I ’ll see that straight. 

Kent. — That, from your first of difference 
and decay, 

Have follow’d your sad steps. 

Lear. You are welcome hither. 

Kent. Nor no man else ; all’s cheerless, dark, 
and deadly. 290 

Your eldest daughters have fordone them¬ 
selves, 

And desperately are dead. 

Lear. Ay, so I think. 

Alb. He knows not what he says ; and vain 
is it 

That we present us to him. 




ioo6 


KING LEAR 


v. iii. 


Enter a Messenger. 

Edg. Very bootless. 

Mess. Edmund is dead, my lord. 

Alb. That’s but a trifle here. — 20s 

You lords and noble friends, know our intent. 
What comfort to this great decay may come 
Shall be appli’d. For us, we will resign, 

During the life of this old majesty, 

To him our absolute power; [to Edgar and 
Kent ] you, to your rights, «oo 

With boot, and such addition as your honours 
Have more than merited. All friends shall 
taste 

The wages of their virtue, and all foes 
The cup of their deservings. 0 , see, see ! 

Lear. And my poor fool is hang’d ! No, no, 
no life ! 305 

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, 

And thou no breath at all ? Thou ’It come no 
more, 

Never, never, never, never, never! 

Pray you, undo this button. Thank you, sir. 
Do you see this ? Look on her, look, her lips, 
Look there, look there! [Dies. 


Edg. He faints! My lord, my lord ! 311 

Kent. Break, heart; I prithee, break ! 

Edg. Look up, my lord. 

Kent. Vex not his ghost; 0 , let him pass! 
He hates him 

That would upon the rack of this tough world 
Stretch him out longer. 

Edg. He is gone, indeed. 316 

Kent. The wonder is he hath endur’d so 
long; 

He but usurp’d his life. 

Alb. Bear them from hence. Our present 
business 

Is general woe. [To Kent and Edgar.] Friends 
of my soul, you twain 

Rule in this realm, and the gor’d state sustain. 

Kent. I have a journey, sir, shortly to go. 321 
My master calls me ; I must not say no. 

Edg. The weight of this sad time we must 
'obey; 

Speak what we feel, not what we ought to 
say. 

The oldest hath borne most; we that are young 
Shall never see so much, nor live so long. 326 
[Exeunt, with a dead march . 




THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH 


It is generally agreed that Macbeth was written about 1605 or 1606 , though the evidence — 
tone, style, and metre apart — is far from conclusive. A later limit of date is found in Dr. 
Simon Forman’s statement in his Booke of Plaies that he was present at a performance of the 
tragedy in the Globe Theatre on April 20 , 1610 . An earlier limit is afforded by the “twofold 
balls and treble sceptres ” of iv. i. 121 , and by the reference in iv. iii. 140-159 to the practice of 
touching for the king’s evil, which James I was induced to revive, both of which point to a date 
later than the Union of the Crowns in 1603 . Of minor indications of date, the most important 
is the passage in n. iii. 9 - 13 , which has been interpreted as an allusion to the Jesuit Superior, 
Henry Garnet, who in his trial in 1606 for complicity in the Gunpowder Plot is recorded to 
have avowed the doctrine of equivocation. 

Macbeth was first published in the First Folio, and on this text all subsequent editions are 
based. The language of the play is printed with fair accuracy, but the metre is badly mangled. 
This fact, along with the exceptionally large number of broken lines and the shortness of the 
whole, has led some to suspect either that Shakespeare did not finish it, or, more plausibly, that 
it has suffered severe mutilation. Further, a number of passages have been regarded as coming 
from another hand. Thus at iii. v. 34 and iv. i. 43 the stage directions of the Folio give the 
names of two songs which are found in full in The Witch of Thomas Middleton (d. 1622 ). Again, 
the speeches of Hecate, and the dialogue immediately connected therewith, in hi. v. and iv. i. 
39 - 47 , stand apart from the rest of the play in tone and metre, and are unnecessary to the plot, 
while they much resemble Middleton’s work. The theory which best fits these facts is that 
Middleton was employed to add to the witch scenes of Macbeth , and that at the same time he 
inserted two songs from his own unsuccessful drama. The following passages have also been 
suspected, though with less reason : i. ii., I. iii. 1 - 37 , II. iii. 1 - 23 , IV. iii. 140 - 159 , v. ii., v. viii. 
35 - 75 . 

Shakespeare’s main source was the Ilistorie of Scotland of Holinshed, which follows the 
Scotorum Historia of Hector Boece ( 1526 ), usually through Bellenden’s Scottish translation. Of 
Boece’s predecessors, the most important for the story of Macbeth are the earliest, John of For- 
dun ( 1360 ), and Andrew of Wvntoun (c. 1420 ). Most of the story is taken from Holinshed’s 
account of the reigns of Duncan and Macbeth (a. d. 1034 - 1057 ), but certain details are drawn 
from other parts of the chronicle. Thus several points in the assassination of Duncan, like the 
drugging of the grooms by Lady Macbeth, and the portents described in ii. iv., are from the 
murder of Duncan’s ancestor Duffe (a. d. 972 ); and the voice that called, “ Sleep no more ! ” 
seems to have been suggested by the troubled conscience of Duffe’s brother Kenneth, who had 
poisoned his own nephew. 

Of the witches Holinshed says: “ The common opinion was that these women were either the 
weird sisters, that is (as ye would say) the goddesses of destiny, or else some nymphs or fairies, 
indued with knowledge of prophecy by their necromantical science.” To the suggestions here 
given Shakespeare added details of witch lore gathered from such books as Scot’s Discoverie of 
Witchcraft, and probably also from oral sources; and he bestowed upon the witches, in addition, 
a symbolical and spiritual significance that brought them into vital relation with the change in 
the character of Macbeth. 

Among the more important features of the tragedy not derived from the chronicle are the first 
two scenes, the consultations between Macbeth and his wife, the soliloquies, the Porter scene and 
the knocking at the gate, the appearance of the ghost of Banquo, Macbeth’s second interview 
with the witches, and the sleep-walking scene. On the other hand, the long conversation 
between Malcolm and Macduff in iv. iii. follows the chronicle closely. It should be said that 
Holinshed’s account contains much purely legendary matter. 


THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH 


[DRAMATIS PERSONS 


Duncan, King of Scotland. 

Malcolm, ) . . 

Donalbain, f ms sons - 
Macbeth, 

Banquo, , 

Macduff, 

Lennox, 

Ross, 

Menteith, 

Angus, 

Caithness, „ 

Fleance, son to Banquo. 

Siwabd, earl of Northumberland. 

Young Siward, his son. 

Seyton, an officer attending on Macbeth. 


• generals of the King’s army. 


noblemen of Scotland. 


Boy, son to Macduff. 
An English Doctor. 
A Scotch Doctor. 

A Captain. 

A Porter. 

An Old Man. 


Lady Macbeth. 

Lady Macduff. 

Gentlewoman attending on Lady Macbeth. 

Hecate. 

Three Witches. 

Apparitions. 


Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Murderers, Attendants, and Messengers. 


Scene: Scotland ; England .] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [A heath .] 

Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches. 

1 . Witch. When shall we three meet again 
In thunder, lightning, or in rain ? 

2 . Witch. When the hurlyburly’s done, 
When the battle ’s lost and won. 

3 . Witch. That will be ere the set of sun. 8 

1 . Witch. Where the place ? 

2 . Witch. Upon the heath. 

3 . Witch. There to meet with Macbeth. 

1 . Witch. I come, Graymalkin ! 

[ 2 . Witch.] Paddock calls:—Anon! io 

All. Fair is foul, and foul is fair; 

Hover through the fog and filthy air. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. [A camp near Forres .] 

Alarum within. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, 
Donalbain, Lennox, with Attendants, meet¬ 
ing a bleeding Captain. 

Dun. What bloody man is that ? He can re¬ 
port, 

As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt 
The newest state. 

Mai. This is the sergeant 

Who like a good and hardy soldier fought 
’Gainst my captivity. Hail, brave friend ! e 
S ay to the King the knowledge of the broil 
As thou didst leave it. 

Cap. Doubtful it stood, 

As two spent swimmers that do cling together 
And choke their art. The merciless Macdon- 
wald — 

Worthy to be a rebel, for to that io 

The multiplying villainies of nature 


Do swarm upon him — from the Western Isles 
Of kerns and gallowglasses is suppli’d ; 

And Fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, 
Show’d like a rebel’s whore. But all’s too 
weak; 18 

For brave Macbeth — well he deserves that 
name — 

Disdaining Fortune, with his brandish’d steel, 
Which smok’d with bloody execution, 

Like Valour’s minion carv’d out his passage 
Till he fac’d the slave ; 20 

Which ne’er shook hands, nor bade farewell to 
him, 

Till he unseam’d him from the nave to the 
chaps, 

And fix’d his head upon our battlements. 

Dun. O valiant cousin ! worthy gentleman ! 

Cap. As whence the sun gins his reflection 26 
Shipwrecking storms and direful thunders 
break, 

So from that spring whence comfort seem’d to 
come 

Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, 
mark ! 

No sooner justice had, with valour arm’d, 
Compell’d these skipping kerns to trust their 
heels, 30 

But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage, 
With furbish’d arms and new supplies of men 
Began a fresh assault. 

Dun. Dismay’d not this 

Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo? 

Cap. Yes; 

As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. as 
If I say sooth, I must report they were 
As cannons overcharg’d with double cracks ; so 
they 

Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe. 





MACBETH 


1009 


1. iii. 


Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, 
Or memorize another Golgotha, 40 

I cannot tell. 

But I am faint, my gashes cry for help. 

Dun. So well thy words become thee as thy 
wounds ; 

They smack of honour both. Go ^et him sur¬ 
geons. [ Exit Captain, attended.) 

Enter Ross and Angus. 

Who comes here ? 

Mai. The worthy thane of Ross. 45 

Len. What a haste looks through his eyes! 
So should he look 

That seems to speak things strange. 

Ross. God save the King ! 

Dun. Whence cam’st thou, worthy thane ? 
Ross. From Fife, great king ; 

Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky 
And fan our people cold. Norway himself, eo 
With terrible numbers, 

Assisted by that most disloyal traitor, 

The thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict; 
Till that Bellona’s bridegroom, lapp’d in proof, 
Confronted him with self-comparisons, «s 

Point against point, rebellious arm ’gainst arm, 
Curbing his lavish spirit; and, to conclude, 
The victory fell on us ; — 

Dun. Gi 3 at happiness ! 

Ross. That now 

Sweno, the Norways’ king, craves composition ; 
Nor would we deign him burial of his men eo 
Till he disbursed at Saint Colme’s inch 
Ten thousand dollars to our general use. 

Dun. No more that thane of Cawdor shall 
deceive 

Our bosom interest. Go pronounce his present 
death, 

And with his former title greet Macbeth. 

Ross. I ’ll see it done. 

Dun. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath 
won. [ Exeunt. 

Scene III. [A heath near Forres .] 
Thunder. Enter the three Witches. 

1 . Witch. Where hast thou been, sister ? 

2 . Witch. Killing swine. 

3 . Witch. Sister, where thou ? 

1 . Witch. A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in 

her lap, 

And munch’d, and munch’d, and munch’d. 

“ Give me ! ” quoth I. 6 

“ Aroint thee, witch ! ” the rump-fed ronyon 
cries. 

Her husband ’s to Aleppo gone, master o’ the 
Tiger; 

But in a sieve I ’ll thither sail. 

And, like a rat without a tail, 

I ’ll do, I ’ll do, and I ’ll do. 10 

2 . Witch. I ’ll give thee a wind. 

1 . Witch. Thou ’rt kind. 

3 . Witch. And I another. 

1 . Witch. I myself have all the other, 

And the very ports they blow, 18 

All the quarters that they know 
I’ the shipman’s card. 


I ’ll drain him dry as hay. 

Sleep shall neither night nor day 

Hang upon his pent-house lid ; 20 

He shall live a man forbid. 

Weary sevennights nine times nine 
Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine. 

Though his bark cannot be lost, 

Yet it shall be tempest-tost. 25 

Look what I have. 

2 . Witch. Show me, show me. 

1 . Witch. Here I have a pilot’s thumb, 
Wreck’d as homeward he did come. 

[Drum within. 

3 . Witch. A drum, a drum ! 30 

Macbeth doth come. 

All. The weird sisters, hand in hand, 

Posters of the sea and land, 

Thus do go about, about; 

Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, s* 

And thrice again, to make up nine. 

Peace ! the charm’s wound up. 

Enter Macbeth and Banquo. 

Mach. So foul and fair a day I have not seen. 
Ban. How far is’t call’d to Forres? What 
are these 

So wither’d and so wild in their attire, 40 

That look not like the inhabitants o’ the earth, 
And yet are on’t ? Live you ? or are you 
aught 

That man may question ? You seem to under¬ 
stand me, 

By each at once her choppy finger laying 
Upon her skinny lips. You should be women, 
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret 46 
That you are so. 

Mach. Speak, if you can. What are you ? 

1 . Witch. All hail, Macbeth ! hail to thee, 

thane of Glamis ! 

2 . Witch. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, 

thane of Cawdor! 

3 . Witch. All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be 

King hereafter! so 

Ban. Good sir, why do you start, and seem 
to fear 

Things that do sound so fair ? [To the Witche$.\ 
I’ the name of truth, 

Are ye fantastical, or that indeed 
Which outwardly ye show ? My noble partner 
YY>u greet with present grace and great predic¬ 
tion 65 

Of noble having and of royal hope, 

That he seems rapt withal; to me you speak 
not. 

If you can look into the seeds of time, 

And say which grain will grow and which will 
not, 

Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear eo 
Your favours nor your hate. 

1 . Witch. Hail! 

2 . Witch. Hail! 

3 . Witch. Hail! 84 

1 . Witch. Lesser than Macoeth, and greater 

2 . Witch. Not so happy, yet much happier. 

3 . Witch. Thou shalt get kings, though thou 

be none ; 

So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo ! 





IOIO 


MACBETH 


I. iii. 


1 . Witch. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail! 

Mach. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me 
more. vo 

By Sinel’s death I know I am thane of Glamis ; 
But how of Cawdor ? The thane of Cawdor 
lives, 

A prosperous gentleman ; and to be king 
Stands not within the prospect of belief 
No more than to be Cawdor. Say from 
whence 75 

You owe this strange intelligence, or why 
Upon this blasted heath you stop our way 
With such prophetic greeting. Speak, I charge 
you. [ Witches vanish. 

Ban. The earth hath bubbles, as the water 
has, 

And these are of them. Whither are they van¬ 
ish’d ? 80 

Mach. Into the air; and what seem’d cor¬ 
poral melted 

As breath into the wind. Would they had 
stay’d ! 

Ban. Were such things here as we do speak 
about, 

Or have we eaten on the insane root 

That takes the reason prisoner ? 85 

Mach. Your children shall be kings. 

Ban. You shall be King. 

Mach. And thane of Cawdor too; went it 
not so ? 

Ban. To the self-same tune and words. 
Who’s here ? 

Enter Ross and Angus. 

Ross. The King hath happily receiv’d, 
Macbeth, 

The news of thy success ; and when he reads 90 
Thy personal venture in the rebels’ fight, 

His wonders and his praises do contend 
Which should be thine or his. Silenc’d with 
that, 

In viewing o’er the rest o’ the self-same day, 

He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, 95 
Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, 
Strange images of death. As thick as hail 
Came post with post; and every one did bear 
Thy praises in his kingdom’s great defence, 
And pour’d them down before him. 

Ang. We are sent 

To give thee from our royal master thanks ; 101 
Only to herald thee into his sight, 

Not pay thee. 

Ross. And, for an earnest of a greater hon¬ 
our, 

He bade me, from him, call thee thane of 
Cawdor; 105 

In which addition, hail, most worthy thane ! 
For it is thine. 

Ban. [Aside.} What, can the devil speak 
true ? 

Macb. The thane of Cawdor lives ; why do 
you dress me 
In borrowed robes ? 

Ang. Who was the thane lives yet; 

But under heavy judgement bears that life no 
Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was 
combin’d 


With those of Norway, or did line the rebel 
With hidden help and vantage, or that with 
both 

He labour’d in his country’s wreck, I know 
not; 

But treasons capital, confess’d and prov’d, n« 
Have overthrown him. 

Macb. [Aside. J Glamis, and thane of Caw¬ 
dor ! 

The greatest is behind. [To Ross and Angus.} 
Thanks for your pains. 

[To Ban. 1 Do you not hope your children shall 
be kings, 

When those that gave the thane of Cawdor 
to me 

Promis’d no less to them ? 

Ban. That trusted home 

Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, 121 
Besides the thane of Cawdor. But’t is strange ; 
And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, 

The instruments of darkness tell us truths, 

Win us with honest trifles, to betray’s 125 

In deepest consequence. 

Cousins, a word, I pray you. 

Macb. [Aside.} Two truths are told, 

As happy prologues to the swelling act 
Of the imperial theme. — I thank you, gentle¬ 
men. 

[Aside.} This supernatural soliciting 130 

Cannot be ill, cannot be good. If ill, 

Why hath it given me earnest of success, 
Commencing in a truth ? I’m thane of Caw¬ 
dor. 

If good, why do I yield to that suggestion 
Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair 135 
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, 
Against the use of nature? Present fears 
Are less than horrible imaginings. 

My thought, whose murder yet is but fantasti¬ 
cal, 

Shakes so my single state of man that function 
Is smother’d in surmise, and nothing is 141 
But what is not. 

Ban. Look, how our partner’s rapt. 

Mach. [Aside.} If chance will have me King, 
why, chance may crown me, 

Without my stir. 

Ban. New honours come upon him, 

Like our strange garments, cleave not to their 
mould i 46 

But with the aid of use. 

Macb. [AsiWe.] Come what come may, 

Time and the hour runs through the roughest 
day. 

Ban. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your 
leisure. 

Mach. Give me your favour ; my dull brain 
was wrought 

With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your 
pains 160 

Are regist’red where every day I turn 
The leaf to read them. Let us toward the 
King. 

[To Ban.} Think upon what hath chanc’d, and, 
at more time, 

The interim having weigh’d it, let us speak 
Our free hearts each to other. 





I. V. 


MACBETH 


IOI i 


Ban. Very gladly. 

Macb. Till then, enough. Come, friends. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [Forres. Tne palace.] 

Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donal- 
bain, Lennox, and Attendants. 

Dun. Is execution done on Cawdor? Are 
not 

Those in commission yet return’d ? 

Mai. My liege, 

They are not yet come back. But I have spoke 
With one that saw him die ; who did report 
That very frankly he confess’d his treasons, s 
Implor’d your Highness’ pardon, and set forth 
A deep repentance. Nothing in his life 
Became him like the leaving it. He died 
As one that had been studied in his death 
To throw away the dearest thing he ow’d, 10 
As’t were a careless trifle. 

Dun. There’s no art 

To find the mind’s construction in the face. 

He was a gentleman on whom I built 
An absolute trust. 

Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross, and Angus. 

O worthiest cousin! 

The sin of my ingratitude even now is 

Was heavy on me. Thou art so far before 
That swiftest wing of recompense is slow 
To overtake thee. Would thou liadst less de¬ 
serv’d, 

That the proportion both of thanks and pay¬ 
ment 

Might have been mine ! Only I have left to say, 
More is thy due than more than all can pay. 21 
Macb. The service and the loyalty I owe, 

In doing it, pays itself. Your Highness’ part 
Is to receive our duties ; and our duties 
Are to your throne and state children and ser¬ 
vants, 25 

Which do but what they should, by doing 
everything 

Safe toward your love and honour. 

Dun. Welcome hither! 

I have begun to plant thee, and will labour 
To make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo, 
That hast no less deserv’d, nor must be known 
No less to have done so, let me infold thee 31 
And hold thee to my heart. 

Ban. There if I grow, 

The harvest is your own. 

Dun. My plenteous joys, 

Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves 
In drops of sorrow. Sons, kinsmen, thanes, »s 
And you whose places are the nearest, know 
We will establish our estate upon 
Our eldest, Malcolm, whom we name hereafter 
The Prince of Cumberland ; which honour must 
Not unaccompanied invest him only, « 

But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine 
On all deservers. From hence to Inverness, 
And bind us further to you. 

Macb. The rest is labour, which is not us’d 
for you. 

I ’ll be myself the harbinger and make joyful 


The hearing of my wife with your approach ; « 
So humbly take my leave. 

Dun. My worthy Cawdor ! 

Macb. [Aside.] The Prince of Cumberland ! 
That is a step 

On which I must fall down, or else o’erleap, 
For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires ; 60 
Let not light see my black and deep desires ; 
The eye wink at the hand ; yet let that be 
Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. 

[Exit. 

Dun. True, worthy Banquo; he is full so 
valiant, 

And in his commendations I am fed ; 55 

It is a banquet to me. Let’s after him, 

Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome. 
It is a peerless kinsman. [Flourish. Exeunt. 

Scene V. [Inverness. Macbeth ' 1 s castle.] 
Enter Lady Macbeth, alone , with a letter. 

Lady M. [Reat/s.] “They met me in the 
day of success ; and I have learn’d by the per- 
fect’st report, they have more in them than 
mortal knowledge. When I burn’d in desire to 
question them further, they made themselves 
air, into which they vanish’d. Whiles I stood [5 
rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from 
the King, who all-hail’d me ‘ Thane of Caw¬ 
dor ’; by which title, before, these weird sis¬ 
ters saluted me, and referr’d me to the coming 
oh of time, with ‘ Hail, King that shalt be ! ’ [i» 
This have I thought good to deliver thee, my 
dearest partner of greatness, that thou mightst 
not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant 
of what greatness is promis’d thee. Lay it to 
thy heart, and farewell.” 

Glamis thou art, and Cawdor ; and shalt be 
What thou art promis’d. Yet do I fear thy na¬ 
ture ; 

It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness 
To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be 
great. 

Art not without ambition, but without 20 

The illness should attend it. What thou 
wouldst highly, 

That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play 
false. 

And yet wouldst wrongly win. Thou ’dst have, 
great Glamis, 

That which cries, “ Thus thou must do, if thou 
have it ” ; 

And that which rather thou dost fear to do 26 
Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee 
hither 

That I may pour my spirits in thine ear, 

And chastise with the valour of my tongue 
All that impedes thee from the golden round 
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem 30 
To have thee crown’d withal. 

Enter a Messenger. 

What is your tidings ? 
Mess. The King comes here to-night. 

Lady M. Thou ’rt mad to say it I 

Is not thy master with him ? who, were’t so, 
Would have inform’d for preparation. 





1012 


MACBETH 


I. Vll. 


Mess. So please you, it is true ; our thane is 
coming. 36 

One of my fellows had the speed of him, 

Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely 
more 

Than would make up his message. 

Lady M. Give him tending; 

He brings great news. [Exit Messenger. 

The raven himself is hoarse 
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan io 
Under my battlements. Come, you spirits 
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, 
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full 
Of direst cruelty ! Make thick my blood ; 

Stop up the access and passage to remorse, « 
That no compunctious visitings of nature 
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between 
The effect and it! Come to my woman’s breasts 
And take my milk for gall, you murd’ring 
ministers, 

Wherever in your sightless substances bo 

You wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick 
night, 

And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, 
That my keen knife see not the wound it 
makes. 

Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the 

To cry,“ Hold, hold ! ” 

Enter Macbeth. 

Great Glamis ! worthy Cawdor ! 
Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter ! 66 
Thy letters have transported me beyond 
This ignorant present, and I feel now 
The future in the instant. 

Macb. My dearest love, 59 

Duncan comes here to-night. 

Lady M. And when goes hence ? 

Macb. To-morrow, as he purposes. 

Lady M. 0 , never 

Shall sun that morrow see ! 

Your face, my thane, is as a book where men 
May read strange matters. To beguile the time, 
Look like the time ; bear welcome in your 
eye, _ es 

Your hand, your tongue ; look like the innocent 
flower, 

But be the serpent under’t. He that’s coming 
Must be provided for ; and you shall put 
This night’s great business into my dispatch, 
Which shall to all our nights and days to come 
Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. 71 
Macb. We will speak further. 

Lady M. Only look up clear ; 

To alter favour ever is to fear. 

Leave all the rest to me. [Exeunt. 

Scene VI. [Before Macbeth's castle.] 

Hautboys and torches. Enter Duncan, Mal¬ 
colm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, 
Ross, Angus, and Attendants. 

Dun. This castle hath a pleasant seat; the 
air 

Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself 
Unto our gentle senses. 


Ban. This guest of summer, 

The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, 
By his loved masonry, that the heaven’s breath b 
Smells wooingly here ; no jutty, frieze, 
Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird 
Hath made his pendent bed and procreant 
cradle. 

Where they most breed and haunt, I have ob¬ 
serv’d 

The air is delicate. 

Enter Lady Macbeth. 

Dun. See, see, our honour’d hostess ! 

The love that follows us sometime is our 
trouble, u 

Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach 
y°u 

How you shall bid God ’ield us for your pains, 
And thank us for your trouble. 

Lady M. All our service 

In every point twice done and then done double 
Were poor and single business to contend 16 

Against those honours deep and broad where¬ 
with 

Your Majesty loads our house. For those of old, 
And the late dignities heap’d up to them, w 
We rest your hermits. 

Dun. Where’s the thane of Cawdor ? 

We cours’d him at the heels, and had a purpose 
To be his purveyor ; but he rides well, 

And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp 
him 

To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess, 
We are your guest to-night. 

Lady M. Your servants ever 

Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in 
compt, 26 

To make their audit at your Highness’ plea¬ 
sure, 

Still to return your own. 

Dun. Give me your hand ; 

Conduct me to mine host. We love him highly, 
And shall continue our graces towards him. 30 
By your leave, hostess. [Exeunt. 

Scene VII. [Within Macbeth's castle.] 

Hautboys and torches. Enter a Sewer, and divers 
Servants with dishes and service , over the stage. 
Then enter Macbeth. 

sy^Macb. If it were done when’t is done, then 
’t were well 

It were done quickly. If the assassination 
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch 
With his surcease success ; that but this blow 
Might be the be-all and the end-all here, b 
B ut here, upon this bank and shoal of time, 
We’d jump the life to come. But in these 
cases 

We still have judgement here, that we but 
teach 

Bloody instructions, which, being taught, re¬ 
turn 

To plague the inventor. This even-handed 
justice 10 

Commends the ingredients of our poison’d 
chalice 




II. I. 


MACBETH 


1013 


To our own lips. He ’s here in double trust: 
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, 
Strong both against the deed ; then, as his host, 
Who should against his murderer shut the door, 
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Dun¬ 
can 16 

Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been 
So clear in his great office, that his virtues 
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongu’d, against 
The deep damnation of his taking-off ; 20 

And pity, like a naked new-born babe 
Striding the blast, or heaven’s cherubin hors’d 
Upon the sightless couriers of the air, 

Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, 

That tears shall drown the wind. I have no 
spur 26 

To prick the sides of my intent, but only 
Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself 
And falls on the other — 

Enter Lady Macbeth. 

How now ! what news ? 
Lady M. He has almost supp’d. Why have 
you left the chamber ? 

Macb. Hath he ask’d for me ? 

Lady M. Know you not he has ? 

Macb. We will proceed no further in this 
business. 31 

He hath honour’d me of late ; and I have 
bought 

Golden opinions from all sorts of people, 

Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, 
Not cast aside so soon. 

Lady M. Was the hope drunk 36 

Wherein you dress’d yourself? Hath it slept 
since ? 

And wakes it now, to look so green and pale 
At what it did so freely ? From this time 
Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard 
To be the same in thine own act and valour 40 
As thou art in desire ? Wouldst thou have that 
Which thou esteem’st the ornament of life, 
And live a coward in thine own esteem, 

Letting “ I dare not, ” wait upon “I would,” 
Like the poor eat i’ the adage ? 

Macb. Prithee, peace ! 

I dare do all that may become a man ; 46 

Who dares do more is none. 

Lady M. What beast was’t, then, 

That made you break this enterprise to me? 
When you durst do it, then you were a man; 
And, to be more than what you were, you 
would 60 

Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place 
Did then adhere, and yet you would make both. 
They have made themselves, and that their fit¬ 
ness now 

Does unmake you. I have given suck, and 
know 

How tender ’tis to love the babe that milks 
me; # 66 

I would, while it was smiling in my face, 

Have pluck’d my nipple from his boneless gums 
And dash’d the brains out, had I so sworn as 
you 

Have done to this. 

Macb. If we should fail ? 


LadyM. _ We fail! 

But screw your courage to the sticking-place, eo 
And we’ll not fail. When Duncan is asleep — 
Whereto the rather shall his day’s hard journey 
Soundly invite him — his two cnamberlains 
Will I with wine and wassail so convince 
That memory, the warder of the brain, 66 
Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason 
A limbeck only. When in swinish sleep 
Their drenched natures lie as in a death, 

What cannot you and I perform upon 
The unguarded Duncan ? what not put upon 20 
His spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt 
Of our great quell ? 

Macb. Bring forth men-children only ; 

For thy undaunted mettle should compose 
Nothing but males. Will it not be receiv’d, 
When we have mark’d with blood those sleepy 

tWO 76 

Of his own chamber and us’d their very daggers, 
That they have done’t ? 

Lady M. Who dares receive it other, 

As we shall make our griefs and clamour roar 
Upon his death ? 

Macb. I am settled, and bend up 

Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. »» 
Away, and mock the time with fairest show ; 
False face must hide what the false heart doth 
know. [Exeunt. 

ACT II 

Scene I. [Within Macbeth's castle .] 

Enter Banquo, and Fleance with a torch be¬ 
fore him. 

Ban. How goes the night, boy ? 

Fie. The moon is down ; I have not heard 
the clock. 

Ban. And she goes down at twelve. 

Fie. I take’t, ’tis later, sir. 

Ban. Hold, take my sword. There’s hus¬ 
bandry in heaven; 

Their candles are all out. Take thee that 
too. 5 

A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, 

And yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers, 
Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature 
Gives way to in repose ! 

Enter Macbeth, and a Servant with a torch. 

Give me my sword. 

Who’s there ? 10 

Macb. A friend. 

Ban. What, sir, not yet at rest ? The King’s 
a-bed. 

He hath been in unusual pleasure, and 
Sent forth great largess to your offices. 

This diamond he greets your wife withal, is 

By the name of most kind hostess ; and shut up 
In measureless content. 

Macb. Being unprepar’d, 

Our will became the servant to defect; 

Which else should free have wrought. 

Ban. All’s well. 

I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: a* 
To you they have show’d some truth. 





ioi4 


MACBETH 


ir. 11. 


Macb. I think not of them ; 

Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, 

We would spend it in some words upon that 
business, 

If you would grant the time. 

Ban. At your kind’st leisure. 

Macb. If you shall cleave to my consent, 
when ’tis, 25 

It shall make honour for you. 

Ban. So I lose none 

In seeking to augment it, but still keep 
My bosom franchis’d and allegiance clear, 

I shall be counsell’d. 

Macb. Good repose the while ! 

Ban. Thanks, sir ; the like to you ! 30 

[Exeunt Banquo [and Fleance ]. 
Macb. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink 
is ready, 

She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. 

[Exit [, Servant ]. 

Is this a dagger which I see before me, 

The handle toward my hand? Come, let me 
clutch thee. 

I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 
To feeling as to sight ? or art thou but 
A dagger of the mind, a false creation, 
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ? 

I see thee yet, in form as palpable 40 

As this which now I draw. 

Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going, 
And such an instrument I was to use. 

Mine eyes are made the fools o’ the other 
senses, 

Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still, 45 
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, 
Which was not so before. There ’s no such 
thing. 

It is the bloody business which informs 
Thus to mine eyes. Now o’er the one half-world 
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 
The curtain’d sleep. Witchcraft celebrates si 
Pale Hecate’s offerings, and wither’d Murder, 
Alarum’d by his sentinel, the wolf, 

Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy 
pace, 

With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his 
design 55 

Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm set 
earth, 

Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for 
fear 

Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, 

And take the present horror from the time, 
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he 
lives: eo 

Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath 
gives. [A bell rings. 

I go, and it is done ; the bell invites me. 

Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell 

That summons thee to heaven or to hell. [Exit. 

Scene II. [The same.] 

Enter Lady Macbeth. 

Lady M. That which hath made them drunk 
hath made me bold ; 


What hath quench’d them hath given me fire. 
Hark ! Peace ! 

It was the owl that shriek’d, the fatal bellman 
Which gives the stern’st good-night. He is 
about it. 

The doors are open ; and the surfeited grooms e 
Do mock their charge with snores. I have 
drugg’d their possets, 

That death and nature do contend about them, 
Whether they live or die. 

Enter Macbeth. 

Macb. Who’s there ? What, ho ! 

Lady M. Alack, I am afraid they have 
awak’d, 10 

And ’tis not done. The attempt and not the deed 
Confounds us. Hark ! I laid their daggers 
ready ; 

He could not miss ’em. Had he not resembled 
My father as he slept, I had done’t. —My hus¬ 
band ! 

Macb. I have done the deed. Didst thou not 
hear a noise ? is 

Lady M. I heard the owl scream and the 
crickets cry. 

Did not you speak ? 

Macb. When ? 

Lady M. Now. 

Macb. As I descended ? 

Lady M. Ay. 

' Macb. Hark! 

Who lies i’ the second chamber ? 

Lady M. Donalbain. 20 

Macb. This is a sorry sight. 

[Looking on his hands.] 

Lady M. A foolish thought, to say a sorry 
sight. 

Macb. There’s one did laugh in’s sleep, and 
one cried, “ Murder ! ” 

That they did wake each other. I stood and 
heard them ; 

But they did say their prayers, and address’d 
them 25 

Again to sleep. 

Lady M. There are two lodg’d together. 

Macb. One cried, “God bless us!” and 
“ Amen ” the other, 

As they had seen me with these hangman’s 
hands. 

List’ning their fear, I could not say “ Amen,” 
When they did say, “ God bless us ! ” 

Lady M. Consider it not so deeply. 

Macb. But wherefore could not I pronounce 
“Amen”? 31 

I had most need of blessing, and “ Amen ” 
Stuck in my throat. 

Lady M. These deeds must not be thought 
After these ways ; so, it will make us mad. 

Macb. Methought I heard a voice cry, 
“ Sleep no more ! 35 

Macbeth does murder sleep,” —the innocent 
sleep, 

Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care, 
The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath, 
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second 
course, 

Chief nourisher in life’s feast, — 





II. iii. 


MACBETH 


-EWy M. What do you mean ? 

Macb. Still it cried, “Sleep no more!” to 
all the house ; 4i 

“ Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore 
Cawdor 

Shall sleep no more ; Macbeth shall sleep no 
more.” 

Lady M. Who was it that thus cried ? Why, 
worthy thane, 

Yoxi do unbend your noble strength, to think 45 
So brainsiekly of things. Go get some water, 
And wash this filthy witness from your hand. 
Why did you bring these daggers from the 
place ? 

They must lie there. Go carry them ; and smear 
The sleepy grooms with blood. 

Macb. I ’ll go no more. 

I am afraid to think what I have done ; bi 
L ook on’t again I dare not. 

Lady M. Infirm of purpose ! 

Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead 
Are but as pictures ; ’t is the eye of childhood 
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, bs 
I ’ll gild the faces of the grooms withal; 

For it must seem their guilt . 

IExit. Knocking within. 
Macb. Whence is that knocking ? 

How is’t with me, when every noise appalls 
me ? 

What hands are here ? Ha ! they pluck out 
mine eyes. 

Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood eo 
Clean from my hand ? No, this my hand will 
rather 

The multitudinous seas incarnadine, 

Making the green one red. 

Re-enter Lady Macbeth. 

Lady M. My hands are of your colour ; but 
I shame 

To wear a heart so white. (Knocking.) I hear 
a knocking bb 

At the south entry. Retire we to our chamber. 
A little water clears us of this deed ; 

How easy is it, then ! Your constancy 
Hath left you unattended. (Knocking.) Hark ! 
more knocking. 

Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us to 
A nd show us to be watchers. Be not lost 
So poorly in your thoughts. 

Macb. To know my deed, ’t were best not 
know myself. [Knocking. 

Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would 
thou couldst! [Exeunt. 

Scene III. [The same.] 

■ Enter a Porter. Knocking within. 

Porter. Here’s a knocking indeed ! If a man 
were porter of hell-gate, he should have old 
turning the key. {Knocking.) Knock, knock, 
knock! Who’s there, i’ the name of Beelze¬ 
bub ? Here’s a farmer, that hang’d himself on 
the expectation of plenty. Come in time ; [b 
have napkins enow about you; here you ’ll 
sweat for’t. (Knocking.) Knock, knock! 
Who’s there, in the other devil’s name? 


1015 


Faith, here’s an equivocator, that could swear 
in both the scales against either scale; who [10 
committed treason enough for God’s sake, yet 
could not equivocate to heaven. 0 , come in, 
equivocator. (Knocking.) Knock, knock, knock ! 
Who’s there ? Faith, here’s an English tailor 
come hither, for stealing out of a French [is 
hose. Come in, tailor; here you may roast your 
goose. (Knocking.) Knock, knock; never at 
quiet! What are you? But this place is too 
cold for hell. I ’ll devil-porter it no further. I 
had thought to have let in some of all pro- [20 
fessions that go the primrose way to the ever¬ 
lasting bonfire. (Knocking.) Anon, anon. I 
pray you, remember the porter. 

[Opens the gate.] 

Enter Macduff and Lennox. 

Macd. Was it so late, friend, ere you went 
to bed, 

That you do lie so late ? 25 

Port. Faith, sir, we were carousing till the 
second cock ; and drink, sir, is a great provoker 
of three things. 

Macd. What three things does drink espe¬ 
cially provoke ? w> 

Port. Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and 
urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unpro¬ 
vokes ; it provokes the desire, but it takes 
away the performance; therefore, much drink 
may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: 
it makes him, and it mars him ; it sets him [36 
on, and it takes him off ; it persuades him, and 
disheartens him ; makes him stand to, and not 
stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a 
sleep, and, giving him the lie, leaves him. 40 

Macd. I believe drink gave thee the lie last 
night. 

Port. That it did, sir, i’ the very throat on 
me. But I requited him for his lie ; and, I 
think, being too strong for him, though he took 
up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast 
him. *8 

Enter Macbeth. 

Macd. Is thy master stirring ? 

Our knocking has awak’d him ; here he comes. 

Len. Good morrow, noble sir. 

Macb. Good morrow, both. 

Macd. Is the King stirring, worthy thane? 

Macb. Not yet. 

Macd. He did command me to call timely on 
him. 6 i 

I have almost slipp’d the hour. 

Macb. I ’ll bring you to him. 

Macd. I know this is a joyful trouble to you ; 
But yet’t is one. 

Macb. The labour we delight in physics pain. 
This is the door. 

Macd. I ’ll make so bold to call, w 

For ’t is my limited service. [Exit. 

Len. Goes the King hence to-day ? 

Macb. He does ; — he did appoint so. 

Len. The night has been unruly. Where we 
lay, 

Our chimneys were blown down; and, as they 
say, «o 





ioi6 


MACBETH 


ii. iii. 


Lamentings heard i’ the air; strange screams 
of death, 

And prophesying with accents terrible 
Of dire combustion and confus’d events 
New hatch’d to the woeful time. The obscure 
bird 

Clamour’d the livelong night; some say, the 
earth es 

Was feverous and did shake. 

Macb. ’T was a rough night. 

Len. My young remembrance cannot parallel 
A fellow to it. 


What’s the matter ? 


Re-enter Macduff. 

Macd. 0 horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor 
heart 

Cannot conceive nor name thee ! 

Macb. 

Len. 

Macd. Confusion now hath made his master¬ 
piece ! n 

Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope 
The Lord’s anointed temple, and stole thence 
The life o’ the building ! 

Macb. What is’t you say ? The life ? 

Len. Mean you his Majesty ? 75 

Macd. Approach the chamber, and destroy 
your sight 

With a new Gorgon. Do not bid me speak ; 
See, and then speak yourselves. 

[Exeunt Macbeth and Lennox. 

Awake, awake! 

Ring the alarum-bell. Murder and treason ! 
Banquo and Donalbain ! Malcolm ! awake ! so 
Shake off this downy sleep, death’s counterfeit, 
And look on death itself ! Up, up, and see 
The great doom’s image ! Malcolm ! Banquo ! 
As from your graves rise up, and walk like 
sprites, 

To countenance this horror ! Ring the bell. «s 

[Bell rings. 

Enter Lady Macbeth. 


Lady M. What’s the business, 

That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley 
The sleepers of the house ? Speak, speak ! 

Macd. 0 gentle lady, 

’T is not for you to hear what I can speak ; 

The repetition in a woman’s ear no 

Would murder as it fell. 


Enter Banquo. 

0 Banquo, Banquo, 
Our royal master’s murder’d ! 

Lady M. Woe, alas ! 

What, in our house ? 

Ban. Too cruel anywhere. 

Dear Duff, I prithee, contradict thyself, 

And say it is not so. 95 

Re-enter Macbeth and Lennox, with Ross. 

Macb. Had I but died an hour before this 
chance, 

I had liv’d a blessed time ; for, from this in¬ 
stant, 

There’s nothing serious in mortality. 

All is but toys ; renown and grace is dead ; 


The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees 
Is left this vault to brag of. 

Enter Malcolm and Donalbain. 

Don. What is amiss ? 

Macb. You are, and do not know’t. 

The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood 
Is stopp’d ; the very source of it is stopp’d. 
Macd. Your royal father’s murder’d. 

Mai. O, by whom ? 

Len. Those of his chamber, as it seem’d, had 
done’t. 108 

Their hands and faces were all badg’d with 
blood; 

So were their daggers, which unwip’d we found 
Upon their pillows. 

They star’d, and were distracted; no man’s 
life 110 

Was to be trusted with them. 

Macb. 0, yet I do repent me of my fury, 
That I did kill them. 

Macd. Wherefore did you so ? 

Macb. Who can be wise, amaz’d, temperate 
and furious, 

Loyal and neutral, in a moment ? No man. ns 
The expedition of my violent love 
Outrun the pauser, reason. Here lay Duncan, 
His silver skin lac’d with his golden blood, 

And his gash’d stabs look’d like a breach in 
nature 

For ruin’s wasteful entrance ; there, the mur¬ 
derers, no 

Steep’d in the colours of their trade, their 
daggers 

Unmannerly breech’d with gore. Who could 
refrain, 

That had a heart to love, and in that heart 
Courage to make’s love known ? 

Lady M. Help me hence, ho! 

Macd. Look to the lady. 

Mai. [Aside to Don.] Why do we hold our 
tongues, ns 

That most may claim this argument for ours ? 
Don. [Aside to Mai.] What should be spoken 
here, where our fate, 

Hid in an auger-hole, may rush and seize us ? 
Let’s away; 

Our tears are not yet brew’d. 

Mai. [Aside to Don.] Nor our strong sorrow 
Upon the foot of motion. 

Ban. Look to the lady; m 

[Lady Macbeth is carried out .] 
And when we have our naked frailties hid, 
That suffer in exposure, let us meet 
And question this most bloody piece of work, 
To know it further. Fears and scruples shake 

us. 135 

In the great hand of God I stand, and thence 
Against the undivulg’d pretence I fight 
Of treasonous malice. 

Macd. And so do I. 

All. m So all. 

Macb. Let’s briefly put on manly readiness, 
And meet i’ the hall together. 

All. Well contented. 

[Exeunt [all but Malcolm and Don- 
albain]. 




III. i. 


MACBETH 


1017 


Mai. What will you do ? Let’s not consort 
with them ; 141 

To show an unfelt sorrow is an office 
Which the false man does easy. I ’ll to England. 

To Ireland, I; our separated fortune 
fehall keep us both the safer. Where we are, us 
1 here’s daggers in men’s smiles ; the near in 
blood, 

The nearer bloody. 

Mai. This murderous shaft that’s shot 

Hath not yet lighted, and our safest way 
Is to avoid the aim. Therefore, to horse ; 

And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, iso 
But shift away. There ’s warrant in that theft 
Which steals itself, when there’s no mercy 
left- [ Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [Outside Macbeth's castle .] 

Enter Ross and an Old Man. 

Old M. Threescore and ten I can remember 
well; 

Within the volume of which time I have seen 
Hours dreadful and things strange; but this 
sore night 

Hath trifled former knowings. 

Ross. Ah, good father, 

Thou seest the heavens, as troubled with man’s 

5 

Threatens his bloody stage. By the clock ’t is 
day, 

And yet dark night strangles the travelling 
lamp. 

Is ’’t night’s predominance or the day’s shame 
That darkness does the face of earth entomb, 

\Y hen living light should kiss it ? 

Old M. ’T is unnatural, 

Even like the deed that’s done. On Tuesday 
last, 11 

A falcon, tow’ring in her pride of place, 

Was by a mousing owl hawk’d at and kill’d. 
Ross. And Duncan’s horses — a thing most 
strange and certain — 

Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, 
Turn’d wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung 

OUt, 16 

Contending ’gainst obedience, as they would 
make 

War with mankind. 

Old M. ’T is said they eat each other. 

Ross. They did so, to the amazement of 
mine eyes is* 

That look’d upon’t. 

Enter Macduff. 

Here comes the good Macduff. 
How goes the world, sir, now ? 

Macd. Why, see you not ? 

Ross. Is’t known who did this more than 
bloody deed ? 

Macd. Those that Macbeth hath slain. 

Ross. Alas, the day! 

What good could they pretend ? 

Macd. They were suborn’d. 

Malcolm and Donalbain, the King’s two sons, 26 
Are stolen away and fled; which puts upon them 
Suspicion of the deed. 


Ross. ’Gainst nature still! 

Thriftless ambition, that will ravin up 
Thine own life’s means ! Then’t is most like 
The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. 30 
Macd. He is already nam’d, and gone to 
Scone 

To be invested. 

Ross. Where is Duncan’s body ? 

Macd. Carried to Colmekill, 

The sacred storehouse of his predecessors, 34 
And guardian of their bones. 

Ross. Will you to Scone ? 

Macd. No, cousin, I ’ll to Fife. 

Well, I will thither. 
Macd. Well, may you see things well done 
there, — adieu ! — 

Lest our old robes sit easier than our new ! 
Ross. Farewell, father. 

Old M. God’s benison go with you ; and with 
those 40 

That would make good of bad, and friends of 
foes! [Exeunt. 

ACT III 

Scene I. [Fotres. The palace.] 

Enter Banquo. 

Ban. Thou hast it now: King, Cawdor, 
Glamis, all, 

As the weird women promis’d, and, I fear, 
Thou play’dst most foully for ’t: yet it was 
said 

It should not stand in thy posterity, 

But that myself should be the root and father 
Of many kings. If there come truth from 
them — a 

As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine — 
Why, by the verities on thee made good, 

May they not be my oracles as well, 

And set me up in hope ? But hush ! no more. 10 

Sennet sounded. Enter Macbeth, as King , 
Lady [Macbeth, as Queen], Lennox, Ross, 
Lords, [Ladies,] and Servants. 

Macb. Here’s our chief guest. 

Lady M. If he had been forgotten, 

It had been as a gap in our great feast, 

And all-thing unbecoming. 

Macb. To-night we hold a solemn supper, 
sir, 

And I ’ll request your presence. 

Ban. Let your Highness 

Command upon me: to the which my duties i« 
Are with a most indissoluble tie 
For ever knit. 

Macb. Ride you this afternoon ? 

Ban. Ay, my good lord. 20 

Macb. We should have else desir’d your 
good advice, 

Which still hath been both grave and prosper¬ 
ous, 

In this day’s council; but we ’ll take to-mor¬ 
row. 

Is ’t far you ride ? 

Ban. As far, my lord, as will fill up the 
time 








ioi8 


MACBETH 


hi. i. 


’Twixt this and supper. Go not my horse the 
better, 

I must become a borrower of the night 
For a dark hour or twain. 

Macb. Fail not our feast. 

Ban. My lord, I will not. 

Macb. We hear our bloody cousins are be¬ 
stow’d # 30 

In England and in Ireland, not confessing 
Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers 
With strange invention. But of that to-mor¬ 
row, 

When therewithal we shall have cause of 
state 

Craving us jointly. Hie you to horse ; adieu, 35 
Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with 
you ? 

Ban. Ay, my good lord. Our time does call 
upon’s. 

Macb. I wish your horses swift and sure of 
foot; 

And so I do commend you to their backs. 
Farewell. [Exit Banquo. 40 

Let every man be master of his time 
Till seven at night. To make society 
The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself 
Till supper-time alone; while then, God be 
with you! 

[Exeunt [all but Macbeth , and a 
Servant ]. 

Sirrah, a word with you. Attend those men 45 
Our pleasure ? 

Serv. They are, my lord, without the palace 
gate. 

Macb. Bring them before us. [Exit Servant. 

To be thus is nothing ; 
But to be safely thus. Our fears in Banquo 
Stick deep ; and in his royalty of nature eo 
Reigns that which would be fear’d. ’T is much 
he dares; 

And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, 

He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour 
To act in safety. There is none but he 
Whose being I do fear ; and, under him, 65 
My Genius is rebuk’d, as, it is said, 

Mark Antony’s was by Caesar. He chid the 
sisters 

When first they put the name of king upon 
me, 

And bade them speak to him ; then prophet¬ 
like 

They hail’d him father to a line of kings. eo 
Upon my head they plac’d a fruitless crown, 
And put a barren sceptre in my gripe, 

Thence to be wrench’d with an unlineal hand, 
No son of mine succeeding. If’t be so, 

For Banquo’s issue have I fil’d my mind ; es 
For them the gracious Duncan have I mur¬ 
der’d ; 

Put rancours in the vessel of my peace 
Only for them ; and mine eternal jewel 
Given to the common enemy of man, 

To make them kings, the seed of Banquo 
kings! 70 

Rather than so, come fate into the list, 

And champion me to the utterance! Who’s 
there ? 


Be-enter Servant, with two Murderers. 

Now go to the door, and stay there till we call. 

[Exit Servant. 

Was it not yesterday we spoke together ? 

[ 2 .] Mur. It was, so please your Highness. 
Macb. Well then, now 

Have you consider’d of my speeches ? Know 76 
That it was he in the times past which held 
you 

So under fortune, which you thought had been 
Our innocent self. This I made good to you 
In our last conference, pass’d in probation with 
you, 80 

How you were borne in hand, how cross’d, the 
instruments, 

Who wrought with them, and all things else 
that might 

To half a soul and to a notion craz’d 
Say, “ Thus did Banquo.” 
i. Mur. You made it known to us. 

Macb. I did so, and went further, which is 
now 86 

Our point of second meeting. Do you find 
Your patience so predominant in your nature 
That you can let this go ? Are you so gospell’d 
To pray for this good man and for his issue, 89 
Whose heavy hand hath bow’d you to the grave 
And beggar’d yours for ever ? 

1 . Mur. We are men, my liege. 

Macb. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men, 

As hounds and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, 
curs, 

Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves, are 
clept 

All by the name of dogs ; the valued file 95 
Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, 
The housekeeper, the hunter, every one 
According to the gift which bounteous nature 
Hath in him clos’d ; whereby he does receive 
Particular addition, from the bill 100 

That writes them all alike ; and so of men. 
Now, if you have a station in the file, 

Not i’ the worst rank of manhood, say’t; 

And I will put that business in your bosoms, 
Whose execution takes your enemy off, ioe 
Grapples you to the heart and love of us, 

Who wear our health but sickly in his life, 
Which in his death were perfect. 

2 . Mur. I am one, my liege, 

Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world 
Hath so incens’d that I am reckless what no 
I do to spite the world. 

1 . Mur. And I another 

So weary with disasters, tugg’d with fortune, 
That I would set my life on any chance, 

To mend it, or be rid on’t. 

Macb. Both of you 

Know Banquo was your enemy. 

[Both] Mur. True, my lord. 

Macb. So is he mine; and in such bloody 
distance, lie 

That every minute of his being thrusts 
Against my near’st of life ; and though I could 
With barefac’d power sweep him from my 
sight 

And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not, ijc 






MACBETH 


IOIQ 


ill. iii. 


For certain friends that are both his and mine, 
Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall 
Who I myself struck down ; and thence it is, 
That I to your assistance do make love, 
Masking the business from the common eye 125 
For sundry weighty reasons. 

2 . Mur. We shall, my lord, 

Perform what you command us. 

1 . Mur. Though our lives — 

Macb. Your spirits shine through you. 
Within this hour at most 
I will advise you where to plant yourselves ; 120 
Acquaint you with the perfect spy o’ the time, 
The moment on’t; for’t must be done to-night, 
And something from the palace; always 
thought 

That I require a clearness : and with him — 

To leave no rubs nor botches in the work — 
Fleance his son, that keeps him company, 135 
Whose absence is no less material to me 
Than is his father’s, must embrace the fate 
Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart; 

I ’ll come to you anon. 

[Both] Mur. We are resolv’d, my lord. 

Macb. I ’ll call upon you straight ; abide 
within. [ Exeunt Murderers.] 140 

It is concluded. Banquo, thy soul’s flight, 

If it find heaven, must find it out to-night. 

[Exit. 

Scene II. [The palace.] 

Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant. 

Lady M. Is Banquo gone from court ? 

Serv. Ay, madam, but returns again to-night. 
Lady M. Say to the King, I would attend his 
leisure 

For a few words. 

Serv. Madam, I will. [Exit. 

Lady M. Nought’s had, all’s spent, 

Where our desire is got without content. 6 
’T is safer to be that which we destroy 
Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy. 

Enter Macbeth. 

How now, my lord ! why do you keep alone, 

Of sorriest fancies your companions making, 
Using those thoughts which should indeed 
have died 10 

With them they think on ? Things without all 
remedy 

Should be without regard ; what’s done is done. 
Macb. We have scotch’d the snake, not 
kill’d it; 

She ’ll close and be herself, whilst our poor 
malice 

Remains in danger of her former tooth. is 

But let the frame of things disjoint, both the 
worlds suffer, 

Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep 
In the affliction of these terrible dreams 
That shake us nightly. Better be with the 
dead 

Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to 
peace, 20 

Than on the torture of the mind to lie 
In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave ; 
After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well. 


Treason has done his worst; nor steel, nor 
poison, 

Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, 25 
Can touch him further. 

Lady M. Come on, 

Gentle my lord, sleek o’er your rugged looks ; 
Be bright and jovial among your guests to¬ 
night. 

Macb. So shall I, love ; and so, I pray, be 
you. 

Let your remembrance apply to Banquo ; 30 

Present him eminence, both with eye and 
tongue. 

Unsafe the while, that we 

Must lave our honours in these flattering 
streams, 

And make our faces vizards to our hearts, 
Disguising what they are. 

Lady M. You must leave this. 

Macb. O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear 
wife! 36 

Thou know’st that Banquo and his Fleance 
lives. 

Lady M. But in them nature’s copy’s not 
eterne. 

Macb. There’s comfort yet; they are assail¬ 
able. 

Then be thou jocund ; ere the bat hath flown 40 
His cloister’d flight, ere to black Hecate’s 
summons 

The shard-borne beetle with his drowsy hums 
Hath rung night’s yawning peal, there shall be 
done 

A deed of dreadful note. 

Lady M. What’s to be done ? 

Macb. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest 
chuck, 4s 

Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling 
night, 

Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day, 

And with thy bloody and invisible hand 
Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond 
Which keeps me pale ! Light thickens, and 
the crow so 

Makes wing to the rooky wood ; 

Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, 
Whiles night’s black agents to their preys do 
rouse. 

Thou marvell’st at my words, but hold thee 
still; 

Things bad begun make strong themselves by 
ill. 66 

So, prithee, go with me. [Exeunt. 

Scene III. [A park near the palace .] 
Enter three Murderers. 

1 . Mur. But who did bid thee join with us ? 

3 . Mur. Macbeth. 

2 . Mur. He needs not our mistrust, since he 

delivers 

Our offices and what we have to do 
To the direction just. 

1 . Mur. Then stand with us ; 

The west yet glimmers with some streaks of 
day. 6 

Now spurs the lated traveller apace 




1020 


MACBETH 


nr. iv. 


To gain the timely inn ; and near approaches 
The subject of our watch. 

3. Mur. Hark ! I hear horses. 

Ban. {Within.) Give us a light there, ho ! 

2. Mur. * Then ’t is he ; the rest 

That are within the note of expectation io 
Already are i’ the court. 

1. Mur. His horses go about. 

3. Mur. Almost a mile ; but he does usually, 
So all men do, from hence to the palace gate 
Make it their walk. 

Enter Banquo, and Fleance with a torch. 

2. Mur. A light,, a light! 

3. Mur. ’T is he. 

1. Mur. Stand to ’t. is 

Ban. It will he rain to-night. 

1. Mur. Let it come down. 

\They set upon Banquo .] 
Ban. 0, treachery ! Fly, good Fleance, fly, 
fly, fly! 

Thou mayst revenge. 0 slave ! 

[Dies. Fleance escapes .] 
3. Mur. Who did strike out the light ? 

1. Mur. Was ’t not the way ? 

3. Mur. There’s but one down; the son is 

fled. 

2. Mur. We have lost 20 

Best half of our affair. 

1. Mur. Well, let’s away, and say how much 
is done. [Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [The same. Hall in the palace .] 

A banquet prepar'd. Enter Macbeth, Lady 
Macbeth, Boss, Lennox, Lords, and At¬ 
tendants. 

Macb. You know your own degrees; sit 
down. At first 

And last, the hearty welcome. 

Lards. Thanks to your Majesty. 

Macb. Ourself will mingle w r ith society 
And play the humble host. 

()ur hostess keeps her state, but in best time 6 
We will require her welcome. 

Lady M. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our 
friends, 

For my heart speaks they are welcome. 

First Murderer [appears at the door}. 

Macb. See, they encounter thee with their 
hearts’ thanks. 9 

Both sides are even ; here I ’ll sit i’ the midst. 
Be large in mirth ; anon we ’ll drink a measure 
The table round. [Approaching the door.} 
— There’s blood upon thy face. 

Mur. ’T is Banquo’s then. 

Macb. ’T is better thee without than he 
within. 

Is he dispatch’d ? is 

Mur. My lord, his throat is cut; that I did 
for him. 

Macb. Thou art the best o’ the cut-throats ; 
yet he’s good 

That did the like for Fleance. If thou didst 
it, 

Thou art the nonpareil. 


Mur. Most royal sir, 

Fleance is scap’d. 2 « 

Macb. Then comes my fit again. I had else 
been perfect, 

Whole as the marble, founded as the rock, 

As broad and general as the casing air ; 

But now I am cabin’d, cribb’d, confin’d, bound 
in 

To saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo’s safe ? 
Mur. Ay, my good lord; safe in a ditch he 
bides, 26 

W r ith twenty trenched gashes on his head, 

The least a death to nature. 

Macb. Thanks for that; 

There the grown serpent lies. The worm that’s 
fled 

Hath nature that in time will venom breed, 30 
No teeth for the present. Get thee gone ; to¬ 
morrow 

We ’ll hear ourselves again. [Exit Murderer. 

Lady M. My royal lord, 

You do not give the cheer. The feast is sold 
That is not often vouch’d, while ’tis a-making, 
’T is given with welcome. To feed were best at 
home; as 

From thence, the sauce to meat is ceremony ; 
Meeting were bare without it. 

Enter the Ghost of Banquo , and sits in Mac¬ 
beth's place. 

Macb. Sweet remembrancer! 

Now, good digestion wait on appetite, 

And health on both ! 

Len. May’t please your Highness sit. 

Macb. Here had we now our country’s honour 
roof’d, 40 

Were the grac’d person of our Banquo present, 
Who may I rather challenge for unkindness 
Than pity for mischance. 

Ross. His absence, sir, 

Lays blame upon his promise. Please’t your 
Highness 

To grace us with your royal company ? 46 

Macb. The table’s full. 

Len. Here is a place reserv’d, sir. 

Macb. Where ? 

Len. Here, my good lord. What is’t that 
moves your Highness ? 

Macb. Which of you have done this ? 

Lords. What, my good lord? 

Macb. Thou canst not say I did it; never 
shake so 

Thy gory locks at me. 

Ross. Gentlemen, rise: his Highness is not 
well. 

Lady M. Sit, worthy friends; my lord is 
often thus, 

And hath been from his youth. Pray you, keep 
seat; 

The fit is momentary ; upon a thought m 

He will again be well. If much you note him, 
You shall offend him and extend his passion. 
Feed, and regard him not. [Aside to Macbeth .] 
Are you a man ? 

Macb. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on 
that 

Which might appall the devil. 






III. V. 


MACBETH 


1021 


Lady M. [Aside to Macbeth.] 0 proper stuff ! 
This is the very painting of your fear; ei 

This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said, 
Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws and starts, 
Impostors to true fear, would well become 
A woman’s story at a winter’s fire, bs 

Authoriz’d by her grandam. Shame itself ! 
Why do you make such faces ? When all’s done, 
You look but on a stool. 

Macb. Prithee, see there ! behold ! look ! lo ! 
how say you ? 

Why, what care I ? If thou canst nod, speak 
too. 70 

If charnel-houses and our graves must send 
Those that we bury back, our monuments 
Shall be the maws of kites. [Ghost vanishes .] 
Lady M. [Aside to Macbeth .] What, quite 
unmann’d in folly ? 

Macb. If I stand here, I saw him. 

Lady M. [Aside to Macbeth.] Fie, for shame! 
Macb. Blood hath been shed ere now, i’ the 
olden time, 76 

Ere humane statute purg’d the gentle weal; 
Ay, and since too, murders have been perform’d 
Too terrible for the ear. The time has been, 
That, when the brains were out, the man would 
die, 

And there an end ; but now they rise again, so 
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, 
And push us from our stools. This is more 
strange 

Than such a murder is. 

Lady M. My worthy lord, 

Your noble friends do lack you. 

Macb. I do forget. 

Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends; se 
I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing 
To those that know me. Come, love and health 
to all; 

Then I ’ll sit down. Give me some wine; fill full. 
Re-enter Ghost. 

I drink to the general joy o’ the whole table, 
And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we 
miss; 00 

Would he were here ! to all and him we thirst, 
And all to all. 

Lords. Our duties, and the pledge. 

Macb. Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the 
earth hide thee! 

Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold ; 
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes 0 e 

Which thou dost glare with ! 

Lady M. Think of this, good peers, 

But as a thing of custom ; ’t is no other. 

Only it spoils the pleasure of the time. 

Macb. What man dare, I dare. 

Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, ioo 
The arm’d rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger ; 
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves 
Shall never tremble. Or be alive again, 

And dare me to the desert with thy sword ; 

If trembling I inhabit then, protest me 
The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow ! 
Unreal mockery, hence ! [Ghost vanishes.] 

Why, so ; being gone, 
I am a man again. Pray you, sit still. 


Lady M. You have displac’d the mirth, 
broke the good meeting, 

With most admir’d disorder. 

Macb. Can such things be, 

And overcome us like a summer’s cloud, in 
Without our special wonder? You make me 
strange 

Even to the disposition that I owe, 

When now I think you can behold such sights, 
And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, ns 
When mine is blanch’d with fear. 

Ross. What sights, my lord ? 

Lady M. I pray you, speak not; he grows 
worse and worse; 

Question enrages him. At once, good-night. 
Stand not upon the order of your going, n» 
But go at once. 

Len. Good-night; and better health 

Attend his Majesty! 

Lady M. A kind good-night to all! 

[Exeunt Lords. 

Macb. It will have blood, they say; blood 
will have blood. 

Stones have been known to move and trees to 
speak ; 

Augures and understood relations have 
By maggot-pies and choughs and rooks brought 
forth 125 

The secret’st man of blood. What is the night ? 
Lady M. Almost at odds with morning, 
which is which. 

Macb. How say’st thou, that Macduff denies 
his person 

At our great bidding ? 

Lady M. Did you send to him, sir ? 

Macb. I hear it by the way ; but I will send. 130 
There’s not a one of them but in his house 
I keep a servant fee’d. I will to-morrow, 

And betimes I will, to the weird sisters. 

More shall they speak ; for now I am bent to 
know, 

By the worst means, the worst. For mine own 
good 136 

All causes shall give way. I am in blood 
Stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more, 
Returning were as tedious as go o’er. 

Strange things I have in head, that will to 
hand, 

Which must be acted ere they maybe scann’d. 140 
Lady M. You lack the season of all natures, 
sleep. 

Macb. Come, we ’ll to sleep. My strange and 
self-abuse 

Is the initiate fear that wants hard use ; 

We are yet but young in deed. [Exeunt. 

Scene V. [A heath.] 

Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting 
Hecate. 

1. Witch. Why, how now, Hecate ! you look 
angerly. 

Hec. Have I not reason, beldams as you are, 
Saucy and overbold ? How did you dare 
To trade and traffic with Macbeth 
In riddles and affairs of death ; « 

And I, the mistress of your charms, 





1022 


MACBETH 


IV. i. 


The close contriver of all harms, 

Was never call’d to bear my part, 

Or show the glory of our art ? 

And, which is worse, all you have done 1 ° 
Hath been but for a wayward son, 

Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do, 

Loves for his own ends, not for you. 

But make amends now ; get you gone, 

And at the pit of Acheron 

Meet me i’ the morning ; thither he 

Will come to know his destiny. 

Your vessels and your spells provide, 

Your charms and everything beside. 

I am for the air ; this night 1 ’ll spend 20 

Unto a dismal and a fatal end ; 

Great business must be wrought ere noon. 

Upon the corner of the moon 

There hangs a vaporous drop profound ; 

I ’ll catch it ere it come to ground ; 25 

And that distill’d by magic sleights 
Shall raise such artificial sprites 
As by the strength of their illusion 
Shall draw him on to his confusion. 

He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear 30 
His hopes ’bove wisdom, grace, and fear ; 

And, you all know, security 
Is mortals’ chiefest enemy. 

[Music, and a song. 

Hark ! I am call’d ; my little spirit, see, 

Sits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me. [Exit.] 
[Sing within : “ Come away, come 
away,” etc. 

7. Witch. Come, let’s make haste; she ’ll 
soon be back again. [Exeunt. 36 

Scene VI. [Forres. The palace.] 

Enter Lennox and another Lord. 

Len. My former speeches have but hit your 
thoughts, 

Which can interpret farther ; only, I say, 
Things have been strangely borne. The gra¬ 
cious Duncan 

Was pitied of Macbeth ; marry, he was dead : 
And the right-valiant Banquo walk’d too late ; s 
Whom, you may say, if ’t please you, Fleanee 
kill’d, 

For Fleanee fled; men must not walk too 
late. 

Who cannot want the thought how monstrous 
It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain 
To kill their gracious father ? Damned fact! 10 
How it did grieve Macbeth! Did he not 
straight 

In pious rage the two delinquents tear, 

That were the slaves of drink and thralls of 
sleep ? 

Was not that nobly done ? Ay, and wisely 
too ; 

For’t would have anger’d any heart alive is 
To hear the men deny’t. So that, I say, 

He has borne all things well; and I do think 
That had he Duncan’s sons under his key — 
As, an ’t please Heaven, he shall not — they 
should find 

What ’t were to kill a father; so should 
Fleanee. 20 


But, peace ! for from broad words, and ’cause 
he fail’d 

His presence at the tyrant’s feast, I hear 
Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell 
Where he bestows himself ? 

Lord. The son of Duncan, 

From whom this tyrant holds the due of 
birth, . 25 

Lives in the English court, and is receiv’d 
Of the most pious Edward with such grace 
That the malevolence of Fortune nothing 
Takes from his high respect. Thither Macduff 
Is gone to pray the holy king, upon liis aid 3« 
To wake Northumberland and warlike Siward ; 
That, by the help of these — with Him above 
To ratify the work — we may again 
Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights, 
Free from our feasts and banquets bloody 
knives, 35 

Do faithful homage and receive free honours ; 
All which we pine for now : and this report 
Hath so exasperate their king that he 
Prepares for some attempt of war. 

Len. Sent he to Macduff ? 

Lord. He did; and with an absolute “ Sir, 
not I,” 40 

The cloudy messenger turns me his back, 

And hums, as who should say, “ You ’ll rue the 
time 

That clogs me with this answer.” 

Len. And that well might 

Advise him to a caution, to hold what distance 
His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel « 
Fly to the court of England and unfold 
His message ere he come, that a swift blessing 
May soon return to this our suffering country 
Under a hand accurs’d ! 

Lord. I ’ll send my prayers with him. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT IV 

Scene I. [A cavern. In the middle , a boiling 
cauldron.] 

Thunder. Enter the three Witches. 

1. Witch. Thrice the brinded cat hath 

mew’d. 

2. Witch. Thrice, and once the hedge-pig 

whin’d. 

3. Witch. Harpier cries ;’t is time, ’t is time. 

1. Witch. Round about the cauldron go ; 

In the poison’d entrails throw. * 

Toad, that under cold stone 
Days and nights has thirty-one 
Swelt’red venom sleeping got. 

Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot. 

All. Double, double, toil and trouble ; i« 
Fire burn and cauldron bubble. 

2. Witch. Fillet of a fenny snake, 

In the cauldron boil and bake; 

Eye of newt and toe of frog, 

Wool of bat and tongue of dog, is 

Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting, 

Lizard’s leg and howlet’s wing, 

For a charm of powerful trouble, 

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. 






IV. 1. 


MACBETH 


1023 


A//. Double, double, toil and trouble; 20 
Fire burn and cauldron bubble. 

3. Witch. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, 
Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf 
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark, 

Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark, 25 

Liver of blaspheming Jew, 

Gall of goat, and slips of yew 
Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse, 

Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips, 

Finger of birth-strangled babe 30 

Ditch-deliver’d by a drab, 

Make the gruel thick and slab. 

Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron, 

For the ingredients of our cauldron. 

All. Double, double, toil and trouble ; ss 
Fire burn and cauldron bubble. 

2. Witch. Cool it with a baboon’s blood, 
Then the charm is firm and good. 

Enter Hecate to the other three Witches. 

Hec. O, well done ! I commend your pains ; 
And every one shall share i’ the gains. w 

And now about the cauldron sing, 

Like elves and fairies in a ring, 

Enchanting all that you put in. 

[Music and a song: “ Black 
spirits,” etc. [Hecate retires.] 
2. Witch. By the pricking of my thumbs, 
Something wicked this way comes. 45 

Open, locks, 

Whoever knocks! 

Enter Macbeth. 

Mach. How now, you secret, black, and mid¬ 
night hags ! 

What is’t you do ? 

All. A deed without a name. 

Mach. I conjure you, by that which you pro¬ 
fess, < 60 

Howe’er you come to know it, answer me ! 
Though you untie the winds and let them fight 
Against the churches ; though the yesty waves 
Confound and swallow navigation up ; 

Though bladed corn be lodg’d and trees blown 
down; _ or. 

Though castles topple on their warders’ heads ; 
Though palaces and pyramids do slope 
Their heads to their foundations; though the 
treasure 

Of nature’s germens tumble all together, 

Even till destruction sicken; answer me 60 
To what I ask you. 

1. Witch. Speak. 

2. Witch. Demand. 

3. Witch. We’ll answer. 

1. Witch. Say, if thou ’dst rather hear it 

from our mouths, 

Or from our masters’ ? 

Mach. Call ’em ; let me see ’em. 

1. Witch. Pour in sow’s blood, that hath 
eaten 

Her nine farrow ; grease that’s sweaten 65 
From the murderer’s gibbet throw 
Into the flame. 

All. Come, high or low ; 

Thyself and office deftly show ! 


Thunder. First Apparition, an armed Head. 

Mach. Tell me, thou unknown power,— 

1. Witch. He knows thy thought. 

Hear his speech, but say thou nought. to 

1. App. Macbeth! Macbeth ! Macbeth! be¬ 
ware Macduff; 

Beware the thane of Fife. Dismiss me. 
Enough. [Descends. 

Macb. Whate’er thou art, for thy good cau¬ 
tion, thanks; 

Thou hast harp’d my fear aright. But one 
word more, — 

1. Witch. He will not be commanded. Here’s 

another, 76 

More potent than the first. 

Thunder. Second Apparition, a bloody Child. 

2. App. Macbeth ! Macbeth ! Macbeth! 
Macb. Had I three ears, I’d hear thee. 

2. App. Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh 

to scorn 

The power of man ; for none of woman born so 
Shall harm Macbeth. [Descends. 

Macb. Then live, Macduff : what need I fear 
of thee ? 

But yet I ’ll make assurance double sure, 

And take a bond of fate. Thou shalt not live ; 
That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, 86 
And sleep in spite of thunder. 

Thunder. Third Apparition, a Child crowned, 
with a tree in his hand. 

What is this 

That rises like the issue of a king, 

And wears upon his baby-brow the round 
And top of sovereignty ? 

All. Listen, but speak not to’t. 

3. App. Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no 

care ao 

Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers 
are. 

Macbeth shall never vanquish’d be until 
Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill 
Shall come against him. [Descends. 

Mach. That will never be. 

Who can impress the forest, bid the tree »5 
Unfix his earth-bound root ? Sweet bodements! 
good ! 

Rebellion’s head, rise never till the wood 
Of Birnam rise, and our high-plac’d Macbeth 
Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath 
To time and mortal custom. Yet my heart 100 
Throbs to know one thing: tell me, if your art 
Can tell so much, shall Banquo’s issue ever 
Reign in this kingdom ? 

All. Seek to know no more. 

Mach. I will be satisfied ! Deny me this, 

And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me 
know. ms 

Why sinks that cauldron ? And what noise i? 
this ? [Hautboys. 

1. Witch. Show! 

2. Witch. Show ! 

3. Witch. Show! 

All. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart; no 
Come like shadows, so depart! 





1024 


MACBETH 


iv. ii. 


A show of Eight Kings, the last with a glass in his 
hand; Banquo's Ghost following. 

Macb. Thou art too like the spirit of Ban- 
quo ; down! 

Thy crown does sear mine eye-balls. And thy 
hair, 

Thou other gold-hound brow, is like the first. 

A third is like the former. Filthy hags ! ub 
W hy do you show me this ? A fourth ! Start, 
eyes! 

What, will the line stretch out to the crack of 
doom ? 

Another yet! A seventh ! I ’ll see no more. 
And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass 
Which shows me many more ; and some I see 120 
That twofold balls and treble sceptres carry. 
Horrible sight ! Now, I see, ’tis true ; 

For the blood-bolter’d Banquo smiles upon 
me, 

And points at them for his. [Apparitions van¬ 
ish .1 What, is this so ? 

1 . Witch. Ay, sir, all this is so ; but why 125 
Stands Macbeth thus amazedly ? 

Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprites, 

And show the best of our delights. 

I ’ll charm the air to give a sound, 

While you perform your antic round ; 130 

That this great king may kindly say, 

Our duties did his welcome pay. 

[Music. The Witches dance , and 
vanish [with Hecate]. 

Macb. Where are they ? Gone ? Let this 
pernicious hour 

Stand aye accursed in the calendar ! 134 

Come in, without there ! 

Enter Lennox. 

Leh. What’s your Grace’s will ? 

Macb. Saw you the weird sisters ? 

Len. No, my lord. 

Macb. Came they not by you ? 

Len. No, indeed, my lord. 

Macb. Infected be the air whereon they ride ; 
And damn’d all those that trust them ! I did 
hear 

The galloping of horse ; who was’t came by ? 140 
Len. *T is two or three, my lord, that bring 
you word 

Macduff is fled to England. 

Macb. Fled to England ! 

Len. Ay, my good lord. 

Macb. Time, thou anticipat’st my dread ex¬ 
ploits : 

The flighty purpose never is o’ertook 145 

Unless the deed go with it. From this mo¬ 
ment 

The very firstlings of my heart shall be 
The firstlings of my hand. And even now, 

To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought 
and done. 

The castle of Macduff 1 will surprise; iso 

Seize upon Fife ; give to the edge o’ the sword 
His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls 
That trace him in his line. No boasting like a 
fool; 

This deed I ’ll do before this purpose cool. 


But no more sights! — Where are these gentle¬ 
men ? 166 

Come, bring me where they are. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. [Fife. Macduff's castle.] 

Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Ross. 

L. Macd. What had he done, to make him 
fly the land ? 

Boss. You must have patience, madam. 

L. Macd. He had none; 

His flight was madness. When our actions de 
not, 

Our fears do make us traitors. 

Boss. You know not 

Whether it was his wisdom or his fear. b 

L. Macd. Wisdom ! to leave his wife, to 
leave his babes, 

His mansion and his titles, in a place 
From whence himself does fly ? He loves us 
not, 

He wants the natural touch ; for the poor wren, 
The most diminutive of birds, will fight, 10 
Her young ones in her nest, against the owl. 

All is the fear and nothing is the love ; 

As little is the wisdom, where the flight 
So runs against all reason. 

Boss. My dearest coz, 

I pray you, school yourself; but for your hus¬ 
band, 16 

He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows 
The fits o’ the season. I dare not speak much 
further; 

But cruel are the times when we are traitors 
And do not know ourselves; when we hold 
rumour 

From what we fear, yet know not what we 
fear, _ 20 

But float upon a wild and violent sea 
Each way and move. I take my leave of you ; 
Shall not be long but I ’ll be here again. 

Things at the worst will cease, or else climb 
upward 

To what they were before. My pretty cousin, 25 
Blessing upon you ! 

L. Macd. Father’d he is, and yet he’s father¬ 
less. 

Boss. I am so much a fool, should I stay 
longer, 

It would be my disgrace and your discomfort. 

I take my leave at once. [Exit. 

L. Macd. Sirrah, your father’s dead ; 

And what will you do now ? How will you 
live ? si 

Son. As birds do, mother. 

L. Macd. What, with worms and flies ? 

Son. With what I get, I mean; and so do 
they. 

L. Macd. Poor bird ! thou ’dst never fear 
the net nor lime, 

The pitfall nor the gin. 35 

Son. Why should I, mother ? Poor birds 
they are not set for. 

My father is not dead, for all your saying. 

L. Macd. Yes, he is dead. How wilt thou 
do for a father ? 

Son. Nay, how will you do for a husband ? 






iv. iii. 


MACBETH 


1025 


L. Macd. Why, I can buy me twenty at any 
market. 40 

Son. Then you ’ll buy ’em to sell again. 

L. Macd. Thou speak’st with all thy wit; 
and yet, i’ faith, 

With wit enough for thee. 

Son. W T as my father a traitor, mother ? 

L. Macd. Ay, that he was. 45 

Son. What is a traitor ? 

L. Macd. Why, one that swears and lies. 
Son. And be all traitors that do so ? 

L. Macd. Every one that does so is a traitor, 
and must be hang’d. 50 

Son. And must they all be hang’d that swear 
and lie ? 

L. Macd. Every one. 

Son. Who must hang them ? 

L. Macd. Why, the honest men. 65 

Son. Then the liars and swearers are fools ; 
for there are liars and swearers enow to beat 
the honest men and hang up them. 

L. Macd. Now, God help thee, poor mon¬ 
key ! 

But how wilt thou do for a father ? 60 

Son. If he were dead, you’d weep for him ; 
if you would not, it were a good sign that I 
should quickly have a new father. 

L. Macd. Poor prattler, how thou talk’st! 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. Bless you, fair dame ! I am not to you 
known, es 

Though in your state of honour I am perfect. 

I doubt some danger does approach you nearly. 
If you will take a homely man’s advice, 

Be not found here; hence, with your little 
pnes. 

To fright you thus, methinks, I am too sav- 
age; 70 

To do worse to you were fell cruelty, 

Which is too nigh your person. Heaven pre¬ 
serve you ! 

I dare abide no longer. [Exit. 

L. Macd. Whither should I fly ? 

I have done no harm. But I remember now 
I am in this earthly world, where to do harm 75 
Is often laudable, to do good sometime 
Accounted dangerous folly. Why then, alas, 

Do I put up that womanly defence, 

To say I have done no harm ? 

Enter Murderers. 

What are these faces ? 

[l.] Mur. Where is your husband ? so 

L. Macd. I hope, in no place so unsancti¬ 
fied 

Where such as thou mayst find him. 

[7.] Mur. He’s a traitor. 

Son. Thou liest, thou shag-ear’d villain ! 

[i.] Mur. What, you egg ! 

[Stabbing him.] 

Young fry of treachery ! 

Son. He has kill’d me, mother: 

Run away, I pray you ! [Dies.] so 

[Exit [Lady Macduff] crying 
“Murder!” [Exeunt Murder¬ 
ers^ following her.] 


Scene III. [England. Before the King's 
palace.] 

Enter Malcolm and Macduff. 

Mai. Let us seek out some desolate shade, 
and there 

Weep our sad bosoms empty. 

Macd. Let. us rather 

Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men 
Bestride our down-fallen birthdom. Each new 
morn 

New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sor¬ 
rows 5 

Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds 
As if it felt with Scotland, and yell’d out 
Like syllable of dolour. 

■ Mq/. What I believe I ’ll wail, 

W hat know believe, and what I can redress, 

As I shall find the time to friend, I will. 10 
What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. 
This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our 
tongues, 

Was once thought honest; you have lov’d him 
well. 

He hath not touch’d you yet. I am young; 
but something 

You may deserve of him through me, and wis¬ 
dom 1C 

To offer up a weak poor innocent lamb 
To appease an angry god. 

Macd. I am not treacherous. 

Mai. But Macbeth is. 

A good and virtuous nature may recoil 
In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your 
pardon ; 20 

That which you are my thoughts cannot trans¬ 
pose. 

Angels are bright still, though the brightest 
fell. 

Though all things foul would wear the brows 
of grace, 

Yet grace must still look so. 

Macd. I have lost my hopes. 

Mai. Perchance even there where I did find 
my doubts. 20 

Why in that rawness left you wife and child, 
Those precious motives, those strong knots of 
love, 

Without leave-taking ? I pray you, 

Let not my jealousies be your dishonours, 

But mine own safeties. You may be rightly 

just, 30 

Whatever I shall think. 

Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor country ! 

Great tyranny ! lay thou thy basis sure, 

For goodness dare not cheek thee ; wear thou 
thy wrongs : 

The title is affeer’d ! Fare thee well, lord: 

I would not be the villain that thou think’st sb 
For the whole space that’s in the tyrant’s 
grasp, 

And the rich East to boot. 

Mai. Be not offended; 

I speak not as in absolute fear of you. 

I think our country sinks beneath the yoke ; 

It weeps, it bleeds ; and each new day a gash 40 
Is added to her wounds. I think withal 






1026 


MACBETH 


iv. iii. 


There would be hands uplifted in my right; 
And here from gracious England have I offer 
Of goodly thousands. But, for all this, 

When I shall tread upon the tyrant’s head, 45 
Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country 
Shall have more vices than it had before, 

More suffer and more sundry ways than ever, 
By him that shall succeed. 

Macd. What should he be ? 

Mai. It is myself I mean ; in whom I know go 
All the particulars of vice so grafted 
That, when they shall be open’d, black Mac¬ 
beth 

Will seem as pure as snow, and the poor state 
Esteem him as a lamb, being compar’d 64 

With my confineless harms. 

Macd. Not in the legions 

Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn’d 
In evils to top Macbeth. 

Mai. I grant him bloody, 

Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, 

Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin 
That has a name; but there ’s no bottom, none, 60 
In my voluptuousness. Your wives, your 
daughters, 

Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up 
The cistern of my lust, and my desire 
All continent impediments would o’erbear 
That did oppose my will. Better Macbeth 65 
Than such an one to reign. 

Macd. Boundless intemperance 

In nature is a tyranny ; it hath been 
The untimely emptying of the happy throne 
And fall of many kings. But fear not yet 
To take upon you what is yours. You may to 
C onvey your pleasures in a spacious plenty, 
And yet seem cold ; the time you may so hood¬ 
wink. 

We have willing dames enough ; there cannot be 
That vulture in you, to devour so many 
As will to greatness dedicate themselves, 75 
Finding it so inclin’d. 

Mai. With this there grows 

In my most ill-compos’d affection such 
A stanchless avarice that, were I King, 

I should cut off the nobles for their lands, 
Desire his jewels and this other’s house ; so 
And my more-having would be as a sauce 
To make me hunger more, that I should forge 
Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, 
Destroying them for wealth. 

Macd. This avarice 

Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root 
Than summer-seeming lust, and it hath been so 
The sword of our slain kings. Yet do not fear ; 
Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will, 

Of your mere own. All these are portable, 
With other graces weigh’d. oo 

Mai. But I have none. The king-becoming 
graces, 

As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, 
Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, 
Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, 

I have no relish of them, but abound 95 

In the division of each several crime, 

Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I 
should 


Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, 
Uproar the universal peace, confound 
All unity on earth. 

Macd. 0 Scotland, Scotland ! i« 

Mai. If such an one be fit to govern, speak. 
I am as I have spoken. 

Macd. Fit to govern ! 

No, not to live. O nation miserable, 

With an untitled tyrant bloody-sceptred, 

When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, 
Since that the truest issue of thy throne n* 
By his own interdiction stands accurs’d, 

And does blaspheme his breed ? Thy royal 
father 

Was a most sainted king ; the queen that bore 
thee, 

Oftener upon her knees than on her feet, 11* 
Died every day she liv’d. Fare thee well! 
These evils thou repeat’st upon thyself 
Hath banish’d me from Scotland. Omy breast, 
Thy hope ends here ! 

Mai. Macduff, this noble passion, 

Child of integrity, hath from my soul ns 

Wip’d the black scruples, reconcil’d my 
thoughts 

To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Mac¬ 
beth 

By many of these trains hath sought to win me 
Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me 
From over-credulous haste. But God above 120 
Deal between thee and me ! for even now 
I put myself to thy direction, and 
Unspeak mine own detraction ; here abjure 
The taints and blames I laid upon myself, 

For strangers to my nature. I am yet 126 

Unknown to woman, never was forsworn, 
Scarcely have coveted what was mine o^n, 

At no time broke my faith, would not betray 
The devil to his fellow, and delight 
No less in truth than life ; my first false speak¬ 
ing 130 

Was this upon myself. What I am truly, 

Is thine and my poor country’s to command ; 
Whither indeed, before thy here-approach, 

Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men, 
Already at a point, was setting forth. 135 

Now we ’ll together ; and the chance of good¬ 
ness 

Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you 
silent ? 

Macd. Such welcome and unwelcome things 
at once 

’T is hard to reconcile. 

Enter a Doctor. 

Mai. Well; more anon. — Comes the King 
forth, I pray you ? 140 

Doct. Ay, sir ; there are a crew of wretched 
souls 

That stay his cure. Their malady convinces 
The great assay of art; but at his touch — 
Such sanctity hath Heaven given his hand — 
They presently amend. 

Mat. I thank you, doctor. i 46 

[Exit Doctor. 

Macd. What’s the disease he means? 

Mai. ’Tis call’d the evil: 





MACBETH 


1027 


iv. iii. 


A most miraculous work in this good king ; 
Which often, since my here-remain in England, 
I have seen him do. How he solicits Heaven, 
Himself best knows ; but strangely-visited 
people, 150 

All swollen and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, 
The mere despair of surgery, he cures, 

Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, 

Put on with holy prayers ; and ’t is spoken, 

To the succeeding royalty he leaves 155 

The healing benediction. With this strange 
virtue, 

He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy, 

And sundry blessings hang about his throne, 
That speak him full of grace. 

Enter Ross. 

Macd. See, who comes here ? 

Mai. My countryman ; but yet I know him 
not. iso 

Macd. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither. 
Mai. I know him now. Good God, betimes 
remove 

The means that makes us strangers ! 

Boss. Sir, amen. 

Macd. Stands Scotland where it did ? 

Boss. Alas, poor country ! 

Almost afraid to know itself. It cannot we 
Be call’d our mother, but our grave ; where 
nothing, 

But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile ; 
Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend 
the air 

Are made, not mark’d ; where violent sorrow 
seems 

A modern ecstasy. The dead man’s knell no 
Is there scarce ask’d for who ; and good men’s 
lives 

Expire before the flowers in their caps, 

Dying or ere they sicken. 

Macd. 0 , relation 

Too nice, and yet too true ! 

Mai. What’s the newest grief ? 

Boss. That of an hour’s age doth hiss the 
speaker; 175 

Each minute teems a new one. 

Macd. How does my wife ? 

Boss. Why, well. 

Macd. And all my children ? 

Boss. Well too. 

Macd. The tyrant has not batter’d at their 
peace ? 

Boss. No; they were well at peace when I 
did leave ’em. 

Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech ; how 
goes’t ? 180 

Boss. When I came hither to transport the 
tidings, 

Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour 
Of many worthy fellows that were out; 

Which was to my belief witness’d the rather, 
For that I saw the tyrant’s power a-foot. we 
Now is the time of help ; your eye in Scotland 
Would create soldiers, make our women fight, 
To doff their dire distresses. 

Mai. Be’t their comfort 

We ’re coming thither. Gracious England hath 


Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men ; wo 
An older and a better soldier none 
That Christendom gives out. 

Boss. Would I could answer 

This comfort with the like ! But I have words 
That would be howl’d out in the desert air, 
Where hearing should not latch them. 

Macd. What concern they ? 

The general cause ? Or is it a fee-grief we 
Due to some single breast ? 

Boss. No mind that’s honest 

But in it shares some woe; though the main 
part 

Pertains to you alone. 

Macd. If it be mine, 

Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. 200 
Boss. Let not your ears despise my tongue 
for ever, 

Which shall possess them with the heaviest 
sound 

That ever yet they heard. 

Macd. Hum ! I guess at it. 

Boss. Your castle is surpris’d ; your wife 
and babes 

Savagely slaughter’d. To relate the manner, 205 
Were, on the quarry of these murder’d deer, 

To add the death of you. 

Mai. Merciful heaven! 

What, man! ne’er pull your hat upon your 
brows ; 

Give sorrow words. The grief that does nc A 
speak 

Whispers the o’er-fraught heart and bids iv. 
break. 210 

Macd. My children too ? 

Boss. Wife, children, servants, all 

That could be found. 

Macd. And I must be from thence ! 

My wife kill’d too ? 

Boss. I have said. 

Mai. Be comforted. 

Let’s make us medicines of our great revenge, 
To cure this deadly grief. 215 

Macd. He has no children. — All my pretty 
ones ? 

Did you say all ? 0 hell-kite ! All ? 

What, all my pretty chickens and their dam 
At one fell swoop ? 

Mai. Dispute it like a man. 

Macd. I shall do so ; 

But I must also feel it as a man. 221 

I cannot but remember such things were, 

That were most precious to me. Did heaven 
look on, 

And would not take their part ? Sinful Macduff, 
They were all struck for thee ! naught that I 
am, _ 22B 

Not for their own demerits, but, for mine, 

Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them 
now! 

Mai. Be this the whetstone of your sword ; 
let grief 

Convert to anger ; blunt not the heart, enrage it. 
Macd. 0,1 could play the woman with mine 
eyes 230 

And braggart with my tongue ! But, gentle 
heavens, 






1028 


MACBETH 


v. ii. 


Cut short all intermission. Front to front 
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself ; 
Within my sword’s length set him ; if he scape, 
Heaven forgive him too ! 

Mai. This tune goes manly. 23s 

Come, go we to the King; our power is ready ; 
Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth 
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above 
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer 
you may; 

The night is long that never finds the day. 240 

[Exeunt. 

ACT V 

Scene I. [Dunsinane. Ante-room in the castle.} 

Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting Gen¬ 
tlewoman. 

Doct. I have two nights watch’d with you, 
but can perceive no truth in your report. When 
was it she last walk’d ? 3 

Gent. Since his Majesty went into the field, 
I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her 
nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take 
forth paper, fold it, write upon’t, read it, after¬ 
wards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all 
this while in a most fast sleep. 9 

Doct. A great perturbation in nature, to re¬ 
ceive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the 
effects of watching ! In this slumb’ry agitation, 
besides her walking and other actual perform¬ 
ances, what, at any time, have you heard her 
say ? 15 

Gent . That, sir, which I will not report after 
her. 

Doct. You may to me: and ’t is most meet 
you should. 

Gent. Neither to you nor any one ; having no 
witness to confirm my speech. 21 

Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper. 

Lo you, here she comes! This is her very 
guise ; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe 
her; stand close. 

Doct. How came she by that light ? 25 

Gent. Why, it stood by her. She has light by 
her continually ; ’t is her command. 

Doct. You see, her eyes are open. 

Gent. Ay, but their sense are shut. 

Doct. Wnat is it she does now ? Look, how 
she rubs her hands. 31 

Gent. It is an accustom’d action with her, to 
seem thus washing her hands. I have known 
her continue in this a quarter of an hour. 

Lady M. Yet here’s a spot. 35 

Doct. Hark! she speaks. I will set down 
what comes from her, to satisfy my remem¬ 
brance the more strongly. ss 

Lady M. Out, damned spot! out, I say! — 
One: two : why, then ’t is time to do ’t. — 
Hell is murky ! — Fie, my lord, fie ! a soldier, 
and afeard ? What need we fear who knows it, 
when none can call our power to account ? — 
Yet who would have thought the old man to 
have had so much blood in him ? 45 

Doct. Do you mark that ? 


Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife; 
where is she now ? — What, will these hands 
ne’er be clean ? — No more o’ that, my lord, no 
more o’ that; you mar all with this starting». 50 
Doct. Go to, go to; you have known what 
you should not. 

Gent. She has spoke what she should not, I 
am sure of that; Heaven knows what she has 
known. 55 

Lady M. Here’s the smell of the blood still; 
all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten 
this little hand. Oh, 0I1, oh ! 

Doct. What a sigh is there! The heart is 
sorely charg’d. eo 

Gent. I would not have such a heart in my 
bosom for the dignity of the whole body. 

Doct. Well, well, well, — 

Gent. Pray God it be, sir. 64 

Doct. This disease is beyond my practice; 
yet I have known those which have walk’d in 
their sleep who have died holily in their beds. 

Lady M. Wash your hands, put on your 
nightgown ; look not so pale. — 1 tell you yet 
again, Banquo’s buried ; he cannot come out 

on’s grave. n 

Doct. Even so ? 

Lady M. To bed, to bed ! there’s knocking 
at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me 
your hand. What’s done cannot be undone.— 
To bed, to bed, to bed ! [Exit. 76 

Doct. Will she go now to bed ? 

Gent. Directly. 

Doct. Foul whisp’rings are abroad ; unnat¬ 
ural deeds 

Do breed unnatural troubles ; infected minds so 
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. 
More needs she the divine than the physician. 
God, God, forgive us all! Look after her ; 
Remove from her the means of all annoyance, 
And still keep eyes upon her. So, good-night! as 
My mind she has mated, and amaz’d my sight. 
I think, but dare not speak. 

Gent. Good-night, good doctor. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. [The country near Dunsinane .] 

Drum and colours. Enter Menteith, Caith¬ 
ness, Angus, Lennox, and Soldiers. 

Ment. The English power is near, led on by 
Malcolm, 

His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff. 
Revenges burn in them ; for their dear causes 
Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm 
Excite the mortified man. 

Ang. Near Birnam wood 

Shall we well meet them ; that way are they 
coming. e 

Caith. Who knows if Donalbain be with his 
brother ? 

Lev. For certain, sir, he is not; I have a file 
Of all the gentry. There is Siward’s son, 

And many unrough youths that even now 10 

Protest their first of manhood. 

Merit. What does the tyrant ? 

Caith. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies. 
Some say he’s mad, others that lesser hate him 




V. IV. 


MACBETH 


102^ 


Do call it valiant fury ; but, for certain, 

He cannot buckle his distemper’d cause is 
Within the belt of rule. 

Ang. Now does he feel 

His secret murders sticking on his hands ; 

Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach ; 
Those he commands move only in command, 
Nothing in love. Now does he feel his title 20 
Hang loose about him, like a giant’s robe 
Upon a dwarfish thief. 

Ment. Who then shall blame 

His pester’d senses to recoil and start, 

When all that is within him does condemn 
Itself for being there ? 

Caith. Well, march we on 25 

To give obedience where ’tis truly ow’d. 

Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal, 

And with him pour we in our country’s purge 
Each drop of us. 

Len. Or so much as it needs 

To dew the sovereign flower and drown the 
weeds. so 

Make we our march towards Birnam. 

[ Exeunt , marching. 

Gcene III. [Dunsinane. A room in the castle .] 

Enter Macbeth, Doctok, and Attendants. 

Macb. Bring me no more reports; let them 
fly all; 

Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane 
I cannot taint with fear. What’s the boy Mal¬ 
colm ? 

Was he not born of woman? The spirits that 
know 

All mortal consequences have pronounc’d me 
thus: 6 

“Fear not, Macbeth; no man that’s born of 
woman 

Shall e’er have power upon thee.” Then fly, 
false thanes, 

And mingle with the English epicures! 

The mind I sway by and the heart I bear 
Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear. 

Enter a Servant. 

The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac’d 
loon! 11 

Where got’st thou that goose look ? 

Serv. There is ten thousand — 

Macb. Geese, villain ? 

Serv. Soldiers, sir. 

Macb. Go prick thy face, and over-red thy 
fear, 

Thou lily-liver’d boy. What soldiers, patch ? m 
Death of thy soul ! those linen cheeks of thine 
Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey- 
face ? 

Serv. The English force, so please you. 

Macb. Take thy face hence. [Exit Servant .] 
Seyton ! — I am sick at heart 
When I behold — Seyton, I say ! — This push 20 
Will cheer me ever, or disseat me now. 

I have liv’d long enough. My way of life 
Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf ; 

And that which should accompany old age, 

As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, 25 


I must not look to have ; but, in their stead, 
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth - honour, 
breath 

Which the poor heart would fain deny, and 
dare not. 

Seyton I 

Enter Seyton. 

Sey. What’s your gracious pleasure ? 

Macb. What news more 1 

Sey. All is confirm’d, my lord, which was 
reported. 31 

Macb. I ’ll fight till from my bones my flesh 
be hack’d. 

Give me my armour. 

Sey- ’T is not needed yet. 

Macb. I ’ll put it on. 

Send out moe horses ; skirr the country round ; 
Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine 
armour. ae 

How does your patient, doctor ? 

Doct.' Not so sick, my lord, 

As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, 
That keep her from her rest. 

Macb. Cure her of that. 

Canst, thou not minister to a mind diseas’d, 40 
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, 

Raze out the written troubles of the brain, 

And with some sweet oblivious antidote 
Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff 
Which weighs upon the heart ? 

Doct. Therein the patient 

Must minister to himself. 4« 

Macb. Throw physic to the dogs; I ’ll none 
of it. 

Come, put mine armour on ; give me my staff. 
Seyton, send out. Doctor, the thanes fly from 
me. 49 

Come, sir, dispatch. If thou couldst, doctor, cast 
The water of my land, find her disease, 

And purge it to a sound and pristine health, 

I would applaud thee to the very echo, 

That should applaud again. — Pull ’t off, I 
say.— ; , 

What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug, 
Would scour these English hence? Hear’st 
thou of them ? no 

Doct. Ay, my good lord ; your royal prepara¬ 
tion 

Makes us hear something. 

Macb. Bring it after me. 

I will not be afraid of death and bane, 

Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane. eo 

Doct. [Aside.] Were I from Dunsinane away 
and clear, 

Profit again should hardly draw me here. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. [Country near Birnam wood.] 

Drum and colours. Enter Malcolm, old Siward 
and his Son, Macduff, Menteith, Caith¬ 
ness, Angus, [Lennox, Ross,] and Soldiers, 
marching. 

Mai. Cousins, I hope the days are near at 
hand 

That chambers will be safe. 





1030 


MACBETH 


v. vii. 


Merit. We doubt it nothing. 

Siw. What wood is this before us ? 

Merit. The wood of Birnam. 

Mai. Let every soldier hew him down a 
bough 

And bear ’t before him; thereby shall we 
shadow e 

The numbers of our host and make discovery 
Err in report of us. 

Soldiers'. It shall be done. 

Siw. We learn no other but the confident 
tyrant 

Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure 
Our setting down before’t. 

Mai. ’T is his main hope ; 

For where there is advantage to be given, « 
Both more and less have given him the revolt, 
And none serve with him but constrained things 
Whose hearts are absent too. 

Macd. Let our just censures 

Attend the true event, and put we on is 

Industrious soldiership. 

Siw. The time approaches 

That will with due decision make us know 
What we shall say we have and what we owe. 
Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes re¬ 
late, 

But certain issue strokes must arbitrate; 20 

Towards which advance the war. 

[Exeunt, marching. 

Scene V. [ Dunsinane . Within the castle.] 

Enter Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers, with 
drum and colours. 

Macb. Hang out our banners on the outward 
walls; 

The cry is still, “ They come! ” Our castle’s 
strength 

Will laugh a siege to scorn ; here let them lie 
Till famine and the ague eat them up. 

Were they not forc’d with those that should be 
ours, 0 

We might have met them dareful, beard to 
beard, 

And beat them backward home. 

[ A cry of women within. 
What is that noise ? 

Sey. It is the cry of women, my good lord. 

[Exit. ] 

Macb. I have almost forgot the taste of fears. 
The time has been, my senses would have cool’d 
To hear a night-shriek, and my fell of hair 11 
Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir 
As life were in’t. I have supp’d full with hor¬ 
rors ; 

Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, 
Cannot once start me. 

[Re-enter Seyton.] 

Wherefore was that cry ? 
Sey. The Queen, my lord, is dead. ie 

Macb. She should have died hereafter ; 
There would have been a time for such a word. 
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, 
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day 20 
To the last syllable of recorded time ; 


And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle 1 
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage ts 
And then is heard no more. It is a tale 
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
Signifying nothing. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Thou com’st to use thy tongue; thy storj 
quickly. 

Mess. Gracious my lord, "* 

I should report that which I say I saw, 

But know not how to do it. 

Macb. Well, say, sir. 

Mess. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, 
I look’d toward Birnam, and anon, methougkt, 
The wood began to move. 

Macb. Liar and slave! se 

Mess. Let me endure your wrath, if ’t be 
not so. 

Within this three mile may you see it coming ; 
I say, a moving grove. 

Macb. If thou speak’st false, 

Upon the next tree shall thou hang alive, 

Till famine cling thee ; if thy speech be sooth, 
I care not if thou dost for me as much. *1 

I pull in resolution, and begin 
To doubt the equivocation of the fiend 
That lies like truth. “Fear not, till Birnam 
wood 

Do come to Dunsinane ; ” and now a wood « 
Comes toward Dusinane, Arm, arm, and out! 
If this which he avouches does appear, 

There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. 

I gin to be aweary of the sun, 

And wish the estate o’ the world were now un¬ 
done. sc 

Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, 
wrack ! 

At least we ’ll die with harness on our back. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene VI. [Dunsinane. Before the castle.] 

Drum and colours. Enter Malcolm, old Si- 
ward, Macduff, and their Army, with boughs. 

Mai. Now near enough ; your leavy screens 
throw down, 

And show like those you are. You, worthy uncle, 
Shall, with my cousin, your right noble son, 
Lead our first battle. Worthy Macduff and we 
Shall take upon’s what else remains to do, c 
According to our order. 

Siw. Fare you well. 

Do we bxit find the tyrant’s power to-night, 

Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight. 

Macd. Make all our trumpets speak ; give 
them all breath, 9 

Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death. 

[Exeunt. Alarums continued. 

Scene YII. [The same.] 

Enter Macbeth. 

Macb. They have tied me to a stake; I can¬ 
not fly, 





MACBETH 


1031 


v. viii. 


But, bear-like, I must fight the course. 
What’s he 

That was not born of woman ? Such a one 
Am I to fear, or none. 

Enter young Siward. 

Y. Siw. What is thy name ? 

Macb. Thou ’It be afraid to hear it. 

Y. Siw. No ; though thou call’st thyself a 
hotter name e 

Than any is in hell. 

Macb. My name’s Macbeth. 

Y. Siw. The devil himself could not pro¬ 
nounce a title 
More hateful to mine ear. 

Macb. No, nor more fearful. 

Y. Siw. Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with 
my sword 10 

I ’ll prove the lie thou speak’st. 

[They .fight and young Siward is 
slain. 

Macb. Thou wast born of woman. 

But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, 
Brandish’d by man that’s of a woman born. 

[Exit. 

Alarums. Enter Macduff. 

Macd. That way the noise is. Tyrant, show 
thy face ! 

If thou be’st slain and with no stroke of 
mine, 16 

My wife and children’s ghosts will haunt me 
still. 

I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms 
Are hir’d to bear their staves; either thou, 
Macbeth, 

Or else my sword with an unbattered edge 
1 sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst 
be; 20 

By this great clatter, one of greatest note 
Seems bruited. Let me find him. Fortune ! 
And more I beg not. [Exit. Alarums. 

Enter Malcolm and old Siward. 

Siw. This way, my lord ; the castle’s gently 
rend’red: 

The tyrant’s people on both sides do fight; 26 

The noble thanes do bravely in the war ; 

The day almost itself professes yours, 

And little is to do. 

Mai. We have met with foes 

That strike beside us. 

Siw. Enter, sir, the castle. 

[Exeunt. Alarums. 

[Scene VIII. The same.] 

Enter Macbeth. 

Macb. Why should I play the Roman fool, 
and die # 

On mine own sword ? Whiles I see lives, the 
gashes 

Do better upon them. 

Enter Macduff. 

Macd. Turn, hell-hound, turn ! 

Macb. Of all men else I have avoided thee. 


But get thee back; my soul is too much 
charg’d 5 

With blood of thine already. 

Macd. I have no words, 

My voice is in my sword, thou bloodier villain 
Than terms can give thee out! 

[They fight. Alarum. 
Macb. Thou losest labour. 

As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air 
With thy keen sword impress as make me 
bleed. 10 

Let fall tliy blade on vulnerable crests : 

I bear a charmed life, which must not yield 
To one of woman born. 

Macd. Despair thy charm ; 

And let the angel whom thou still hast serv’d 
Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother’s womb 
Untimely ripp’d. 10 

Macb. Accursed be that tongue that tells me 

so, 

For it hath cow’d my better part of man! 

And be these juggling fiends no more believ’d 
That palter with us in a double sense, 20 

That keep the word of promise to our ear, 

And break it to our hope. I ’ll not fight with 
thee. 

Macd. Then yield thee, coward, 

And live to be the show and gaze o’ the time. 
We ’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, 25 
Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, 

“ Here may you see the tyrant.” 

Macb. I will not yield, 

To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet 
And to be baited with the rabble’s curse. 
Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, so 
And thou oppos’d, being of no woman born, 

Yet I will try the last. Before my body 
I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff, 
And damn’d be him that first cries, “ Hold, 
enough!” [Exeunt,fighting. Alarums. 

Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and col¬ 
ours, Malcolm, old Siward, Ross, the other 
Thanes, and Soldiers. 

Mai. I would the friends we miss were safe 
arriv’d. ss 

Siw. Some must go off ; and yet, by these I 
see, 

So great a day as this is cheaply bought. 

Mai. Macduff is missing, and your noble son. 
Ross. Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier’s 
debt. 

He only liv’d but till he was a man ; 40 

The which no sooner had his prowess confirm’d 
In the unshrinking station where he fought, 
But like a man he died. 

Siw. Then he is dead ? 

Ross. Ay, and brought off the field. Your 
cause of sorrow 

Must not be measur’d by his worth, for then *5 
It hath no end. 

Siw. Had he his hurts before ? 

Ross. Ay, on the front. 

Siw. Why then, God’s soldier be he ! 

Had I as many sons as I have hairs, 

I would not wish them to a fairer death. « 
And so, his knell is knoll’d. 






1032 


MACBETH 


v. viii. 


Mai. He ’s worth more sorrow, 

And that I ’ll spend for him. 

Siw. He’s worth no more. 

They say he parted well, and paid his score ; 
And so, God be with him ! Here comes newer 
comfort. 

Re-enter Macduff, with Macbeth's head. 

Macd. Hail, king ! for so thou art. Behold, 
where stands 

The usurper’s cursed head. The time is free, gg 
I see thee compass’d with thy kingdom’s pearl, 
That speak my salutation in their minds ; 
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine: 

King of Scotland ! 

Hail, King of Scotland ! 

[Flourish. 

Mai. We shall not spend a large expense of 
time co 



Before we reckon with your several loves, 

And make us even with you. My thanes and 
kinsmen, 

Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scot¬ 
land 

In such an honour nam’d. What’s more to 



As calling home our exil’d friends abroad 
That fled the snares of watchful tyranny; 
Producing forth the cruel ministers 
Of this dead butcher and his fiend-like queen, 
Who, as’t is thought, by self and violent hands 
Took off her life ; this, and what needful else n 
That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace, 

We will perform in measure, time, and place. 
So, thanks to all at once and to each one, 
Whom we invite to see us crown’d at Scone. « 

[Flourish. Exeunt. 





THE LIFE OF TIMON OF ATHENS 


There is no reason to believe that Timon of Athens was either played or printed during the life¬ 
time of Shakespeare. The first edition, and the basis of all later texts, is that in the First Folio. 
The printing, especially in the matter of metre, is worse than usual; and it is often difficult to 
know whether a passage is meant by the writer to be prose or verse. The present metrical 
arrangement is the result of the experiments of a long succession of editors. 

The evidence for the date of the play is internal and inconclusive. Metrical tests, which are 
not so significant as usual on account of the bad printing of the verse, point to a date, “ before 
the opening of the last period, but not long before it.” ./Esthetic and other characteristics 
agree with this. Some striking resemblances between the speeches of Lear and Timon suggest a 
date not long after that of King Lear ; so that 1607 may be regarded as a fair approximation. 

A gap of eight pages between Timon and Julius Ccesar in the pagination of the First Folio has 
drawn attention to the fact that the space thus imperfectly filled by the present tragedy would 
exactly fit Troilus and Cressida, which is actually inserted between the Histories and the Trage¬ 
dies, and is not listed at all in the table of contents. It is inferred that, when it was observed 
that Troilus and Cressida is not properly a tragedy, Timon was chosen to fill the gap. This 
hypothesis slightly strengthens the suspicion which the unevenness of workmanship and incon¬ 
sistencies in treatment have created as to the complete authenticity of Timon. A number of the 
more purely literary critics have believed that Shakespeare’s hand is discernible throughout; but 
more recent and more technical scholarship has been divided between the following two theories: 
that it is an adaptation by Shakespeare of a lost play; or, that it is an unfinished play of Shake¬ 
speare’s completed by another hand. No trace of such a lost play has been found, though its 
existence cannot be disproved. The greater number of modern scholars incline to accept the 
second view. Many attempts have been made to separate the Shakespearean from the non- 
Shakespearean passages, but it cannot be said that any one division has yet been generally 
accepted. 

Leaving aside the hypothetical lost play, we find the most certain source of the present drama 
in a parenthetical account of Timon in Plutarch’s Life of Marcus Antonius. Shakespeare had 
read this in North’s translation, and he might have found it re-told in Painter’s Palace of Plea¬ 
sure and elsewhere. But Plutarch supplies nothing for the part of the action preceding Timon’s 
poverty, except the suggestion contained in the remark that his misanthropy was due to “the 
unthankfulness of those he had done good unto, and whom he took to be his friends.” In Lu¬ 
cian’s dialogue of Timon , or the Misanthrope are found further details, such as the saving of a 
man from a debtor’s prison, the gift of a dowry, the crowd of flatterers, the digging up of gold 
in the fields, and the visit of a poet on the rumor of Timon’s restoration to wealth; and Shake¬ 
speare’s conception of Timon’s character is much more definitely foreshadowed in Lucian than 
in Plutarch. Lucian does not seem to have been translated into English in the time of Shake¬ 
speare, but his dialogues are said to have been accessible in Latin, French, anc Italian. The 
incident of the finding of the gold appears also in a play on Timon printed in 1842 from a manu¬ 
script of about 1600 . This anonymous production seems to have been academic in origin, and 
there is no evidence to show that it was ever acted in London, so that on external grounds it 
would seem unlikely that it was known to Shakespeare. Yet it alone of the pre-Shakespearean 
accounts of the misanthrope contains a banquet scene and a faithful steward ; and it is possible 
that it is the direct or indirect source of these features in the Shakespearean play. Alcibiades 
and Apemantus are both mentioned in connection with Timon in the passage in the Life of Mar¬ 
cus Antonius ; and, for the former, additional details were obtainable from Plutarch’s Life of 
Alcibiades. 


THE LIFE OF TIMON OF ATHENS 


[DRAMATIS PERSONAE 


Timon of Athens. 

Lucius, ) 

Lucullus, > flattering lords. 
Sempronius, ) 

Yentidius, one of Timon’s false friends. 
Alcibiades, an Athenian captain. 
Apemantus, a churlish philosopher. 
Flavius, steward to Timon. 

Flaminius, 1 

Servilius, > servants to Timon. 
Lucilius, ) 


Philotus, Titus, Lucius, Hortensius, servants 
to usurers. 

Caphis, servant to a senator. 

Servants to Varroand Isidore. 

Poet, Painter, Jeweller, and Merchant. 

An old Athenian. 

Three Strangers. 

A Page. A Fool. 

mistresses to Alcibiades. 


Phrynia, 

Timandra, 


Cupid and Amazons in the Masque. 

Lords, Senators, Officers, Soldiers, Banditti, and Attendants. 


Scene : Athens , and the neighbouring woods.] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [Athens. A hall in Timon's house.] 

Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Mer¬ 
chant, and others, at several doors. 

Poet. Good day, sir. 

Pain. I am glad you ’re well. 

Poet. I have not seen you long. How goes 
the world ? 

Pain. It wears, sir, as it grows. 

Poet. Ay, that’s well known ; 

But what particular rarity ? What strange, 
Which manifold record not matches ? See, s 
Magic of bounty ! all these spirits thy power 
Hath conjur’d to attend. I know the merchant. 
Pain. I know them both; the other’s a 
jeweller. 

Mer. 0 , ’t is a worthy lord. 

Jew. Nay, that’s most fix’d. 

Mer. A most incomparable man, breath’d, 
as it were, 10 

To an untiralole and continuate goodness ; 

Pie passes. 

Jew. I have a jewel here — 

Mer. 0 , pray, let’s see ’t. For the Lord 
Timon, sir ? 

Jew. If he will touch the estimate ; but, for 
that — 

Poet. [Reading from his poem.] 

“ When we for recompense have prais’d the 
vile. io 

It stains tne glory in that happy verse 
Which aptly sings the good.” 

Mer. [Looking at the jewel.] ’T is a good form. 
Jew. And rich. Here is a water, look ye. 
Pain. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some 
dedication 
To the great lord. 

Poet. A thing slipp’d idly from me. 

Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes 21 


From whence’t is nourish’d. The fire i’ the flint 
(Shows not till it be struck ; our gentle flame 
Provokes itself, and, like the current, flies 
Each bound it chafes. What have you there ? 25 
Pain. A picture, sir. When comes your 
book forth ? 

Poet. Upon the heels of my presentment, sir. 
Let’s see your piece. 

Pain. ’T is a good piece. 

Poet. So’t is. This comes off well and ex¬ 
cellent. 

Pain. Indifferent. 

Poet. Admirable. How this grace 

Speaks his own standing! What a mental 
power 31 

This eye shoots forth ! How big imagination 
Moves in this lip! To the dumbness of the 
gesture 

One might interpret. 

Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life. se 
Here is a touch ; is’t good ? 

Poet. I will say of it, 

It tutors nature. Artificial strife 
Lives in these touches, livelier than life. 

Enter certain Senators [and pass over]. 

Pain. How this lord is followed ! 

Poet. Pdie senators of Athens : happy man ! 4 r> 
Pain. Look, moe ! 

Poet. You see this confluence, this great 
flood of visitors. 

I have, in this rough work, shap’d out a man 
Whom this beneath world doth embrace and 
hug 

With amplest entertainment. My free drift 
Halts not particularly, but moves itself 
In a wide sea of wax. No levell’d malice 
Infects one comma in the course I hold ; 

But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, 
Leaving no tract behind. do 

Pain. How shall I understand you ? 




TIMON OF ATHENS 


I. i. 


Poet. I will unbolt to you. 

You see how all conditions, how all minds, 

As well of glib and slippery creatures as 
Of grave and austere quality, tender down 
Their services to Lord Timon. His large for¬ 
tune, 55 

Upon his good and gracious nature hanging, 
Subdues and properties to his love and tendance 
All sorts of hearts ; yea, from the glass-fac’d 
flatterer 

To Apemantus, that few things loves better 
Than to abhor himself ; even he drops down co 
The knee before him and returns in peace 
Most rich in Timon’s nod. 

Pain. 1 saw them speak together. 

Poet. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill 
Feign'd Fortune to be thron’d. The base o’ 
the mount 

Is rank’d with all deserts, all kind of natures, 
That labour on the bosom of this sphere 
To propagate their states. Amongst them all, 
Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fix’d, 
One do I personate of Lord Timon’s frame, 
Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to 
her; to 

Whose present grace to present slaves and ser¬ 
vants 

Translates his rivals. 

Pain. ’T is conceiv’d to scope. 

This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, me- 
thinks, 

With one man beckon’d from the rest below, 
Bowing his head against the steepy mount 
To climb his happiness, would be well express’d 
In our condition. 

Poet. Nay, sir, but hear me on. 

All those which were his fellows but of late, 
Some better than his value, on the moment 
Follow his strides, his lobbies fill with ten¬ 
dance, ... 80 

Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear, 

Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him 
Drink the free air. 

Pain. Ay, marry, what of these ? 

Poet. When Fortune in her shift and change 
of mood 

Spurns down her late beloved, all his depen¬ 
dants 86 

Which labour’d after him to the mountain’s top 
Even on their knees and hands, let him slip 
down, 

Not one accompanying his declining foot. 

Pain. ’T is common. 

A thousand moral paintings I can show w 
That shall demonstrate these quick blows of 
Fortune’s 

More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well 
To show Lord Timon that mean eyes have seen 
The foot above the head. 

Trumpets sound. Enter Lokd Timon, address¬ 
ing himself courteously to every suitor [a Mes¬ 
senger from Ventidius talking with him; 
Lucilius and other servants following}. 

Tim. Imprison’d is he, say you ? 

Mess. Ay, my good lord; five talents is his 
debt, 96 


io 35 


His means most short, his creditors most strait. 
Your honourable letter he desires 
To those have shut him up ; which failing, 
Periods his comfort. 

Tim. Noble Yentidius ! Well; 

I am not of that feather to shake off ioo 

My friend when he must need me. I do know 
him 

A gentleman that well deserves a help, 

Which he shall have. I ’ll pay the debt, and 
free him. 

Mess. Your lordship ever binds him. 

Tim. Commend me to him. I will send his 
ransom; ios 

And being enfranchised, bid him come to me. 
’T is not enough to help the feeble up, 

But to support him after. Fare you well. 

Mess. All happiness to your honour ! [Exit. 

Enter an Old Athenian. 

Old Ath. Lord Timon, hear me speak. 

Tim. Freely, good father. 

Old Ath. Thou hast a servant named Lucil¬ 
ius. m 

Tim. I have so. What of him ? 

Old Ath. Most noble Timon, call the man 
before thee. 

Tim. Attends he here, or no ? Lucilius ! 

Luc. Here, at your lordship’s service. us 
Old Ath. This fellow here, Lord Timon, this 
thy creature, 

By night frequents my house. I am a man 
That from my first have been inclin’d to thrift; 
And my estate deserves an heir more rais’d u® 
Than one which holds a trencher. 

Tim. Well; what further? 

Old Ath. One only daughter have I, no kin 
else, 

On whom I may confer what I have got. 

The maid is fair, o’ the youngest for a bride, 
And I have bred her at my dearest cost 
In qualities of the best. This man of thine 125 
Attempts her love. I prithee, noble lord, 

Join with me to forbid him her resort; 

Myself have spoke in vain. 

Tim. The man is honest. 

Old Ath. Therefore he will be, Timon. 

His honesty rewards him in itself ; i» 

It must not bear my daughter. 

Tim. Does she love him ? 

Old Ath. She is young and apt. 

Our own precedent passions do instruct us 
What levity’s in youth. 

Tim. [To Lucilius .] Love you the maid ? 
Luc. Ay, my good lord, and she accepts of 

it. 135 

Old Ath. If in her marriage my consent be 
missing, 

I call the gods to witness, I will choose 
Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world, 
And dispossess her all. 

Tim. How shall she be endowed, 

If she be mated with an equal husband ? uo 
Old Ath. Three talents on the present; in 
future, all. 

Tim. This gentleman of mine hath serv’d me 
long; 




1036 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


I. i. 


To build his fortune I will strain a little, 

For ’tis a bond in men. Give him thy daugh¬ 
ter ; 

What you bestow, in him I ’ll counterpoise, 
And make him weigh with her. 

Old Ath. Most noble lord, 

Pawn me to this your honour, she is his. 

Tim. My hand to thee ; mine honour on my 
promise. 

Luc. Humbly I thank your lordship. Never 
may 

That state or fortune fall into my keeping, 150 
Which is not owed to you ! 

[.Exeunt [Lucilius and Old Athenian], 

Poet. Vouchsafe my labour, and long live 
your lordship ! 

Tim. I thank you; you shall hear from me 
anon. 

Go not away. What have you there, my friend ? 

Pain. A piece of painting, which I do be¬ 
seech 155 

Your lordship to accept. 

Tim. Painting is welcome. 

The painting is almost the natural man ; 

For since dishonour traffics with man’s na¬ 
ture, 

He is but outside : these pencill’d figures are 
Even such as they give out. I like your work, 
And you shall find I like it. Wait atten¬ 
dance 101 

Till you hear further from me. 

Pain. The gods preserve ye ! 

Tim. Well fare you, gentleman; give me 
your hand. 

We must needs dine together. —Sir, your jewel 
Hath suffered under praise. 

Jew. What, my lord! dispraise? 

Tim. A mere satiety of commendations. 166 
If I should pay you for’t as ’t is extoll’d, 

It would unclew me quite. 

Jew. My lord,’tis rated 

As those which sell would give; but you well 
know. 

Things of like value differing in the owners no 
Are prized by their masters. Believe’t, dear 
lord, 

You mend the jewel by the wearing it. 

Tim. Well mock’d. 

Enter Apemantus. 

Mer. No, my good lord ; he speaks the com¬ 
mon tongue, 

Which all men speak with him. 175 

Tim. Look, who comes here: will you be 
chid ? 

Jew. We ’ll bear, with your lordship. 

Mer. He ’ll spare none. 

Tim. Good morrow to thee, gentle Apeman- 
tus! 

Apem. Till I be gentle, stay thou for thy 
good morrow; 

When thou art Timon’s dog, and these knaves 
honest. iso 

Tim. Why dost thou call them knaves ? Thou 
know’st them not. 

Apem. Are they not Athenians ? 

Tim. Yes. 


Apem. Then I repent not. 

Jew. You know me, Apemantus ? iso 

Apem. Thou know’st I do ; I call’d thee by 
thy name. 

Tim. Thou art proud, Apemantus. 

Apem. Of nothing so much as that I am not 
like Timon. iao 

Tim. Whither art going ? 

Apem. To knock out an honest Athenian’s 
brains. 

Tim. That’s a deed thou ’It die for. 

Apem. Bight, if doing nothing be death by 
the law. is* 

Tim. How lik’st thou this picture, Apeman¬ 
tus ? 

Apem. The best, for the innocence. 

Tun. Wrought he not well that painted it ? 200 
Apem. He wrought better that made the 
painter ; and yet he’s but a filthy piece of work. 
Pain. You ’re a dog. 

Apem. Thy mother’s of my generation; 

what’s she, if I be a dog ? 205 

Tim. Wilt dine with me, Apemantus ? 

Apem. No ; I eat not lords. 

Tim. An thou shouldst, thou ’dst anger 

ladies. 

Apem. 0 , they eat lords; so they come by 
great bellies. 210 

Tim. That’s a lascivious apprehension. 
Apem. So thou apprehend’st it. Take it for 
thy labour. 

Tim. How dost thou like this jewel, Ape¬ 
mantus ? 216 

Apem. Not so well as plain-dealing, which 
will not cost a man a doit. 

Tim. What dost thou think’t is worth? 
Apem. Not worth my thinking. How now, 
poet! 220 

Poet. How now, philosopher ! 

Apem. Thou liest. 

Poet. Art not one ? 

Apem. Yes. 

Poet. Then I lie not. 225 

Apem. Art not a poet ? 

Poet. Yes. 

Apem. Then thou liest. Look in thy last 
work, where thou hast feign’d him a worthy 
fellow. 

Poet. That ’s not feign’d ; he is so. 230 

Apem. Yes, he is worthy of thee, and to pay 
thee for thy labour. He that loves to be flat¬ 
tered is worthy o’ the flatterer. Heavens, that 
I were a lord ! 

Tim. What wouldst do then, Apemantus ? 235 
Apem. E’en as Apemantus does now; hate a 
lord with my heart. 

Tim. What, thyself ? 

Apem. Ay. 

Tim. Wherefore ? 240 

Apem. That I had my angry will to be a 
lord. Art not thou a merchant ? 

Mer. Ay, Apemantus. 

Apem. Traffic confound thee, if the gods 
will not! 245 

Mer. If traffic do it, the gods do it. 

Apem. Traffic’s thy god ; and thy god con¬ 
found thee! 





TIMON OF ATHENS 


1037 


1 . ii. 


Trumpet sounds. Enter a Messenger. 

Tim. What trumpet ’s that ? 

Mess. ’T is Alcibiades, and some twenty 
horse, 250 

All of companionship. 

Tim. Pray, entertain them ; give them guide 
to us. [ Exeunt some Attendants.] 

You must needs dine with me; go not you 
hence 

Till I have thank’d you. When dinner ’s done, 
Show me this piece. I am joyful of your 
sights. 2M 

Enter Alcibiades, with the rest. 

Most welcome, sir ! 

Apem. So, so, there ! 

Aches contract and starve your supple joints ! 
That there should be small love ’mongst these 
sweet knaves, 

And all this courtesy! The strain of man ’s 
bred out 

Into baboon and monkey. 2«o 

Alcib. Sir, you have sav’d my longing, and I 
feed 

Most hungerly on your sight. 

Tim. Right welcome, sir ! 

Ere we depart, we ’ll share a bounteous time 
In different pleasures. Pray you, let us in. 

[Exeunt [all but Apemantus ]. 

Enter two Lords. 

1. Lord. What time o’ day is’t, Apemantus ? 
Apem. Time to be honest. 206 

1 . Lord. That time serves still. 

Apem. The more accursed thou, that still 
omitt’st it. 

2. Lord. Thou art going to Lord Timon’s 

feast ? ' 270 

Apem. Ay, to see meat fill knaves, and wine 
heat fools. 

2. Lord. Fare thee well, fare thee well. 
Apem. Thou art a fool to bid me farewell 
twice. 

2. Lord. Why, Apemantus? 

Apem. Shouldst have kept one to thyself, for 
I mean to give thee none. 272 

1 . Lord. Hang thyself ! 

Apem. No, I will do nothing at thy bidding ; 
make thy requests to thy friend. 

2. Lord. Away, unpeaceable dog, or I ’ll 

spurn thee hence ! 281 

Apem. I will fly, like a dog, the heels o’ the 
ass. [Exit. 

1. Lord. He’s opposite to humanity. Come, 

shall we in 

And taste Lord Timon’s bounty? He out¬ 
goes _ 285 

The very heart of kindness. 

2. Lord. He pours it out: Plutus, the god of 

gold, 

Is but his steward. No meed, but he repays 
Sevenfold above itself ; no gift to him, 

But breeds the giver a return exceeding 200 
All use of quittance. 

1. Lord. The noblest mind he carries 

That ever govern’d man. 


2 . Lord. Long may he live in fortunes! 
Shall we in ? 

1 . Lord. I ’ll keep you company. [Exeunt. 

[Scene II. A banqueting-room in Timon's 
house.] 

Hautboys playing loud music. A great banquet 
serv'd in; [Flavius and others attending;] 
then enter Lord Timon, the States, the Athe¬ 
nian Lords, [Alcibiades,] and Ventidius. 
Then comes , dropping after all , Apemantus, 
discontentedly , like himself. 

Ven. Most honoured Timon, 

It hath pleas’d the gods to remember my 
father’s age, 

And call him to long peace. 

He is gone happy, and has left me rich. 

Then, as in grateful virtue I am bound « 

To your free heart, I do return those talents, 
Doubled with thanks and service, from whose 
help 

I deriv’d liberty. 

Tim. 0 , by no means, 

Honest Ventidius. You mistake my love ; 

I gave it freely ever ; and there’s none 10 
Can truly say he gives, if he receives. 

If our betters play at that game, we must not 
dare 

To imitate them ; faults that are rich are fair. 
Ven. A noble spirit! 

Tim. Nay, my lords, 

[They all stand ceremoniously look¬ 
ing on Timon.] 

Ceremony was but devis’d at first is 

To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes. 
Recanting goodness, sorry ere’t is shown ; 

But where there is true friendship, there needs 
none. 

Pray, sit; more welcome are ye to my for¬ 
tunes 

Than my fortunes to me. [They sit.] 20 

1 . Lord. My lord, we always have confess’d 
it. 

Apem. Ho, ho, confess’d it! Hang’d it, have 
you not ? 

Tim. O, Apemantus, you are welcome. 
Apem. No; 

You shall not make me welcome. 

I come to have thee thrust me out of doors. 26 
Tim. Fie, thou ’rt a churl. Ye’ve got a hu¬ 
mour there 

Does not become a man ; ’t is much to blame. 
They say, my lords, “ ira furor brevis est; ” but 
yonol man is ever angry. Go, let him have a 
table by himself, for he does neither affect com¬ 
pany, nor is he fit for’t, indeed. < 31 

Apem. Let me stay at thine apperil, Timon. 
I come to observe ; I give thee warning on ’t. 

Tim. I take no heed of thee ; thou ’rt an 
Athenian, therefore welcome. I myself would 
have no power; prithee, let my meat make 
thee silent. 27 

Apem. I scorn thy meat; ’t would choke me, 
for I should ne’er flatter thee. O you gods, 
what a number of men eats Timon, and he sees 
’em not! It grieves me to see so many dip their 







1038 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


1. ii. 


meat in one man’s blood ; and all the madness 
is, he cheers them up too. 43 

I wonder men dare trust themselves with men. 
Methinks they should invite them without 
knives ; 

Good for their meat, and safer for their lives. 40 
There’s much example for’t; the fellow that 
sits next him now, parts bread with him, pledges 
the breath of him in a divided draught, is the 
readiest man to kill him ; ’t has been proved. 
If I were a huge man, I should fear to drink at 
meals, 61 

Lest they should spy my windpipe’s dangerous 
notes. 

Great men should drink with harness on their 
throats. 

Tim. My lord, in heart; and let the health 
go round. 54 

2. Lord. Let it flow this way, my good lord. 
Apem. Flow this way ! A brave fellow ! he 
keeps his tides well. Those healths will make 
thee and thy state look ill, Timon. Here’s that 
which is too weak to be a sinner, honest water, 
which ne’er left man i’ the mire. 60 

This and my food are equals ; there’s no odds. 
Feasts are too proud to give thanks to the gods. 

Apemantus ’ grace. 

Immortal gods, I crave no pelf ; 

I pray for no man but myself. 

Grant I may never prove so fond, ss 

To trust man on his oath or bond ; 

Or a harlot, for her weeping ; 

Or a dog, that seems a-sleeping ; 

Or a keeper with my freedom ; 

Or my friends, if I should need ’em. 70 

Amen. So fall to’t. 

Rich men sin, and I eat root. 

[Eats and drinks.] 

Much good dich thy good heart, Apemantus ! 

Tim. Captain Alcibiades, your heart’s in the 
field now. 75 

Alcib. My heart is ever at your service, my 
lord. 

Tim. You had rather be at a breakfast of 
enemies than a dinner of friends. 79 

Alcib. So they were bleeding-new, my lord, 
there’s no meat like ’em. I could wish my best 
friend at such a feast. 

Apem. Would all those flatterers were thine 
enemies then, that then thou mightst kill ’em 
and bid me to ’em ! sr. 

1 . Lord. Might we but have that happiness, 
my lord, that you would once use our hearts, 
whereby we might express some part of our 
zeals, we should think ourselves for ever per¬ 
fect. 90 

Tim. 0 , no doubt, my good friends, but the 
gods themselves have provided that I shall 
have much help from you ; how had you been 
my friends else ? Why have you that charitable 
title from thousands, did not you chiefly belong 
to my heart ? I have told more of you to [as 
myself than you can with modesty speak in your 
own behalf ; and thus far I confirm you. 0 you 
gods, think I, what need we have any friends, 
if we should ne’er have need of ’em ? They 


were the most needless creatures living, [100 
should we ne’er have use for ’em, and would 
most resemble sweet instruments hung up in 
cases that keep their sounds to themselves. 
Why, I have often wish’d myself poorer, that I 
might come nearer to you. We are born to [705 
do benefits; and what better or properer can 
we call our own than the riches of our friends ? 
0 , what a precious comfort ’t is, to have so 
many, like brothers, commanding one another’s 
fortunes ! 0 joy, e’en made away ere’t can be 
born ! Mine eyes cannot hold out water, [no 
methinks; to forget their faults, I drink to 
you. 

Apem. Thou weep’st to make them di’ink, 
Timon. 

2. Lord. Joy had the like conception in our 

eyes, ns 

And at that instant like a babe sprung up. 
Apem. Ho, ho ! I laugh to think that babe a 
bastard. 

3 . Lord. I promise you, my lord, you mov’d 

me much. 

Apem. Much! [Tucket, within. 

Tun. What means that trump ? 

Enter a Servant. 

How now ? 120 

Serv. Please you, my lord, there are certain 
ladies most desirous of admittance. 

Tim. Ladies ! what are their wills ? 

Serv. There comes with them a forerunner, 
my lord, which bears that office, to signify 
their pleasures. 126 

Tim. I pray, let them be admitted. 

Enter Cupid. 

Cup. Hail to thee, worthy Timon, and to all 
That of his bounties taste! The five best 
senses 

Acknowledge thee their patron, and come 
freely 

To gratulate thy plenteous bosom. The ear, 131 
Taste, touch, and smell, pleas’d from thy table 
rise ; 

They only now come but to feast thine eyes. 
Tim. They’re welcome all; let ’em have 
kind admittance : 

Music, make their welcome ! [Exit Cupid.] 1.35 
1 . Lord. You see, my lord, how ample you ’re 
belov’d. 

[Music. Re-enter Cupid, with a mask of Ladies, 
as Amazons, with lutes in their hands, dancing 
and playing.] 

Apem. Hoy-day, what a sweep of vanity 
comes this way ! 

They dance ! they are mad women. 

Like madness is the glory of this life, 

As this pomp shows to a little oil and root. 140 
We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves, 
And spend our flatteries to drink those men 
Upon whose age we void it up again 
With poisonous spite and envy. 

Who lives that’s not depraved or depraves ? m> 
Who dies, that bears not one spurn to their 
graves 




I. 11. 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


1039 


Of their friends’ gift ? 

I should fear those that dance before me now 
Would one day stamp upon me ; ’t has been 
done ; 

Men shut their doors against a setting sun. 100 

The Lords rise from table , with much adoring 
of Timon; and to show their loves , each sin¬ 
gles out an Amazon , and all dance , men with 
women , a lofty strain or two to the hautboys , 
and cease. 

Tim. You have done our pleasures much 
grace, fair ladies, 

Set a fair fashion on our entertainment, 

Which was not half so beautiful and kind. 

You have added worth unto ’t and lustre, 

And entertain’d me with mine own device; ies 
I am to thank you for’t. 

1 . [Lady]. My lord, you take us even at the 
best. 

Apem. Faith, for the worst is filthy, and 
would not hold taking, I doubt me. 

Tim. Ladies, there is an idle banquet attends 
you; wo 

Please you to dispose yourselves. 

All Ladies. Most thankfully, my lord. 

[.Exeunt [Cupid and Ladies ]. 

Tim. Flavius. 

Flav. My lord ? 

Tim. The little casket bring me hither. 
Flav. Yes, my lord. — More jewels yet! igo 

[Aside.] 

There is no crossing him in’s humour ; 

Else I should tell him, well, i’ faith, I should ; 
When all’s spent, he ’d be cross’d then, an he 
could. 

’T is pity bounty had not eyes behind, 

That man might ne’er be wretched for his 
mind. [Exit. i*o 

1 . Lord. Where be our men ? 

Serv. Here, my lord, in readiness. 

2 . Lord. Our horses! 

[Re-enter Flavius, with the casket.] 

Tim. O my friends, 

I have one word to say to you. Look you, my 
good lord, 

I must entreat you honour me so much ns 
As to advance this jewel. Accept it and wear 
it, 

Kind my lord. 

1 . Lord. I am so far already in your gifts, — 
All. So are we all. 

Enter a Servant. 

Serv. My lord, there are certain nobles of 
the Senate iso 

Newly alighted, and come to visit you. 

Tim. They are fairly welcome. 

Flav- I beseech your honour, 

Vouchsafe me a word ; it does concern you 
near. 

Tim. Near! why then, another time I’ll 
hear thee. 

1 prithee, let’s be provided to show them en¬ 
tertainment. i* 5 

Flav. [Aside.] I scarce know how. 


Enter a second Servant. 

[2.] Serv. May it please your honour, Lord 
Lucius, 

Out of his free love, hath presented to you 
Four milk-white horses, trapp’d in silver. 

Tim. I shall accept them fairly ; let the 
presents iso 

Be worthily entertain’d. 

Enter a third Servant. 

How now ! what news ? 

3 . Serv. Please you, my lord, that honourable 
gentleman, Lord Lucullus, entreats your com¬ 
pany to-morrow to hunt with him, and has sent 
your honour two brace of greyhounds. i »6 

Tim. I ’ll hunt with him; and let them be 
receiv’d, 

Not without fair reward. 

Flav. [Aside.] What will this come to ? 
He commands us to provide, and give great 
gifts, 

And all out of an empty coffer; 

Nor will he know his purse, or yield me this, 200 
To show him what a beggar his heart is, 

Being of no power to make his wishes good. 

His promises fly so beyond his state 
That what he speaks is all in debt; he owes 
For every word. He is so kind that he now 205 
Pays interest for ’t; his land ’s put to their 
books. 

Well, would I were gently put out of office 
Before 1 were forc’d out! 

Happier is he that has no friend to feed 
Than such that do e’en enemies exceed. 210 
I bleed inwardly for my lord. [Exit. 

Tim. You do yourselves 

Much wrong, you bate too much of your own 
merits. 

Here, my lord, a trifle of our love. 

2. Lord. With more than common thanks I 

will receive it. 

3 . Lord. O, he’s the very soul of bounty ! 215 
Tim. And now I remember, my lord, you 

gave 

Good words the other day of a bay courser 
I rode on. ’T is yours, because you lik’d it. 

1 . Lord. O, I beseech you, pardon me, my 
lord, in that. 

Tim. You may take my word, my lord ; 1 
know, no man 220 

Can justly praise but what he does affect. 

I weigh my friend’s affection with mine own ; 

I ’ll tell you true. I ’ll call to you. 

All Lords. 0 , none so welcome. 

Tim. I take all and your several visita¬ 
tions 

So kind to heart, ’t is not enough to give ; 225 

Methinks, I could deal kingdoms to my friends, 
And ne’er be weary. Alcibiades, 

Thou art a soldier, therefore seldom rich. 

It comes in charity to thee: for all thy living 
Is ’mongst the dead, and all the lands thou 
hast 230 

Lie in a pitch’d field. 

Alcib. Ay, defil’d land, my lord, 

1 . Lord. We are so virtuously bound — 






1040 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


ii. u 


Tim. And so 

Am I to you. 

2 . Lora. So infinitely endear’d — 

Tim. All to you. Lights, more lights ! 

1 . Lord. The best of happiness, 

Honour, and fortunes, keep with you, Lord 
Timon ! 235 

Tim. Ready for his friends. 

[Exeunt [all but Apemantus and 
Timon], 

Apem. What a coil’s here ! 

Serving of becks and jutting-out of bums ! 

I doubt whether their legs be worth the sums 
That are given for ’em. Friendship’s full of 
dregs; 

Methinks, false hearts should never have sound 
legS. 240 

Thus honest fools lay out their wealth on curt¬ 
sies. 

Tim. Now, Apemantus, if thou wert not sul¬ 
len, I would be good to thee. 243 

Apem. No, I ’ll nothing ; for if I should be 
brib’d too, there would be none left to rail upon 
thee, and then thou wouldst sin the faster. Thou 
giv’st so long, Timon, I fear me thou wilt give 
away thyself in paper shortly. What needs 
these feasts, pomps, and vain-glories ? 249 

Tim. Nay, an you begin to rail on society 
once, I am sworn not to give regard to you. 
Farewell; and come with better music?. [Exit. 
Apem. So; 

Thou wilt not hear me now. Thou shalt not, 
then; 

I ’ll lock thy heaven from thee. 255 

0 , that men’s ears should be 

To counsel deaf, but not to flattery ! [Exit. 


[ACT II] 

[Scene I. A Senator's house.] 

Enter Senator [with papers in his hand]. 

Sen. And late, five thousand ; to Varro and 
to Isidore 

He owes nine thousand; besides my former 
sum, 

Which makes it five and twenty. Still in mo¬ 
tion 

Of raging waste ? It cannot hold ; it will not. 
If I want gold, steal but a beggar’s dog, 5 
And give it Timon ; why, the dog coins gold. 

If I would sell my horse and buy twenty more 
Better than he, why, give my horse to Timon, 
Ask nothing, give it him, it foals me straight 
And able horses. No porter at his gate, 10 
But rather one that smiles and still invites 
All that pass by. It cannot hold ; no reason 
Can found his state in safety. Caphis, ho I 
Caphis, I say! 

Enter Caphis. 

Caph. Here, sir ; what is your pleasure ? 
Sen. Get on your cloak, and haste you to 
Lord Timon; is 

Importune him for my moneys ; be not ceas’d 
With slight denial, nor then silenc’d when 


“ Commend me to your master,” and the cap 
Plays in the right hand, thus ; but tell him, 

My uses cry to me, I must serve my turn a« 
Out of mine own. His days and times are past, 
And my reliances on his fracted dates 
Have smit my credit. I love and honour him, 
But must not break my back to heal his finger. 
Immediate are my needs, and my relief 25 
Must not be toss’d and turn’d to me in words, 
But find supply immediate. Get you gone. 

Put on a most importunate aspect, 

A visage of demand ; for, I do fear, 

When every feather sticks in his own wing, 30 
Lord Timon will be left a naked gull, 

Which flashes now a phoenix. Get you gone. 
Caph. I go, sir. 

Sen. “I go, sir!” — Take the bonds along 
with you. 

And have the dates in compt. 

Caph. I will, sir. 

Sen. Go. 35 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. The same. A hall in Timon's house.] 

Enter Steward [Flavius], with many bills in his 
hand. 

[Flav.] No care, no stop! so senseless of ex¬ 
pense, 

That he will neither know Iioav to maintain it, 
Nor cease his flow of riot; takes no account 
How things go from him, nor resume no care 
Of what is to continue ; never mind 5 

Was to be so unwise, to be so kind. 

What shall be, done ? He will not hear, till feel. 
I must be round with him, now he comes from 
hunting. 

Fie, fie, fie, fie! 

Enter Caphis [and the Servants of] Isidore 
and Varro. 

Caph. Good even, Varro. What, » 

You come for money ? 

Var. [Serv.] Is ’t not your business too ? 
Caph. It is : and yours too, Isidore ? 

Isid. [Sery.] It is so. 

Caph. Would we were all discharg’d ! 
Var.[Serv.] I fear it. 

Caph. Here comes the lord. 

Enter Timon [with Alcibiades] and his train. 

Tim. So soon as dinner’s done, we’ll forth 
again. 

My Alcibiades. — With me what is your will ? 15 
Caph. My lord, here is a note of certain dues. 
Tim. Dues ! Whence are you? 

Caph. Of Athens here, my lord. 

Tim. Go to my steward. 

Caph. Please it your lordship, he hath put 
me off 

To the succession of new days this mbnth. 20 
My master is awak’d by great occasion 
To call upon his own, and humbly prays you 
That with your other noble parts you ’ll suit 
In giving him his right. 

Tim. Mine honest friend, 

I prithee, but repair to me next morning. -x 





II. 11. 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


1041 


Caph. Nay, good my lord, — 

Tim. Contain thyself, good friend. 

Var. [Sen;.] One Varro’s servant, my good 
lord, — 

Isid. [Sen;.] From Isidore. 

He humbly prays your speedy payment. 

Caph. If you did know, my lord, my master’s 
wants — ^ 

Var. [Sen?.] ’T was due on forfeiture, my 
lord, six weeks 30 

And past. 

Isid. [Sen.] Your steward puts me off, my 
lord; 

And I am sent expressly to your lordship. 

Tim. Give me breath. 

I do beseech you, good my lords, keep on ; 35 

I ’ll wait upon you instantly. 

[Exeunt Alcibiades and Lords.] 
[To Flav.] Come hither. Pray you, 
How goes the world, that I am thus encount’red 
With clamorous demands of date-broke bonds, 
And the detention of long-since-due debts, 
Against my honour ? 

[Flav.] Please you, gentlemen, *o 

The time is unagreeable to this business. 

Youv importunacy cease till after dinner, 

That I may make his lordship understand 
Wherefore you are not paid. 

Tim. Do so, my friends. See them well en¬ 
tertain’d. [Exit ] 45 

[Flav.] Pray, draw near. [Exit. 

Enter Apemantus and Fool. 

Caph. Stay, stay, here comes the Fool with 
Apemantus ; let’s ha’ some sport with ’em. 
Var. [Seru.l Hang him, he ’ll abuse us. 

Isid. [Seru.t A plague upon him, dog ! eo 
Var. [Sen;.] How dost, Fool ? 

Apern. Dost dialogue with thy shadow ? 

Var. [Serv.] I speak not to thee. 

Apern. No, ’t is to thyself. [To the Fool.] 
Come away. 65 

Isid. [Seri?.] There’s the Fool hangs on 
your back already. 

Apern. No, thou stand’st single, thou 'rt not 
on him yet. 

Caph. Where’s the Fool now ? eo 

Apern. He last ask’d the question. Poor 
rogues, and usurers’ men! bawds between gold 
and want! 

All [Serv.]. What are we, Apemantus ? 
Apern. Asses. 

All [Serv.]. Why? 66 

Apern. That you ask me what you are, and 
do not know yourselves. Speak to ’em, Fool. 
Fool. How do you, gentlemen ? 

All [Sery.]. Gramercies, good Fool; how does 
your mistress ? ™ 

Fool. She’s e’en setting on water to scald 
such chickens as you are. Would we could see 
you at Corinth ! 

Apern. Good! gramercy. 

Enter Page. 

Fool. Look you, here comes my master’s 
Page. [To the Fool.] Why, how now, cap¬ 


tain ! what do you in this wise company ? How 
dost thou, Apemantus ? 

Apern. Would I had a rod in my mouth, 
that I might answer thee profitably. so 

Page. Prithee, Apemantus, read me the 
superscription of these letters; I know not 
which is which. 

Apern. Canst not read ? 

Page. No. 86 

Apern. There will little learning diethen, that 
day thou art hang’d. This is to Lord Timon; 
this to Alcibiades. Go; thou wast born a bas¬ 
tard, and thou ’It die a bawd. 89 

Page. Thou wast whelp’d a dog, and thou 
shalt famish a dog’s death. Answer not; I am 
gone. [Exit. 

Apem. E’en so thou outrunn’st grace. Fool, 
I will go with you to Lord Timon’s. 

Fool. Will you leave me there ? 95 

Apem. If Timon stay at home. You three 
serve three usurers ? 

All [Seri;.]. Ay ; would they serv’d us ! 
Apem. So would I, — as good a trick as ever 
hangman serv’d thief. 100 

Fool. Are you three usurers’ men ? 

All [Seri;.]. Ay, Fool. 

Fool. I think no usurer but has a fool to his 
servant; my mistress is one, and I am her fool. 
When men come to borrow of your masters, 
they approach sadly, and go away merry ; but 
they enter my master’s house merrily, and go 

away sadly. The reason of this ? ios 

Var. [Seri?.] I could render one. 

Apem. Do it then, that we may account thee 
a whoremaster and a knave; which notwith¬ 
standing, thou shalt be no less esteemed. 

Var. [Serv.] What is a whoremaster, Fool ? 113 
Fool. A fool in good clothes, and something 
like thee. ’T is a spirit; sometime ’t appears 
like a lord, sometime like a lawyer, sometime 
like a philosopher, with two stones moe than’s 
artificial one. He is very often like a knight; 
and. generally, in all shapes that man goes up 
and down in from fourscore to thirteen, this 
spirit walks in. 121 

Var. [Serv.] Thou art not altogether a 
fool. 

Fool. Nor thou altogether a wise man. As 
much foolery as I have, so much wit thou 
lack’st. 

Apem. That answer might have become 
Apemantus. 126 

All [Serv.]. Aside, aside; here comes Lord 
Timon. 

Re-enter Timon and Steward [Flavius]. 

Apem. Come with me, Fool, come. 

Fool. I do not always follow, lover, elder 
brother, and woman, sometime the philoso¬ 
pher. [Exeunt Apemantus and Fool.] 131 

[Flav. ] Pray you, walk near; I ’ll speak 
with you anon. [Exeunt [Servants], 

Tim. You make me marvel. Wherefore ere 
this time 

Had you not fully laid my state before me, 
That I might so have rated my expense 
As I had leave of means ? 






1042 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


ii. a 


[.Flav .] You would not hear me, 

At many leisures I propos’d. 

Tim. Go to! 

Perchance some single vantages you took, 
When my indisposition put you hack ; 

And that unaptness made your minister 140 
Thus to excuse yourself. 

[Flav.] 0 my good lord, 

At many times I brought in my accounts, 

Laid them before you ; you would throw them 
off, 

And say you found them in mine honesty. 
When, for some trifling present, you have hid 
me 145 

Return so much, I have shook my head and 
wept; 

Yea, ’gainst the authority of manners, pray’d 
you 

To hold your hand more close. I did endure 
Not seldom, nor no slight checks, when I have 
Prompted you in the ebb of your estate iso 

And your great flow of debts. My lov’d lord, 
Though you hear now, too late, — yet now’s a 
time, — 

The greatest of your having lacks a half 
To pay your present debts. 

Tim. Let all my land be sold. 

[Flav.] ’T is all engag’d, some forfeited and 

gone; 155 

And what remains will hardly stop the mouth 
Of present dues. The future comes apace ; 
What shall defend the interim ? and at length 
How goes our reck’ning ? 

Tim. To Lacedaemon did my land extend. 160 
[Flav.] 0 my good lord, the world is but a 
word; 

Were it all yours to give it in a breath, 

How quickly were it gone ! 

Tim. You tell me true. 

[Flav.] If you suspect my husbandry, or 
falsehood, 

Call me before the exactest auditors lee 

And set me on the proof. So the gods bless me, 
When all our offices have been oppress’d 
With riotous feeders, when our vaults have 
wept 

With drunken spilth of wine, when every room 
Hath blaz’d with lights and bray’d with min¬ 
strelsy, 170 

I have retir’d me to a wasteful cock, 

And set mine eyes at flow. 

Tim. Prithee, no more. 

[Flav.] Heavens, have I said, the bounty of 
this lord! 

How many prodigal bits have slaves and pea¬ 
sants 

This night englutted ! Who is not Timon’s ? 175 
What heart, head, sword, force, means, but is 
Lord Timon’s ? 

Great Timon, noble, worthy, royal Timon ! 

Ah, when the means are gone that buy this 
praise, 

The breath is gone whereof this praise is made. 
Feast-won, fast-lost; one cloud of winter show¬ 
ers, 180 

These flies are couch’d. 

Tim. Come, sermon me no further. 


No villanous bounty yet hath pass’d my heart; 
Unwisely, not ignobly, have I given. 

Why dost thou weep ? Canst thou the con¬ 
science lack 

To think I shall lack friends ? Secure thy 
heart; 188 

If I would broach the vessels of my love, . 
And try ihe argument of hearts by borrowing, 
Men and men’s fortunes could I frankly use 
As I can bid thee speak. 

[Flav.] Assurance bless your thoughts! 
Tim. And, in some sort, these wants of mine 
are crown’d, iso 

That I account them blessings ; for by these 
Shall I try friends. You shall perceive how you 
Mistake my fortunes; I am wealthy in my 
friends. 

Within there ! [Flaminius !] Servilius ! 

Enter three Servants [Flaminius, Servilius, 
and another]. 

Servants. My lord ? my lord ? 195 

Tim. I will dispatch you severally; you to 
Lord Lucius ; to Lord Lucullus you, I hunted 
with his honour to-day ; you, to Sempronius. 
Commend me to their loves, and, I am proud, 
say, that my occasions have found time to use 
’em toward a supply of money. Let the request 
be fifty talents. 20* 

Flam. As you have said, my lord. 

[Flav. Aside.] Lord Lucius and Lucullus ! 
Hum! 

Tim. Go you, sir, to the senators— 205 

Of whom, even to the state’s best health, I 
have 

Deserv’d this hearing — bid ’em send o’ the 
instant 

A thousand talents to me. 

[Flav.] I have been bold — 

For that I knew it the most general way — 

To them to use your signet and your name ; 210 
But they do shake their heads, and I am here 
No richer in return. 

Tim. Is’t true ? Can’the? 

[Flav.] They answer, in a joint and corpo¬ 
rate voice, 

That now they are at fall, want treasure, can¬ 
not 

Do what they would ; are sorry — you are hon¬ 
ourable, — 216 

But yet they could have wish’d — they know 
not — 

Something hath been amiss — a noble nature 
May catch a wrench — would all were well — 
’t is pity ; — 

And so, intending other serious matters, 

After distasteful looks and these hard frac¬ 
tions, 220 

With certain half-caps and cold-moving nods 
They froze me into silence. 

Tim. You gods, reward them ! 

Prithee, man, look cheerly. These old fel¬ 
lows 

Have their ingratitude in them hereditary. 
Their blood is cak’d, ’tis cold, it seldom 
flows ; 225 

’T is lack of kindly warmth they are not kind ; 





III. 11. 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


1043 


And nature, as it grows again toward earth, 

Is fashion’d for the journey, dull and heavy. 
[To a <Seri\] Go to Ventidius. [To Flav .] 
Prithee, be not sad, 

Thou art true and honest; ingeniously I 
speak, 230 

No blame bt'longs to thee. [To <Ser.] Ventid¬ 
ius lately 

Buried his father, by whose death he’s stepp’d 
Into a great estate. When he was poor, 
Imprison’d, and in scarcity of friends, 

I clear’d him with five talents. Greet him from 
me; 235 

Bid him suppose some good necessity 
Touches his friend, which craves to be remem- 
b’red 

With those five talents. [Exit Ser..] [To Flav.] 
That had, give’t these fellows 
To whom ’t is instant due. Never speak, or 
think, 

That Timon’s fortunes ’mong his friends can 
sink. 240 

[Flav.] I would I could not think it! That 
thought is bounty’s foe ; 

Being free itself, it thinks all others so. 

[Exeunt. 

[ACT III] 

[Scene 1 . A room in Lucullus ’ house.] 

Flaminius waiting to speak with a Lord from his 
master. Enter a Servant to him. 

Serv. I have told my lord of you ; he is com¬ 
ing down to you. 

Flam. I thank you, sir. 

Enter Lucullus. 

Serv. Here’s my lord. 3 

Lucul. [Aside.] One of Lord Timon’s men ? 
A gift, I warrant. Why, this hits right; I 
dreamt of a silver basin and ewer to-night. 
Flaminius, honest Flaminius ; you are very re¬ 
spectively welcome, sir. Fill me some wine. 
[Exit Servant.] And how does that honourable, 
complete, free-hearted gentleman of Athens, 
thy very bountiful good lord and master ? n 
Flam. His health is well, sir. 

Lucul. I am right glad that his health is well, 
sir ; and what hast thou there under thy cloak, 
pretty Flaminius ? # 16 

Flam. Faith, nothing but an empty box, sir ; 
which, in my lord’s behalf, I come to entreat 
your honour to supply ; who, having great and 
instant occasion to use fifty talents, hath sent 
to your lordship to furnish him, nothing doubt¬ 
ing your present assistance therein. 21 

Lucul. La, la, la, la ! “ nothing doubting,” 
says he ? Alas, good lord ! a noble gentleman 
’tis, if he would not keep so good a house. 
Many a time and often I ha’ din’d with him, 
and told him on ’t, and come again to supper to 
him, of purpose to have him spend less, and [26 
yet he would embrace no counsel, take no 
warning by my coming. Every man has his 
fault, and honesty is his. I ha’ told him on’t, 
but I could ne’er get him from’t. 


Re-enter Servant, with wine. 

Serv. Please your lordship, here is the wine. 

Lucul. Flaminius, I have noted thee always 
wise. Here’s to thee. 

Flam. Your lordship speaks your pleasure. 35 

Lucul. I have observed thee always for a 
towardly prompt spirit — give thee thy due — 
and one that knows what belongs to reason, 
and canst use the time well, if the time use thee 
well ; good parts in thee. [To <Seru.] Get you 
gone, sirrah. [Exit Serv.] Draw nearer, hon- [<o 
est Flaminius. Thy lord’s a bountiful gentle¬ 
man ; but thou art wise, and thou know’st well 
enough, although thou com’st to me, that this 
is no time to lend money, especially upon bare 
friendship, without security. Here’s three [« 
solidares for thee ; good boy, wink at me, and 
say thou saw’st me not. Fare thee well. 

Flam. Is’t possible the world should so much 
differ, 

And we alive that lived? Fly, damned baseness, 
To him that worships thee ! 61 

[Throwing the money hack. 1 

Lucul. Ha ! now I see thou art a fool, and 
fit for thy master. [Exit. 

Flam. May these add to the number that 
may scald thee ! 

Let molten coin be thy damnation, 66 

Thou disease of a friend, and not himself ! 

Has friendship such a faint and milky heart, 

It turns in less than two nights ? 0 you gods, 

I feel my master’s passion ! This slave, 

Unto his honour, has my lord’s meat in him ; eo 
Why should it thrive and turn to nutriment 
When he is turn’d to poison ? 

O, may diseases only work upon’t ! 

And, when he’s sick to death, let not that part 
of nature 

Which my lord paid for, be of any power os 
To expel sickness, but prolong his hour ! 

[Exit. 

[Scene II. A public place.] 

Enter Lucius, with three Strangers. 

Luc. Who, the Lord Timon ? He is my very 
good friend, and an honourable gentleman. 

1 . Stran. We knoAV him for no less, though 

we are but strangers to him. But I can tell you 
one thing, my lord, and which I hear from com¬ 
mon rumours : now Lord Timon’s happy hours 
are done and past, .and his estate shrinks from 
him. 8 

Luc. Fie, no, do not believe it; he cannot 
want for money. 

2 . Stran. But believe you this, my lord, that, 

not long ago, one of his men was with the Lord 
Lucullus to borrow so many talents, nay, urg’d 
extremely for’t and showed what necessity be¬ 
long’d to’t, and yet was deni’d. 15 

Luc. How ! 

2 . Stran. I tell you, deni’d, my lord. 

Luc. What a strange case was that! Now, 
before the gods, I am asham’d on’t. Denied 
that honourable man ! There was very little [20 
honour show’d in’t. For my own part, I must 





1044 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


hi. iii. 


needs confess, I have received some small kind¬ 
nesses from him, as money, plate, jewels, and 
such-like trifles, nothing comparing to his ; yet, 
had he mistook him and sent to me, I should 
ne’er have denied his occasion so many talents. 26 

Enter Servilius. 

Ser. See, by good hap, yonder’s my lord ; I 
have sweat to see his honour. My honour’d 
lord, — [To Lucius .] 

Luc. Servilius! you are kindly met, sir. 
Fare thee well; commend me to thy honourable 
virtuous lord, my very exquisite friend. 32 

Ser. May it please your honour, my lord hath 
sent — 

Luc. Ha ! what has he sent ? I am so much 
endeared to that lord ; he’s ever sending. How 
shall I thank him, think’st thou? And what 
has he sent now ? 88 

Ser. Has only sent his present occasion now, 
my lord ; requesting your lordship to supply his 
instant use with so many talents. 41 

Luc. I know his lordship is but merry with 
me ; 

He cannot want fifty-five hundred talents. 

Ser. But in the meantime he wants less, my 
lord. 

If his occasion were not virtuous, 45 

I should not urge it half so faithfully. 

Luc. Dost thou speak seriously, Servilius ? 
Ser. Upon my soul, ’tis true, sir. 

Luc. What a wicked beast was I to disfur- 
nish myself against such a good time, when I 
might ha’ shown myself honourable ! How [eo 
unluckily it happ’ned, that I should purchase 
the day before for a little part, and undo a 
great deal of honour! Servilius, now, before 
the gods, I am not able to do, —the more beast, 
I say : — I was sending to use Lord Tim on [55 
myself, these gentlemen can witness ; but I 
would not, for the wealth of Athens, I had 
done ’t now. Commend me bountifully to his 
good lordship ; and I hope his honour will con¬ 
ceive the fairest of me, because I have no [eo 
ower to be kind. And tell him this from me, 
count it one of my greatest afflictions, say, 
that I cannot pleasure such an honourable gen¬ 
tleman. Good Servilius, will you befriend me 
so far, as to use mine own words to him ? es 
Ser. Yes, sir, I shall. 

Luc. I ’ll look you out a good turn, Servilius. 

[Exit Servilius. 

True, as you said, Timon is shrunk indeed ; 
And he that’s once deni’d will hardly speed. 

[Exit. 

]. Stran. Do you observe this, Hostilius ? 

2 . Stran. _ Ay, too well. 

1 . Stran. Why, this is the world’s soul; and 
just of the same piece 71 

Is every flatterer’s spirit. Who can call him 
His friend that dips in the same dish ? for, in 
My knowing, Timon has been this lord’s father, 
And kept his credit with his purse, 75 

Supported his estate ; nay, Timon’s money 
Has paid his men their wages. He ne’er drinks, 
But Timon’s silver treads upon his lip ; 

And yet — 0 , see the monstrousness of man 


When he looks out in an ungrateful shape ! — 88 
He does deny him, in respect of his, 

What charitable men afford to beggars. 

3 . Stran. Religion groans at it. 

1 . Stran. For mine own part, 

I never tasted Timon in my life, 

Nor came any of his bounties over me 86 

To mark me for his friend : yet, I protest, 

For his right noble mind, illustrious virtue, 
And honourable carriage, 

Had his necessity made use of me, 

I would have put my wealth into donation, 

And the best half should have return’d to 
him, 

So much I love his heart. But, I perceive, 

Men must learn now with pity to dispense, 

For policy sits above conscience. [ Exeunt. 

[Scene III. A room in Sempronius ’ house.] 

Enter a third Servant with Sempronius, an¬ 
other of Timon's friends. 

Sem. Must he needs trouble me in’t, — hum ! 
— ’bove all others ? 

He might have tried Lord Lucius or Lucullus; 
And now Ventidius is wealthy too, 

Whom he redeem’d from prison. All these 
Owe their estates unto him. 

Serv. My lord, s 

They have all been touch’d and found base 
metal, for 

They have all denied him. 

Sem. How ! have they deni’d him ? 

Has Ventidius and Lucullus deni’d him ? 

And does he send to me ? Three ? hum ! 

It shows but little love or judgement in him. to 
Must I be his last refuge ? His friends, like 
physicians, 

Thrice give him over; must I take the cure 
upon me ? 

Has much disgrac’d me in ’t; I’m angry at 
him, 

That might have known my place. I see no 
sense for’t, 

But his occasions might have wooed me first; is 
For, in my conscience, I was the first man 
That e’er received gift from him ; 

And does he think so backwardly of me now, 
That I ’ll requite it last ? No ! 

So I may prove an argument of laughter 2# 
To the rest, and ’mongst lords be thought a 
fool. 

I’d rather than the worth of thrice the sum, 
Had sent to me first, but for my mind’s sake ; 

I’d such a courage to do him good. But now 
return, 

And with their faint reply this answer join ; 2s 
Who bates mine honour shall not know my 
coin. [Exit. 

Serv. Excellent! Your lordship’s a goodly 
villain. The devil knew not what he did when 
he made man politic ; he crossed himself by’t; 
and I cannot think but, in the end, the villain¬ 
ies of man will set him clear. How fairly [30 
this lord strives to appear foul ! takes virtuous 
copies to be wicked, like those that under hot 
ardent zeal would set whole realms on fire ; 





in. iv. 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


I0 45 


Of such a nature is his politic love. 35 

I his was my lord’s best hope ; now all are fled, 
bave only the gods. Now his friends are dead. 
.Doors, that were ne’er acquainted with their 
wards 

Many a bounteous year, must be employ’d 
Now to guard sure their master. 40 

And this is all a liberal course allows ; 

Who cannot keep his wealth must keep his 
house. [Exit. 

[Scene IV. The same. A hall in Timon's house.] 

Enter \ arro’s men, meeting [Titus and] others , 
all [servants of] Timon's creditors , to wait for 
his coming out. Then enter Lucius and Hor- 
TENSIUS. 

[L] Far. Serv. Well met; good morrow, 
Titus and Hortensius. 

Tit. The like to you, kind Varro. 

. 7^• Lucius, 

What, do we meet together ? 

. Ay, an< l I think 

One business does command us all; for mine 
Is money. 6 

Tit. So is theirs and ours. 

Enter Philotus. 

Luc. And Sir Philotus too ! 

Phi. Good day at once. 

Luc. Welcome, good brother. 

What do you think the hour ? 

Phi. Labouring for nine. 

Luc. So much ? 

Phi. Is not my lord seen yet ? 

Luc. Not yet. 

Phi. I wonder on ’t; he was wont to shine 
at seven. 10 

Luc. Ay, but the days are wax’d shorter 
with him. 

You must consider that a prodigal course 
Is like the sun’s ; but not, like his, recoverable. 

I fear ’t is deepest winter in Lord Timon’s 
purse; 

That is, one may reach deep enough, and yet is 
Find little. 

Phi. I am of your fear for that. 

Tit. I ’ll show you how to observe a strange 
event. 

Your lord sends now for money. 

Hor. Most true, he does. 

Tit. And he wears jewels now of Timon’s 
gift, 

For which I wait for money. 20 

Hor. It is against my heart. 

Luc. Mark, how strange it shows, 

Timon in this should pay more than he owes ; 
And e’en as if your lord should wear rich jewels, 
And send for money for ’em. 

Hor. I’m weary of this charge, the gods can 
witness. 25 

I know my lord hath spent of Timon’s wealth, 
And now ingratitude makes it worse than 
stealth. 

[ 2 .] Var. [Serv.] Yes, mine’s three thousand 
crowns ; what’s yours ? 

Luc. Five thousand mine. 


[/.] Var [Sery.] ’T is much deep: and it 
should seem by the sum, 3 « 

Your master’s confidence was above mine ; 
Else, surely, his had equall’d. 

Enter Flaminius. 

Tit. One of Lord Timon’s men. 

Luc. Flaminius ! Sir, a word. Pray, is my 
lord ready to come forth ? 35 

Earn. No, indeed, he is not. 

Tit. We attend his lordship ; pray, signify so 
much. 17 

Plane. I need not tell him that; he knows 
you are too diligent. [Exit. 40 

Enter Steward [Flavius] in a cloak , muffled. 

Luc. Ha 1 is not that his steward muffled 
so ? 

He goes away in a cloud ; call him, call him. 
Tit. Do you hear, sir ? 

2 . Var. [Serv.] By your leave, sir, — 

[F/ay.] What do ye ask of me, my friend ? 45 
Tit. We wait for certain money here, sir. 
[Flav.] . Ay, 

it money were as certain as your waiting, 

’T were sure enough. 

Why then preferr’d you not your sums and 
bills, 

When your false masters eat of my lord’s 
meat ? 60 

Then they could smile and fawn upon his debts, 
And take down the interest into their glutton¬ 
ous maws. 

You do yourselves but wrong to stir me up ; 

Let me pass quietly. 

Believe’t, my lord and I have made an end ; be 
I have no more to reckon, he to spend. 

Luc. Ay, but this answer will not serve. 
[Flav.] If’t will not serve, ’t is not so base 
as you ; 

For you serve knaves. [Exit. 

1 . Var. [Sery.] How ! what does his cash¬ 
ier’d worship mutter ? ei 

2 . Var. [Serv.] No matter what; he’s poor, 

and that’s revenge enough. Who can speak 
broader than he that has no house to put his 
head in ? Such may rail against great build¬ 
ings. 65 

Enter Servilius. 

Tit. 0 , here’s Servilius ; now we shall know 
some answer. 

Ser. If I might beseech you, gentlemen, to 
repair some other hour, I should derive much 
from’t; for, take’t of my soul, my lord leans 
wondrously to discontent. His comfortable 
temper has forsook him ; he’s much out of 
health, and keeps his chamber. 73 

Luc. Many do keep their chambers are not 
sick ; 

And, if it be so far beyond his health, 

Methinks he should the sooner pay his debts, 
And make a clear way to the gods. 

Ser. Good gods! 

Tit. We cannot take this for answer, sir. 
Flam. {Within.) Servilius, help! My lord! 
my lord ! 









1046 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


III. v. 


Enter Timon, in a rage [Flaminius following']. 

Tim. What, are my doors oppos’d against 
my passage ? so 

Have I been ever free, and must my house 
Be my retentive enemy, my gaol ? 

The place which I have feasted, does it now, 
Like all mankind, show me an iron heart ? 

Luc. Put in now, Titus. ss 

Tit. My lord, here is my bill. 

Luc. Here ’s mine. 

1 . Var. [$ery.] And mine, my lord. 

2 . Var. [Seru.j And ours, my lord. • 

Phi. All our bills. 90 

Tim. Knock me down with ’em ; cleave me 
to the girdle. 

Luc. Alas, my lord, — 

Tim. Cut my heart in sums. 

Tit. Mine, fifty talents. 

Tim. Tell out my blood. 95 

Luc. Five thousand crowns, my lord. 

Tim. Five thousand drops pays that. What 
yours ? and yours ? 

1 . Var. nSeru.l My lord,— 

2 . Var. [Serv.] My lord,— 

Tim. Tear me, take me, and the gods fall 
upon you ! [Exit. 100 

Hor. Faith, I perceive our masters may throw 
their caps at their money. These debts may 
well be call’d desperate ones, for a madman 
owes ’em. [ Exeunt. 

Re-enter Timon [and Flavius]. 

Tim. They have e’en put my breath from 
me, the slaves. 

Creditors ? Devils ! 105 

[.Flav.] My dear lord, — 

Tim. What if it should be so ? 

[Flav.] My lord, — 

Tim. I ’ll have it so. My steward ! 

[Flav.] Here, my lord. 110 

Tim. ISo fitly ? Go, bid all my friends again, 
Lucius, Lucullus, and Sempronius ; 

[Ventidius,] all: 

I ’ll once more feast the rascals. 

[Flav.] ' 0 my lord, 

You only speak from your distracted soul. its 

There is not so much left to furnish out 
A moderate table. 

Tim. Be it not in thy care ; go, 

I charge thee, invite them all. Let in the tide 
Of knaves once more ; my cook and I ’ll pro¬ 
vide. [Exeunt. 

[Scene Y. The same. The senate-house.] 

Enter three Senators at one door , Alcibiades 
meeting them , with Attendants. 

1 . Sen. My lord, you have my voice to it; 

the fault’s 

Bloody ; ’t is necessary he should die. 

Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy. 

2 . Sen. Most true ; the law shall bruise him. 
Alcib. Honour, health, and compassion to 

the Senate! s 

1 . Sen. Now, captain ? 

Alcib. I am an humble suitor to your virtues, 


For pity is the virtue of the law, 

And none but tyrants use it cruelly. 

It pleases time and fortune to lie heavy 10 
Upon a friend of mine, who, in hot blood, 

Hath stepp’d into the law, which is past depth 
To those that, without heed, do plunge into’t. 
He is a man, setting his fate aside, 

Of comely virtues ; « 

Nor did he soil the fact with cowardice — 

An honour in him which buys out his fault — 
But with a noble fury and fair spirit. 

Seeing his reputation touch’d to death, 

He did oppose his foe; » 

And with such sober and unnoted passion 
He did behave his anger, ere’t was spent, 

As if he had but prov’d an argument. 

1 . Sen. You undergo too strict a paradox, 
Striving to make an ugly deed look fair. 25 
Your words have took such pains as if they 
labour’d 

To bring manslaughter into form, and set 
quarrelling 

Upon the head of valour ; which indeed 
Is valour misbegot and came into the world 
When sects and factions were newly born. 30 
He’s truly valiant that can wisely suffer 
The worst that man can breathe, and make his 
wrongs 

His outsides, to wear them like his raiment, 
carelessly, 

And ne’er prefer his injuries to his heart, 

To bring it into danger. 35 

If wrongs be evils and enforce us kill, 

What folly ’t is to hazard life for ill! 

Alcib. My lord, — 

1 . Sen. You cannot make gross 

sins look clear; 

To revenge is no valour, but to bear. 

Alcib. My lords, then, under favour, pardon 
me 40 

If I speak like a captain. 

Why do fond men expose themselves to battle, 
And not endure all threats, sleep upon’t, 

And let the foes quietly cut their throats 
Without repugnancy ? If there be 45 

Such valour in the bearing, what make we 
Abroad ? Why then, women are more valiant 
That stay at home, if bearing carry it, 

And the ass more captain than the lion, the 
felon 

Loaden with irons wiser than the judge, eo 
If wisdom be in suffering. 0 my lords, 

As you are great, be pitifully good. 

Who cannot condemn rashness in cold blood ? 
To kill, I grant, is sin’s extremest gust; 

But, in defence, by mercy, ’t is most just. 65 
To be in anger is impiety ; 

But who is man that is not angry ? 

Weigh but the crime with this. 

2 . Sen. You breathe in vain. 

Alcib. In vain ! his service done 

At Lacedaemon and Byzantium eo 

Were a sufficient briber for his life. 

1 . Sen . What’s that ? 

Alcib. I say, my lords, he has done fair ser¬ 
vice, 

And slain in fight many of your enemies. 




in. vi. 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


1047 


How full of valour did he bear himself ec 

In the last conflict, and made plenteous 
wounds! 

2 , Sen. He has made too much plenty with 
’em. 

He’s a sworn rioter ; he has a sin that often 
Drowns him, and takes his valour prisoner ; 

If theee were no foes, that were enough to 
To overcome him. In that beastly fury 
He has been known to commit outrages, 

And cherish factions. ’T is inferr’d to us, 

His days are foul and his drink dangerous. 

1 . Sen. He dies. 

Alcib. _ Hard fate! he might have 

died in war. 75 

My lords, if not for any parts in him — 

Though his right arm might purchase his own 
time 

And be in debt to none — yet, more to move you, 
Take my deserts to his, and join ’em both ; 
And, for I know your reverend ages love bo 
S ecurity, I ’ll pawn my victories, all 
My honour to you, upon his good returns. 

If by this crime he owes the law his life. 

Why, let the war receive’t in valiant gore ; 

For law is strict, and war is nothing more. 86 

1 . Sen. We are for law. He dies ; urge it no 

more, 

On height of our displeasure. Friend or brother, 
He forfeits his own blood that spills another. 
Alcib. Must it be so? It must not be. My 
lords, 

I do beseech you, know me. 90 

2 . Sen. How ? 

Alcib. Call me to your remembrances. 

3 . Sen. What? 

Alcib. I cannot think but your age has for¬ 
got me; 

It could not else be, I should prove so base, 

To sue, and be deni’d such common grace. 95 
My wounds ache at you. 

1 . Sen. Do you dare our anger? 

’T is in few words, but spacious in effect; 

We banish thee for ever. 

Alcib. Banish me! 

Banish your dotage ! Banish usury, 

That makes the Senate ugly ! 100 

1 . Sen. If, after two days’ shine, Athens con¬ 
tain thee, 

Attend our weightier judgement. And, not to 
swell our spirit, 

He shall be executed presently. 

[Exeunt [Senators]. 
Alcib. Now the gods keep you old enough; 
that you may live 

Only in bone, that none may look on you ! 105 

I’m worse than mad. I have kept back their 
foes. 

While they have told their money and let out 
Their coin upon large interest, I myself 
Rich only in large hurts. All those for this ? 

Is this the balsam that the usuring Senate no 
Pours into captains’ wounds ? Banishment! 

It comes not ill; I hate not to be banish’d ; 

It is a cause worthy my spleen and fury, 

That I may strike at Athens. I ’ll cheer up 
My discontented troops, and lay for hearts, us 


’T is honour with most lands to be at odds ; 
Soldiers should brook as little wrongs as gods. 

[Exit. 

[Scene VI. The same. A banqueting-room in 
Timon's house.] 

[Music. Tables set out: Servants attending.] 

Enter divers friends [Lucius, Lucudlus, 

Sempronius, Ventidius, and other Lords, 

Senators and others ,] at several doors. 

1 . Lord. The good time of day to you, sir. 

2 . Lord. I also wish it to you. I think this 
honourable lord did but try us this other day. 

1 . Lord. Upon that were my thoughts tiring 

when we encount’red. I hope it is not so low 
with him as he made it seem in the trial of his 
several friends. 1 

2 . Lord. It should not be, by the persuasion 
of his new feasting. 

1 . Lord. I should think so. He hath sent me 

an earnest inviting, which many my near occa¬ 
sions did urge me to put off ; but, he hath con¬ 
jur’d me beyond them, and I must needs ap¬ 
pear. 14 

2 . Lord. In like manner was I in debt to my 
importunate business, but he would not hear 
my excuse. I am sorry, when he sent to borrow 
of me, that my provision was out. 

1 . Lord. I am sick of that grief too, as I 

understand how all things go. 20 

2 . Lord. Every man here’s so. What would 
he have borrowed of you ? 

1 . Lord. A thousand pieces. 

2 . Lord. A thousand pieces ! 

7 . Lord. What of you ? 1* 

2 . Lord. He sent to me, sir, — Here he comes. 

Enter Timon and Attendants. 

Tim. With all my heart, gentlemen both; 
and how fare you ? 

1 . Lord. Ever at the best, hearing well of 

your lordship. so 

2 . Lord. The swallow follows not summer 
more willing than we your lordship. 

Tim. [Aside.] Nor more willingly leaves 
winter ; such summer birds are men. — Gentle¬ 
men, our dinner will not recompense this long 
stay ; feast your ears with the music a while, [35 
if they will fare so harshly. O’ the trumpet’s 
sound we shall to’t presently. 

1 . Lord. I hope it remains not unkindly with 

your lordship that I return’d you an empty 
messenger. 41 

Tim. O, sir, let it not trouble you. 

2 . Lord. My noble lord, — 

Tim. Ah, my good friend, what cheer ? 44 

[The banquet brought in. 

2 . Lord. My most honourable lord, I am 
e’en sick of shame, that, when your lordship 
this other day sent to me, I was so unfortunate 
a beggar. 

Tim. Think not on’t, sir. 

2 . Lord. If you had sent but two hours be¬ 
fore, — 61 

Tim. Let it not cumber your better remem¬ 
brance. Come, bring in all together 1 






1048 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


iv. i. 


2 . Lord. All cover’d dishes ! bb 

1 . Lord. Royal cheer, I warrant you. 

3 . Lord. Doubt not that, if money and the 
season can yield it. 

1 . Lord. How do you ? What’s the news ? 

3 . Lard. Alcibiades is banish’d : hear you 
of it ? _ 61 

1 . and 2 . Lord. Alcibiades banish’d ! 

3 . Lord. ’T is so, be sure of it. 

1 . Lord. How ! how ! 

2 . Lord. I pray you, upon what ? 65 

Tim. My worthy friends, will you draw near ? 

3 . Lord. I ’ll tell you more anon. Here’s a 
noble feast toward. 

2 . Lord. This is the old man still. 

3 . Lord. Will’t hold ? Will’t hold ? 70 

2 . Lord. It does ; but time will — and so — 

3 . Lord. I do conceive. 

Tim. Each man to his stool, with that spur 
as he would to the lip of his mistress ; your diet 
shall be in all places alike. Make not a city [75 
feast of it, to let the meat cool ere we can agree 
upon the first place ; sit, sit. The gods require 
our thanks. 

You great benefactors, sprinkle our society 
with thankfulness. For your own gifts make [so 
yourselves prais’d ; but reserve still to give, 
lest your deities be despised. Lend to each man 
enough, that one need not lend to another ; for, 
were your godheads to borrow of men, men 
would forsake the gods. Make the meat be 
beloved more than the man that gives it. [ss 
Let no assembly of twenty be without a score 
of villains ; if there sit twelve women at the 
table, let a dozen of them be — as they are. 
The rest of your foes, 0 gods — the senators of 
Athens, together with the common lag of [»o 
people — what is amiss in them, you gods, make 
suitable for destruction. For these my present 
friends, as they are to me nothing, so in no¬ 
thing bless them, and to nothing are they 
welcome. 

Uncover, dogs, and lap! 95 

[The dishes are uncovered and seen 
to be full of warm water.] 

Some speak. What does his lordship mean ? 

Some other. I know not. 

Tim. May you a better feast never behold, 
You knot of mouth-friends ! Smoke and luke¬ 
warm water 

Is your pei'fection. This is Timon’s last; 100 

Who stuck and spangled you with flatteries, 
Washes it off, and sprinkles in your faces 
Your reeking villainy. 

[Throwing the water in their faces.] 
Live loath’d and long. 
Most smiling, smooth, detested parasites, 
Courteous destroyers, affable wolves, meek 
bears, 105 

You fools of fortune, trencher-friends, time’s 
flies, 

Cap-and-knee slaves, vapours, and minute- 
jacks ! 

Of man and beast the infinite malady 
Crust you quite o’er ! What, dost thou go ? 


Soft! take thy physic first — thou too — and 
thou ; — 110 

Stay, I will lend thee money, borrow none. 

[Throws the dishes at them , and 
drives them out.] 

What, all in motion ? Henceforth be no feast, 
Whereat a villain’s not a welcome guest. 

Burn, house ! sink, Athens ! henceforth hated 
be . 

Of Timon man and all humanity ! [Exit, ns 

Re-enter the Senators, with other Lords. 

1 . Lord. How now, my lords ! 

2 . Lord. Know you the quality of Lord 
Timon’s fury ? 

3 . Lord. Push ! did you see my cap ? 

4 . Lard. I have lost my gown. 120 

1 . Lord. He’s but a mad lord, and nought 

but humours sways him. He gave me a jewel 
the other day, and now he has beat it out of 
my hat. Did you see my jewel ? 

[ 3.1 Lord. Did you see my cap ? 125 

[ 2 .] Lord. Here ’t is. 

4 . Lord. Here lies my gown. 

1 . Lord. Let’s make no stay. 

2 . Lord. Lord Timon’s mad. 

3 . Lord. I feel ’t upon my bones. iso 

4 . Lord. One day he gives us diamonds, next 

day stones. [Exeunt. 


[ACT IVJ 

[Scene I. Without the walls of Athens.] 
Enter Timon. 

Tim. Let me look back upon thee. O thou 
wall, 

That girdles in those wolves, dive in the earth, 
And fence not Athens ! Matrons, turn incon¬ 
tinent ! 

Obedience fail in children ! Slaves and fools, 
Pluck the grave wrinkled Senate from the 
bench, b 

And minister in their steads ! To general filths 
Convert o’ the instant green virginity ! 

Do ’t in your parents’ eyes ! Bankrupts, hold 
fast; 

Rather than render back, out with your knives, 
And cut your trusters’ throats! Bound ser¬ 
vants, steal! 10 

Large-handed robbers your grave masters are, 
And pill by law. Maid, to thy master’s bed ; 
Thy mistress is o’ the brothel! Son of sixteen, 
Pluck the lin’d crutch from thy old limping 
sire ; 

With it beat out his brains ! Piety, and fear, is 
Religion to the gods, peace, justice, truth, 
Domestic awe, night-rest, and neighbourhood, 
Instruction, manners, mysteries, and trades, 
Degrees, observances, customs, and laws, 
Decline to your confounding contraries, 20 
And let confusion live ! — Plagues incident to 
men, 

Your potent and infectious fevers heap 
On Athens, ripe for stroke ! Thou cold sciatica, 
Cripple our senators, that their limbs may halt 






IV. iii. 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


1049 


As lamely as their manners ! Lust and liberty 25 
Creep in the minds and marrows of our youth, 
That ’gainst the stream of virtue they may 
strive, 

And drown themselves in riot! Itches, blains, 
Sow all the Athenian bosoms ; and their crop 
Be general leprosy ! Breath infect breath, 30 
That their society, as their friendship, may 
Be merely poison ! Nothing I ’ll bear from 
thee 

But nakedness, thou detestable town ! 

Take thou that too, with multiplying bans ! 
Timon will to the woods, where he shall find 35 
The unkindest beast more kinder than man¬ 
kind. 

The gods confound — hear me, you good gods 
all, — 

The Athenians both within and out that wall! 
And grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow 
To the whole race of mankind, high and low ! 40 
Amen. [ Exit. 

[Scene II. Athens. A room in Timon ' 1 s house .] 

Enter Steward [Flavius,] with two or three 
Servants. 

1 . Serv. Hear you, master steward, where’s 
our master ? 

Are we undone ? cast off ? nothing remaining ? 
[Flav .] Alack, my fellows, what should I 
say to you ? 

Let me be recorded by the righteous gods, 

I am as poor as you. 

1. Serv. Such a house broke! e 

So noble a master fallen ! All gone ! and not 
One friend to take his fortune by the arm, 

And go along with him ! 

2 . Serv. As we do turn our backs 

From our companion thrown into his grave, 

So his familiars to his buried fortunes 10 

Slink all away, leave their false vows with 
him, 

Like empty purses pick’d ; and his poor self, 

A dedicated beggar to the air. 

With his disease of all-shunn’d poverty, 

Walks, like contempt, alone. More of our fel¬ 
lows. 16 

Enter other Servants. 

[Flav.] All broken implements of a ruin’d 
house. 

3 . Serv. Yet do our hearts wear Tim on’s 

livery ; 

That see I by our faces ; we are fellows still, 
Serving alike in sorrow. Leak’d is our bark, 
And we, poor mates, stand on the dying deck, 20 
Hearing the surges threat. We must all part 
Into this sea of air. 

[Flav.] Good fellows all, 

The latest of my wealth I ’ll share amongst 
you. 

Wherever we shall meet, for Timon’s sake, 

Let’s yet be fellows ; let’s shake our heads, 
and say, 25 

As’t were a knell unto our master’s fortunes, 

4 ‘ We have seen better days.” Let each take 
some; 


Nay, put out all your hands. Not one word 
more! 

Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor. 

[Seri'ants embrace , and part several 
ways. 

O, the fierce wretchedness that glory brings 
us! 30 

Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt, 
Since riches point to misery and contempt ? 

W ho’d be so mock’d with glory, or to live 
But in a dream of friendship ? 

To have his pomp and all what state com¬ 
pounds 36 

But only painted, like his varnish’d friends? 
Poor honest lord, brought low by his own 
heart, 

Undone by goodness ! Strange, unusual blood, 
When man’s worst sin is, he does too much 
good ! 

Who, then, dares to be half so kind again ? 40 

For bounty, that makes gods, does still mar 
men. 


My dearest lord, bless’d to be most accurs’d, 
Rich only to be wretched, thy great fortunes 
Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind 
lord! 

He’s flung in rage from this ingrateful seat 46 
Of monstrous friends, nor has he with him to 
Supply his life, or that which can command it. 
I ’ll follow and inquire him out. 

I ’ll ever serve his mind with my best will; 
Whilst I have gold, I ’ll be his steward still. 60 

[Exit. 


[Scene III.] Woods [and cave, near the sea¬ 
shore]. 

Enter Timon [from the cave], 

Tim. 0 blessed breeding sun, draw from the 
earth 

Rotten humidity ; below thy sister’s orb 
Infect the air ! Twinn’d brothers of one womb, 
Whose procreation, residence, and birth 
Scarce is dividant, touch them with several 
fortunes, s 

The greater scorns the lesser ; not nature, 

To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great 
fortune 

But by contempt of nature. 

Raise me this beggar, and deny ’t that lord ; 
The senator shall bear contempt hereditary, w 
The beggar native honour. 

It is the pasture lards the rother’s sides, 

The want that makes him lean. Who dares, 
who dares, 

In purity of manhood stand upright, 

And say, “ This man ’s a flatterer ” ? If one 
be, 16 

So are they all; for every grise of fortune 
Is smooth’d by that below. The learned pate 
Ducks to the golden fool; all is oblique ; 

There’s nothing level in our cursed natures, 
But direct villainy. Therefore, be abhorr’d a? 
All feasts, societies, and throngs of men ! 

His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains : 
Destruction fang mankind! Earth, yield me 
roots! [Digging. \ 








1050 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


iv. iii. 


Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate 
With thy most operant poison! What is 
here ? 25 

Gold ? Yellow, glittering, precious gold ! No, 
gods, 

I am no idle votarist; roots, you clear heavens ! 
Thus much of this will make black white, foul 
fair, 

Wrong right, base noble, old young, coward 
valiant. 

Ha, you gods ! why this ? What this, you gods ? 

Why, this 30 

Will lug your priests and servants from your 
sides, 

Pluck stout men’s pillows from below their 
heads. 

This yellow slave 

Will knit and break religions, bless the ac- 
curs’d, 

Make the hoar leprosy ador’d, place thieves 35 
And give them title, knee, and approbation 
With senators on the bench. This is it 
That makes the wappen’d widow wed again ; 
She, whom the spital-house and ulcerous sores 
Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and 
spices 40 

To the April day again. Come, damn’d earth, 
Thou common whore of mankind, that puts 
odds 

Among the rout of nations, I will make thee 
Do thy right nature. ( March afar off.) Ha ! a 
drum ? Thou ’rt quick, 

But yet I ’ll bury thee; thou ’It- go, strong 
thief, 45 

When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand. 

Nay, stay thou out for earnest. 

[Keeping some gold.] 

Enter Alciblades, with drum and fife , in 
warlike manner; Phrynia and Timandra. 

Alcib. What art thou there ? Speak. 

Tim. A beast, as thou art. The canker gnaw 
thy heart, 

For showing me again the eyes of man ! so 

Alcib. What is thy name ? Is man so hate¬ 
ful to thee 

That art thyself a man ? 

Tim. I am misanthropos, and hate man¬ 

kind. 

For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, S4 
That I might love thee something. 

Alcib. I know thee well; 

But in thy fortunes am unlearn’d and strange. 
Tim. I know thee too ; and more than that 
I know thee, 

I not desire to know. Follow thy drum ; 

With man’s blood paint the ground, gules, 
gules. 

Religious canons, civil laws are cruel; eo 

Then what should war be ? This fell whore of 
thine 

Hath in her more destruction than thy sword, 
For all her cherubin look. 

Phry. Thy lips rot off! 

Tim. I will not kiss thee ; then the rot re¬ 
turns 

To thine own lips again. es 


Alcib. How came the noble Timon to this 
change ? 

Tim. As the moon does, by wanting light to 
give : 

But then renew I could not, like the moon ; 
There were no suns to borrow of. 

Alcib. Noble Timon, 

What friendship may I do thee ? 

Tim. None, but to io 

Maintain my opinion. 

Alcib. What is it, Timon ? 

Tim. Promise me friendship, but perform 
none. If thou wilt not promise, the gods plague 
thee, for thou art a man ! If thou dost perform, 
confound thee, for thou art a man ! _'« 

Alcib. I have heard in some sort of thy mis¬ 
eries. 

Tim. Thou saw’st them, when I had pros¬ 
perity. 

Alcib. I see them now ; then was a blessed 
time. 

Tim. As thine is now, held with a brace of 
harlots. 

Timan. Is this the Athenian minion, whom 
the world so 

Voic’d so regardfully ? 

Tim. Art thou Timandra ? 

Timan. Yes. 

Tim. Be a whore still. They love thee not 
that use thee; 

Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust. 
Make use of thy salt hours ; season the slaves 
For tubs and baths ; bring down rose-cheek’d 
youth sc 

To the tub-fast and the diet. 

Timan. Hang thee, monster ! 

Alcib. Pardon him, sweet Timandra ; for his 
wits 

Are drown’d and lost in his calamities. 

I have but little gold of late, brave Timon, 90 
The want whereof doth daily make revolt 
In my penurious band. I have heard, and 
griev’d, 

How cursed Athens, mindless of thy worth, 
Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour 
states, 

But for thy sword and fortune, trod upon 
them, — 95 

Tim. I prithee, beat thy drum, and get thee 
gone. 

Alcib. I am thy friend, and pity thee, dear 
Timon. 

Tim. How dost thou pity him whom thou 
dost trouble ? 

I had rather be alone. 

Alcib. Why, fare thee well: 

Here is some gold for thee. 

Tim. Keep it, I cannot eat it. 

Alcib. When I have laid proud Athens on a 
heap, — 101 

Tim. Warr’st thou ’gainst Athens ? 

Alcib. Ay, Timon, and have cause. 

Tim. The gods confound them all in thy 
conquest; 

And thee after, when thou hast conquer’d ! 

Alcib. Why me, Timon V 

Tim. That, by killing of villains, 




TIMON OF ATHENS 


iv. iii. 


1051 


Thou wast born to conquer my country. ioe 
Put up thy gold ! Go on, — here’s gold,—go on; 
Be as a planetary plague, when Jove 
Will o’er some high-vic’d city hang his poison 
In the sick air. Let not thy sword skip one. 
Pity not honour’d Age for his white beard ; m 
He is an usurer. Strike me the counterfeit 
matron ; 

It is her habit only that is honest, 

Herself’s a bawd. Let not the virgin’s cheek 
Make soft thy trenchant sword ; for those milk- 
paps, ns 

That through the window-bars bore at men’s 
eyes, 

Are not within the leaf of pity writ. 

But set them down horrible traitors. Spare not 
the babe, 

Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their 
mercy ; 

Think it a bastard, whom the oracle 120 

Hath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall 
cut, 

And mince it sans remorse. Swear against ob¬ 
jects ; 

Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes ; 
Whose proof, nor yells of mothers, maids, nor 
babes, 

Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleed¬ 
ing, 125 

Shall pierce a jot. There’s gold to pay thy 
soldiers. 

Make large confusion ; and, thy fury spent, 
Confounded be thyself ! Speak not, be gone. 
Alcib. Hast thou gold yet ? I ’ll take the 
gold thou givest me ; 

Not all thy counsel. 130 

Tim. Dost thou, or dost thou not, Heaven’s 


curse upon thee! 

Phr. and Tinian. Give us some gold, good 
Timon ; hast thou more ? 

Tim. Enough to make a whore forswear her 
trade, 

And to make whores, a bawd. Hold up, you 
sluts, 134 

Your aprons mountant. You are not oathable, — 
Although, I know, you ’ll swear, terribly swear 
Into strong shudders and to heavenly agues 
The immortal gods that hear you, — spare your 

oaths, _ 

I ’ll trust to your conditions. Be whores still; 
And he whose pious breath seeks to convert 
you, 140 

Be strong in whore, allure him, burn him up ; 
Let your close fire predominate his smoke, 

And be no turncoats ; yet may your pains, six 
months, 

Be quite contrary: and thatch your poor thin 
roofs 

With burdens of the dead —some that were 
hang’d, . 145 

No matter; —wear them, betray with them. 
Whore still; 

Paint till a horse may mire upon your face ; 

A pox of wrinkles ! 

Phr. and Timan. Well, more gold ; what 
then ? , . . ._ 

Believe’t, that we ’ll do anything for gold, iso 


Tim. Consumptions sow 
In hollow bones of man ; strike their sharp 
shins, 

And mar men’s spurring. Crack the lawyer’s 
voice, 

That he may never more false title plead, 

Nor sound his quillets shrilly ; hoar the fUimen, 
That scolds against the quality of flesh, ise 
And not believes himself. Down with the 
nose, 

Down with it flat; take the bridge quite away 
Of him that, his particular to foresee, 

Smells from the general weal. Make curl’d- 
pate ruffians bald ; 100 

And let the unscarr’d braggarts of the war 
Derive some pain from you. Plague all, 

That your activity may defeat and quell 
The source of all erection. There’s more gold ; 
Do you damn others, and let this damn you, ieo 
And ditches grave you all! 

Phr. and Timan. More counsel with more 
money, bounteous Timon. 

Tim. More whoi'e, more mischief first; I 
have given you earnest. 

Alcib. Strike up the drum toward Athens! 
Farewell, Timon! 

If I thrive well, I ’ll visit thee again. ito 

Tim. If I hope well, I ’ll never see thee 
more. 

Alcib. 1 never did thee harm. 

Tim. Yes, thou spok’st well of me. 

A Icib. Call’st thou that harm ? 

Tim. Men daily find it. Get thee away, and 
take 

Thy beagles with thee. 

Alcib. We but offend him. Strike ! 

[Drum beats.] Exeunt [Alcibiades, 
Phrynia , and Timandra ]. 

Tim. That nature, being sick of man’s un¬ 
kindness, ”6 

Should yet be hungry ! Common mother, thou, 

[Digging. 

Whose womb unmeasurable and infinite breast 
Teems and feeds all; whose self-same mettle, 
Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is 
puff’d, 180 

Engenders the black toad and adder blue, 

The gilded newt and eyeless venom’d worm, 
With all the abhorred births below crisp heaven 
Whereon Hyperion’s quick’ning fire doth shine; 
Yield him, who all thy human sons doth hate, iss 
From forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor 
root! 

Ensear thy fertile and conceptions womb, 

Let it no more bring out ingrateful man ! 

Go great with tigers, dragons, wolves, and 
bears; 

Teem with new monsters, whom thy upward 
face _ 190 

Hath to the marbled mansion all above 
Never presented ! — 0 , a root: dear thanks! — 
Dry up thy marrows, vines, and plough-torn 
leas; 

Whereof ingrateful man, with liquorish 
draughts 

And morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind, 
That from it all consideration slips ! i 9 « 







.1052 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


IV. iii. 


Enter Apemantus. 

More man ? Plague, plague ! 

Apem. I was directed hither. Men report 
Thou dost affect my manners, and dost use 
them. 

Tim. ’T is, then, because thou dost not keep 
a dog, 200 

Whom I would imitate.. Consumption catch 
thee! 

Apem. This is in thee a nature but infected ; 
A poor unmanly melancholy sprung 
From change of fortune. Why this spade? 
this place ? 

This slave-like habit ? and these looks of care ? 
Thy flatterers yet wear silk, drink wine, lie 
soft; zoo 

Hug their diseas’d perfumes, and have forgot 
That ever Timon was. Shame not these woods 
By putting on the cunning of a carper. 

Be thou a flatterer now, and seek to thrive 210 
By that which has undone thee; hinge thy 
knee, 

And let his very breath, whom thou ’It observe, 
Blow off thy cap ; praise his most vicious strain, 
And call it excellent. Thou wast told thus ; 
Thou gav’st thine ears like tapsters that bade 
welcome 210 

To knaves and all approachers. ’T is most just 
That thou turn rascal; hadst thou wealth again, 
Rascals should have’t. Do not assume my like¬ 
ness. 

Tim. Were I like thee, I ’d throw away my¬ 
self. 

Apem. Thou hast cast away thyself, being 
like thyself ; 220 

A madman so long, now a fool. What, think’st 
That the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain, 
Will put thy shirt on warm ? Will these moss’d 
trees, 

That have outliv’d the eagle, page thy heels, 
And skip when thou point’st out? Will the 
cold brook, 22B 

Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste, 

To cure thy o’er-night’s surfeit ? Call the crea¬ 
tures 

Whose naked natures live in all the spite 
Of wreakful heaven, whose bare unhoused 
trunks, 

To the conflicting elements expos’d, 230 

Answer mere nature ; bid them flatter thee. 

O, thou shalt find — 

Tim. A fool of thee. Depart. 

Apem. I love thee better now than ere I did. 

Tim. I hate thee worse. 

Apem. Why ? 

Tim. Thou flatter’st misery. 

Apem. I flatter not ; but say thou art a 
caitiff. 235 

Tim. Why dost thou seek me out ? 

Apem. To vex thee. 

Tim. Always a villain’s office or a fool’s. 
Dost please thyself in’t ? 

Apem. Ay. 

Tim. What! a knave too ? 

Apem. If thou didst put this sour cold habit 
on 


To castigate thy pride, ’t were well; but thou 240 
Dost it enforcedly ; thou ’dst courtier be again, 
Wert thou not beggar. Willing misery 
Outlives incertain pomp, is crown’d before ; 
The one is filling still, never complete ; 

The other, at high wish: best state, content¬ 
less, _ 245 

Hath a distracted and most wretched being, 
Worse than the worst, content. 

Thou shouldst desire to die, being miserable. 
Tim. Not by his breath that is more miser¬ 
able. 

Thou art a slave, whom Fortune’s tender arm 250 
With favour never clasp’d ; but bred a dog. 
Hadst thou, like us from our first swath, pro¬ 
ceeded 

The sweet degrees that this brief world affords 
To such as may the passive drugs of it 
Freely command, thou wouldst have plung’d 
thyself 206 

In general riot; melted down thy youth 
In different beds of lust; and never learn’d 
The icy precepts of respect, but followed 
The sug’red game before thee. But myself, 
Who had the world as my confectionary, 260 
The mouths, the tongues, the eyes, and hearts 
of men 

At duty, more than I could frame employment, 
That numberless upon me stuck as leaves 
Do on the oak. have with one winter’s brush 
Fell from their boughs and left me open, bare 
For every storm that blows ; I, to bear this, 266 
That never knew but better, is some burden: 
Thy nature did commence in sufferance, time 
Hath made thee hard in’t. Why shouldst thou 
hate men ? 

They never flatter’d thee. What hast thou 
given ? 27 e 

If thou wilt curse, thy father, that poor rag, 
Must be thy subject, who in spite put stuff 
To some she-beggar and compounded thee 
Poor rogue hereditary. Hence, be gone ! 274 

If thou hadst not been born the worst of men, 
Thou hadst been a knave and flatterer. 

Apem. Art thou proud yet ? 

Tim. Ay, that I am not thee. 

Apem. I, that I was 

No prodigal. 

Tim. I, that I am one now. 

Were all the wealth I have shut up in thee, 

I’d give thee leave to hang it. Get thee gone. 
That the whole life of Athens were in this ! 28i 
Thus would I eat it. [ Eatinq a root.] 

Apem. Here ; I will mend thy feast. 

. [Offering him a root.) 

Tim. First mend my company ; take away 
thyself. 

Apem. So I shall mend mine own, by the 
lack of thine. 

Tim. ’T is not well mended so, it is but 
botch’d; 285 

If not, I would it were. 

Apem. What wouldst thou have to Athens ? 
Tim. Thee thither in a whirlwind. If thou 
wilt, 

Tell them there I have gold ; look, so I have. 
Apem. Here is no use for gold. 





IV. 111. 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


i°53 


Tim. The best and truest; 

For here it sleeps, and does no hired harm. 201 
Apem. Where liest o’ nights, Timon ? 

Tim. Under that’s above me. 

Where feed’st thou o’ days, Apemantus ? 

Apem. Where my stomach finds meat; or, 
rather, where I eat it. sqb 

Tim. Would poison were obedient and knew 
my mind! 

Apem. Where wouldst thou send it ? 

Tim. To sauce thy dishes. 2»» 

Apem. The middle of humanity tliou never 
knewest, but the extremity of both ends. When 
thou wast in thy gilt and thy perfume, they 
mock’d thee for too much curiosity; in thy 
rags thou know’st none, but art despis’d for 
the contrary. There’s a medlar for thee, eat it. 
Tim. On what I hate I feed not. soo 

Apem. Dost hate a medlar ? 

Tim. Ay, though it look like thee. 

Apem. An thou ’dst hated meddlers sooner, 
thou shouldst have loved thyself better now. 
What man didst thou ever know unthrift that 
was beloved after his means ? 312 

Tim. Who, without those means thou talk’st 
of, didst thou ever know belov’d ? 

Apem. Myself. , 

Tim. I understand thee ; thou liadst some 
means to keep a dog. 

Apem. What things in the world canst thou 
nearest compare to thy flatterers ? 310 

Tim. Women nearest; but men, men are the 
things themselves. What wouldst thou do with 
the world, Apemantus, if it lay in thy power? 

Apem. Give it the beasts, to be rid of the 
men. > 824 

Tim. Wouldst thou have thyself fall in the 
confusion of men, and remain a beast with the 


beasts ? 

Apem. Ay, Timon. 328 

Tim. A beastly ambition, which the gods 
grant thee to attain to ! If thou wert the lion, 
the fox would beguile thee. If thou wert the 
lamb, the fox would eat thee. If thou wert the 
fox, the lion would suspect thee, when perad- 
venture thou wert accus’d by the ass. If thou 
wert the ass, thy dulness would torment thee, 
and still thou liv’dst but as a breakfast to [335 
the wolf. If thou wert the wolf, thy greediness 
would afflict thee, and oft thou shouldst hazard 
thy life for thy dinner. Wert thou the unicorn, 
pride and wrath would confound thee and make 
thine own self the conquest of thy fury. [340 
Wert thou a bear, thou wouldst be kill’d by 
the horse. Wert thou a horse, thou wouldst be 
seiz’d by the leopard. Wert thou a leopard, 
thou wert germane to the lion and the spots of 
thy kindred were jurors on thy life ; all thy 
safety were remotion and thy defence ab- [345 
sence. What beast couldst thou be, that were 
not subject to a beast ? And what a beast art 
thou already, that seest not thy loss in transfor¬ 
mation ! . : s49 

Apem. If thou couldst please me with speak¬ 
ing to me, thou mightest have hit upon it here. 
The commonwealth of Athens is become a 
forest of beasts. 


Tim. How has the ass broke the wall, that 
thou art out of the city ? 3 cn 

Apem. Yonder comes a poet and a painter ; 
the plague of company light upon thee ! I will 
fear to catch it, and give way. When I know 
not what else to do, I ’ll see thee again. 359 
Tim. When there is nothing living but thee, 
thou shalt be welcome. I had rather be a beg¬ 
gar’s dog than Apemantus. 

Apem. Thou art the cap of all the fools alive. 
Tim. Would thou wert clean enough to spit 
upon ! 

Apem. A plague on thee! thou art too bad 
to curse. 30s 

Tim. All villains that do stand by thee are 
pure. 

Apem. There is no leprosy but what thou 

speak’st. 

Tim. If I name thee. 

I ’ll beat thee, but I should infect my hands. 
Apem. I would my tongue could rot them 
off ! 

Tim. Away, thou issue of a mangy dog! 3-1 

Choler does kill me that thou art alive ; 

I swound to see thee. 

Apem. Would thou wouldst burst! 

Tim. Away, 

Thou tedious rogue ! I am sorry I shall lose 
A stone by thee. [ Throws a stone at him.] 

Apem. Beast! 

Tim. Slave! 

Apem. Toad! 

Tim. Rogue, rogue, rogue ! 

I am sick of this false world, and will love 
nought 376 

But even the mere necessities upon ’t. 

Then, Timon, presently prepare thy grave ; 

Lie where the light foam of the sea may beat 
Thy grave-stone daily ; make thine epitaph 380 
That death in me at others’ lives may laugh. 
[To the gold.] O thou sweet king-killer, and 
dear divorce 

’Twixt natural son and sire! thou bright de¬ 
filer 

Of Hymen’s purest bed ! thou valiant Mars ! 
Thou ever young, fresh, loved, and delicate 
wooer, 380 

Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow 
That lies on Dian’s lap! thoti visible god, 

That sold’rest close impossibilities, 

And makest them kiss! that speak’st with 
every tongue, 

To every purpose ! 0 thou touch of hearts ! 390 
Think, thy slave man rebels, and by thy virtue 
Set them into confounding odds, that beasts 
May have the world in empire ! 

Apem. Would’t were so! 

But not till I am dead. I ’ll say thou hast 
gold; 

Thou wilt be throng’d to shortly. 

Tim. Throng’d to ! 

Apem. ' Ay. 395 

Tim. Thy back, I prithee. 

Apem. Live, and love thy misery. 

Tim. Long live so, and so die. I am quit. 
Moe things like men! Eat, Timon, and abhor 
them. [Exit Apemantus. 





Ti.MON OF ATHENS 


J6S4 


Enter Banditti. 

1. Ban. Where should he have this gold ? It 
is some poor fragment, some slender ort of 
his remainder. The mere want of gold, and [400 
the falling-from of his friends, drove him into 
this melancholy. 

2. Ban. It is nois’d he hath a mass of trea¬ 
sure. 405 

3. Ban. Let us make the assay upon him. If 
he care not for ’t, he will supply us easily; if 
he covetously reserve it, how shall’s get it ?. 

2. Ban. True ; for he bears it not about him, 
’t is hid. 

1 . Ban. Is not this he ? «<> 

Banditti. Where? 

2. Ban. ’T is his description. 

3 . Ban. He ; I know him. 

Banditti. Save thee, Timon. 

Tim. Now, thieves? . 

Banditti. Soldiers, not thieves. 

Tim. Both too ; and women’s sons. 

Banditti. We are not thieves, but men that 

much do want. 

Tim. Your greatest want is, you want much 
of meat. 

Why should you want ? Behold, the earth hath 
roots; 420 

Within this mile break forth a hundred springs ; 
The oaks bear mast, the briers scarlet hips ; 
The bounteous housewife, Nature, on each bush 
Lays her full mess before you. Want! why 
want ? 

1 . Ban. We cannot live on grass, on berries, 
water, 425 

As beasts and birds and fishes. 

Tim. Nor on the beasts themselves, the birds 
and fishes; 

You must eat men. Yet thanks I must you con 
That you are thieves profess’d, that you work 
not 

In holier shapes ; for there is boundless theft 430 
In limited professions. Rascal thieves, 

Here’s gold. Go, suck the subtle blood o’ the 
grape 

Till the high fever seethe your blood to froth, 
And so scape hanging. Trust not the physician ; 
His antidotes are poison, and he slays 436 

Moe than you rob. Take wealth and lives to¬ 
gether ; 

Do villainy, do, since you protest to do’t, 

Like workmen. I ’ll example you with thievery: 
The sun’s a thief, and with his great attrac¬ 
tion 439 

Robs the vast sea ; the moon’s an arrant thief, 
And her pale fire she snatches from the sun ; 
The sea’s a thief, whose liquid surge resolves 
The moon into salt tears ; the earth’s a thief, 
That feeds and breeds by a composture stolen 
From general excrement: each thing’s a thief ; 
The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough 
power 446 

Has uncheck’d theft. Love not yourselves; 
away, 

Rob one another. There’s more gold. Cut 
throats; 

All that you meet are thieves. To Athens go, 


iv. iii. 


Break open shops ; nothing can you steal, 450 
But thieves do losq it. Steal [no] less for this 
I give you; and gold confound you howsoe’er ! 
Amen. 

3. Ban. Has almost charm’d me from my 
profession, by persuading me to it. 455 

1 . Ban. ’Tis in the malice of mankind that 
he thus advises us ; not to have us thrive in our 
mystery. 

2. Ban. I ’ll believe him as an enemy, and 

give over my trade. 460 

1 . Ban. Let us first see peace in Athens. 
There is no time so miserable but a man may be 
true. [Exeunt Banditti. 

Enter the Steward [Flavius, who remains at a 
distance ]. 

[Flav .] 0 you gods ! 

Is yond despis’d and ruinous man my lord ? 466 
Full of decay and failing ? 0 monument 
And wonder of good deeds evilly bestow’d! 
What an alteration of honour 
Has desperate want made ! 460 

What viler thing upon the earth than friends 
Who can bring noblest minds to basest ends ! 
How rarely does it meet with this time’s guise, 
When man was wish’d to love his enemies! 
Grant I may ever love, and rather woo 
Those that would mischief me than those that 
do! 4 ?6 

Has caught me in his eye. I will present 
My honest grief unto him ; and, as my lord, 
Still serve him with my life. [Comingforward.] 
My dearest master! 

Tim. Away! what art thou ? 

[Flav. ] Have you forgot me, sir ? 

Tim. Why dost ask that ? I have forgot all 

men ; 48 <> 

Then, if thou grant’st thou ’rt a man, I have 
forgot thee. 

[Flav.] An honest poor servant of yours. 

Tim. Then I know thee not. 

I never had honest man about me, I; all 
I kept were knaves, to serve in meat to vil¬ 
lains. 486 

[Flav.] The gods are witness, 

Never did poor steward wear a truer grief 
For his undone lord than mine eyes for you. 
Tim. What, dost thou weep ? Come nearer. 
Then I love thee, 

Because thou art a woman, and disclaim’st 490 
Flinty mankind, whose eyes do never give 
But thorough lust and laughter. Pity’s sleeping: 
Strange times, that weep with laughing, not 
with weeping! 

[Flav.] I beg of you to know me, good my 
lord, 

To accept my grief, and whilst this poor wealth 

lasts 496 

To entertain me as your steward still. 

Tim. Had I a steward 
So true, so just, and now so comfortable ? 

It almost turns my dangerous nature mild. 

Let me behold thy face. Surely, this man eoo 
Was born of woman. 

Forgive my general and exceptless rashness, 
You perpetual-sober gods ! I do proclaim 





V. 1. 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


io5S 


One honest man — mistake me not — but one ; 
No more, I pray, — and he ’s a steward. bob 
How fain would I have hated all mankind, 

And thou redeem’st thyself ; but all, save thee, 
I fell with curses. 

Methinks thou art more honest now than wise ; 
For, by oppressing- and betraying- me, sio 

Thou mightst have sooner got another service ; 
For many so arrive at second masters, 

Upon their first lord’s neck. But tell me true — 
For I must ever doubt, though ne’er so sure — 
Is not thy kindness subtle, covetous, sis 

If not a usuring kindness, and, as rich men 
deal gifts, 

Expecting in return twenty for one ? 

[Flav .] No, my most worthy master, in whose 
breast 

Doubt and suspect, alas, are plac’d too late ; 
You should have fear’d false times when you 
did feast. > 520 

Suspect still comes where an estate is least. 
That which I show, Heaven knows, is merely 
love, 

Duty, and zeal to your unmatched mind, 

Care of your food and living ; and, believe it, 
My most honour’d lord, 025 

For any benefit that points to me, 

Either in hope or present, I’d exchange 
For this one wish, that you had power and 
wealth 

To requite me, by making rich yourself. 

Tim. Look thee,’t is so ! Thou singly honest 
man, 63 ° 

Here, take ; the gods out of my misery 
Ha’ sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy ; 
But thus condition’d : thou shalt build from 
men ; 

Hate all, curse all, show charity to none, 

But let the famish’d flesh slide from the bone, 
Ere thou relieve the beggar ; give to dogs <we 
What thou deniest to men. Let prisons swal¬ 
low ’em, 

Debts wither ’em to nothing; be men like 
blasted woods, 

And may diseases lick up their false bloods ! 
And so farewell and thrive. 

[Flav.] O, let me stay, mo 

And comfort you, my master. 

Tim. If thou hat’st curses, 

Stay not; fly, whilst thou art blest and free. 
Ne’er see thou man, and let me ne’er see thee. 

[Exit [Flavius. Timon retires to his 
cave]. 


[ACT V] 

[Scene I. The woods. Before Timon 1 s cave.] 
Enter Poet and Painter. 

Pain. As I took note of the place, it cannot 
be far where he abides. 

Poet. What’s to be thought of him ? Does 
the rumour hold for true, that he’s so full of 
gold ? * 

Pain. Certain. Alcibiades reports it; Phry- 
nia and Timandra had gold of hrm. He like¬ 


wise enrich’d poor straggling soldiers with 
great quantity. ’T is said he gave unto his 
steward a mighty sum. 

Poet. Then this breaking of his has been 
but a try for his friends. u 

Pain. Nothing else. You shall see him a 
palm in Athens again, and flourish with the 
highest. Therefore ’t is not amiss we tender 
our loves to him, in this suppos’d distress of 
his. It will show honestly in us ; and is very 
likely to load our purposes with what they tra¬ 
vail for, if it be a just and true report that goes 
of his having. is 

Poet. What have you now to present unto 
him ? 

Pain. Nothing at this time but my visita¬ 
tion ; only I will promise him an excellent 
piece. 

Poet. I must serve him so too, tell him of an 
intent that’s coming toward him. 23 

Pain. Good as the best. Promising is the 
very air o’ the time ; it opens the eyes of expec¬ 
tation. Performance is ever the duller for his 
act; and, but in the plainer and simpler kind 
of people, the deed of saying is quite out of use. 
To promise is most courtly and fashionable ; 
performance is a kind of will or testament 
which argues a great sickness in his judgement 
that makes it. si 


Enter Timon from his cave. 

Tim. [Aside.] Excellent workman! thou 
eanst not paint a man so bad as is thyself. 

Poet. I am thinking what I shall say I have 
provided for him. It must be a personating of 
himself; a satire against the softness of pros¬ 
perity, with a discovery of the infinite flatteries 
that follow youth and opulency. 

Tim. [Aside.] Must thou needs stand for a 
villain in thine own work ? Wilt thou whip 
thine own faults in other men? Do so, I have 
gold for thee. 

Poet. Nay, let’s seek him. « 

Then do we sin against our own estate, 

When we may profit meet, and come too late. 
Pain. True ; 

When the day serves, before black-corner’d 
night, 

Find what thou want’st by free and offer’d 
light. 

Come. 4S * 

Tim. [Aside.] I ’ll meet you at the turn. 
What a god’s gold, 

That he is worshipp’d in a baser temple 
Than where swine feed ! 

’T is thou that rigg’st the bark and plough’st 
the foam, 

Settlest admired reverence in a slave. 

To thee be worship and thy saints for aye ! cb 
B e crown’d with plagues that, thee alone obey ! 
Fit I meet them. [Coming forward.] 

Poet. Hail, worthy Timon ! 

Pain. Our late noble master ! 

Tim. Have I once liv’d to see two honest 
men ? 

Poet. Sir, 60 

Having often ©f your open bounty tasted, 






i° 5 6 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


v. 1. 


Hearing you were retir’d, your friends fallen 
off, 

Whose thankless natures — O abhorred spirits! 
Not all the whips of heaven are large enough. 
What! to you, 65 

Whose star-like nobleness gave life and influ¬ 
ence 

To their whole being! I am rapt and cannot 
cover 

The monstrous bulk of this ingratitude 
With any size of words. 

Tim. Let it go naked, men may see ’t the bet¬ 
ter. 70 

You that are honest, by being what you are 
Make them best seen and known. 

Pain. He and myself 

Have travail’d in the great shower of your 
gifts, 

And sweetly felt it. 

Tim. Ay, you are honest men. 

Pain. We are hither come to offer you our 
service. 75 

Tim. Most honest men! Why, how shall I 
requite you ? 

Can you eat roots and drink cold water ? No ? 

Both. What we can do, we ’ll do, to do you 
service. 

Tim. Ye ’re honest men ; ye ’ve heard that 
I have gold ; 

I am sure you have. Speak truth ; ye ’re hon¬ 
est men. 80 

Pain. So it is said, my noble lord ; but 
therefore 

Came not my friend nor I. 

Tim. Good honest men! Thou draw’st a 
counterfeit 

Best in all Athens ; thou ’rt, indeed, the best; 
Thou counterfeit’st most lively. 

Pain. So, so, my lord. 

Tim. E’en so, sir, as I say.—And, for thy 
fiction, 86 

Why, thy verse swells with stuff so fine and 
smooth 

That thou art even natural in thine art. 

But, for all this, my honest-natur’d friends, 

I must needs say you have a little fault. »o 

Marry, ’tis not monstrous in you, neither wish I 
You take much pains to mend. 

Both. Beseech your honour 

To make it known to us. 

Tim. You ’ll take it ill. 

Both. Most thankfully, my lord. 

Tim. Will you, indeed ? 

Both. Doubt it not, worthy lord. 05 

Tim. There’s never a one of you but trusts 
a knave, 

That mightily deceives you. 

Both. Do we, my lord ? 

Tim. Ay, and you hear him cog, see him dis¬ 
semble, 

Know his gross patchery, love him, feed him, 
Keep in your bosom ; yet remain assur’d 100 
That he’s a made-up villain. 

Pain. I know none such, my lord. 

Poet. Nor I. 

Tim. Look you, I love you well; I ’ll give 
you gold. 


Rid me these villains from your companies ; 
Hang them or stab them, drown them in a 
draught, ** 

Confound them by some course, and come to 
me, 

I ’ll give you gold enough. 

Both. Name them, my lord, let’s know them. 

Tim. You that way and you this, but two in 
company, 

Each man apart, all single and alone, no 

Yet an arch-villain keeps him company. 

If where thou art two villains shall not be, 

[To one.] 

Come not near him. — If thou wouldst not re¬ 
side 

But where one villain is, then him abandon. — 

[To the other.] 

Hence, pack ! there’s gold ; you came for gold, 
ye slaves. ns 

[To Painter.] You have work for me ; there’s 
payment for you ; hence ! 

[To Poet.] You are an alchemist; make gold 
of that. 

Out, rascal dogs! 

[Beats them out , and then retires to 
his cave.] 

Enter Steward [Flavius] and two Senators. 

[Flav.] It is in vain that you would speak 
with Timon; 

For he is set so only to himself 120 

That nothing but himself which looks like man 
Is friendly with him. 

1 . Sen. Bring us to his cave ; 

It is our part and promise to the Athenians 
To speak with Timon. 

2. Sen. At all times alike 

Men are not still the same. ’T was time and 

griefs 126 

That fram’d him thus; time, with his fairer 
hand, 

Offering the fortunes of his former days, 

The former man may make him. Bring us to 
him, 

And chance it as it may. 

[Flav.] Here is his cave. 

Peace and content be here! Lord Timon! 

Timon! 130 

Look out, and speak to friends. The Athenians, 
By two of their most reverend Senate, greet 
thee. 

Speak to them, noble Timon. 

Enter Timon out of his cave. 

Tim. Thou sun, that comforts, burn ! Speak, 
and be hang’d. 

For each true word, a blister ! and each false ise 
Be as a cauterizing to the root o’ the tongue, 
Consuming it with speaking ! 

A&ew. Worthy Timon,— 

Tim. Of none but such as you, and you of 
Timon. 

1 . Sen. The senators of Athens greet thee, 
Timon. 

Tim. I thank them; and would send them 
back the plague, 140 

Could I but catch it for them. 





V. 11. 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


io57 


1 . Sen. O, forget 

What we are sorry for ourselves in thee. 

The senators with one consent of love 
Entreat thee back to Athens ; who have thought 
On special dignities, which vacant lie us 

For thy best use and wearing. 

2. Sen. They confess 

Toward thee forgetfulness too general, gross ; 
Which now the public body, which doth seldom 
Play the recanter, feeling in itself 

A lack of Timon’s aid, hath sense withal iso 
Of it own fall, restraining aid to Timon ; 

And send forth us, to make their sorrowed 
render, 

Together with a recompense more fruitful 
Than their offence can weigh down by the 
dram ; 

Ay, even such heaps and sums of love and 
wealth 1S6 

As shall to thee blot out what wrongs were 
theirs, 

And write in thee the figures of their love, 
Ever to read them thine. 

Tim. You witch me in it, 

Surprise me to the very brink of tears. 

Lend me a fool’s heart and a woman’s eyes, ieo 
And I ’ll beweep these comforts, worthy sena¬ 
tors. 

1. Sen. Therefore, so please thee to return 

with us, 

And of our Athens, thine and ours, to take 
The captainship, thou shalt be met with thanks, 
Allowed with absolute power, and thy good 
name iss 

Live with authority; so soon we shall drive back 
Of Alcibiades the approaches wild, 

Who, like a boar too savage, doth root up 
His country’s peace. 

2. Sen. And shakes his threat’ning sword 
Against the walls of Athens. 

1 . Sen. Therefore, Timon, — 

Tim. Well, sir, I will; therefore, I will, sir ; 
thus: in 

If Alcibiades kill my countrymen, 

Let Alcibiades know this of Timon, 

That Timon cares not. But if he sack fair 
Athens, 

And take our goodly aged men by the beards, 
Giving our holy virgins to the stain ns 

Of contumelious, beastly, mad-brain’d war, 
Then let him know, and tell him Timon speaks 
it, 

In pity of our aged and our youth, 

I cannot choose but tell him, that I care not, iso 
And let him take’t at worst; for their knives 
care not, 

While you have throats to answer. For myself, 
There’s not a whittle in the unruly camp 
But I do prize it at my love before 
The reverend’st throat in Athens. So I leave 
you 185 

To the protection of the prosperous gods, 

As thieves to keepers. 

\Flav.] Stay not, all’s in vain. 

Tim. Why, I was writing of my epitaph ; 

It will be seen to-morrow. My long sickness 
Of health and living now begins to mend, i»o 


And nothing brings me all things. Go, live still; 
Be Alcibiades your plague, you his, 

And last so long enough 1 
i. Sen. We speak in vain. 

Tim. But yet I love my country, and am not 
One that rejoices in the common wreck, i»s 
As common bruit doth put it. 

1. Sen. That’s well spoke. 

Tim. Commend me to my loving country¬ 
men, — 

1. Sen. These words become your lips as they 

pass thorough them. 

2. Sen. And enter in our ears like great 

triumphers m 

In their applauding gates. 

Tim. Commend me to them, 

And tell them that, to ease them of their griefs, 
Their fears of hostile strokes, their aches, 
losses, 

Their pangs of love, with other incident throes 
That nature’s fragile vessel doth sustain 
In life’s uncertain voyage, I will some kindness 
do them: 206 

I ’ll teach them to prevent wild Alcibiades’ 
wrath. 

1 . Sen. I like this well; he will return again. 
Tim. I have a tree, which grows here in my 
close, 

That mine own use invites me to cut down, 

And shortly must I fell it. Tell my friends, 210 
Tell Athens, in the sequence of degree 
From high to low throughout, that whoso 
please 

To stop affliction, let him take his haste, 

Come hither, ere my tree hath felt the axe, 
And hang himself. I pray you, do my greet¬ 
ing. 215 

[Flav. ] Trouble him no further ; thus you 
still shall find him. 

Tim. Come not to me again ; but say to 
Athens, 

Timon hath made his everlasting mansion 
Upon the beached verge of the salt flood ; 

Who once a day with his embossed froth 220 

The turbulent surge shall cover ; thither come, 
And let my grave-stone be your oracle. 

Lips, let sour words go by and language end ! 
Wnat is amiss plague and infection mend ! 
Graves only be men’s works, and death their 

gain! 225 

Sun, hide thy beams ! Timon hath done his 
reign. [Exit. 

1. Sen. His discontents are unremoveably 
Coupled to nature. 

2. Sen. Our hope in him is dead. Let us re¬ 

turn, 

And strain what other means is left unto us 230 
In our dear peril. 

1. Sen. It requires swift foot. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. Before the walls of Athens.] 

Enter two other Senators and a Messenger. 

1. Sen. Thou hast painfully discover’d. Are 
his files 

As full as thy report ? 




1058 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


V. IV. 


Mess. I have spoke the least; 

Besides, his expedition promises 
Present approach. 

2 . Sen. We stand much hazard, if they bring 

not Timon. 5 

Mess. I met a courier, one mine ancient 
friend; 

Whom, though in general part we were oppos’d, 
Yet our old love made a particular force, 

And made us speak like friends. This man was 
riding 

From Alcibiades to Timon’s cave 10 

With letters of entreaty, which imported 
His fellowship i’ the cause against your city, 

In part for his sake mov’d. 

Enter the other Senators. 

1 . Sen. Here come our brothers. 

3 . Sen. No talk of Timon, nothing of him 

expect. 

The enemies’ drum is heard, and fearful scour¬ 
ing 15 

Doth choke the air with dust. In, and prepare ; 
Ours is the fall, I fear ; our foes’ the snare. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene III.] The woods [near the sea. Timon's 
cave , and a rude tomb seen]. 

Enter a Soldier, seeking Timon. 

Sold. By all description this should be the 
place. 

Who’s here ? speak, ho ! No answer ! What 
is this ? 

Timon is dead, who hath outstretch’d his span. 
Some beast rear’d this; there does not live a 
man. 

Dead, sure; and this his grave. What’s on 
this tomb 5 

I cannot read; the character I ’ll take with 
wax; 

Our captain hath in every figure skill, 

An ag’d interpreter, though young in days. 
Before proud Athens he’s set down by this, 
Whose fall the mark of his ambition is. 10 

[Exit. 

[Scene IV.] Before Athens. 

Trumpets sound. Enter Alcibiades with his 
powers. 

Alcib. Sound to this coward and lascivious 
town 

Our terrible approach. [A parley sounded. 
The Senators appear upon the walls. 

Till now you have gone on and fill’d the time 
With all licentious measure, making your wills 
The scope of justice; till now myself and 
such 6 

As slept within the shadow of your power 
Have wander’d with our travers’d arms and 
breath’d 

Our sufferance vainly ; now the time is flush, 
When crouching marrow in the bearer strong 
Cries of itself, “No more!” Now breathless 
Wrong 10 


Shall sit and pant in your great chairs of ease, 
And pursy Insolence shall break his wind 
With fear and horrid flight. 

1. Sen. Noble and young. 

When thy first griefs were hut a mere conceit, 
Ere thou hadst power or we had cause of 

fear, 18 

We sent to thee to give thy rages halm, 

To wipe out our ingratitude with loves 
Above their quantity. 

2. Sen. So did we woo 

Transformed Timon to our city’s love 

By humble message and by promis’d means. 20 
We were not all unkind, nor all deserve 
The common stroke of war. 

1. Sen. These walls of ours 

Were not erected by their hands from whom 
You have receiv’d your grief; nor are they 

such 

That these great towers, trophies, and schools 
should fall 25 

For private faults in them. 

2. Sen. Nor are they living 

Who were the motives that you first went out; 
Shame, that they wanted cunning, in excess 
Hath broke their hearts. March, noble lord, 
Into our city with thy banners spread. 30 

By decimation, and a tithed death — 

If thy revenges hunger for that food 
Which nature loathes — take thou the destin’d 
tenth, 

And by the hazard of the spotted die 
Let die the spotted. 

1 . Sen. All have not offended ; ss 

For those that were, it is not square to take 
On those that are, revenge ; crimes, like lands. 
Are not inherited. Then, dear countryman, 
Bring in thy ranks, but leave without thy 

rage; 

Spare thy Athenian cradle and those kin 40 
Which in the bluster of thy wrath must fall 
With those that have offended ; like a shepherd, 
Approach the fold and cull the infected forth, 
But kill not all together. 

2. Sen. What thou wilt, 

Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile 45 
Than hew to’t with thy sword. 

1 . Sen. Set but thy foot 

Against our rampir’d gates, and they shall ope ; 
So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before, 

To say thou ’It enter friendly. 

2. Sen. Throw thy glove, 

Or any token of thine honour else, so 

That thou wilt use the wars as thy redress 
And not as our confusion, all thy powers 
Shall make their harbour in our town, till we 
Have seal’d thy full desire. 

Alcib. Then there’s my glove ; 

Descend, and open your uncharged ports. 66 
Those enemies of Timon’s and mine own 
Whom you yourselves shall set out for reproof 
Fall and no more; and, to atone your fears 
With my more noble meaning, not a man 
Shall pass his quarter, or offend the stream 60 
Of regular justice in your city’s bounds, 

But shall be render’d to your public laws 
At heaviest answer. 





V. IV. 


TIMON OF ATHENS 


i °59 


Both. ’T is most nobly spoken. 

Alcib. Descend, and keep your words. 

[The Senators descend , and open 
the gates .] 

Enter [Soldier]. 

Sold. My noble general, Timon is dead, 
Entomb’d upon the very hem o’ the sea ; 

And on his grave-stone this insculpture, which 
With wax I brought away, whose soft impres¬ 
sion 

Interprets for my poor ignorance. 

Alcib. (Reads the epitaph.) “Here lies a 
wretched corse, of wretched soul bereft. ™ 
Seek not my name: a plague consume you 
wicked caitiffs left! 

Here lie I, Timon; who, alive, all living men 
did hate. 


Pass by and curse thy fill, but pass and stay 
not here thy gait.” 

These well express in thee thy latter spirits : 
Though thou abhorr’dst in us our human 
griefs, 75 

Scorn’dst our brain’s flow and those our drop¬ 
lets which 

From niggard nature fall, yet rich conceit 
Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for 
aye 

On thy low grave, on faults forgiven. Dead 
Is noble Timon, of whose memory so 

Hereafter more. Bring me into your city, 

And I will use the olive with my sword, 

Make war breed peace, make peace stint war, 
make each 

Prescribe to other as each other’s leech. 

Let our drums strike. [ Exeunt. ** 














THE TRAGEDY OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


On May 20 , 1608 , Edward Blount entered in the Stationers’ Register A Book called Antony 
and Cleopatra , which does not seem to have been actually issued. Blount was one of the pub¬ 
lishers of the First Folio ; and in spite of the fact that Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra was 
registered in 1623 along- with the other plays “ not formerly entered to any man,” it seems likely 
that the 1608 entry refers to it. We have no other external evidence as to the time of composi¬ 
tion; but verse, style, and method of treatment all agree in making 1607-8 the probable date. 
The First Folio text is the basis of all other editions. 

Cleopatra had frequently been made the subject of dramatic treatment in the sixteenth cen¬ 
tury, but none of these earlier plays seems to have influenced Shakespeare. His sole source was 
Sir Thomas North’s translation of Amyot’s version of Plutarch’s Life of Marcus Antonins, and 
this he followed with remarkable fidelity. Not only are practically all the incidents of the plot 
found in the biography, and in almost the same order, but there are numerous passages in the 
play — and these among the most brilliant — which follow the very diction of North as closely 
as verse can follow prose. Yet no play of Shakespeare’s is less prosaic in style, and in none is 
the splendor of his imagination more superbly exhibited in the presentation of human character. 

But the appreciation of Shakespeare does not demand the belittling of the merits of his source. 
In the work of Plutarch, and especially in this Life of Marcus Antonius, he had material to deal 
with vastly differing from the bald annals of Holinshed which formed the foundation of the 
English historical plays. The Greek writer was an artist in expression and in the selection of de¬ 
tail, and had an intense appreciation of greatness; so that in matters of characterization and 
choice of incident the dramatist found much of his work done for him. Yet between the Life 
and the tragedy there are contrasts of the greatest significance. In the treatment of the whole 
action, Shakespeare discarded long series of events, like Antony’s campaigns against the Par- 
thians, which occurred during the period dealt with, but which had no bearing on the tragic 
theme ; and he relegated to the background important figures such as Caesar and Octavia. Thus 
he suppresses the fact that Octavia won Antony away from Cleopatra for a number of years, 
and he reduces Antony’s protracted stay in Rome to a short visit. 

To Plutarch, the love of Antony for Cleopatra was merely a baneful spell which stirred up 
the evil elements in his character and quenched what was left of good; and Cleopatra herself 
was a sensual coquette, full of trickery and deceit, whose grief for Antony at the end was gen¬ 
uine enough, but was disfigured by petulance, fear, and vacillation. Shakespeare ignored the 
more vulgar libertine elements in Antony’s character, and presented him as a man with a genius 
for friendship, a splendid practical capacity, and a highly sensuous temperament, who is subdued 
by a passion which, however unworthy in some aspects, is redeemed from meanness by its mag¬ 
nificent intensity. The picture of the Egyptian queen is equally skilful and even more subtle. 
Shakespeare preserves nearly all the characteristics of selfishness and guile that are found in 
Plutarch’s sketch, and, save that he condenses and omits some ugly physical details, spares us 
nothing of the weakness and falsehood that are constantly appearing almost to the last. But he 
alternates these with amazing flashes of a magical fascination that render'the creation unique ; and 
he closes with a scene which, without any inconsistency with previous revelations of character, 
lifts both her and her Herculean Roman into the sphere of loftiest tragedy. 

Of the minor characters Enobarbus is the most important Shakespearean invention. He is, of 
course, a historical personage ; yet his prominent function as the friendly but caustic observer of 
Antony’s gradual downfall, and the pathos of his own desertion and death, are original. The 
characterization of Octavius and his sister, while purposely unsympathetic, is not lacking in vigor 
and clearness, and is based on a skilful selection of the qualities attributed to them by Plutarch. 
The vivid suggestion of oriental luxury in the Alexandrian scenes is due in part to Shakespeare’s 
imagination, in part to Plutarch, who gives here great wealth of detail, some of it derived from 
his own grandfather, who had it from eye-witnesses. 


THE TRAGEDY OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


[DRAMATIS PERSONAE 


friends to Antony. 


Mark Antony, 'j 

Octavius C^sar, > triumvirs. 

M. ASmilius Lepidus, ) 

Sextus Pompeius. 

Domitius Enobarbus, 

Ventidius, 

Eros, 

Scarus, 

Dercetas, 

Demetrius, 

Philo, 

Canidius, lieutenant-general to Antony. 
Maecenas, 

Agrippa, 

Dolabella, 

Proculeius, 

Thyreus, 

Gallus, 


friends to Caesar. 


Taurus, lieutenant-general to Caesar. 

Menas, 1 

Menecrates, > friends to Pompey. 

Varrius, ) 

Sinus, an officer in Ventidius’s army. 
Eufhronius, an ambassador from Antony to 
Caesar. 

Alexas, 'i 

Mardian, a eunuch, .. , . 

Seleucus’ j 1 attendants on Cleopatra. 

Diomedes, J 

A Soothsayer. 

A Clown. 

Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt. 

Octavia, sister to Caesar and wife to Antony. 

Iras RMIAN ’ } atten dants on Cleopatra. 


Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants. 
Scene : In several parts of the Roman Empire.'] 


ACT 1 

Scene I. [ Alexandria. A room in Cleopatra's 
palace .] 

Enter Demetrius and Philo. 

Phi. Nay, but this dotage of our general’s 
O’erflows the measure. Those his goodly eyes, 
That o’er the files and musters of the war 
Have glow’d like plated Mars, now bend, now 
turn, 

The office and devotion of their view s 

Upon a tawny front; his captain’s heart, 
Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst 
The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper, 
And is become the bellows and the fan 9 

To cool a gipsy’s lust. 

Flourish. Enter Antony, Cleopatra, her 
Ladies , the train , with Eunuchs fanning her. 

Look, where they come ! 
Take but good note, and you shall see in him 
The triple pillar of the world transform’d 
Into a strumpet’s fool. Behold and see. 

Cleo. If it be love indeed, tell me how much. 
Ant. There’s beggary in the love that can be 
reckon’d. is 

Cleo. I ’ll set a bourn how far to be belov’d. 
Ant. Then must thou needs find out new 
heaven, new earth. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. News, my good lord, from Rome. 

Ant. Grates me : the sum. 

Cleo. Nay, hear them, Antony. 

Fulvia perchance is angry ; or, who knows 20 


If the scarce-bearded Caesar have not sent 
His powerful mandate to you: “Do this, 01 
this ; 

Take in that kingdom, and enfranchise that ; 
Perform’t, or else we damn thee.” 

Ant. How, my love 1 

Cleo. Perchance ! nay, and most like. 2s 
You must not stay here longer, your dismis¬ 
sion 

Is come from Caesar ; therefore hear it, Antony. 
Where’s Fulvia’s process? — Caesar’s, I would 
say. Both ? 

Call in the messengers. As I am Egypt’s 
queen, 

Thou blushest, Antony, and that blood of 
thine 30 

Is Caesar’s homager ; else so thy cheek pays 
shame 

When shrill-tongu’d Fulvia scolds. The mes¬ 
sengers ! 

A nt. Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide 
arch 

Of the rang’d empire fall ! Here is my space. 
Kingdoms are clay ; our dungy earth alike 35 
Feeds beast as man ; the nobleness of life 
Is to do thus, when such a mutual pair 

[ Embracing .] 

And such a twain can do’t, in which I bind, 

On pain of punishment, the world to wit 
We stand up peerless. 

Cleo.' Excellent falsehood ! 40 

Why did he marry Fulvia, and not love her ? 

I ’ll seem the fool I am not; Antony 
Will be himself. 

Ant. But stirr’d by Cleopatra. 

Now, for the love of Love and her soft hours, 







1062 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


I. ii. 


Let’s not confound the time with conference 
harsh. 46 

There’s not a minute of our lives should stretch 
Without some pleasure now. What sport to¬ 
night ? 

Cleo. Hear the ambassadors. 

Ant. Fie, wrangling queen ! 

Whom everything becomes, to chide, to laugh, 
To weep ; whose every passion fully strives eo 
To make itself, in thee, fair and admir’d ! 

No messenger but thine ; and all alone 
To-night we ’ll wander through the streets and 
note 

The qualities of people. Come, my queen ; m 
Last night you did desire it. —Speak not to us. 

[Exeunt [Ant. and Cleo.\ with their 
train. 

Dem. Is Caesar with Antonius priz’d so slight? 
Phi. Sir, sometimes, when he is not Antony, 
He comes too short of that great property 
Which still should go with Antony. 

Dem. I am full sorry 

That he approves the common liar, who oo 
Thus speaks of him at Rome ; but I will hope 
Of better deeds to-morrow. Rest you happy ! 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. The same. Another room.] 

Enter Enobarbus, Lamprius, a Soothsayer, 
Rannius, Lucilius, Charmian, Iras, Mar- 
dian the Eunuch , and Alexas. 

Char. Lord Alexas, sweet Alexas, most any¬ 
thing Alexas, almost most absolute Alexas, 
where’s the soothsayer that you prais’d so to 
the Queen ? O, that I knew this husband, 
which, you say, must charge his horns with 
garlands! 5 

Alex. Soothsayer ! 

Sooth. Your will ? 

Char. Is this the man ? Is ’t you, sir, that 
know things ? 

Sooth. In nature’s infinite book of secrecy 
A little I can read. 

Alex. Show him your hand. 10 

Eno. Bring in the banquet quickly ; wine 
enough 

Cleopatra’s health to drink. 

Char. Good sir, give me good fortune. 

Sooth. I make not, but foresee. 

Char. Pray, then, foresee me one. 15 

Sooth. You shall be yet far fairer than you 
are. 

Char. He means in flesh. 

Iras. No, you shall paint when you are old. 
Char. Wrinkles forbid! 

Alex. Vex not his prescience ; be attentive. 20 
Char. Hush ! 

Sooth. You shall be more beloving than be¬ 
loved. 

Char. I had rather heat my liver with 
drinking. 

Alex. Nay, hear him. 24 

Char. Good now, some excellent fortune! 
Let me be married to three kings in a fore¬ 
noon, and widow them all. Let me have a 
child at fifty, to whom Hex*od of Jewry may do 


homage. Find me to marry me with Octavius 
Caesar, and companion me with my mistress. 30 
Sooth. You shall outlive the lady whom you 
serve. 

Char. 0 excellent! I love long life better 
than figs. 

Sooth. You have seen and proved a fairer 
former fortune 

Than that which is to approach. 34 

Char. Then belike my children shall have no 
names. Prithee, how many boys and wenches 
must I have ? 

Sooth. If every of your wishes had a womb, 
And fertile every wish, a million. 

Char. Out, fool! I forgive thee for a witch. 40 
Alex. You think none but your sheets are 
privy to your wishes. 

Char. Nay, come, tell Iras hers. 

A lex. We ’ll know all our fortunes. 

Eno. Mine and most of our fortunes to-night 
shall be — drunk to bed. *6 

Iras. There’s a palm presages chastity, if no¬ 
thing else. 

Char. E’en as the o’erflowing Nilus presag- 
eth famine. oo 

Iras. Go, you wild bedfellow, you cannot 
soothsay. 

Char. Nay, if an oily palm be not a fruitful 
prognostication, I cannot scratch mine ear. 
Prithee, tell her but a work-a-day fortune. bb 
Sooth. Your fortunes are alike. 

Iras. But how, but how ? Give me particu¬ 
lars. 

Sooth. I have said. 

Iras. Am I not an inch of fortune better 
than she ? 60 

Char. Well, if you were but an inch of for¬ 
tune better than I, where would you choose it ? 
Iras. Not in my husband’s nose. 

Char. Our worser thoughts heavens mend! 
Alexas, — come, his fortune, his fortune ! 0 , 
let him marry a woman that cannot go, [66 
sweet Isis, I beseech thee ! and let her die too, 
and give him a worse ! and let worse follow 
worse, till the worst of all follow him laughing 
to his grave, fifty-fold a cuckold ! Good Isis, 
hear me this prayer, though thou deny me a 
matter of more weight; good Isis, I beseech 
thee! n 

Iras. Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer 
of the people ! for, as it is a heart-breaking to 
see a handsome man loose-wiv’d, so it is a 
deadly sorrow to behold a foul knave uncuck¬ 
olded ; therefore, dear Isis, keep decorum, and 
fortune him accordingly ! 78 

Char. Amen. 

Alex. Lo, now, if it lay in their hands to 
make me a cuckold, they would make them¬ 
selves whores, but they ’d do ’t! 

Enter Cleopatra. 

Eno. Hush ! here comes Antony. 

Char. Not he ; the Queen, ss 

Cleo. Saw you my lord ? 

Eno. No, lady. 

Cleo. Was he not here ? 

Char. No, madam. 





ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


1063 


I. ii. 


Cleo. He was dispos’d to mirth, but on the 
sudden go 

A Roman thought hath struck him. Enobar- 
bus! 

Eno. Madam ? 

Cleo. Seek him, and bring him hither. 
Where’s Alexas ? 

Alex. Here, at your service. My lord ap¬ 
proaches. 90 

Enter Antony with a Messenger [and At¬ 
tendants]. 

Cleo. We will not look upon him. Go with 
us. [Exeunt [Cleo. and train]. 

Mess. Fulvia thy wife first came into the 
field. 

Ant. Against my brother Lucius ? 

Mess. Ay; 94 

But soon that war had end, and the time’s state 
Made friends of them, jointing their force 
’gainst Caesar ; 

Whose better issue in the war, from Italy, 
Upon the first encounter, drave them. 

Ant. Well, what worst ? 

Mess. The nature of bad news infects the 
teller. 

Ant. When it concerns the fool or coward. 
On: 100 

Things that are past are done with me. ’T is 
thus; 

Who tells me true, though in his tale lie death, 
I hear him as he flatter’d. 

Mess. Labienus — 

This is stiff news — hath, with his Parthian 
force, 

Extended Asia from Euphrates ; _ 105 

His conquering banner shook from Syria 
To Lydia and to Ionia, 

Whilst — 

Ant. Antony, thou wouldst say, — 

Mess. O, my lord ! 

Ant. Speak to me home, mince not the gen¬ 
eral tongue. 

Name Cleopatra as she is call’d in Rome ; no 
Rail thou in Fulvia’s phrase; and taunt my 
faults 

With such full license as both truth and malice 
Have power to utter. 0 , then we bring forth 
weeds 

When our quick minds lie still; and our ills 
told us 

Is as our earing. Fare thee well a while. ns 

Mess. At your noble pleasure. [Exit. 

Ant. From Sicyon, ho, the news! Speak 
there! 

1 . [Att.] The man from Sicyon, — is there 

such an one ? 

2. [Att.] He stays upon your will. 

Ant. Let him appear. 

These strong Egyptian fetters I must break, no 
Or lose myself in dotage. 

Enter another Messenger with a letter. 

What are you ? 

[2.] Mess. Fulvia thy wife is dead. 

Ant. Where died she ? 

[;2 .] Mess. In Sicyon : 


Her length of sickness, with what else more 
serious 

Importeth thee to know, this bears. 

[Gives a letter.] 

Ant. Forbear me. 

[Exit 2. Messenger .] 
There’s a great spirit gone ! Thus did I desire 
it. m 

What our contempts doth often hurl from us, 
We wish it ours again ; the present pleasure, 
By revolution low’ring, does become 
The opposite of itself. She’s good, being gone ; 
The hand could pluck her back that shov’d her 
on. tai 

I must from this enchanting queen break off; 
Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know, 
My idleness doth hatch. 

Re-enter Enobarbus. 

How now ! Enobarbus I 
Eno. What’s your pleasure, sir ? isa 

Ant. I must with haste from hence. 

Eno. Why, then, we kill all our women. We 
see how mortal an unkindness is to them ; if 
they suffer our departure, death’s the word. 
Ant. I must be gone. 140 

Eno. Under a compelling occasion, let women 
die. It were pity to cast them away for nothing; 
though, between them and a great cause, they 
should be esteemed nothing. Cleopatra, catch¬ 
ing but the least noise of this, dies instantly ; [ns 
I have seen her die twenty times upon far poorer 
moment. I do think there is mettle in Death, 
which commits some loving act upon her, she 
hath such a celerity in dying. 

Ant. She is cunning past man’s thought, n* 
Eno. Alack, sir, no ; her passions are made 
of nothing but the finest part of pure love. We 
cannot call her winds and waters sighs and 
tears ; they are greater storms and tempests 
than almanacs can report. This cannot be cun¬ 
ning in her ; if it be, she makes a shower of 
rain as well as Jove. wi 

Ant. Would I had never seen her ! 

Eno. 0 , sir, you had then left unseen a won¬ 
derful piece of work ; which not to have been 
blest withal would have discredited your travel. 
Ant. Fulvia is dead. ica 

Eno. Sir? 

Ant. Fulvia is dead. 

Eno. Fulvia! 

Ant. Dead. . ns 

Eno. Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sac¬ 
rifice. When it pleaseth their deities to take 
the wife of a man from him, it shows to man 
the tailors of the earth; comforting therein, 
that when old robes are worn out, there are [no 
members to make new. If there were no more 
women but Fulvia, then had you indeed a cut, 
and the case to be lamented. This grief is 
crown’d with consolation; your old smock 
brings forth a new petticoat: and indeed the 
tears live in an onion that should water this 
sorrow. m 

Ant. The business she hath broached in the 
state 

Cannot endure my absence. 







1064 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


1. iiii 


Eno. And the business you have broach’d 
here cannot be without you; especially that 
of Cleopatra’s, which wholly depends on your 
abode. 182 

Ant. No more light answers. Let our offi¬ 
cers 

Have notice what we purpose. I shall break 
The cause of our expedience to the Queen, iss 
And get her leave to part. For not alone 
The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches, 
Do strongly speak to us ; but the letters too 
Of many our contriving friends in Rome 
Petition us at home. Sextus Pompeius iso 
Hath given the dare to Csesar, and commands 
The empire of the sea. Our slippery people, 
Whose love is never link’d to the deserver 
Till his deserts are past, begin to throw 
Pompey the Great and all his dignities isb 
U pon his son ; who, high in name and power, 
Higher than both in blood and life, stands up 
For the main soldier ; whose quality, going on, 
The sides o’ the world may danger. Much is 
breeding, 

Which, like the courser’s hair, hath yet but 
life, 200 

And not a serpent’s poison. Say, our pleasure, 
To such whose place is under us, requires 
Our quick remove from hence. 

Eno. I shall do’t. [Exeunt.] 

[Scene III. The same. Another room..] 

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and 
Alexas. 

Cleo. Where is he ? 

Char. I did not see him since. 

Cleo. See where he is, who’s with him, what 
he does. 

I did not send you. If you find him sad, 

Say I am dancing ; if in mirth, report 

That I am sudden sick. Quick, and return, b 

[Exit Alexas.] 

Char. Madam, methinks, if you did love him 
dearly, 

You do not hold the method to enforce 
The like from him. 

Cleo. What should I do, I do not ? 

Char. In each thing give him way, cross him 
in nothing. 

Cleo. Thou teachest like a fool: the way to 
lose him. 10 

Char. Tempt him not so too far; I wish, 
forbear. 

In time we hate that which we often fear. 
Enter Antony. 

But here comes Antony. 

Cleo. I am sick and sullen. 

Ant. I am sorry to give breathing to my 
purpose, — 

Cleo. Help me away, dear Charmian; I shall 
fall. is 

It cannot be thus long, the sides of nature 
Will not sustain it. 

Ant. Now, my dearest queen, — 

Cleo. Pray you, stand farther from me. 

Ant. What’s the matter ? 


Cleo. I know, by that same eye, there’s 
some good news. 

What says the married woman ? You may go. 20 
Would she had never given you leave to come ! 
Let her not say’t is 1 that keep you here ; 

I have no power upon you ; hers you are. 

Ant. The gods best know, — 

Cleo. 0 , never was there queen 

So mightily betrayed ! Yet at the first 2.. 

I saw the treasons planted. 

Ant. Cleopatra, — 

Cleo. Why should I think you can be mine 
and true, 

Though you in swearing shake the throned gods, 
Who have been false to Fulvia ? Riotous mad¬ 
ness, 29 

To be entangled with those mouth-made vows, 
Which break themselves in swearing ! 

Ant. Most sweet queen,— 

Cleo. Nay, pray you, seek no colour for your 
going, 

But bid farewell, and go. When you sued 
staying, 

Then was the time for words ; no going then; 
Eternity was in our lips and eyes, 35 

Bliss in our brows’ bent; none our parts so 
poor, 

But was a race of heaven. They are so still, 

Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world, 

Art turn’d the greatest liar. 

Ant. How now, lady! 

Cleo. I would I had thy inehes; thou shouldst 
know 40 

There were a heart in Egypt. 

Ant. Hear me, Queen. 

The strong necessity of time commands 
Our services a while ; but my full heart 
Remains in use with you. Our Italy 
Shines o’er with civil swords ; Sextus Pom¬ 
peius 45 

Makes his approaches to the port of Rome ; 
Equality of two domestic powers 
Breed scrupulous faction ; the hated, grown to 
strength, 

Are newly grown to love ; the condemn’d Pom- 


Rich in his father’s honour, creeps apace bo 
I nto the hearts of such as have not thrived 
Upon the present state, whose numbers 
threaten; 

And quietness, grown sick of rest, would purge 
By any desperate change. My more particu¬ 
lar, 

And that which most with you should safe my 
t T-, , going, 55 

Is Fulvia’s death. 

Cleo. Though age from folly could not give 
me freedom. 

It does from childishness. Can Fulvia die ? 

Ant. She’s dead, my queen. 

Look here, and at thy sovereign leisure read eo 
The garboils she awak’d : at the last, best; 

See when and where she died. 

Cleo. O most false love 1 

Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill 
With sorrowful water ? Now I see, I see, 

In Fulvia’s death, how mine receiv’d shall be. 




I. IV. 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


1065 


Ant. Quarrel no more, but be prepar’d to 
know 6 G 

The purposes I bear ; which are, or cease, 

As you shall give the advice. By the fire 
That quickens Nilus’ slime, I go from hence 
Thy soldier, servant; making peace or war 70 
As thou affects. 

Cleo. Cut my lace, Charmian, come ! 

But let it be ; I am quickly ill and well, 

So Antony loves. 

Ant. My precious queen, forbear; 

And give true evidence to his love, which stands 
An honourable trial. 

Cleo. So Fulvia told me. 76 

I prithee, turn aside and weep for her; 

Then bid adieu to me, and say the tears 
Belong to Egypt. Good now, play one scene 
Of excellent dissembling ; and let it look 
Like perfect honour. 

Ant. You’ll heat my blood. No more. 

Cleo. You can do better yet; but this is 
meetly. 

Ant. Now, by my sword, — 

Cleo. And target. —Still he mends ; 

But this is not the best. Look, prithee, Char¬ 
mian, 

How this Herculean Roman does become 
The carriage of his chafe. 

Ant. I ’ll leave you, lady. 

Cleo. Courteous lord, one word. 

Sir, you and I must part, but that’s not it; 

Sir, you and I have lov’d, but there’s not it; 
That you know well. Something it is I would, — 
O, my oblivion is a very Antony, 00 

And I am all forgotten. 

Ant. But that your royalty 

Holds idleness your subject, I should take you 
For idleness itself. 

Cleo. ’T is sweating labour 

To bear such idleness so near the heart 
As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me, 

Since my becomings kill me when they do 
not 

Eye well to you. Your honour calls you hence ; 
Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly, 

And all the gods go with you! Upon your 
sword 

Sit laurell’d victory, and smooth success 100 
Be strew’d before your feet! 

Ant. Let us go. — Come ; 

Our separation so abides, and flies, 

That thou, residing here, goes yet with me, 
And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee. 
Away! [Exeunt. 106 

[Scene IV. Rome. Caesar's house.] 

Enter Octavius Cjssar, reading a letter , Lep- 
idus, and their train. 

Coes. You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth 
know, 

It is not Caesar’s natural vice to hate 
Our great competitor. From Alexandria 
This is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes 
The lamps of night in revel; is not more man¬ 
like _ 6 

Than Cleopatra ; nor the queen of Ptolemy 


More womanly than he ; hardly gave audience, 
or 

Vouchsaf’d to think he had partners. You 
shall find there 

A man who is the abstract of all faults 
That all men follow. 

Lep. I must not think there are 

Evils enow to darken all his goodness. « 

His faults in him seem as the spots of heaven, 
More fiery by night’s blackness ; hereditary, 
Rather than purchas’d ; what he cannot change, 
Than what he chooses. i® 

Coes. You are too indulgent. Let’s grant it 
is not 

Amiss to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy ; 

To give a kingdom for a mirth ; to sit 
And keep the turn of tippling with a slave ; 

To reel the streets at noon, and stand the buf¬ 
fet 20 

With knaves that smell of sweat: say this be¬ 

comes him, — 

As his composure must be rare indeed 
Whom these things cannot blemish, — yet must 
Antony 

No way excuse his soils, when we do bear 
So great weight in his lightness. If he fill’d 26 
His vacancy with his voluptuousness, 

Full surfeits and the dryness of his bones 
Call on him for ’t; but to confound such time 
That drums him from his sport and speaks as 
loud 

As his own state and ours, ’t is to be chid 3 * 
As we rate boys, who, being mature in know- 
ledge, 

Pawn their experience to their present plea¬ 
sure, 

And so rebel to judgement. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Lep. Here’s more news. 

Mess. Thy biddings have been done; and 
every hour, 

Most noble Caesar, shalt thou have report 35 
How’t is abroad. Pompey is strong at sea ; 
And it appears he is belov’d of those 
That only have fear’d Caesar. To the ports 
The discontents repair ; and men’s reports 39 
Give him much wrong’d. 

Coes. I should have known no less. 

It hath been taught us from the primal state, 
That he which is was wish’d until he were ; 
And the ebb’d man, ne’er loved till ne’er worth 
love, 

Comes dear’d by being lack’d. This common 
body, 

Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream, _ 

Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide, 
To rot itself with motion. 

Mess. Caesar, I bring thee word, 

Menecrates and Menas, famous pirates, 

Makes the sea serve them, which they ear and 
wound 

With keels of every kind. Many hot inroads eo 
They make in Italy ; the borders maritime 
Lack blood to think on ’t, and flush youth 
revolt. 

No vessel can peep forth, but’t is as soon 





io66 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA i. v. 


Taken as seen; for Pompey’s name strikes 
tnore 

Than could his war resisted. 

Goes. Antony, 55 

Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou 
once 

Was beaten from Modena, where thou slew’st 
Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel 
Did famine follow; whom thou fought’st 
against, 

Though daintily brought up, with patience 
more 60 

Than savages could suffer. Thou didst drink 
The stale of horses, and the gilded puddle 
Which beasts would cough at; thy palate then 
did deign 

The roughest berry on the rudest hedge ; 

Yea, like the stag, when snow the pasture 
sheets, 65 

The barks of trees thou brows’d ; on the Alps 
It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh, 
Which some did die to look on ; and all this — 
It wounds thine honour that I speak it now — 
Was borne so like a soldier, that thy cheek 70 
So much as lank’d not. 

Lep. ’T is pity of him. 

Cces. Let his shames quickly 
Drive him to Rome. ’T is time we twain 
Did show ourselves i’ the field, and to that end 
Assemble we immediate council. Pompey 75 
Thrives in our idleness. 


Mar. Yes, gracious madam. 

Cleo. Indeed ! 

Mar. Not in deed, madam, for I can do no¬ 
thing 11 

But what indeed is honest to be done ; 

Yet have I fierce affections, and think 
What V enus did with Mars. 

Cleo. O Charmian, 

Where think’st thou he is now ? Stands he, or 
sits he ? 

Or does he walk ? Or is he on his horse ? 20 

0 happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony ! 
Do bravely, horse ! for wot’st thou whom thou 
mov’st ? 

The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm 
And burgonet of men. He’s speaking now, 

Or murmuring, “ Where’s my serpent of old 
Nile?” 26 

For so he calls me. Now I feed myself 
With most delicious poison. Think on me, 
That am with Phoebus’ amorous pinches black, 
And wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted 
Caesar, 

When thou wast here above the ground, I was 30 
A morsel for a monarch ; and great Pompey 
Would stand and make his eyes grow in my 
brow ; 

There would he anchor his aspect and die 
With looking on his life. 

Enter Alexas. 


Lep. To-morrow, Caesar, 

I shall be furnish’d to inform you rightly 
Both what by sea and land I can be able 
To front this present time. 

Cces. Till which encounter, 

It is my business too. Farewell. so 

Lep. Farewell, my lord. What you shall 
know meantime 

Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir, 

To let me be partaker. 

Coes. Doubt not, sir: 

I knew it for my bond. [ Exeunt. 


[Scene V. Alexandria. Cleopatra’'s palace .] 

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and 
Mardian. 

Cleo. Charmian! 

Char. Madam? 

Cleo. Ha, ha ! 

Give me to drink mandragora. 

Char. Why, madam ? 

Cleo. That I might sleep out this great gap 
of time e 

My Antony is away. 

Char. You think of him too much. 

Cleo. 0 , ’t is treason ! 

Char. Madam, I trust not so. 

Cleo. Thou, eunuch Mardian ! 

Mar. What’s your Highness’ pleasure ? 
Cleo. Not now to hear thee sing; I take no 
pleasure 

In aught an eunuch has. ’T is well for thee, 10 
That, being unseminar’d, thy freer thoughts 
May not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affec¬ 
tions ? 


Alex. Sovereign of Egypt, hail! 

Cleo. How much unlike art thou Mark An¬ 
tony ! 36 

Yet, coming from him, that great medicine hath 
With his tinct gilded thee. 

How goes it with my brave Mark Antony ? 

Alex. Last thing he did, dear queen, 

He kiss’d,—the last of many doubled 

kisses, — *0 

This orient pearl. His speech sticks in my 
heart. 

Cleo. Mine ear must pluck it thence. 

Alex. “ Good friend,” quoth he, 

“ Say, the firm Roman to great Egypt sends 
This treasure of an oyster ; at whose foot, 

To mend the petty present, I will piece « 

Her opulent throne with kingdoms. All the 
East, 

Say thou, shall call her mistress.” So he nod¬ 
ded, 

And soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed. 
Who neigh’d so high that what I would have 
spoke 

Was beastly dumb’d by him. 

Cleo. What, was he sad or merry ? 

Alex. Like to the time o’ the year between 
the extremes ei 

Of hot and cold, he was nor sad nor merry. 

Cleo. 0 well-divided disposition ! Note him, 
Note him, good Charmian, ’t is the man ; but 
note him : 

He was not sad, for he would shine on those es 
That make their looks by his; he was not merry, 
Which seem’d to tell them his remembrance lay 
In Egypt with his joy ; but between both. 

0 heavenly mingle ! Be’st thou sad or merry, 





ii. ii. 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


1067 


The violence of either thee becomes, eo 

So does it no man else. Met’st thou my posts ? 
Alex. Ay, madam, twenty several messen¬ 
gers : 

Why do you send so thick ? 

Cleo. Who’s born that day 

When I forget to send to Antony, 

Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian. m 
W elcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian, 
Ever love Caesar so ? 

CAar. O that brave Caesar ! 

Cleo. Be chok’d with such another emphasis ! 
Say, the brave Antony ! 

CAar. The valiant Casar ! 

Cleo. By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth, 70 
If thou with Caesar paragon again 
My man of men. 

Char. By your most gracious pardon, 

I sing but after you. 

Cleo. My salad days, 

When I was green in judgement; cold in blood, 
To say as I said then ! But, come, away ; 75 

Get me ink and paper. 

He shall have every day a several greeting, 

Or I ’ll unpeople Egypt. [ Exeunt. 


[ACT II] 

[Scene I. Messina. Pompey's house.] 

Enter Pompey, Menecrates, and Menas, in 
warlike manner. 

Pom. If the great gods be just, they shall 
assist 

The deeds of justest men. 

Mene. Know, worthy Pompey, 

That what they do delay, they not deny. 

Pom. Whiles we are suitors to their throne, 
decays 

The thing we sue for. 

Mene. We, ignorant of ourselves, 

Beg often our own harms, which the wise 
powers a 

Deny us for our good ; so find we profit 
By losing of our prayers. 

Pom. I shall do well. 

The people love me, and the sea is mine ; 

My powers are crescent, and my auguring 
hope 10 

Says it will come to the full. Mark Antony 
In Egypt sits at dinner, and will make 
No wars without-doors. Caesar gets money where 
He loses hearts. Lepidus flatters both, 

Of both is flatter’d ; but he neither loves, 10 
Nor either cares for him. 

Men. Caesar and Lepidus 

Are in the field ; a mighty strength they carry. 
Pom. Where have you this ? ’T is false. 
Men. From Silvius, sir. 

Pom. He dreams. I know they are in Rome 
together, 

Looking for Antony. But all the charms of 
love, *0 

Salt Cleopatra, soften thy wan’d lip ! 

Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with 
both! 


Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts, 

Keep his brain fuming ; Epicurean cooks 
Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite ; 20 

That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour 
Even till a Lethe’d dulness ! 

Enter Varrius. 

_ How now, Varrius ! 

Var. This is most certain that I shall de¬ 
liver : 

Mark Antony is every hour in Rome 
Expected ; since he went from Egypt’t is 3* 
A space for farther travel. 

Pom. I could have given less matter 

A better ear. Menas, I did not think 
This amorous surfeiter would have donn’d his 
helm 

For such a petty war. His soldiership 
Is twice the other twain ; but let us rear 35 
The higher our opinion, that our stirring 
Can from the lap of Egypt’s widow pluck 
The ne’er lust-wearied Antony. 

Men. I cannot hope 

Caesar and Antony shall well greet together. 
His wife that’s dead did trespasses to Caesar; 40 
His brother warr’d upon him, although, I 
think, 

Not mov’d by Antony. 

Pom. I know not, Menas, 

How lesser enmities may give way to greater. 
Were’t not that we stand up against them all, 
’T were pregnant they should square between 
themselves; 45 

For they have entertained cause enough 
To draw their swords ; but how the fear of us 
May cement their divisions and bind up 
The petty difference, we yet not know. 

Be ’t as our gods will have’t! It only stands 
Our lives upon to use our strongest hands. 
Come, Menas. [ Exeunt. 

[Scene II. Rome. The house of Lepidus.] 
Enter Enobarbus and Lepidus. 

Lep. Good Enobarbus, ’t is a worthy deed, 
And shall become you well, to entreat your 
captain 

To soft and gentle speech. 

Eno. I shall entreat him 

To answer like himself. If Caesar move him, 
Let Antony look over Caesar’s head s 

And speak as loud as Mars. By Jupiter, 

Were I the wearer of Antonius’ beard, 

I would not shave’t to-day. 

Lep. ’T is not a time 

For private stomaching. 

Eno. Every time 

Serves for the matter that is then born in’t. 10 
Lep. But small to greater matters must give 
way. 

Eno. Not if the small come first. 

Lep. Your speech is passion ; 

But, pray you, stir no embers up. Here comes 
The noble Antony. 

Enter Antony and Ventidius. 

Eno. And yonder, Caesar. 






io68 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


ii. ii. 


Enter C^sar, Mjscenas, and Agreppa. 

Ant. If we compose well here, to Parthia! ie 
Hark, Ventidius. 

Cces. I do not know, 

Maecenas ; ask Agrippa. 

Lep. Noble friends, 

That which combin’d us was most great, and 
let not 

A leaner action rend us. What’s amiss, 

May it be gently heard ; when we debate 20 
Our trivial difference loud, we do commit 
Murder in healing wounds; then, noble part- 


The rather, for I earnestly beseech, 

Touch you the sourest points with sweetest 
terms, 

Nor curstness grow to the matter. 

Ant. ’T is spoken well. 

Were we before our armies, and to fight, 26 
I should do thus. [Flourish. 

Cces. Welcome to Rome. 

Ant. Thank you. 

Cces. Sit. 

Ant. Sit, sir. 

Cces. 4 Nay, then. 

Ant. I learn you take things ill which are 
not so, 

Or being, concern you not. 

Cces. I must be laugh’d at, 

If, or for nothing or a little, I 31 

Should say myself offended, and with you 
Chiefly i’ the world; more laugh’d at, that I 
should 

Once name you derogately, when to sound your 
name 

( It not concern’d me. 

Ant. My being in Egypt, Caesar, 

What was ’t to you ? m 

Cces. No more than my residing here at 
Rome 

Might be to you in Egypt; yet, if you there 
Did practise on my state, your being in Egypt 
Might be my question. 

Ant. How intend you, practis’d ? 

Cces. You may be pleas’d to catch at mine 
intent « 

By what did here befall me. Your wife and 
brother 

Made wars upon me ; and their contestation 
Was theme for you, you were the word of war. 
Ant. You do mistake your business ; my 
brother never 45 

Did urge me in his act. I did inquire it, 

And have my learning from some true reports 
That drew their swords with you. Did he not 
rather 

Discredit my authority with yours, 49 

And make the wars alike against my stomach, 
Having alike your cause ? Of this my letters 
Before did satisfy you. If you ’ll patch a quar- 
rel. 

As matter whole you have not to make it with, 
It must not be with this. 

Cces. You praise yourself 

By laying defects of judgement to me ; but se 

You patch’d up your excuses. 


Ant. Not so, not so. 

I know you could not lack, I am certain on’t, 
Very necessity of this thought, that I, 

Your partner in the cause ’gainst which he 
fought, 

Could not with graceful eyes attend those wars 
Which fronted mine own peace. As for my 
wife, 61 

I would you had her spirit in such another. 

The third o’ the world is yours, which with a 
snaffle 

You may pace easy, but not such a wife. 

Eno. Would we had all such wives, that the 
men might go to wars with the women ! 

Ant. So much uncurbable her garboils, 

Caesar, 

Made out of her impatience, which not wanted 
Shrewdness of policy too, I grieving grant 
Did you too much disquiet. For that you must 
But say, I could not help it. 

Cces. I wrote to you n 

When rioting in Alexandria ; you 
Did pocket up my letters, and with taunts 
Did gibe my missive out of audience. 

Ant. m Sir, 

He fell upon me ere admitted. Then 75 

Three kings I had newly feasted, and did 
want 

Of what I was i’ the morning ; but next day 
I told him of myself, which was as much 
As to have ask’d him pardon. Let this fellow 
Be nothing of our strife ; if we contend, »o 
Out of our question wipe him. 

Cces. You have broken 

The article of your oath ; which you shall never 
Have tongue to charge me with. 

Lep. Soft, Caesar ! 

Ant. No, 

Lepidus, let him speak. 

The honour is sacred which he talks on now, 85 
Supposing that I lack’d it. But, on, Caesar: 
The article of my oath. 

Cces. To lend me arms and aid when I re¬ 


quir’d them; 

The which you both denied. 

Ant. Neglected, rather; 

And then when poisoned hours had bound me 
up 90 

From mine own knowledge. As nearly as I may, 
I ’ll play the penitent to you ; but mine honesty 
Shall not make poor my greatness, nor my 
power 

Work without it. Truth is, that Fulvia, 

To have me out of Egypt, made wars here ; 95 
For which myself, the ignorant motive, do 
So far ask pardon as befits mine honour 
To stoop in such a case. 

Lep. ’T is noble spoken. 

Mcec. If it might please you, to enforce no 
further 

The griefs between ye. To forget them quite 100 
Were to remember that the present need 
Speaks to atone you. 

Lep. Worthily spoken, Maecenas. 

Eno. Or, if you borrow one another’s love for 
the instant, you may, when you hear no more 
words of Pompey, return it again. You shall 






II. II. 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


1069 


have time to wrangle in when you have nothing 
else to do. m 

Ant. Thou art a soldier only ; speak no more. 
Eno. That truth should be silent I had al¬ 
most forgot. 

Ant. You wrong this presence; therefore 
speak no more. 111 

Eno. Go to, then ; your considerate stone. 
Cces. I do not much dislike the matter, but 
The manner of his speech ; for ’t cannot be 
We shall remain in friendship, our conditions ns 
So diff’ring in their acts. Yet, if I knew 
What hoop should hold us stanch, from edge 
to edge 

O’ the world I would pursue it. 

Agr. Give me leave, Caesar, — 

Cces. Speak, Agrippa. 

Agr. Thou hast a sister by the mother’s 
side, 120 

Admir’d Octavia. Great Mark Antony 
Is now a widower. 

Cces. Say not so, Agrippa. 

If Cleopatra heard you, your reproof 
Were well deserved of rashness. 

Ant. I am not married, Caesar; let me hear 
Agrippa further speak. 12a 

Agr. To hold you in perpetual amity, 

To make you brothers, and to knit your hearts 
With an unslipping knot, take Antony 
Octavia to his wife ; whose beauty claims 130 
No worse a husband than the best of men ; 
Whose virtue and whose general graces speak 
That which none else can utter. By this mar¬ 
riage, 

All little jealousies, which now seem great, 
And all great fears, which now import their 
dangers, 136 

Would then be nothing. Truths would be tales, 
Where now half-tales be truths; her love to 
both 

Would each to other and all loves to both 
Draw after her. Pardon what I have spoke ; 
For ’tis a studied, not a present thought, ho 
B y duty ruminated. 

Ant. Will Caesar speak ? 

Cces. Not till he hears how Antony is touch’d 
With what is spoke already. 

Ant. What power is in Agrippa, 

If I would say, “ Agrippa, be it so,” 

To make this good ? 

Cces. The power of Caesar, and 

His power unto Octavia. 

Ant. May I never 

To this good purpose, that so fairly shows, 
Dream of impediment! Let me have thy hand. 
Further this act of grace ; and from this hour 
The heart of brothers govern in our loves no 
And sway our great designs ! 

Cces. There’s my hand. 

A sister I bequeath you, whom no brother 
Did ever love so dearly. Let her live 
To join our kingdoms and our hearts; and 
never 

T^ly off our loves again ! 

Lep. Happily, amen! ut 

Ant. I did not think to draw my sword 
’gainst Pompey; 


For he hath laid strange courtesies and great 
Of late upon me. I must thank him only, 

Lest my remembrance suffer ill report; 

At heel of that, defy him. 

Lep. Time calls upon’s. 

Of us must Pompey presently be sought, m 
Or else he seeks out us. 

Ant. Where lies he ? 

Cces. About the mount Misenum. 

Ant. What is his strength by land ? 

Cces. Great and increasing ; but by sea ws 
He is an absolute master. 

Ant. So is the fame. 

Would we had spoke together ! Haste we for 
it; 

Yet, ere we put ourselves in arms, dispatch we 
The business we have talk’d of. 

Cces. With most gladness ; 

And do invite you to my sister’s view, 170 

Whither straight I ’ll lead you. 

Ant. Let us, Lepidua 

Not lack your company. 

Lep. Noble Antony, 

Not sickness should detain me. 

[ Flourish. Exeunt Ccesar, Antony , 
Lepidus.and Ventidius. 

Mcec. Welcome from Egypt, sir. 174 

Eno. Half the heart of Caesar, worthy Mae¬ 
cenas ! My honourable friend, Agrippa ! 

Agr. Good Enobarbus! 

Mcec. We have cause to be glad that matters 
are so well digested. You stay’d well by’t in 
Egypt. iso 

Eno. Ay, sir ; we did sleep day out of coun¬ 
tenance, and made the night light with drink¬ 
ing. 

Mcec. Eight wild boars roasted whole at a 
breakfast, and but twelve persons there; is 
this true ? im 

Eno. This was but as a fly by an eagle. W« 
had much more monstrous matter of feast, 
which worthily deserved noting. 

Mcec. She’s a most triumphant lady, if re¬ 
port be square to her. wo 

Eno. When she first met Mark Antony, she 
purs’d up his heart, upon the river of Cydnus. 

Agr. There she appear’d indeed, or my re¬ 
porter devis’d well for her. 

Eno. I will tell you. «« 

The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne, 
Burn’d on the water. The poop was beaten 
gold ; 

Purple the sails, and so perfumed that 
The winds were love-sick with them. The 
oars were silver, 

Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and 
made 200 

The water which they beat to follow faster, 

As amorous of their strokes. For her own per¬ 
son. 

It beggar’d all description : she did lie 
In her pavilion — cloth-of-gold of tissue — 
O’er-picturing that Venus where we see 2 #g 

The fancy outwork nature. On each side her 
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, 
With divers-colour’d fans, whose wind did 
seem 




iojo 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


II. IV. 


To glow the delicate cheeks which they did 

cool, 209 

And what they undid did. 

Agr. O, rare for Antony ! 

Eno. Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, 
So many mermaids, tended her i’ the eyes, 

And made their bends adornings. At the helm 
A seeming mermaid steers ; the silken tackle 
Swell with the touches of those flower-soft 
hands, 215 

That yarely frame the office. From the barge 
A strange invisible perfume hits the sense 
Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast 
Her people out upon her ; and Antony 
Enthron’d i’ the market-place, did sit alone, 220 
Whistling to the air, which, but for vacancy, 
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too 
And made a gap in nature. 

Agr. Rare Egyptian ! 

Eno. Upon her landing, Antony sent to her, 
Invited her to supper. She replied, 226 

It should be better he became her guest; 

Which she entreated. Our courteous Antony, 
Whom ne’er the word of “No” woman heard 
speak, 

Being barber’d ten times o’er, goes to the feast, 
And for his ordinary pays his heart 230 

For what his eyes eat only. 

Agr. Royal wench ! 

She made great Caesar lay his sword to bed. 

He plough’d her, and she cropp’d. 

Eno. I saw her once 

Hop forty paces through the public street; 

And having lost her breath, she spoke, and 
panted, 235 

That she did make defect perfection. 

And, breathless, power breathe forth. 

Mcec. Now Antony must leave her utterly. 
Eno. Never ; he will not. 

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale 240 
Her infinite variety. Other women cloy 
The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry 
Where most she satisfies, for vilest things 
Become themselves in her, that the holy priests 
Bless her when she is riggish. 245 

Mcec. If beauty, wisdom, modesty, can settle 
The heart of Antony, Octavia is 
A blessed lottery to him. 

Agr. Let us go. 

Good Enobarbus, make yourself my guest 
Whilst you abide here. 

Eno. Humbly, sir, I thank you. 250 

[ Exeunt. 

[Scene III. The same. Ccesar's house.] 

Enter Antony, Gesar, Octavia between them 
[and Attendants ]. 

Ant. The world and my great office will 
sometimes 

Divide me from your bosom. 

Octa. All which time 

Before the gods my knee shall bow my prayers 
To them for you. 

Ant. Good-night, sir. My Octavia, 

Read not my blemishes in the world’s report, e 
I have not kept my square ; but that to come 


Shall all be done by the rule. Good-night, dear 
lady. 

Good-night, sir. 

Coes. Good-night. 

[Exeunt [Ccesar and Octavia], 

Enter Soothsayer. 

Ant. Now, sirrah ; you do wish yourself in 
Egypt ? i* 

Sooth. Would I had never come from thence, 
nor you 
Thither! 

Ant. If you can, your reason ? 

Sooth. I see it in 

My motion, have it not in my tongue; but yet 
Hie you to Egypt again. 

Ant. Say to me, « 

Whose fortunes shall rise higher, Caesar’s or 
mine ? 

Sooth. Caesar’s. 

Therefore, O Antony, stay not by his side. 

Thy demon, that thy spirit which keeps thee, is 
Noble, courageous, high, unmatchable, 20 
Where Caesar’s is not; but, near him, thy angel 
Becomes a fear, as being o’erpower’d: there¬ 
fore 

Make space between you. 

Ant. Speak this no more. 

Sooth. To none but thee ; no more, but when 
to thee. 

If thou dost play with him at any game, 2c 
Thou art sure to lose ; and, of that natural luck, 
He beats thee ’gainst the odds. Thy lustre 
thickens 

When he shines by. I say again, thy spirit 
Is all afraid to govern thee near him ; 

But, he away, ’t is noble. 

Ant. Get thee gone. — 30 

Say to Ventidius I would speak with him ; 

[Exit [Soothsayer], 

He shall to Parthia. — Be it art or hap, 

He hath spoken true. The very dice obey him ; 
And in our sports my better cunning faints 
Under his chance. If we draw lots, he speeds ; 35 
His cocks do win the battle still of mine, 

When it is all to nought; and his quails ever 
Beat mine, inhoop’d, at odds. I will to Egypt; 
And though I make this marriage for my peace, 
I’ the East my pleasure lies. 

Enter Ventidius. 

O, come, Ventidius, 
You must to Parthia. Your commission ’s 
ready; 41 

Follow me, and receive’t. [Exeunt. 

[Scene IV. The same. A street.] 

Enter Leptdus, Maecenas, and Agrippa. 

Lep. Trouble yourselves no further; pray 
you, hasten 
Your generals after. 

Agr. Sir, Mark Antony 

Will e’en but kiss Octavia, and we ’ll follow. 
Lep. Till I shall see you in your soldier’? 
dress, 

Which will become you both, farewell. 




II. V. 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


1671 


Mac. We shall, 

As I conceive the journey, be at the Mount 0 
Before you, Lepidus. 

Lep. Your way is shorter ; 

My purposes do draw me much about. 

You ’ll win two days upon me. 

t ltjr | Sir, £° 0< 1 success ! 

Lep. Farewell. [ Exeunt . 10 

[Scene V- Alexandria. Cleopatra's palace.] 

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and 
Alexas. 

Cleo. Give me some music; music, moody 
food 

Of us that trade in love. 

All. The music, ho! 

Enter Mardian the Eunuch. 

Cleo. Let it alone ; let’s to billiards. Come, 
Charmian. 

Char. My arm is sore; best play with Mar¬ 
dian. 

Cleo. As well a woman with an eunuch 
play’d 5 

As with a woman. Come, you ’ll play with me, 
sir ? 

Mar. As well as I can, madam. 

Cleo. And when good will is showed, though 
’t come too short, 

The actor may plead pardon. I ’ll none now. 
Give me mine angle, we ’ll to the river ; there, 10 
My music playing far off, I will betray 
Tawny-finn’d fishes; my bended hook shall 
pierce 

Their slimy jaws ; and, as I draw them up, 

I ’ll think them every one an Antony, 

And say, “ Ah, ha ! you ’re caught.” 

Char. ’T was merry when 

You wager’d on your angling ; when your 
diver . is 

Did hang a salt-fish on his hook, which he 
With fervency drew up. 

Cleo. That time, — 0 times ! — 

I laugh’d him out of patience; and that 
night 

I laugh’d him into patience ; and next morn, 20 
Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed ; 
Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst 
I wore his sword Philippan. 

Enter a Messenger. 

0 , from Italy! 

Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears, 
That long time have been barren. 

Mess. Madam, madam, — 

Cleo. Antonio’s dead ! — If thou say so, vil¬ 
lain, 26 

Thou kill’st thy mistress; but well and free, 

If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here 
My bluest veins to kiss ; a hand that kings 
Have lipp’d, and trembled kissing. 30 

Mess. First, madam, he is well. 

Cleo. Why, there’s more gold. 

But, sirrah, mark, we use 
To say the dead are well. Bring it to that. 


The gold I give thee will I melt and pour 
Down thy ill-uttering throat. m 

Mess. Good madam, hear me. 

Cleo. Well, go to, I will. 

But there’s no goodness in thy face ; if Antony 
Be free and healthful, — so tart a favour 
To trumpet such good tidings ! If not well, 
Thou shouldst come like a Fury crown’d with 
snakes, «o 

Not like a formal man. 

Mess. Will ’t please you hear me ? 

Cleo. I have a mind to strike thee ere thou 
speak’st; 

Yet, if thou say Antony lives, ’t is well, 

Or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him, 

I ’ll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail « 
Rich pearls upon thee. 

Mess. Madam, he’s well. 

Cleo. Well said. 

Mess. And friends with Caesar. 

Cleo. Thou ’rt an honest man. 

Mess. Caesar and he are greater friends than 
ever. 

Cleo. Make thee a fortune from me. 

Mess. But yet, madam, — 

Cleo. I do not like “ But yet,” it does allay so 
The good precedence ; fie upon “ But yet ” ! 

“ But yet ” is as a gaoler to bring forth 
Some monstrous malefactor. Prithee, friend, 
Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear, 

The good and bad together. He’s friends with 
Caesar; so 

In state of health thou say’st; and thou say’st 
free. 

Mess. Free, madam! no ; I made no such 
report. 

He’s bound unto Octavia. 

Cleo. For what good turn ? 

Mess. For the best turn i’ the bed. 

Cleo. I am pale, Charmian. 

Mess. Madam, he’s married to Octavia. «o 
Cleo. The most infectious pestilence upon 
thee ! [Strikes him down. 

Mess. Good madam, patience. 

Cleo. What say you ? Hence, 

[S'frt&es him again. 

Horrible villain ! or I ’ll spurn thine eyes 
Like balls before me ; I ’ll unliair thy head. 

[She hales him up and down. 
Thou shalt be whipp’d with wire, and stew’d 
in brine, _ “ 

Smarting in ling’ring pickle. 

Mess. Gracious madam, 

I that do bring the news made not the match. 
Cleo. Say’t is not so, a province I will give 


thee, 


And make thy fortunes proud; the blow thou 
hadst 

Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage ; 70 
And I will boot thee with what gift beside 
Thy modesty can beg. 

Mess. He ’s married, madam. 

Cleo. Rogue, thou hast liv’d too long. 

[Draws a knife. 
Mess. Nay, then I ’ll run. 

What mean you, madam? I have made no 
fault. [Exit. 






1072 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


II. VL 


Char. Good madam, keep yourself within 
yourself: w 

The man is innocent. 

Cleo. Some innocents scape not the thunder¬ 
bolt. 

Melt Egypt into Nile ! and kindly creatures 
Turn all to serpents ! Call the slave again. 
Though I am mad, I will not bite him ; call, so 
Char. He is afeard to come. 

Cleo. I will not hurt him. 

[Exit Charmian .] 

These hands do lack nobility that they strike 
A meaner than myself, since I myself 
Have given myself the cause. 

Re-enter [Charmian and ] Messenger. 

Come hither, sir. 
Though it be honest, it is never good so 

To bring bad news. Give to a gracious mes¬ 
sage 

An host of tongues ; but let ill tidings tell 
Themselves when tney be felt. 

Mess. I have done my duty. 

Cleo. Is he married ? 

1 cannot hate thee worser than I do, so 

If thou again say yes. 

Mess. He’s married, madam. 

Cleo. The gods confound thee! dost thou 
hold there still ? 

Mess. Should I lie, madam ? 

Cleo. O, I would thou didst, 

So half my Egypt were submerg’d and made 
A cistern for scal’d snakes ! Go, get thee hence! 
Hadst thou Narcissus in thy face, to me se 
Thou wouldst appear most ugly. He is married? 
Mess. I crave your Highness’ pardon. 

Cleo. He is married ? 

Mess. Take no offence that I would not of¬ 
fend you. 

To punish me for what you make me do 100 
Seems much unequal. He’s married to Octavia. 
Cleo. O, that his fault should make a knave 
of thee, 

That art not what thou ’rt sure of. Get thee 
hence ; 

The merchandise which thou hast brought from 
Rome 

Are all too dear for me. Lie they upon thy 
hand, ion 

And be undone by ’em ! [Exit Messenger .] 

Char. Good your Highness, patience. 

Cleo. In praising Antony, I have disprais’d 
Caesar. 

Char. Many times, madam. 

Cleo. I am paid for’t now. 

Lead me from hence ; 

I faint, 0 Iras, Charmian ! ’T is no matter, no 
Go to the fellow, good Alexas ; bid him 
Report the feature of Octavia, her years, 

Her inclination ; let him not leave out 

The colour of her hair. Bring me word quickly. 

[Exit Alexas.] 

Let him for ever go ; — let him not — Char¬ 
mian, 115 

Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon, 
The other way’s a Mars. Bid you Alexas 

[To Mardian. 


Bring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Char¬ 
mian, 

But do not speak to me. Lead me to my 
chamber. [Exeunt. 

[Scene VI. Near Misenum.] 

Flourish. Enter Pompey and Menas at one 
door , with drum and trumpet: at another , 
Gesar, Antony, Lepidus, Enobarbus, 
Maecenas, Agrippa, with Soldiers marching. 

Pom. Your hostages I have, so have you 
mine ; 

And we shall talk before we fight. 

Cces. Most meet 

That first we come to words, and therefore 
have we 

Our written purposes before us sent; 

Which, if thou hast considered, let us know 5 
If’t will tie up thy discontented sword, 

And carry back to Sicily much tall youth 
That else must perish here. 

Pom. To you all three, 

The senators alone of this great world, 

Chief factors for the gods, I do not know 10 
Wherefore my father should revengers want, 
Having a son and friends ; since Julius Caesar, 
Who at Philippi the good Brutus ghosted, 
There saw you labouring for him. What was’t 
That mov’d pale Cassius to conspire; and 
what is 

Made the all-honour’d, honest Roman, Brutus, 
With the arm’d rest, courtiers of beauteou* 
freedom, 

To drench the Capitol, but that they would 
Have one man but a man ? And that is it 
Hath made me rig my navy, at whose burden so 
The anger’d ocean foams ; with which I meant 
To scourge the ingratitude that despiteful Rome 
Cast on my noble father. 

Cces. Take your time. 

Ant. Thou canst not fear us, Pompey, with 
thy sails ; 

We ’ll speak with thee at sea. At land, thou 
know’st 25 

How much we do o’er-count thee. 

Pom. At land, indeed, 

Thou dost o’er-count me of my father’s house ; 
But, since the cuckoo builds not for himself, 
Remain in’t as thou mayst. 

Lep. Be pleas’d to tell us — 

For this is from the present — how you take so 
The offers we have sent you. 

Cces. There’s the point. 

Ant. Which do not be entreated to, but 
weigh 

What it is worth embrac’d. 

Cces. And what may follow, 

To try a larger fortune. 

Pom. You have made me offer 

Of Sicily, Sardinia ; and I must 35 

Rid all the sea of pirates ; then, to send 
Measures of wheat to Rome. This ’greed upon, 
To part with unhack’d edges, and bear back 
Our targes undinted. 

Cces. Ant. Lep. That’s our offer. 

Pom. Know, then, 





II. VI. 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


i °73 


I came before you here a man prepar’d «. 

To take this offer ; but Mark Antony 
Put me to some impatience. — Though I lose 
The praise of it by telling, you must know, 
When Caesar and your brother were at blows, *£> 
Your mother came to Sicily and did find 
Her welcome friendly. 

Ant. I have heard it, Pompey ; 

And am well studied for a liberal thanks 
Which I do owe you. 

Pom. Let me have your hand. 

I did not think, sir, to have met you here. eo 
Ant. The beds i* the East are soft; and 
thanks to you, 

That call’d me timelier than my purpose 
hither, 

For I have gain’d by’t. 

Coes. Since I saw you last, 

There is a change upon you. 

Pom. Well, I know not 

What counts harsh Fortune casts upon my 
face; so 

But in my bosom shall she never come, 

To make my heart her vassal. 

Lep. Well met here. 

Pom. I hope so, Lepidus. Thus we are 
agreed. 

I crave our composition may be written, 

And seal’d between us. 

Coes. That’s the next to do. 

Pom. We ’ll feast each other ere we part; 
and let’s «i 

Draw lots who shall begin. 

Ant. That will I, Pompey. 

Pom. No, Antony, take the lot; but, first 
Or last, your fine Egyptian cookery 
Shall have the fame. I have heard that 
Julius Caesar es 

Grew fat with feasting there. 

Ant. You have heard much. 

Pom. I have fair meanings, sir. 

Ant. And fair words to them. 

Pom. Then so much have I heard ; 

And I have heard, Apollodorus carried — 

Eno. No more of that; he did so. 

Pom. What, I pray you ? 

Eno. A certain queen to Caesar in a mat¬ 
tress. 71 

Pom. I know thee now. How far’st thou, 
soldier ? 

Eno. Well; 

And well am like to do ; for, I perceive, 

Four feasts are toward. 

Pom. Let me shake thy hand ; 

I never hated thee. I have seen thee fight, 76 
When I have envied thy behaviour. 

Eno. Sir, 

I never lov’d you much; but I ha’ prais’d 
ye, 

When you have well deserv’d ten times as 
much 

As I have said you did. 

Pom. Enjoy thy piainness, so 

It nothing ill becomes thee. 

Aboard my galley I invite you all: 

Will you lead, lords ? 

Coes. Ant. Lep. Show us the way, sir. 


Pom. Come. 

[.Exeunt all but Menas and Enobar - 
bus. 

Men. [Aside.] Thy father, Pompey, would 
ne’er have made this treaty. —You and I have 
known, sir. 86 

Eno. At sea, I think. 

Men. We have, sir. 

Eno. You have done well by water. 

Men. And you by land. oo 

Eno. I will praise any man that will praise 
me ; though it cannot be denied what I have 
done by land. 

Men. Nor what I have done by water. 94 
Eno. Yes, something you can deny for your 
own safety. You have been a great thief by sea. 
Men. And you by land. 

Eno. There I deny my land service. But 
give me your band, Menas. If our eyes had au¬ 
thority, here they might take two thieves kiss¬ 
ing. 101 

Men. All men’s faces are true, whatsome’er 
their hands are. 

Eno. But there is never a fair woman has a 
true face. 105 

Men. No slander ; they steal hearts. 

Eno. We came hither to fight with you. 
Men. For my part, I am sorry it is turn’d to 
a drinking. Pompey doth this day laugh away 
his fortune. 110 

Eno. If he do, sure, he cannot weep’t back 
again. 

Men. You’ve said, sir. We look’d not for 
Mark Antony here. Pray you, is he married to 
Cleopatra ? 116 

Eno. Caesar’s sister is called Octavia. 

Men. True, sir; she was the wife of Caius 
Marcellus. 

Eno. But she is now the wife of Marcus An- 
tonius. 

Men. Pray ye, sir ? 120 

Eno. ’T is true. 

Men. Then is Caesar and he for ever knit to¬ 
gether. 

Eno. If I were bound to divine of this unity, 
I would not prophesy so. 126 

Men. I think the policy of that purpose made 
more in the marriage than the love of the par¬ 
ties. 

Eno. I think so too. But you shall find the 
band that seems to tie their friendship together 
will be the very strangler of their amity. Octavia 
is of a holy, cold, and still conversation. m 
Men. Who would not have his wife so ? 

Eno. Not he that himself is not so ; which is 
Mark Antony. He will to his Egyptian dish 
again. Then shall the sighs of Octavia blow 
the fire up in Caesar; and, as I said before, [136 
that which is the strength of their amity shall 
prove the immediate author of their variance. 
Antony will use his affection where it is; he 
married but his occasion here. ho 

Men. And thus it may be. Come, sir, will 
you aboard ? I have a health for you. 

Eno. I shall take it, sir; we have us’d our 
throats in Egypt. 

Men. Come, let’s away. [Exeunt, us 







1074 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


ii. vn. 


[Scene VII. On board Pompey's galley, off 
Misenum.] 

Music plays. Enter two or three Servants with 
a banquet. 

1 . Serv. Here they’ll be, man. Some o’their 
plants are ill-rooted already; the least wind i’ 
the world will blow them down. 

2 . Serv. Lepidus is high-colour’d. 

1 . Serv. They have made him drink alms- 

drink. 6 

2 . Serv. As they pinch one another by the 
disposition, he cries out, “No more”; recon¬ 
ciles them to his entreaty, and himself to the 
drink. 

1 . Serv. But it raises the greater war between 

him and his discretion. 11 

2 . Serv. Why, this it is to have a name in 

great men’s fellowship. I had as lief have a 
reed that will do me no service as a partisan I 
could not heave. 15 

1 . Serv. To be called into a huge sphere, and 
not to be seen to move in ’t, are the holes where 
eyes should be, which pitifully disaster the 
cneeks. 

A sennet sounded. Enter Caesar, Antony, 
Lepidus, Pompey, Agrippa, Maicenas, Eno- 
barbus, Menas, with other captains. 

Ant. [To Caesar.] Thus do they, sir: they 
take the flow o’ the Nile 20 

By certain scales i’ the pyramid ; they know, 
By the height, the lowness, or the mean, if 
dearth 

Or foison follow. The higher Nilus swells, 

The more it promises ; as it ebbs, the seedsman 
Upon the slime and ooze scatters his grain, 25 
And shortly comes to harvest. 

Lep. You ’ve strange serpents there ? 

Ant. Ay, Lepidus. 

Lep. Your serpent of Egypt is bred now of 
your mud by the operation of your sun. So is 
your crocodile. 31 

Ant. They are so. 

Pom. Sit,—and some wine! A health to 
Lepidus! 

Lep. I am not so well as I should be, but I ’ll 
ne’er out. se 

Eno. Not till you have slept; I fear me you ’ll 
be in till then. 

Lep. Nay, certainly, I have heard the Ptole¬ 
mies’ pyramises are very goodly things ; with¬ 
out contradiction, I have heard that. 41 

Men. [Aside to Pom.] Pompey, a word. 

Pom. [Aside to Men.] Say in mine ear: what 
is’t ? 

Men. [Aside to Pom.] Forsake thy seat, I do 
beseech thee, captain, 

And hear me speak a word. 

Pom. ( Whispers in ’s ear.) Forbear me till 
anon.— 

This wine for Lepidus ! 40 

Lep. What manner o’ thing is your croco¬ 
dile? 

Ant. It is shap’d, sir, like itself ; and it is as 
broad as it hath breadth. It is just so high as 
it is, and moves with it own organs. It lives 


by that which nourisheth it; and the elements 
once out of it, it transmigrates. 61 

Lep. What colour is it of ? 

Ant. Of it own colour too. 

Lep. ’T is a strange serpent. 

Ant. ’T is so. And the tears of it are wet. ss 
Coes. Will this description satisfy him ? < 
Ant. With the health that Pompey gives 
him, else he is a very epicure. 

Pom. [Aside to Men.] Go hang, sir, hang! 
Tell me of that ? Away ! 

Do as I bid you.—Where’s this cup I call’d 
for ? f° 

Men. [Aside to Pom.] If for the sake of merit 
thou wilt hear me, 

Rise from thy stool. 

Pom. [Aside to Men.] I think thou’rt mad. 

The matter ? [Rises, and walks aside.] 
Men. I have ever held my cap off to thy for¬ 
tunes. 

Pom. Thou hast serv’d me with much faith. 
What’s else to say ? 

Be jolly, lords. 

Ant. These quick-sands, Lepidus, es 

Keep off them, for you sink. 

Men. Wilt thou be lord of all the world ? 
Pom. What say’st thou ? 

Men. Wilt thou be lord of the whole world ? 
That’s twice. 

Pom. How should that be ? 

Men. But entertain it, 

And, though thou think me poor, I am the 
man 70 

Will give thee all the world. 

Pom. Hast thou drunk well ? 

Men. No, Pompey, I have kept me from the 
cup. 

Thou art, if thou dar’st be, the earthly Jove. 
Whate’er the ocean pales, or sky inclips, 

Is thine, if thou wilt ha’t. 

Pom. Show me which way. 

Men. These three world-sharers, these com¬ 
petitors, 76 

Are in thy vessel: let me cut the cable ; 

And, when we are put off, fall to their throats. 
All there is thine. 

Pom. Ah, this thou shouldst have done, 
And not have spoke on’t! In me’t is villainy ; 
In thee’t had been good service. Thou must 
know, 8 i 

’T is not my profit that does lead mine hon¬ 
our ; 

Mine honour, it. Repent that e’er thy tongue 
Hath so betray’d thine act. Being done un¬ 
known, 

I should have found it afterwards well done ; as 
But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink. 

Men. [Aside.] For this, 

I ’ll never follow thy pall’d fortunes more. 
Who seeks, and will not take when once’t is 
offer’d, 

Shall never find it more. 

Pom. This health to Lepidus ! 

Ant. Bear him ashore. I ’ll pledge it for 
him, Pompey. »i 

Eno. Here’s to thee, Menas ! 

Men. Enobarbus, welcome! 





hi. i. 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


io 75 


Pom. Fill till the cup be hid. 

Eno. There’s a strong: fellow, Menas. 

[Pointing to the Attendant who car¬ 
ries off Lepidus. 1 

Men. Why? fl0 

Eno. ’A bears the third part of the world, 
man ; see’st not ? 

Men. The third part, then, is drunk. Would 
it were all, 

That it might go on wheels ! 

Eno. Drink thou ; increase the reels. 100 
Men. Come. 

Pom. This is not yet an Alexandrian feast. 
Ant. It ripens towards it. Strike the vessels, 
ho! 

Here’s to Caesar! 

Cees. I could well forbear ’t. 

It’s monstrous labour when I wash my brain 105 
And it grows fouler. 

Ant. Be a child o’ the time. 

C(es. Possess it, I ’ll make answer. 

But I had rather fast from all, four days, 

Than drink so much in one. 10# 

Eno. Ha, my brave emperor ! [To Antony. 
Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals, 
And celebrate our drink ? 

Pom. Let’s ha’t, good soldier. 

Ant. Come, let’s all take hands, 

Till that the conquering wine hath steep’d our 
sense 

In soft and delicate Lethe. 

Eno. All take hands. 

Make battery to our ears with the loud mu¬ 
sic ; us 

The while I ’ll place you; then the boy shall 
sing. 

The holding every man shall bear as loud 
As his strong sides can volley. 

[Music plays. Enobarbus places 
them hand in hand. 

The Song. 

Come, thou monarch of the vine, 120 

Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne ! 

In thy vats our cares be drown’d, 

With thy grapes our hairs be crown’d ! 

Cup us, till the world go round, 

Cup us, till the world go round ! 125 

Cces. What would you more ? Pompey, good¬ 
night. Good brother, 

Let me request you off ; our graver business 
Frowns at this levity. Gentle lords, let’s part; 
You see we have burnt our cheeks. Strong 
Enobarb 

Is weaker than the wine, and mine own 
tongue ... 130 

Splits what it speaks ; the wild disguise hath 
almost 

Antick’d us all. What needs more words? 
Good-night. 

Good Antony, your hand. 

Pom. I ’ll try you on the shore. 

Ant. And shall, sir ; give’s your hand. 

Pom. O Antony, 

You have my father’s house, — But, what ? 

we are friends. 

Come, down into the boat. 


Eno. Take heed you fall not. 

[Exeunt all but Enobarbus and Me¬ 
nas.] 

Menas, I ’ll not on shore. 

Men. No, to my cabin. 

These drums ! these trumpets, flutes ! what! 
Let Neptune hear we bid a loud farewell 
To these great fellows. Sound and be hang’d, 
sound out! 

[Sound a flourish, with drums. 
Eno. Ho ! says ’a. There’s my cap. 141 
Men. Ho ! Noble captain, come. [Exeunt. 


[ACT III] 

[Scene I. A plain in Syria.] 

Enter Ventidius as it were in triumph [with 
Silius, and other Romans, Officers, and Sol¬ 
diers ;] the dead body of Pacorus borne before 
him. 

Ven. Now, darting Parthia, art thou struck ; 
and now 

Pleas’d Fortune does of Marcus Crassus’ death 
Make me revenger. Bear the King’s son’s body 
Before our army. Thy Pacorus, Orodes, 

Pays this for Marcus Crassus. 

[Si 7 .] _ _ Noble Ventidius, 

Whilst yet with Parthian blood thy sword is 
warm, 6 

The fugitive Parthians follow. Spur through 
Media, 

Mesopotamia, and the shelters whither 
The routed fly ; so thy grand captain Antony 
Shall set thee on triumphant chariots and 10 
Put garlands on thy head. 

Ven. 0 Silius, Silius, 

I have done enough ; a lower place, note well, 
May make too great an act. For learn this, 
Silius ; 

Better to leave undone, than by our deed 
Acquire too high a fame when him we serve ’a 
away. ie 

Caesar and Antony have ever won 
More in their officer than person. Sossius, 

One of my place in Syria, his lieutenant, 

For quick accumulation of renown, 

Which he achiev’d by the minute, lost his 
favour. 20 

Who does i’ the wars more than his captain can 
Becomes his captain’s captain ; and ambition, 
The soldier’s virtue, rather makes choice of 
loss, 

Than gain which darkens him. 

I could do more to do Antonins good, 26 

But ’t would offend him ; and in his offence 
Should my performance perish. 

W Sil.] Thou hast, Ventidius, that 

ithout the which a soldier and his sword 
Grants scarce distinction. Thou wilt write to 
Antony ? 

Ven. I ’ll humbly signify what in his name, 30 
That magical word of war, we have effected ; 
How, with his banners and bis well-paid ranks, 
The ne’er-yet-beaten horse of Parthia 
We have jaded out o’ the field. 






1076 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


ill. iii. 


Sil. Where is he now ? 

Ven. He purposeth to Athens; whither, 
with what haste 35 

The weight we must convey with ’s will per¬ 


mit, 

We shall appear before him. On, there; pass 
along! [Exeunt. 


[Scene II. Rome. An ante-chamber in Coesar's 
house.] 

Enter Agrippa at one door , Enobarbus at 
another. 

Agr. What, are the brothers parted ? 

Eno. They have dispatch’d with Pompey, he 
is gone; 

The other three are sealing. Octavia weeps 
To part from Rome ; Caesar is sad ; and Lepi- 
dus, 

Since Pompey’s feast, as Menas says, is 
troubled 5 

With the green sickness. 

Agr. ’T is a noble Lepidus. 

Eno. A very fine one. 0 , how he loves 
Caesar! 

Agr. Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark 
Antony ! 

Eno. Caesar ? Why, he’s the Jupiter of men. 

Agr. What’s Antony ? The god of Jupiter. 

Eno. Spake you of Caesar ? How ! the nonpa¬ 
reil ! u 

Agr. O Antony! 0 thou Arabian bird ! 

Eno. Would you praise Caesar, say “ Caesar ” ; 
go no further. 

Agr. Indeed, he plied them both with excel¬ 
lent praises. 

Eno. But he loves Caesar best ; yet he loves 
Antony. 15 

Ho! hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, 
poets, cannot 

Think, speak, cast, write, sing, number, ho ! 
His love to Antony. But as for Caesar, 

Kneel down, kneel down, and wonder. 

Agr. Both he loves. 

Eno. They are his shards, and he their bee¬ 
tle. [ Trumpets within.] So ; 20 

This is to horse. Adieu, noble Agrippa. 

Agr. Good fortune, worthy soldier; and 
farewell. 

Enter Cassar, Antony, Lepidus, and Oc¬ 
tavia. 

Ant. No further, sir. 

Coes. You take from me a great part of my¬ 
self ; 

Use me well in ’t. Sister, prove such a wife 25 
As my thoughts make thee, and as my farthest 
band 

Shall pass on thy approof. Most noble Antony, 
Let not the piece of virtue which is set 
Betwixt us as the cement of our love, 

To keep it builded, be the ram to batter so 
The fortress of it ; for better might we 
Have lov’d without this mean, if on both parts 
This be not cherish’d. 

Ant. Make me not offended 

In your distrust. 


Coes. I have said. 

Ant. You shall not find, 

Though you be therein curious, the least 
cause 35 

For what you seem to fear. So, the gods keep 
you, 

And make the hearts of Romans serve your 
ends ! 

We will here part. 

Coes. Farewell, my dearest sister, fare thee 
well! 

The elements be kind to thee, and make 40 

Thy spirits all of comfort! Fare thee well I 
Oct. My noble brother! 

Ant. The April’s in her eyes; it is love’s 
spring, 

And these the showers to bring it on. Be cheer¬ 
ful. 

Oct. Sir, look well to my husband’s house ; 
and — 

Coes. What, 45 

Octavia ? 

Oct. I ’ll tell you in your ear. 

Ant. Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor 
can 

Her heart inform her tongue, — the swan’s 
down-feather, 

That stands upon the swell at full of tide, 

And neither way inclines. 

Eno. [Aside to Agr.] Will Caesar weep ? so 
Agr. [Aside to Eno.] He has a cloud in’s 
face. 

Eno. [Aside to Agr.] He were the worse for 
that, were he a horse ; 

So is he, being a man. 

-Agr. [Aside to Eno.] .Why, Enobarbus, 
When Antony found Julius Caesar dead, 

He cried almost to roaring ; and he wept ss 
When at Philippi he found Brutus slain. 

Eno. [Aside to Agr.] That year, indeed, he 
was troubled with a rheum ; 

What willingly he did confound he wail’d, 
Believe’t, till I wept too. 

Cces. No, sweet Octavia, 

You shall hear from me still; the time shall 
not 60 

Out-go my thinking on you. 

Ant. Come, sir, come ; 

I ’ll wrestle with you in my strength of love. 
Look, here I have you ; thus I let you go, 

And give you to the gods. 

Cces. Adieu ; be happy ! 

Lep. Let all the number of the stars give 
light ee 

To thy fair way! 

Coes. Farewell, farewell! 

[Kisses Octavia. 
Ant. Farewell! 

[Trumpets sound. Exeunt. 

[Scene III. Alexandria. Cleopatra's palace .] 

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and 
Alexas. 

Cleo. Where is the fellow ? 

Alex. Half afeard to come. 

Cleo. Go to, go to. Come hither, sir. 




III. iv. 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


io 77 


Enter the Messenger as before. 

Alex. Good Majesty, 

Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you 
But when you are well pleas’d. 

Cleo. That Herod’s head 

1 ^ 11 have ; hut how, when Antony is gone n 
Through whom I might command it? Come 
thou near. 

Mess. Most gracious Majesty, — 

Cleo. Didst thou behold Octavia ? 

Mess. Ay, dread queen. 

Cleo. Where? 10 

Mess. Madam, in Rome ; 

I look’d her in the face, and saw her led 
Between her brother and Mark Antony. 

Cleo. Is she as tall as me ? 

Mess. She is not, madam. 

Cleo. Didst hear her speak ? Is she shrill- 
tongu’d or low ? is 

Mess. Madam, I heard her speak ; she is low- 
voic’d. 

Cleo. That’s not so good. He cannot like 
her long ? 

Char. Like her ! 0 Isis ! ’t is impossible. 
Cleo. I think so, Charmian. Dull of tongue, 
and dwarfish ! 

What majesty is in her gait ? Remember, 20 
If e’er thou look’dst on majesty. 

Mess. She creeps; 

Her motion and her station are as one ; 

She shows a body rather than a life, 

A statue than a breather. 

Cleo. Is this certain ? 24 

Mess. Or I have no observance. 

Char. Three in Egypt 

Cannot make better note. 

Cleo. He’s very knowing; 

I do perceive ’t. There’s nothing in her yet. 
The fellow has good judgement. 

Char. Excellent. 

Cleo. Guess at her years, I prithee. 

Mess. Madam, 

She was a widow, — 

Cleo. Widow ! Charmian, hark. 

Mess. And I do think she ’s thirty. 31 

Cleo. Bear’st thou her face in mind ? Is ’t 
long or round ? 

Mess. Round even to faultiness. 

Cleo. For the most part, too, they are foolish 
that are so. 

Her hair^what colour ? 35 

Mess. Brown, madam ; and her forehead 
As low as she would wish it. 

Cleo. There’s gold for thee. 

Thou must not take my former sharpness ill. 

I will employ thee back again ; I find thee 
Most fit for business. Go make thee ready ; 
Our letters are prepar’d. [Exit Messenger .] 
Chcvr. A proper man. 

Cleo. Indeed, he is so ; I repent me much 
That so I harried him. Why, methinks, by 
him, 

This creature’s no such thing. 

Char. Nothing, madam. 

Cleo. The man hath seen some majesty, and 
should know, 48 


Char. Hath he seen majesty? Isis else de¬ 
fend, 

And serving you so long! 

Cleo. I have one thing more to ask him yet, 
good Charmian: 

But ’t is no matter; thou shalt bring him to 
me 

Where I will write. All maybe well enough. 50 

Char. I warrant you, madam. [Exeunt. 

[Scene IV. Athens. A room in Antony's house.] 
Enter Antony and Octavia. 

Ant. Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that, — 
That were excusable, that, and thousands more 
Of semblable import, — but he hath wag’d 
New wars ’gainst Pompey ; made his will, and 
read it 

To public ear ; e 

Spoke scantly of me ; when perforce he could 
not 

But pay me terms of honour, cold and sickly 
He vented them ; most narrow measure lent 
me: 

When the best hint was given him, he not 
took’t, 

Or did it from his teeth. 

Oct. 0 my good lord, 10 

Believe not all; or, if you must believe, 
Stomach not all. A more unhappy lady, 

If this division chance, ne’er stood between, 
Praying for both parts. 

The good gods will mock me presently, is 

When I shall pray, “ 0 , bless my lord and 
husband ! ” 

Undo that prayer, by crying out as loud, 

“ 0 , bless my brother!” Husband win, win 
brother, 

Prays, and destroys the prayer; no midway 
’Twixt these extremes at all. 

Ant. Gentle Octavia, 

Let your best love draw to that point which 
seeks 21 

Best to preserve it. If I lose mine honour, 

I lose myself ; better I were not yours 
Than yours so branchless. But, as you re¬ 
quested, 

Yourself shall go between’s. The meantime, 
lady, 2c 

I ’ll raise the preparation of a war 
Shall stain your brother. Make your soonest 
haste; 

So your desires are yours. 

Oct. Thanks to my lord. 

The Jove of power make me most weak, most 
weak, 

Your reconciler! Wars ’twixt you twain would 
be 30 

As if the world should cleave, and that slain 
men 

Should solder up the rift. 

Ant. When it appears to you where this be¬ 
gins, 

Turn your displeasure that way ; for our faults 
Can never be so equal, that your love *5 

Can equally move with them. Provide your 
going ; 







1078 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


III. VI. 


Choose your own company, and command what 
cost 

Your heart has mind to. [ Exeunt. 

[Scene V. The same. Another room.] 
Enter Enobarbus and Eros [meeting]. 

Eno. How now, friend Eros ! 

Eros. There’s strange news come, sir. 

Eno. What, man ? 

Eros. Caesar and Lepidus have made wars 
upon Pompey. 

Eno. This is old ; what is the success ? s 
Eros. Caesar, having made use of him in 
the wars ’gainst Pompey, presently denied him 
rivality, would not let him partake in the glory 
of the action; and not resting here, accuses 
him of letters he had formerly wrote to Pom¬ 
pey ; upon his own appeal, seizes him. So the 
poor third is up, till death enlarge his confine. 13 
Eno. Then, world, thou hast a pair of chaps, 
no more; 

And throw between them all the food thou 
hast, 

They ’ll grind the one the other. Where’s An¬ 
tony ? 

Eros. He’s walking in the garden — thus; 
and spurns 

The rush that lies before him; cries, “ Fool 
Lepidus! ” 

And threats the throat of that his officer 
That murd’red Pompey. 

Eno. Our great navy’s rigg’d. 

Eros. For Italy and Caesar. More, Domi- 
tius; 21 

My lord desires you presently ; my news 
I might have told hereafter. 

Eno. ’T will be nought: 

But let it be. Bring me to Antony. 

Eros. Come, sir. [Exeunt. 25 

[Scene VI. Rome. Ccesar's house.] 

Enter Caesar, Agrippa, and Maecenas. 

Cces. Contemning Rome, he has done all this, 
and more, 

In Alexandria. Here’s the manner of’t: 

I’ the market-place, on a tribunal silver’d, 
Cleopatra and himself in chairs of gold 
Were publicly enthron’d. At the feet sat « 
Caesarion, whom they call my father’s son, 

And all the unlawful issue that their lust 
Since then hath made between them. Unto her 
He gave the stablishment of Egypt; made her 
Of lower Syria, Cyprus, Lydia, 10 

Absolute queen. 

Mcec. This in the public eye ? 

Cces. I’ the common show-place, where they 
exercise. 

His sons he there proclaim’d the kings of kings : 
Great Media, Parthia, and Armenia, 

He gave to Alexander ; to Ptolemy he assign’d 
Syria, Cilicia, and Phoenicia. She io 

In the habiliments of the goddess Isis 
That day appear’d ; and oft before gave audi¬ 
ence, 

As’t is reported, so. 


Mcec. Let Rome be thus 

Inform’d. 

Agr. Who, queasy with his insolence 20 
Already, will their good thoughts call from 
him. 

Cces. The people knows it; and have now 
receiv’d 

His accusations. 

Agr. Who does he accuse ? 

Cces. Caesar ; and that, having in Sicily 
Sextus Pompeius spoil’d, we had not rated him 
His part o’ the isle. Then does he say, he lent 
me 26 

Some shipping unrestor’d. Lastly, he frets 
That Lepidus of the triumvirate 
Should be depos’d ; and, being, that we detain 
All his revenue. 

Agr. Sir, this should be answer’d, so 

Cces. ’T is done already, and the messenger 
gone. 

I have told him Lepidus was grown too cruel; 
That he his high authority abus’d, 

And did deserve his change. For what I have 
conquer’d, 

I grant him part; but then, in his Armenia so 
And other of his conquer’d kingdoms, I 
Demand the like. 

Mcec. He ’ll never yield to that. 

Cces. Nor must not then be yielded to in this. 

Enter Octavia with her train. 

Oct. Hail, Caesar, and my lord ! Hail, most 
dear Caesar T 

Cces. That ever I should call thee casta¬ 
way ! 40 

Oct. You have not call’d me so, nor have 
you cause. 

Cces. Why have you stolen upon us thus? 
You come not 

Like Caesar’s sister. The wife of Antony 
Should have an army for an usher, and 
The neighs of horse to tell of her approach 46 
Long ere she did appear ; the trees by the way 
Should have borne men, and expectation 
fainted, 

Longing for what it had not ; nay, the dust 
Should have ascended to the roof of heaven, 
Rais’d by your populous troops. But you are 
come so 

A market-maid to Rome, and have prevented 
The ostentation of our love, which, left un¬ 
shown, 

Is often left unlov’d. We should have met you 
By sea and land ; supplying every stage 
With an augmented greeting. 

Oct. Good my lord, 66 

To come thus was I not constrain’d, but did 
On my free will. My lord, Mark Antony, 
Hearing that you prepar’d for war, acquainted 
My grieved ear withal; whereon, I begg’d 
His pardon for return. 

Cces. Which soon he granted, 

Being an obstruct ’tween his lust and him. 01 
Oct. Do not say so, my lord. 

C&l: . I have eyes upon him, 

And his affairs come to me on the wind. 

Where is he now ? 




III. vii. 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


io 79 


Oct. My lord, in Athens. 

Cces. No, ray most wronged sister; Cleo¬ 
patra 66 

Hath nodded him to her. He hath given his 
empire 

Up to a whore ; who now are levying 
The kings o’ the earth for war. He hath as¬ 
sembled^ 

Bocchus, the King of Libya ; Archelaus, 

Of Cappadocia ; Philadelphos, King 70 

Of Paphlagonia ; the Thracian king, Adallas ; 
King Malchus of Arabia ; King of Pont; 
Herod of Jewry ; Mithridates, King 
Of Comagene ; Polemon and Amyntas, 

The Kings of Mede and Lycaonia, w 

With a more larger list of sceptres. 

Oct. Ay me, most wretched, 

That have my heart parted betwixt two friends 
That do afflict each other ! 

Cces. Welcome hither! 

Your letters did withhold our breaking forth, 
Till we perceiv’d both how you were wrong 
led _ so 

And we in negligent danger. Cheer your heart. 
Be you not troubled with the time, which drives 
O’er your content these strong necessities ; 

But let determin’d things to destiny 
Hold unbewail’d their way. Welcome to 
Rome; 86 

Nothing more dear to me. You are abus’d 
Beyond the mark of thought; and the high gods, 
To do you justice, make them ministers 
Of us and those that love you. Best of comfort, 
And ever welcome to us. 

Aar. Welcome, lady. »o 

Mcec. Welcome, dear madam. 

Each heart in Rome does love and pity you ; 
Only the adulterous Antony, most large 
In his abominations, turns you off, 

And gives his potent regiment to a trull, 

That noises it against us. 

Oct. Is it so, sir ? 

Cces. Most certain. Sister, welcome. Pray you, 
Be ever known to patience. My dear’st sis¬ 
ter ! [Exeunt. 

[Scene VII. Near Actium. Antony's camp.] 
Enter Cleopatra and Enobarbus. 


Take from his" heart, take from his brain, 
from’s time, 

What should not then be spar’d. He is already 
Traduc’d for levity ; and’t is said in Rome 
That Photinus an eunuch and your maids 15 
Manage this war. 

Cleo. Sink Rome, and their tongues rot 
That speak against us! A charge we bear i’ 
the war, 

And, as the president of my kingdom, will 
Appear there for a man. Speak not against it; 
I will not stay behind. 

Enter Antony and Canidius. 

Eno. Nay, I have done. jo 

Here comes the Emperor. 

Ant. Is it not strange, Canidius, 

That from Tarentum and Brundusium 
He could so quickly cut the Ionian Sea, 

And take in Toryne? You have heard on’t, 
sweet ? 

Cleo. Celerity is never more admir’d j« 
Than by the negligent. 

Ant. A good rebuke, 

Which might have well becom’d the best of 
men, 

To taunt at slackness. Canidius, we 
Will fight with him by sea. 

Cleo. By sea ! what else ? 

Can. Why will my lord do so ? 

Ant. For that he dares us to’t. 

Eno. So hath my lord dar’d him to single 
fight. si 

Can. Ay, and to wage this battle at Phar- 
salia, 

Where Caesar fought with Pompey ; but these 
offers, 

Which serve not for his vantage, he shakes off ; 
And so should you. 

Eno. Your ships are not well mann’d ; 

Your mariners are muleters, reapers, people 30 
Ingross’d by swift impress. In Caesar’s fleet 
Are those that often have ’gainst Pompey 
fought. 

Their ships are yare ; yours, heavy: no disgrace 
Shall fall you for refusing him at sea, 40 

Being prepar’d for land. 

Ant. By sea, by sea. 

Eno. Most worthy sir, you therein throw 


Cleo. I will be even with thee, doubt it not. 

Eno. But why, why, why ? 

Cleo. Thou hast forspoke my being in these 
wars, 

And say’st it is not fit. 

Eno. Well, is it, is it ? 

Cleo. If not denounc’d against us, why 
should not we 6 

Be there in person ? 

Eno. Well, I could reply: 

If we should serve with horse and mares to¬ 
gether, 

The horse were merely lost; the mares would 


bear 

A soldier and his horse. 

Cleo. What is’t you say ? 10 

Eno. Your presence needs must puzzle An¬ 
tony ; 


away 

The absolute soldiership you have by land ; 
Distract your army, which doth most consist 
Of war-mark’d footmen ; leave unexecuted 
Your own renowned knowledge ; quite forego 
The way which promises assurance ; and 
Give up yourself merely to chance and hazard, 
From firm security. 

Ant. I ’ll fight at sea. 

Cleo. I have sixty sails, Caesar none better, so 
Ant. Our overplus of shipping will we burn : 
And, with the rest full-mann’d, from the head 
of Actium 

Beat the approaching Caesar. But if we fail, 
We then can do’t. at land. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Thy business ? 




io8o 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


nr. x. 


Mess. The news is true, my lord; he is de¬ 
scried ; es 

Caesar has taken Toryne. 

Ant. Can he be there in person ? ’T is im¬ 
possible ; 

Strange that his power should be. Canidius, 
Our nineteen legions thou shalt hold by land, 
And our twelve thousand horse. We ’ll to our 
ship; 60 

Away, my Thetis! 

Enter a Soldier. 

How now, worthy soldier ! 
Sold. 0 noble emperor, do not fight by sea ; 
Trust not to rotten planks! Do you mis¬ 
doubt 

This sword and these my wounds? Let the 
Egyptians 

And the Phoenicians go a-ducking ; we 65 

Have us’d to conquer, standing on the earth, 
And fighting foot to foot. 

Ant. Well, well: away! 

[Exeunt Antony, Cleopatra, and 
Enobarbus. 

Sold. By Hercules, I think I am i’ the right. 
Can. Soldier, thou art; but his whole action 
grows 

Not in the power on’t. So our leader’s led, 70 
And we are women’s men. 

Sold. You keep by land 

The legions and the horse whole, do you not ? 

Can. Marcus Octavius, Marcus Justeius, 
Publicola, and Caelius, are for sea; 

But we keep whole by land. This speed of 
Caesar’s ™ 

Carries beyond belief. 

Sold. While he was yet in Rome, 

His power went out in such distractions as 
Beguil’d all spies. 

Can. Who’s his lieutenant, hear you ? 

Sold. They say, one Taurus. 

Can. Well I know the man. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. The Emperor calls Canidius. so 

Can. With news the time’s with labour, and 
throes forth, 

Each minute, some. [Exeunt. 

[Scene YIII. A plain near Actium .] 

Enter Caesar [and Taurus], with his army , 
marching. 

Coes. Taurus! 

Taur. My lord ? 

Coes. Strike not by land ; keep whole ; pro¬ 
voke not battle 

Till we have done at sea. Do not exceed 
The prescript of this scroll. Our fortune lies 6 
Upon this jump. [Exeunt. 

[Scene IX. Another part of the plain.] 

Enter Antony and Enobarbus. 

Ant. Set we our squadrons on yond side o’ 
the hill, 

In eye of Caesar’s battle; from which place 


We may the number of the ships behold, 

And so proceed accordingly. [Exeunt. 

[Scene X. Another part of the plain.] 

Canidius marcheth with his land army one way 
over the stage; and Taurus, the lieutenant of 
Ccesar , the other way. After their going in, is 
heard the noise of a sea-fight. 

Alarum. Enter Enobarbus. 

Eno. Nought, nought, all nought! I can be¬ 
hold no longer. 

The Antoniad, the Egyptian admiral, 

With all their sixty, fly a,nd turn the rudder. 
To see ’t mine eyes are blasted. 

Enter Scarus. 

Scar. Gods and goddesses, 

All the whole synod of them ! 

Eno. What’s thy passion ? b 

Scar. The greater cantle of the world is lost 
With very ignorance ; we have kiss’d away 
Kingdoms and provinces. 

Eno. How appears the fight ? 

Scar. On our side like the token’d pesti¬ 
lence, 

Where death is sure. Yon ribaldried nag of 
Egypt, — 

Whom leprosy o’ertake !—i’ the midst o’ the 
fight, 

When vantage like a pair of twins appear’d, 
Both as the same, or rather ours the elder, 

The breese upon her, like a cow in June, 

Hoists sails and flies. is 

Eno. That I beheld. 

Mine eyes did sicken at the sight, and could 
not 

Endure a further view. 

Scar. She once being loof’d, 

The noble ruin of her magic, Antony, 

Claps on his sea-wing, and, like a doting mal¬ 
lard, 20 

Leaving the fight in height, flies after her. 

I never saw an action of such shame; 
Experience, manhood, honour, ne’er before 
Did violate so itself. 

Eno. Alack, alack! 24 

Enter Canidius. 

Can. Our fortune on the sea is out of breath, 
And sinks most lamentably. Had our general 
Been what he knew himself, it had gone well. 
0 , he has given example for our flight, 

Most grossly, by his own ! 

Eno. Ay, are you thereabouts ? 

Why, then, good-night indeed. 30 

Can. Toward Peloponnesus are they fled. 
Scar. ’T is easy to ’t; and there I will at¬ 
tend 

What further comes. 

Can. To Caesar will I render 

My legions and my horse. Six kings already 
Show me the way of yielding. 

Eno. I ’ll yet follow 

The wounded chance of Antony, though my 

reason 33 

Sits in the wind against me. [Exeunt.] 





III. Xll. 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


1081 


[Scene XI. Alexandria. Cleopatra's palace.] 

Enter Antony with Attendants. 

Ant. Hark ! the land bids me tread no more 
upon ’t; 

It is asham’d to bear me ! Friends, come hither. 
I am so lated in the world, that I 
Have lost my way for ever. I have a ship 
Laden with gold ; take that, divide it; fly, s 
And make your peace with Caesar. 

All. Fly ! not we. 

Ant. I have fled myself ; and have instructed 
cowards 

To run and show their shoulders. Friends, be 
gone; 

I have myself resolv’d upon a course 
Which has no need of you ; be gone. 10 

My treasure ’s in the harbour, take it. O, 

I follow’d that I blush to look upon. 

My very hairs do mutiny ; for the white 
Reprove the brown for rashness, and they them 
For fear and doting. Friends, be gone ; you 
shall is 

Have letters from me to some friends that 
will 

Sweep your way for you. Pray you, look not 
sad, 

Nor make replies of loathness. Take the hint 
Which my despair proclaims ; let that be left 
Which leaves itself. To the sea-side straight¬ 
way ; 20 

I will possess you of that ship and treasure. 
Leave me, I pray, a little ; pray you now. 

Nay, do so ; for, indeed, I have lost command, 
Therefore I pray you. I ’ll see you by and by. 

[/Site down.. 

Enter Cleopatra, led by Charmian and 
[Iras ;] Eros [following]. 

Eros. Nay, gentle madam, to him, comfort 
him. 26 

Iras. Do, most dear queen. 

Char. Do ! Why, what else ? 

Cleo. Let me sit down. O Juno ! 

Ant. No, no, no, no, no. 

Eros. See you here, sir ? 30 

Ant. 0 fie, fie, fie ! 

Char. Madam ! 

Iras. Madam, O good empress ! 

Eros. Sir, sir, — 

Ant. Yes, my lord, yes ; he at Philippi kept 
His sword e’en like a dancer, while I struck 36 
The lean and wrinkled Cassius ; and’t was I 
That the mad Brutus ended. He alone 
Dealt on lieutenantry, and no practice had 
In the brave squares of war; yet now —No 
matter. 40 

Cleo. Ah, stand by. 

Eros. The Queen, my lord, the Queen. 

Iras. Go to him, madam, speak to him ; 

He is unqualitied with very shame. 

Cleo. Well then, sustain me. Oh ! 45 

Eros. Most noble sir, arise ; the Queen ap¬ 
proaches. 

Her head’s declin’d, and death will seize her, 
but 

Your comfort makes the rescue. 


Ant. I have offended reputation, 

A most unnoble swerving. 

Eros. Sir, the Queen, eo 

Ant. 0 , whither hast thou led me, Egypt ? 
See, 

How I convey my shame out of thine eyes 
By looking back what I have left behind 
’Stroy’d in dishonour. 

Cleo. 0 my lord, my lord, 

Forgive my fearful sails ! I little thought 66 
You would have followed. 

Ant. Egypt, thou knew’st too well 

My heart was to thy rudder tied by the strings, 
And thou shouldst tow me after. O’er my spirit 
Thy full supremacy thou knew’st, and that 
Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods «• 
Command me. 

Cleo. 0 , my pardon! 

Ant. Now I must 

To the young man send humble treaties, dodge 
And palter in the shifts of lowness ; who 
With half the bulk o’ the world play’d as I 
pleas’d, 

Making and marring fortunes. You did know ee 
How much you were my conqueror; and 
that 

My sword, made weak by my affection, would 
Obey it on all cause. 

Cleo. Pardon, pardon ! 

Ant. Fall not a tear, I say ; one of them rates 
All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss. to 
E ven this repays me. We sent our schoolmas¬ 
ter ; 

Is ’a come back ? Love, I am full of lead. 
Some wine, within there, and our viands ! For¬ 
tune knows 

We scorn her most when most she offers blows. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene XII. Egypt. Ccesar's camp.] 

Enter C.esar, Agrippa, Dolabella, [Thy- 
reus,] with others. 

Cces. Let him appear that’s come from An¬ 
tony. 

Know you him ? 

I)ol. Caesar, ’t is his schoolmaster; 

An argument that he is pluck’d, when hither 
He sends so poor a pinion of his wing, 

Which had superfluous kings for messengers « 
Not many moons gone by. 

Enter [Euphronius,] ambassador from Antony. 

Cces. Approach, and speak. 

Euph. Such as I am, I come from Antony. 

I was of late as petty to his ends 
As is the morn-dew on the myrtle-leaf 
To his grand sea. 

Cces. Be ’t so : declare thine office. 

Euph. Lord of his fortunes he salutes thee, 
and 11 

Requires to live in Egypt; which not granted, 
He lessens his requests, and to thee sues 
To let him breathe between the heavens and 
earth, 

A private man in Athens. This for him. w 

Next, Cleopatra does confess thy greatness j 






1082 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


III. Xlll. 


Submits her to thy might; and of thee craves 
The circle of the Ptolemies for her heirs, 

Now hazarded to thy grace. 

Coes. For Antony, 

I have no ears to his request. The Queen 20 
Of audience nor desire shall fail, so she 
From Egypt drive her all-disgraced friend, 

Or take his life there. This if she perform, 

She shall not sue unheard. So to them both. 
Euph. Fortune pursue thee ! 

Coes. Bring him through the hands. 

[Exit Euphronius .] 
[To Thyreus .] To try thy eloquence, now ’t is 
time ; dispatch. 26 

From Antony win Cleopatra ; promise, 

And in our name, what she requires; add 
more, 

From thine invention, offers. Women are not 
In their best fortunes strong ; hut want will 
perjure 30 

The ne’er-touch’d vestal. Try thy cunning, 
Thyreus; 

Make thine own edict for thy pains, which we 
Will answer as a law. 

Thyr. Caesar, I go. 

Goes. Observe how Antony becomes his flaw, 
And what thou think’st his very action speaks 35 
In every power that moves. 

Thyr. Csesar, I shall. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene XIII. Alexandria. Cleopatra's 
palace.] 

Enter Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Charmian, 
and Iras. 

Cleo. What shall we do, Enobarbus ? 

Eno. Think, and die. 

Cleo. Is Antony or we in fault for this ? 

Eno. Antony only, that would make his will 
Lord of his reason. What though you fled 
From that great face of war, whose several 
ranges s 

Frighted each other ? Why should he follow ? 
The itch of his affection should not then 
Have nick’d his captainship, at such a point, 
When half to half the world oppos’d, he being 
The mered question. ’T was a shame no less 10 
Than was his loss, to course your flying flags, 
And leave his navy gazing. 

Cleo. Prithee, peace. 

Enter Antony with [Euphronius,] the Am¬ 
bassador. 

Ant. Is that his answer ? 

Euph. Ay, my lord. 

Ant. The Queen shall then have courtesy, so 
she 15 

Will yield us up. 

Euph. He says so. 

Ant. Let her know’t. 

To the boy Csesar send this grizzled head, 

And he will fill thy wishes to the brim 
With principalities. 

Cleo. That head, my lord ? 

Ant. To him again. Tell him he wears the 

rose 20 


Of youth upon him, from which the world 
should note 

Something particular. His coin, ships, legions. 
May be a coward’s ; whose ministers would 
prevail 

Under the service of a child as soon 
As i’ the command of Caesar. I dare him there¬ 
fore 25 

To lay his gay comparisons apart, 

And answer me declin’d, sword against sword, 
Ourselves alone. I ’ll write it. Follow me. 

[Exeunt Antony and Euphronius. 
Eno. [Aside.] Yes, like enough high-bat- 
tl’d Caesar will 

Unstate his happiness, and be stag’d to the 
show, so 

Against a sworder ! I see men’s judgements 
are 

A parcel of their fortunes ; and things outward 
Do draw the inward quality after them, 

To suffer all alike. That he should dream, 
Knowing all measures, the full Caesar will 35 
Answer his emptiness ! Caesar, thou hast sub- 
du’d 

His judgement too. 

Enter a Servant. 

Serv. A messenger from Caesar. 

Cleo. What, no more ceremony ? See, my 
women! 

Against the blown rose may they stop their 
nose 

That kneel’d unto the buds. Admit him, sir. 

[Exit Servant.] 

Eno. [Aside.] Mine honesty and I begin to 
square. 41 

The loyalty well held to fools does make 
Our faith mere folly ; yet he that can endure 
To follow with allegiance a fallen lord 
Does conquer him that did his master con¬ 
quer, 45 

And earns a place i’ the story. 

Enter Thyreus. 

Cleo. Caesar’s will ? 

Thyr. Hear it apart. 

Cleo. None but friends : say boldly. 

Thyr. So, haply, are they friends to Antony. 
Eno. He needs as many, sir, as Caesar has ; 
Or needs not us. If Caesar please, our master go 
Will leap to be his friend ; for us, you know 
Whose he is we are, and that is, Caesar’s. 

Thyr. So. 

Thus then, thou most renown’d: Caesar en¬ 
treats 

Not to consider in what case thou stand’st 
Further than he is Caesar. 

Cleo. Go on: right royal. 

Thyr. He knows that you embrace not An¬ 
tony 56 

As you did love, but as you feared him. 

Cleo. Oh! 

Thyr. The scars upon your honour, therefore, 
he 

Does pity, as constrained blemishes, 

Not as deserved. 

Cleo. He is a god, and knows «o 





ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


1083 


III. xiii. 


What is most right. Mine honour was not 
yielded, 

But conquer’d merely. 

Eno. [Aside.} To be sure of that, 

I will ask Antony. Sir, sir, thou art so leaky, 
That we must leave thee to thy sinking, for 
Tliy dearest quit thee. [Exit. 

Thyr. Shall I say to Caesar cc 

What you require of him ? for he partly begs 
To be desir’d to give. It much would please 
him, 

That of his fortunes you should make a staff 
To lean upon ; but it would warm his spirits, 
To hear from me you had left Antony, to 

And put yourself under his shroud, 

The universal landlord. 

Cleo. What’s your name ? 

Thyr. My name is Thyreus. 

Cleo. Most kind messenger, 

Say to great Caesar this : in deputation 
I kiss his conqu’ring hand. Tell him, I am 
prompt to 

To lay my crown at’s feet, and there to kneel. 
Tell him, from his all-obeying breath I hear 
The doom of Egypt. 

Thyr. ’T is your noblest course. 

Wisdom and fortune combating together, 

If that the former dare but what it can, so 
No chance may shake it. Give me grace to lay 
My duty on your hand. 

Cleo. Your Caesar’s father oft, 

When he hath mus’d of taking kingdoms in, 
Bestow’d his lips on that unworthy place, ** 
As it rain’d kisses. 

Re-enter Antony and Enobarbus. 

Ant. Favours, by Jove that thunders ! 

What art thou, fellow ? 

Thyr. One that but performs 

The bidding of the fullest man, and worthiest 
To have command obey’d. 

Eno. [Aside.] You will be whipp’d. 

Ant. Approach there! Ah, you kite! Now, 
gods and devils ! 

Authority melts from me. Of late, when I 
cried “ Ho! ” # 80 

Like boys unto a muss, kings would start forth, 
And cry, “Your will?” Have you no ears? 

I am 
Antony yet. 

Enter a Servant. 

Take hence this Jack, and whip him. 
Eno. [Aside.] ’T is better playing with a 
lion’s whelp 

Than with an old one dying. 

Ant. Moon and stars ! 

Whip him! Were ’t twenty of the greatest 
tributaries 96 

That do acknowledge Caesar, should I find them 
So saucy with the hand of she here, — what’s 
her name, 

Since she was Cleopatra? Whip him, fellows. 
Till, like a boy, you see him cringe his face, 100 
And whine aloud for mercy. Take him hence. 
Thyr. Mark Antony, — . , 

Ant. Tug him away. Being whipp d, 


Bring him again ; this Jack of Caesar’s shall 
Bear us an errand to him. — 

[Exit Servant with Thyreus. 
You were half blasted ere I knew you ; ha ! 105 
Have I my pillow left unpress’d in Rome, 
Forborne the getting of a lawful race, 

And by a gem of women, to be abus’d 
By one that looks on feeders ? 

Cleo. Good my lord, — 

Ant. You have been a boggier ever : no 

And when we in our viciousness grow hard — 

O misery on’t! — the wise gods seel our eyes; 
In our own filth drop our clear judgements; 
make us 

Adore our errors ; laugh at’s, while we strut 
To our confusion. 

Cleo. O, is’t come to this ? ns 

Ant. I found you as a morsel cold upon 
Dead Caesar’s trencher ; nay, you were a frag¬ 
ment 

Of Cneius Pompey’s; besides what hotter 
hours, 

Unregist’red in vulgar fame, you have 
Luxuriously pick’d out; for, I am sure, 120 
Though you can guess what temperance should 
be, 

You know not what it is. 

Cleo. Wherefore is this ? 

Ant. To let a fellow that will take rewards 
And say, “ God quit you ! ” be familiar with 
My playfellow, your hand ; this kingly seal 125 
Ana plighter of high hearts ! 0 , that I were 
Upon the hill of Basan, to outroar 
The horned herd ! For I have savage cause ; 
And to proclaim it civilly, were like 
A halter’d neck which does the hangman thank 
For being yare about him. 

Re-enter Servant with Thyreus. 

Is he whipp’d ? 131 

Serv. Soundly, my lord. 

Ant. Cried he ? and begg’d a pardon ? 

Serv. He did ask favour. 

Ant. If that thy father live, let him repent 
Thou wast not made his daughter ; and be thou 
sorry # 13 e 

To follow Caesar in his triumph, since 
Thou hast been whipp’d for following him. 
Henceforth 

The white hand of a lady fever thee, 

Shake thou to look on’t. Get thee back to 
Caesar, 

Tell him thy entertainment. Look thou say no 
He makes me angry with him ; for he seems 
Proud and disdainful, harping on what I am, 
Not what he knew I was. He makes me angry ; 
And at this time most easy ’tis to do’t, 

When my good stars, that were my former 
guides, < 146 

Have empty left their orbs, and shot their fires 
Into the abysm of hell. If he mislike 
My speech and what is done, tell him he has 
Hipparchus, my enfranched bondman, whom 
He may at pleasure whip, or hang, or torture, 
As he shall like, to quit me. Urge it thou. *ci 
Hence with thy stripes, begone ! 

[Exit Thyreus. 







1084 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


iv. ii. 


Cleo. Have you done yet ? 

Ant. Alack, our terrene moon 

Is now eclips’d ; and it portends alone 
The fall of Antony! 

Cleo. I must stay his time, ies 

Ant. To flatter Caesar, would you mingle 
eyes 

With one that ties his points ? 

Cleo. Not know me yet ? 

Ant. Cold-hearted toward me ? 

Cleo. Ah, dear, if I be so, 

From my cold heart let heaven engender hail 
And poison it in the source, and the first stone 
Drop in my neck ; as it determines, so 161 
Dissolve my life ! The next Caesarion smite ! 
Till by degrees the memory of my womb, 
Together with my brave Egyptians all, 

By the discandying of this pelleted storm, ise 
Lie graveless, till the flies and gnats of Nile 
Have buried them for prey ! 

Ant. I am satisfied. 

Caesar sits down in Alexandria; where 
I will oppose his fate. Our force by land 
Hath nobly held ; our sever’d navy too 170 
Have knit again, and fleet, threat’ning most sea¬ 
like. 

Where hast thou been,*my heart? Dost thou 
hear, lady ? 

If from the field I shall return once more 
To kiss these lips, I will appear in blood ; 

I and my sword will earn our chronicle. its 
T here’s hope in’t yet. 

Cleo. That’s my brave lord ! 

Ant. I will be treble-sinewed, hearted, 
breath’d, 

And fight maliciously ; for when mine hours 
Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives wo 
Of me for jests ; but now I ’ll set my teeth, 
And send to darkness all that stop me. Come, 
Let’s have one other gaudy night. Call to 
me 

All my sad captains ; fill our bowls once more ; 
Let’s mock the midnight bell. 

Cleo. It is my birthday. 

I had thought to have held it poor ; but, since 
my lord 186 

Is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra. 

Ant. We will yet do well. 

Cleo. Call all his noble captains to my lord. 
Ant. Do so. we ’ll speak to them; and to¬ 
night I ’ll force iso 

The wine peep through their scars. Come on, 
my queen ; 

There’s sap in’t yet. The next time I do fight, 
I ’ll make Death love me ; for I will contend 
Even with his pestilent scythe. 

[Exeunt [all but Enobarbus]. 
Eno. Now he ’ll outstare the lightning. To 
be furious, we 

Is to be frighted out of fear ; and in that mood 
The dove will peck the estridge; and I see 
still, 

A diminution in our captain’s brain 
Restores his heart. When valour preys on 
reason, 

It eats the sword it fights with. I will seek joo 
S ome way to leave him. [Exit. 


[ACT IV] 

[Scene I. Before Alexandria. Caesar's camp.] 

Enter Caesar, Agrippa, and Maecenas, with 
his Army; Caesar reading a letter. 

Coes. He calls me boy ; and chides as he had 
power 

To beat me out of Egypt. My messenger 
He hath whipp’d with rods; dares me to per¬ 
sonal combat, 

Caesar to Antony. Let the old ruffian know 
I have many other ways to die ; meantime 8 
Laugh at his challenge. 

Mcec. Caesar must think, 

When one so great begins to rage, he’s hunted 
Even to falling. Give him no breath, but now 
Make boot of his distraction. Never anger 9 
Made good guard for itself. 

Coes. Let our best heads 

Know that to-morrow the last of many battles 
We mean to fight. Within our files there are, 
Of those that serv’d Mark Antony but late, 
Enough to fetch him in. See it done, 

And feast the army ; we have store to do’t, i« 
And they have earn’d the waste. Poor Antony ! 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. Alexandria. Cleopatra's palace .] 

Enter Antony, Cleopatra, Enobarbus, 
Charmian, Iras, Alexas, with others. 

Ant. He will not fight with me, Domitius. 
Eno. No ? 

Ant. Why should he not ? 

Eno. He thinks, being twenty times of bet¬ 
ter fortune, 

He is twenty men to one. 

Ant. To-morrow, soldier, 

By sea and land I ’ll fight; or I will live, « 
Or bathe my dying honour in the blood 
Shall make it live again. Woo ’t thou fight 
well ? 

Eno. I ’ll strike, and cry, “ Take all! ” 

Ant. Well said; come on. 

Call forth my household servants ; let ’s to¬ 
night 

Be bounteous at our meal. 

Enter three or four Servitors. 

Give me thy hand, 
Thou hast been rightly honest; — so hast 
thou; — 11 

Thou,—and thou, — and thou. You have 
serv’d me well, 

And kings have been your fellows. 

Cleo. [Aside to Eno.] What means this ? 
Eno. [Aside to Cleo.] ’T is one of those odd 
tricks which sorrow shoots 
Out of the mind. 

Ant. And thou art honest too. ia 

I wish I could be made so many men, 

And all of you clapp’d up together in 
An Antony, that I might do you service 
So good as you have done. 

All. The gods forbid! 




iv. iv. 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


1085 


Ant. Well, my good fellows, wait on me to¬ 
night. 10 

Scant not my cups ; and make as much of me 
As when mine empire was your fellow too, 

And suffer’d my command. 

Cleo. [Aside to Eno.] What does he mean ? 
Eno. [Aside to Cleo.] To make his followers 
weep. 

Ant. Tend me to-night; 

May be it is the period of your duty: is 

Haply you shall not see me more ; or if, 

A mangled shadow. Perchance to-morrow 
You ’ll serve another master. I look on you 
As one that takes his leave. Mine honest 
friends, 

I turn you not away; but, like a master 30 
Married to your good service, stav till death. 
Tend me to-night two hours, I ask no more, 
And the gods yield you for’t! 

Eno. What mean you, sir, 

To give them this discomfort ? Look, they 
weep; 

And I, an ass, am onion-ey’d. For shame, 3 e 
Transform us not to women. 

Ant. Ho, ho, ho ! 

Now the witch take me, if I meant it thus ! 
Grace grow where those drops fall! My hearty 
friends, 

You take me in too dolorous a sense ; 

For I spake to you for your comfort, did desire 
you 40 

To burn this night with torches. Know, my 
hearts, 

I hope well of to-morrow ; and will lead you 
. Where rather I ’ll expect victorious life 
Than death and honour. Let’s to supper, come, 
And drown consideration. [Exeunt. « 

[Scene III. The same. Before the palace .] 
Enter [two] Soldiers [to their guard]. 

1 . Sold. Brother, good-night; to-morrow is 

the day. 

2 . Sold. It will determine one way ; fare you 

well. 

Heard you of nothing strange about the streets ? 

1 . Sold. Nothing. What news? 

2 . Sold. Belike ’t is but a rumour. Good¬ 

night to you. e 

1 . Sold. Well, sir, good-night. 

They meet other Soldiers. 

2 . Sold. Soldiers, have careful watch. 

[3.] Sold. And you. Good-night, good-night. 

[They place themselves in every cor¬ 
ner of the stage. 

[ 4 .] Sold. Here we. And if to-morrow 
Our navy thrive, I have an absolute hope 10 
Our landmen will stand up. 

[3.] Sold. ’T is a brave army, 

And full of purpose. 

[Music of the hautboys as under the 
stage. . 

2 . Sold. Peace ! what noise f 

1 . Sold. List, list 1 

2 . Sold. Hark! 

1 . Sold. Music i’ the air. 


3 . Sold. Under the earth. 

4 . Sold. It signs well, does it not ? 

3 . Sold. No. 

1 . Sold. Peace, I say } 

What should this mean ? is 

2 . Sold. ’T is the god Hercules, whom An¬ 

tony loved, 

Now leaves him. 

1 . Sold. Walk ; let’s see if other watchmen 
Do hear what we do. 

[They advance to another posf.] 

2 . Sold. How now, masters ! 

[Speak together. 
All. How now! 

How now ! do you hear this ? 

1 . Sold. Ay ; is’t not strange ? 

3 . Sold. Do you hear, masters ? Do you 

hear ? 21 

1 . Sold. Follow the noise so far as we have 
quarter; 

Let’s see how it will give off. 

All. Content. ’T is strange. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene IV. The same. A room in the palace.] 

Enter Antony and Cleopatra, [Charmian,] 
and others [attending]. 

Ant. Eros ! mine armour, Eros ! 

Cleo. Sleep a little. 

Ant. No, my chuck. Eros, come; mine ar¬ 
mour, Eros! 

Enter Eros [with armour]. 

Come, good fellow, put mine iron on. 

If Fortune be not ours to-day, it is 4 

Because we brave her. Come. 

Cleo. Nay, I ’ll help too. 

What’s this for ? 

[Ant ] Ah, let be, let be ! thou art 

The armourer of my heart. False, false ; this, 
this. 

Cleo. Sooth, la, I ’ll help. Thus it must be. 
Ant. Well, well: 

We shall thrive now. Seest thou, my good 
fellow ? 

Go put on thy defences. 

Eros. Briefly, sir. 10 

Cleo. Is not this buckled well ? 

Ant. Rarely, rarely: 

He that unbuckles this, till we do please 
To daff’t for our repose, shall hear a storm. 
Thou fumblest, Eros ; and my queen’s a squire 
More tight at this than thou. Dispatch. 0 
love, 1* 

That thou couldst see my wars to-day, and 
knew’st 

The royal occupation ! Thou shouldst see 
A workman in’t. 

Enter an armed Soldier. 

Good-morrow to thee ; welcome. 
Thou look’st like him that knows a warlike 
charge. 

To business that we love we rise betime 20 
And go to’t with delight. 

Sold. A thousand, sir, 






io86 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


IV. V1L 


Early though ’t be, have on their riveted trim, 
And at the port expect you. 

[Shout. Trumpets flourish. 

Enter Captains and Soldiers. 

Capt. The morn is fair. Good-morrow, gen¬ 
eral. 

All. Good-morrow, general. 

Ant. ’T is well blown, lads. 

This morning, like the spirit of a youth 20 
That means to be of note, begins betimes. 

So, so; come, give me that. This way; well said. 
Fare thee well, dame, whate’er becomes of me. 
This is a soldier’s kiss ; rebukeable [ Kisses her.] 
And worthy shameful check it were, to stand 31 
On more mechanic compliment. I ’ll leave thee 
Now, like a man of steel. You that will fight, 
Follow me close ; I ’ll bring you to’t. Adieu. 

[Exeunt [Antony , Eros , Captains , 
and Soldiers J. 

Char. Please you, retire to your chamber. 
Cleo. Lead me. 

He goes forth gallantly. That he and Caesar 
might 36 

Determine this great war in single fight! 

Then, Antony, — but now — Well, on. [Exeunt. 

[Scene V. Alexandria. Antony's camp.] 

Trumpets sound. Enter Antony and Eros. 
[A Soldier meets them.] 

[<SoW.] The gods make this a happy day to 
Antony ! 

Ant. Would thou and those thy scars had 
once prevail’d 
To make me fight at land ! 

[So/c/.] Hadst thou done so, 

The kings that have revolted, and the soldier * 
That has this morning left thee, would have still 
Followed thy heels. 

Ant. Who’s gone this morning ? 

[SoM.] Who! 

One ever near thee. Call for Enobarbus, 

He shall not hear thee; or from Caesar’s camp 
Say, “ I am none of thine.” 

Ant. What sayest thou ? 

Sold. Sir, 

He is with Caesar. 

Eros. Sir, his chests and treasure 10 

He has not with him. 

Ant. Is he gone ? 

Sold. Most certain. 

Ant. Go, Eros, send his treasure after ; do it; 
Detain no jot, I charge thee. Write to him — 

I will subscribe — gentle adieus and greetings ; 
Say that I wish he never find more cause 15 

To change a master. O, my fortunes have 
Corrupted honest men ! Dispatch. — Enobar¬ 
bus ! [Exeunt. 

[Scene VI. Alexandria. Ccesar's camp.] 

Flourish. Enter C^sar, Agrippa, with Eno¬ 
barbus, ana Dolabella. 

Coes. Go forth, Agrippa, and begin the fight. 
Our will is Antony be took alive ; 

Make it so known. 


Agr. Caesar, I shall. [Exit. 

Coes. The time of universal peace is near, b 
Prove this a prosperous day, the three-nook’d 
world 

Shall bear the olive freely. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. Antony 

Is come into the field. 

Coes. Go charge Agrippa 

Plant those that have revolted in the van, 

That Antony may seem to spend his fury 10 
Upon himself. [Exeunt [all but Enobarbus]. 
Eno. Alexas did revolt; and went to Jewry 
on 

Affairs of Antony ; there did persuade 
Great Herod to incline himself to Caesar, 

And leave his master Antony : for this pains 1 b 
Caesar hath hang’d him. Canidius and the 
rest 

That fell away have entertainment, but 
No honourable trust. I have done ill; 

Of which I do accuse myself so sorely 
That I will joy no more. 

Enter a Soldier of Ccesar's. 

Sold. Enobarbus, Antony 

Hath after thee sent all thy treasure, with 21 
His bounty overplus. The messenger 
Came on my guard ; and at thy tent is now 
Unloading of his mules. 

Eno. I give it you. 

Sold. Mock not, Enobarbus ; 25 

I tell you true. Best you saf’d the bringer 
Out of the host; I must attend mine office, 

Or would have done’t myself. Your emperor 
Continues still a Jove. [Exit. 

Eno. I am alone the villain of the earth, 30 
And feel I am so most. O Antony, 

Thou mine of bounty, how wouldst thou have 
paid 

My better service, when my turpitude 
Thou dost so crown with gold ! This blows my 
heart. 

If swift thought break it not, a swifter mean 35 
Shall outstrike thought; but thought will 
do ’t 2 I feel. 

I fight against thee! No ! I will go seek 
Some ditch wherein to die ; the foul’st best fits 
My latter part of life. [ Exit. 

[Scene VII. Field of battle between the camps.] 

Alarum. Drums and trumpets. Enter Agrippa 
[and others]. 

Agr. Retire, we have engag’d ourselves too 
far. 

Caesar himself has work, and our oppression 
Exceeds what we expected. [Exeunt. 

Alarums. Enter Antony, and Scarus wounded. 

Scar. 0 my brave emperor, this is fought 
indeed ! 

Had we done so at first, we had droven them 
home 5 

With clouts about their heads. 

Thou bleed’st apace. 




IV. ix. 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


1087 


Scar. I had a wound here that was like a T, 
But now ’t is made an H. 

Ant. They do retire. 

Scar. We’ll beat ’em into bench-holes. I 
have yet 

Room for six scotches more. 10 

Enter Eros. 

Eros. They are beaten, sir ; and our advan¬ 
tage serves 
For a fair victory. 

Scar. Let us score their backs, 

And snatch ’em up, as w r e take hares, behind. 
’T is sport to maul a runner. 

Ant. I will reward thee 

Once for thy sprightly comfort, and tenfold is 
For thy good valour. Come thee on. 

Scar. I ’ll halt after. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene VIII. Under the walls of Alexandria.] 

Alarum. Enter Antony, in a march; Scarus, 
with others. 

Ant. We have beat him to his camp. Run 
one before, 

A nd let t.h e Q ueen know of our gests. To-inorrow, 
Before the sun shall see’s, we ’ll spill the blood 
That has to-day escap’d. I thank you all; 

For doughty-handed are you, and have fought 5 
Not as you serv’d the cause, but as’t had been 
Each man’s like mine ; you have shown all 
Hectors. 

Enter the city, clip your wives, your friends, 
Tell them your feats ; whilst they with joyful 
tears 

Wash the congealment from your wounds, and 
kiss 10 

The honour’d gashes whole. 

Enter Cleopatra [attended]. 

[To Scarus.] Give me thy hand ; 

To this great fairy I ’ll commend thy acts, 
Make her thanks bless thee. [To Cleo.] 0 
thou day o’ the world, 

Chain mine arm’d neck ; leap thou, attire and 
all, 

Through proof of harness to my heart, and 
there is 

Ride on the pants triumphing ! 

Cleo. Lord of lords ! 

O infinite virtue, com’st thou smiling from 
The world’s great snare uncanght ? 

Ant. My nightingale, 

We have beat them to their beds. What, girl! 
though grey 

Do something mingle with our younger brown, 

yet ha’ we 20 

A brain that nourishes our nerves, and can 
Get goal for goal of youth. Behold this man ; 
Commend unto his lips thy favouring hand. 
Kiss it, my warrior ; he hath fought to-day 
As if a god, in hate of mankind, had 25 

Destroyed in such a shape. 

Cleo. I ’ll give thee, friend, 

An armour all of gold ; it was a king’s. 

Ant. He has deserv’d it, were it carbuncled 


Like holy Phoebus’ car. Give me thy hand. 
Through Alexandria make a jolly march ; so 
Bear our hack’d targets like the men that owe 
them. 

Had our great palace the capacity 
To camp this host, we all would sup together 
And drink carouses to the next day’s fate, 
Which promises royal peril. Trumpeters, 3s 
With brazen din blast you the city’s ear, 

Make mingle with our rattling tabourines, 
That heaven and earth may strike their sounds 
together, 

Applauding our approach. [Exeunt. 

[Scene IX. Caesar's camp.] 

Enter a Sentry, and his Company. Enobar- 
bus follows. 

Sent. If we be not reliev’d w ithin this hour, 
We must return to the court of guard. The night 
Is shiny ; and they say we shall embattle 
By the second hour i’ the morn. 

1. Sold. This last day was 

A shrewd one to’s. 

Eno. O, bear me witness, night, — e 

2. Sold. What man is this ? 

1. Sold. Stand close, and list him. 

Eno. Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon, 

When men revolted shall upon record 
Bear hateful memory, poor Enobarbus did 
Before thy face repent! 

Sent. Enobarbus! 

2. Sold. Peace 1 10 

Hark further. 

Eno. 0 sovereign mistress of true melan¬ 
choly, 

The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me, 
That life, a very rebel to my will, 

May hang no longer on me. Throw my heart is 
Against the flint and hardness of my fault; 
Which, being dried with grief, will break to 
powder, 

And finish all foul thoughts. O Antony, 

Nobler than my revolt is infamous, 

Forgive me in thine own particular; to 

But let the world rank me in register 
A master-leaver and a fugitive. 

O Antonv ! 0 Antony ! [Dies.] 

1. Sold. Let’s speak 

To him. 

Sent. Let’s hear him, for the things he 
speaks 2s 

May concern Caesar. 

2. Sold. Let’s do so. But he sleeps. 

Sent. Swoons rather ; for so bad a prayer as 

his 

Was never yet for sleep. 

1 . Sold. _ Go we to him. 

2. Sold. Awake, sir, awake ; speak to us. 

1. Sold. Hear you, sir? 

Sent. The hand of death hath raught him. 

{Drums afar off.) Hark ! the drums 30 
Demurely wake the sleepers. Let us bear him 
To the court of guard ; he is of note. Our hour 
Is fully out. 

2. Sold. Come on, then ; 

He may recover yet. [Exeunt [with the body]. 





io88 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


IV. XIV. 


[Scene X. Between the two camps.] 

Enter Antony and Scarus, with their Army. 

Ant. Their preparation is to-day by sea ; 

We please them not by land. 

Scar. For both, my lord. 

Ant. I would they’d fight i’ the fire or i’ 
the air; 

We’d fight there too. But this it is : our foot 
Upon the hills adjoining to the city b 

Shall stay with us. Order for sea is given ; 
They have put forth the haven. [Go we up] 
Where their appointment we may best discover, 
And look on their endeavour. [ Exeunt. 

[Scene XI. Another part of the same.] 
Enter C.esar, and his Army. 

Coes. But being charg’d, we will be still by 
land. 

Which, as I take’t, we shall; for his best force 
Is forth to man his galleys. To the vales, 

And hold our best advantage. [Exeunt. 

[Scene XII. Another part of the same.] 
Enter Antony and Scarus. 

Ant. Yet they are not join’d. Where yond 
pine does stand, 

I shall discover all; I ’ll bring thee word 
Straight, how’t is like to go. [Exit. 

Scar. Swallows have built 

In Cleopatra’s sails their nests. The augurers 
Say they know not, they cannot tell; look 
grimly, b 

And dare not speak their knowledge. Antony 
Is valiant, and dejected; and, by starts, 

His fretted fortunes give him hope and fear, 

Of what he has and has not. 

[Alarum afar off, as at a sea-fight. 

Be-enter Antony. 

Ant. All is lost! 

This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me. 10 

My fleet hath yielded to the foe, and yonder 
They cast their caps up and carouse together 
Like friends long lost. Triple-turn’d whore! 
’t is thou 

Hast sold me to this novice ; and my heart 
Makes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly ; is 
For when I am reveng’d upon my charm, 

I have done all. Bid them all fly ; begone. 

[Exit Scarus.] 

O sun, thy uprise shall I see no more : 

Fortune and Antony part here ; even here 
Do we shake hands. All come to this ? The 
hearts 20 

That spaniel’d me at heels, to whom I gave 
Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets 
On blossoming Caesar ; and this pine is bark’d, 
That overtopp’d them all. Betray’d I am. 

0 this false soul of Egypt! this grave 
charm, — 25 

Whose eye beck’d forth my wars, and call’d 
them home; 

Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end, — 
Like a right gipsy, hath, at fast and loose, 


Beguil’d me to the very heart of loss. 

What, Eros, Eros ! 

Enter Cleopatra. 

Ah, thou spell! Avaunt! 30 
Cleo. Why is my lord enrag’d against his 
love ? 

Ant. Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserv- 
ing, 

And blemish Caesar’s triumph. Let him take 
thee, 

And hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians ! 
Follow his chariot, like the greatest spot 36 
Of all thy sex ; most monster-like, be shown 
For poor’st diminutives, for doits ; and let 
Patient Octavia plough thy visage up 
With her prepared nails. [Exit Cleopatra. 

’T is well thou ’rt gone, 
If it be well to live ; but better’t were 40 

Thou fell’st into my fury, for one death 
Might have prevented many. Eros, ho ! 

The shirt of Nessus is upon me. Teach me, 
Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage. 

Let me lodge Lichas on the horns o’ the 
moon; 46 

And with those hands, that grasp’d the heavi¬ 
est club, 

Subdue my worthiest self. The witch shall 
die. 

To the young Roman boy she hath sold me, 
and I fall 

Under this plot. She dies for’t. Eros, ho ! 

[Exit. 

[Scene XIII. Alexandria. Cleopatra's 
palace.] 

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Mar- 
dian. 

Cleo. Help me, my women! 0 , he is more 
mad 

Than Telamon for his shield ; the boar of 
Thessaly 

Was never so emboss’d. 

Char. To the monument! 

There lock yourself, and send him word you 
are dead. 

The soul and body rive not more in parting b 
T han greatness going off. 

Cleo. To the monument! 

Mardian, go tell him I have slain myself; 

Say, that the last I spoke was “Antony,” 

And word it, prithee, piteously. Hence, Mar¬ 
dian, 

And bring me how he takes my death. To the 
monument! [Exeunt. 10 

[Scene XIV. The same. Another room.] 
Enter Antony and Eros. 

Ant. Eros, thou yet behold’st me ? 

Eros. Ay, noble lord. 

Ant. Sometime we see a cloud that’s drag- 
onish; 

A vapour sometime like a bear or lion, 

A tower’d citadel, a pendent rock, 

A forked mountain, or blue promontory 6 




IV. XiV. 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


1089 


With trees upon’t, that nod unto the world, 
And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen 
these signs; 

They are black vesper’s pageants. 

Eros. Ay, my lord. 

Ant. That which is now a horse, even with a 
thought 

The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct, 10 
As water is in water. 

Eros. It does, my lord. 

Ant. My good knave Eros, now thy captain 
is 

Even such a body. Here I am Antony ; 

Yet cannot hold this visible shape, my knave. 

I made these wars for Egypt; and the 
Queen, — ie 

Whose heart I thought I had, for she had 
mine, 

Which whilst it was mine had annex’d unto’t 
A million moe, now lost, — she, Eros, has 
Pack’d cards with Caesar, and false-play’d my 
glory 

Unto an enemy’s triumph. 20 

Nay, weep not, gentle Eros ; there is left us 
Ourselves to end ourselves. 


Enter Mardian. 

0 , thy vile lady! 
She has robb’d me of my sword. 

Mar. No, Antony; 

My mistress lov’d thee, and her fortunes 
mingled 24 

With thine entirely. 

Ant. Hence, saucy eunuch ; peace ! 

She hath betray’d me and shall die the death. 
Mar. Death of one person can be paid but 
once, 

And that she has discharg’d. What thou 
wouldst do 

Is done unto thy hand ; the last she spake 
Was “ Antony! most noble Antony 1 ” 30 

Then in the midst a tearing groan did break 
The name of Antony ; it was divided 
Between her heart and lips. She rend’red life, 
Thy name so buried in her. 

Ant. Dead, then? 

Mar. Dead. 

Ant. Unarm, Eros ; the long day’s task is 
done, 35 

And we must sleep. [To Mar.] That thou de- 
part’st hence safe. 

Does pay thy labour richly; go. 

[Exit Mardian. 
Off, pluck off! 

The seven-fold shield of Ajax cannot keep 
The battery from my heart. O, cleave, my 
sides! 

Heart, once be stronger than thy continent, *0 

Crack thy frail case ! Apace, Eros, apace. 

No more a soldier. Bruised pieces, go ; 

You have been nobly borne. — From me a while. 

[Exit Eros. 

I will o’ertake thee, Cleopatra, and 
Weep for my pardon. So it must be, for now 45 
All length is torture ; since the torch is out, 
Lie down, and stray no farther. Now all la¬ 
bour 


Mars what it does ; yea, very force entangles 
Itself with strength. Seal then and all is done. 
Eros ! — I come, my queen! — Eros I —Stay for 
me! so 

Where souls do couch on flowers, we ’ll hand in 
hand, 

And with our sprightly port make the ghosts 
gaze. 

Dido and her ^Eneas shall want troops, 

And all the haunt be ours. Come, Eros, Eros I 

Re-enter Eros. 

Eros. What would my lord ? 

Ant. Since Cleopatra died, 

I have liv’d in such dishonour, that the gods e« 
Detest my baseness. I, that with my sword 
Quarter’d the world, and o’er green Neptune’s 
back 

With ships made cities, condemn myself to lack 
The courage of a woman ; less noble mind 60 
Than she which by her death our Caesar tells, 

11 1 am conqueror of myself. ’ ’ Thou art sworn, 
Eros, 

That, when the exigent should come, which 
now 

Is come indeed, when I should see behind me 
The inevitable prosecution of os 

Disgrace and horror, that, on my command, 
Thou then wouldst kill me. Do’t; the time is 
come. 

Thou strik’st not me, ’t is Caesar thou de- 
feat’st. 

Put colour in thy cheek. 

Eros. The gods withhold me I 

Shall I do that which all the Parthian darts, 70 
Though enemy, lost aim, and could not ? 

Ant. Eros, 

Wouldst thou be window’d in great Rome and 
see 

Thy master thus with pleach’d arms, bending 
down 

His corrigible neck, his face subdu’d 74 

To penetrative shame, whilst the wheel’d seat 
Of fortunate Caesar, drawn before him, branded 
His baseness that ensued ? 

Eros. I would not see’t. 

Ant. Come, then ; for with a wound I must 
be cur’d. 

Draw that thy honest sword, which thou hast 
worn 

Most useful for thy country. 

Eros. 0 , sir, pardon me ! 

Ant. When I did make thee free, swor’st 
thou not then si 

To do this when I bade thee ? Do it at once; 
Or thy precedent services are all 
But accidents unpurpos’d. Draw, and come. 
Eros. Turn from me, then, that noble coun¬ 
tenance, 

Wherein the worship of the whole world lies. 
Ant. Lo thee ! [Turning from him.] 

Eros. My sword is drawn. 

Ant. Then let it do at once 

The thing why thou hast drawn it. 

Eros. My dear master, 

My captain, and my emperor, let me say, eo 
Before I strike this bloody stroke, farewell. 






1090 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


IV. XV. 


Ant. ’T is said, man ; and farewell. 

Eros. Farewell, great chief. Shall I strike 
now ? 

Ant. Now, Eros. 

Eros. Why, there then. ( Kills himself.) Thus 
I do escape the sorrow 
Of Antony’s death. 

Ant. Thrice-nobler than myself ! 95 

Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what 
I should, and thou couldst not. My queen and 
Eros 

Have by their brave instruction got upon me 
A nobleness in record ; but I will be 
A bridegroom in my death, and run into’t 100 
As to a lover’s bed. Come, then ; and, Eros, 
Thy master dies thy scholar : to do thus 

[Falling on his swoi'd.] 
I learn ? d of thee. How ! not dead ? not dead ? 
The guard, ho ! 0 , dispatch me ! 

Enter [Dercetas and] Guard. 

1. Guard. What’s the noise ? 

Ant. I have done my work ill, friends. 0 , 

make an end 105 

Of what I have begun. 

2. Guard. The star is fallen. 

1 . Guard. And time is at his period. 

All. . Alas, and woe! 

Ant. Let him that loves me strike me dead. 

1. Guard. Not I. 

2. Guard. Nor I. 

3 . Guard. Nor any one. [Exeunt Guard. 110 
Der. Thy death and fortunes bid thy follow¬ 
ers fly. 

This sword but shown to Caesar, with this tid¬ 
ings, 

Shall enter me with him. 

Enter Diomedes. 

Dio. Where’s Antony ? 

Der. There, Diomed, there. 

Dio. Lives he ? 

Wilt thou not answer, man ? ns 

[Exit Dercetas. 

Ant. Art thou there, Diomed ? Draw thy 
sword, and give me 
Sufficing strokes for death. 

Dio. Most absolute lord, 

My mistress Cleopatra sent me to thee. 

Ant. When did she send thee ? 

Dio. Now, my lord. 

Ant. ' Where is she ? 

Dio. Lock’d in her monument. She had a 
prophesying fear 120 

Of what hath come to pass; for when she 
saw — 

Which never shall be found — you did suspect 
She had dispos’d with Caesar, and that your 
rage 

Would not be purg’d, she sent you word she 
was dead ; 

But, fearing since how it might work, hath 
sent 125 

Me to proclaim the truth ; and I am come, 

I dread, too late. 

Ant. Too late, good Diomed. Call my guard, 
I prithee. 


Dio. What, ho, the Emperor’s guard ! The 
guard, what, ho ! 

Come, your lord calls ! is* 

Enter four or five of the Guard of Antony. 

Ant. Bear me, good friends, where Cleopa¬ 
tra bides; 

’T is the last service that I shall command you. 
1 . Guard. Woe, woe are we, sir, you may 
not live to wear 
All your true followers out. 

All. Most heavy day ! 

Ant. Nay, good my fellows, do not please 
sharp fate 135 

To grace it with your sorrows; bid that wel¬ 
come 

Which comes to punish us, and we punish it 
Seeming to bear it lightly. Take me up. 

1 have led you oft; carry me now, good friends, 
And have my thanks for all. no 

[ Exeunt , hearing Antony. 

[Scene XV. The same. A monument.] 

Enter Cleopatra, and her maids aloft , with 
Charmian and Iras. 

Cleo. 0 Charmian, I will never go from 
hence. 

Char. Be comforted, dear madam. 

Cleo. No, I will not. 

All strange and terrible events are welcome, 
But comforts we despise ; our size of sorrow, 
Proportion’d to our cause, must be as great e 
As that which makes it. 

Enter [below] Diomedes. 

How now ! is he dead ? 
Dio. His death’s upon him, but not dead. 
Look out o’ the other side your monument; 

His guard have brought him thither. 

Enter [below] Antony, borne by the Guard. 

Cleo. O sun, 

Burn the great sphere thou mov’st in ! Dark¬ 
ling stand 10 

The varying shore o’ the world. O Antony, 
Antony, Antony! Help, Charmian, help, Iras, 
help ; 

Help, friends below ; let’s draw him hither. 

Ant. Peace! 

Not Caesar’s valour hath o’erthrown Antony, 
But Antony’s hath triumph’d on itself. is 

Cleo. So it should be, that none but Antony 
Should conquer Antony ; but woe’t is so 1 
Ant. I am dying, Egypt, dying ; only 
I here importune death a while, until 
Of many thousand kisses the poor last 20 

I lay upon thy lips. 

Cleo. I dare not, dear, — 

Dear my lord, pardon, — I dare not, 

Lest I be taken. Not the imperious show 
Of the full-fortun’d Caesar ever shall 
Be brooch’d with me ; if knife, drugs, serpents, 
have 26 

Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe. 

Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes 
And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour 





V. 1 . 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


1091 


Demuring upon me. But come, come, An¬ 
tony, — 29 

Help me, my women, — we must draw thee up. 
Assist, good friends. 

Ant. 0, quick, or I am gone. 

Cleo. Here’s sport indeed 1 How heavy 
weighs my lord ! 

Our strength is all gone into heaviness, 

That makes the weight. Had I great Juno’s 
power, 

The strong-wing’d Mercury should fetch thee 
up 35 

And set thee by Jove’s side. Yet come a 
little, — 

Wishers were ever fools, — 0, come, come, 
come; 

[They heave Antony aloft to Cleo¬ 
patra. 

And welcome, welcome! Die where thou hast 
liv’d; 

Quicken with kissing. Had my lips that power, 
Thus would 1 wear them out. 

All. A heavy sight! 40 

Ant. I am dying, Egypt, dying. 

Give me some wine, and let me speak a little. 
Cleo. No, let me speak ; and let me rail so 
high, 

That the false housewife Fortune break her 
wheel, 

Provok’d by my offence. 

Ant. One word, sweet queen: 

Of Caesar seek your honour, with your safe¬ 
ty. 0! 48 

Cleo. They do not go together. 

Ant. Gentle, hear me: 

None about Caesar trust but Proculeius. 

Cleo. My resolution and my hands I ’ll trust; 
None about Caesar. 60 

Ant. The miserable change now at my end 
Lament nor sorrow at; but please your thoughts 
In feeding them with those my former fortunes 
Wherein I liv’d, the greatest prince o’ the 
world, 

The noblest; and do now not basely die, so 
Not cowardly put off my helmet to 
My countryman, — a Roman by a Roman 
Valiantly vanquish’d. Now my spirit is going; 
I can no more. 

Cleo. Noblest of men, woo ’t die i 

Hast thou no care of me ? Shall I abide 80 
In this dull world, which in thy absence is 
No better than a sty ? 0, see, my women, 

[.Antony dies.] 

The crown o’ the earth doth melt. My lord ! 

O, wither’d is the garland of the war. 

The soldier’s pole is fall’n ! Young boys and 

girls , .. . 66 

Are level now with men ; the odds is gone, 

And there is nothing left remarkable 
Beneath the visiting moon. I Paints . 

Char. 0, quietness, lady ! 

Iras.' She is dead too, our sovereign. 

Char. La ,<}yj , 

Iras. Madam! 

Char. 0 madam, madam, madam! 

Iras. Loyal E &ypC 

Empress! 71 


Char. Peace, peace, Iras ! 

Cleo. No more but e’en a woman, and com¬ 
manded 

By such poor passion as the maid that milks 
And does the meanest chares. It were for me is 
To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods ; 

To tell them that this world did equal theirs 
Till they had stolen our jewel. All’s but 
nought; 

Patience is sottish, and impatience does 
Become a dog that’s mad : then is it sin so 
To rush into the secret house of death, 

Ere death dare come to us? How do you, 
women ? 

What, what! good cheer! Why, how now, 
Charmian! 

My noble girls! Ah, women, women, look, 

Our lamp is spent, it’s out! Good sirs, take 
heart. 86 

We ’ll bury him ; and then, what’s brave, 
what’s noble, 

Let’s do it after the high Roman fashion. 

And make Death proud to take us. Come, 
away; 

This case of that huge spirit now is cold. 

Ah, women, women ! come ; we have no friend 
But resolution and the briefest end. 

[Exeunt; [those above] bearing off 
Antony's body. 


[ACT V] 


[Scene I. Alexandria. Caesar's camp.] 

Enter Caesar, Agrippa, Dolabella, [M.ece- 
nas, Gallus, Proculeius, and others ,] his 
council of war. 

Coes. Go to him, Dolabella, bid him yield ; 
Being so frustrate, tell him he mocks 
The pauses that he makes. 

Dol. Caesar, I shall. 

[Exit.] 

Enter Dercetas with the sword of Antony. 


Coes. Wherefore is that ? and what art thou 
that dar’st 
Appear thus to us ? 

Der . I am call’d Dercetas ; e 

Mark Antony I serv’d, who best was worthy 
Best to be serv’d. Whilst he stood up and spoke, 
He was my master ; and I wore my life 
To spend upon his haters. If thou please 
To take me to thee, as I was to him 10 

I ’ll be to Caesar; if thou pleasest not, 

I yield thee up my life. 

Cces. What is’t thou say’st ? 

Der. I say, 0 Caesar, Antony is dead. 

Coes. The breaking of so great a thing should 
make 

A greater crack. The round world “ 

Should have shook lions into civil streets, 

And citizens to their dens. The death of An- 
tony 

Is not a single doom ; in the name lay 
A moiety of the world. 

Der. He is dead, Caesar ; 






1092 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


V. ii. 


Not by a public minister of justice, 20 

Nor by a hired knife ; but that self hand 
Which writ his honour in the acts it did 
Hath, with the courage which the heart did 
lend it, 

Splitted the heart. This is his sword ; 

I robb’d his wound of it; behold it stain’d 26 
With his most noble blood. 

Cces. Look you sad, friends ? 

The gods rebuke me, but it is tidings 
To wash the eyes of kings. 

[Agr.] And strange it is 

That nature must compel us to lament 
Our most persisted deeds. 

Mcec. His taints and honours 

Wag’d equal with him. 

[Agr.] A rarer spirit never 31 

Did steer humanity ; but you, gods, will give us 
Some faults to make us men. Caesar is touch’d. 
Mcec. When such a spacious mirror’s set be¬ 
fore him, 

He needs must see himself. 

Coes. O Antony! se 

I have followed thee to this ; but we do lance 
Diseases in our bodies. I must perforce 
Have shown to thee such a declining day, 

Or look on thine ; we could not stall together 
In the whole world : but yet let me lament, *0 
With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts, 
That thou, my brother, my competitor 
In top of all design, my mate in empire, 

Friend and companion in the front of war, 

The arm of mine own body, and the heart 45 
Where mine his thoughts did kindle,—that 
our stars, 

Unreconciliable, should divide 

Our equalness to this. Hear me, good friends, — 

But I will tell you at some meeter season. 

Enter an Egyptian. 

The business of this man looks out of him ; bo 
We’ll hear him what he says. — Whence are 
you? 

Egyp.' A poor Egyptian yet. The Queen my 
mistress, 

Confin’d in all she has, her monument, 

Of thy intents desires instruction, 

That she preparedly may frame herself 65 
To the way she’s forc’d to. 

Cces. Bid her have good heart. 

She soon shall know of us, by some of ours, 
How honourable and how kindly we 
Determine for her ; for Caesar cannot live 
To be ungentle. 

Egyp. So the gods preserve thee ! eo 

[Exit. 

Cces. Come hither, Proculeius. Go and say, 
We purpose her no shame. Give her what 
comforts 

The quality of her passion shall require, 

Lest, in her greatness, by some mortal stroke 
She do defeat us ; for her life in Rome es 

Would be eternal in our triumph. Go, 

And with your speediest bring us what she 
says, 

And how you find of her. 

Pro. Caesar, I shall. [Exit. 


Cces. Gallus, go you along. [Exit Gallus .] 
Where’s Dolabella, 

To second Proculeius ? 

All. Dolabella! 20 

Cces. Let him alone, for I remember now 
How he’s employ’d ; he shall in time be ready. 
Go with me to my tent, where you shall see 
How hardly I was drawn into this war, 

How calm and gentle I proceeded still « 

In all my writings. Go with me, and see 
What I can show in this. [Exeunt. 


[Scene II. Alexandria. A room in the monu¬ 
ment.] 

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Mar- 
dian. 


Cleo. My desolation does begin to make 
A better life. ’T is paltry to be Caesar; 

Not being Fortune, he’s but Fortune’s knave, 
A minister of her will: and it is great 
To do that thing that ends all other deeds ; s 
Which shackles accidents and bolts up change ; 
Which sleeps, and never palates more the dung, 
The beggar’s nurse and Caesar’s. 


Enter [to the gates of the monument ] Procu¬ 
leius [and Soldiers]. 

Pro. Caesar sends greeting to the Queen of 

E&ypt; 

And bids thee study on what fair demands 10 
Thou mean’st to have him grant thee. 

Cleo. What’s thy name ? 

Pro. My name is Proculeius. 

Cleo. Antony 

Did tell me of you, bade me trust you ; but 
I do not greatly care to be deceiv’d, 

That have no use for trusting. If your master 
Would have a queen his beggar, you must tell 
him 18 

That majesty, to keep decorum, must 
No less beg than a kingdom. If he please 
To give me conquer’d Egypt for my son, 

He gives me so much of mine own ais I 2» 

Will kneel to him with thanks. 

Pro. Be of good cheer, 

You ’re fallen into a princely hand; fear no¬ 
thing. 

Make your full reference freely to my lord, 
Who is so full of grace that it flows over 
On all that need. Let me report to him 2* 
Your sweet dependency, and you shall find 
A conqueror that will pray in aid for kindness 
Where he for grace is kneel’d to. 

Cleo. Pray you, tell him 

I am his fortune’s vassal, and I send him 
The greatness he has got. I hourly learn so 
A doctrine of obedience, and would gladly 
Look him i’ the face. 

Pro. This I ’ll report, dear lady. 

Have comfort, for I know your plight is pitied 
Of him that caus’d it. 

[Here Proculeius and two of the 
Guard go out below and re¬ 
appear behind Cleopatra.] 

— You see how easily she may be surpris’d. « 
Guard her till Caesar come. 




V. 11. 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


Iras. Royal queen! 

Char. 0 Cleopatra ! thou art taken, queen. 
Cleo. Quick, quick, good hands. 

[Drawing a dagger.] 
Pro. Hold, worthy lady, hold! 

[/Seizes and disarms her.] 
Do not yourself such wrong, who are in this 40 
Reliev’d, but not betray’d. 

Cleo. What, of death too, 

That rids our dogs of languish ? 

Pro. Cleopatra, 

Do not abuse my master’s bounty by 
The undoing of yourself. Let the world see 
His nobleness well acted, which your death « 
Will never let come forth 

Cleo. W here art thou, Death ? 

Come hither, come! Come, come, and take a 
queen 

Worth many babes and beggars ! 

Pro. 0 , temperance, lady! 

Cleo. Sir, I will eat no meat, 1 ’ll not drink, 
sir; 

If idle talk will once be necessary, bo 

I ’ll not sleep neither; this mortal house I ’ll 
ruin, 

Do Caesar what he can. Know, sir, that I 
Will not wait pinion’d at your master’s court; 
Nor once be chastis’d with the sober eye 
Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up bb 
A nd show me to the shouting varletry 
Of censuring Rome ? Rather a ditch in Egypt 
Be gentle grave unto me! Rather on Nilus’ 
mud 

Lay me stark nak’d, and let the water-flies 
Blow me into abhorring! Rather make eo 
My country’s high pyramides my gibbet, 

And hang me up in chains ! 

Pro. You do extend 

These thoughts of horror further than you shall 
Find cause in Caesar. 

Enter Dolabella. 

Dol. Proculeius, 

What thou hast done thy master Caesar knows, 
And he hath sent for thee. For the Queen, 66 
I ’ll take her to my guard. 

Pro. So, Dolabella, 

It shall content me best. Be gentle to her. 

[To Cleo.] To Caesar I will speak what you 
shall please, 

If you ’ll employ me to him. 

Cleo. Say, I would die. 

[Exeunt Proculeius [and Soldiers ]. 
Dol. Most noble empress, you have heard of 
me ? 71 

Cleo. I cannot tell. 

Dol. Assuredly you know me. 

Cleo. No matter, sir, what I have heard or 
known. 

You laugh when boys or women tell their 
dreams ; 

Is’t not your trick ? 

Pol . I understand not, madam. 

Cleo. I dream’d there was an Emperor An¬ 
tony. 76 

O, such another sleep, that I might see 
But such another man ! 


i° 9 3 


Dol. If it might please ye, — 

Cleo. His face was as the heavens ; and there¬ 
in stuck 

A sun and moon, which kept their course and 
lighted so 

The little 0 , the earth. 

Dol. Most sovereign creature, — 

Cleo. His legs bestrid the^ocean ; his rear’d 
arm 

Crested the world ; his voice was propertied 
As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends ; 
But when he meant to quail and shake the 
orb, sc 

He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty, 
There was no winter in’t; an autumn ’t was 
That grew the more by reaping. His delights 
Were dolphin-like, they show’d his back above 
The element they liv’d in. In his livery so 
Walk’d crowns and crownets ; realms and is¬ 
lands were 

As plates dropp’d from his pocket. 

Dol. Cleopatra 1 

Cleo. Think you there was or might be such 
a man 

As this I dream’d of ? 

Dol. Gentle madam, no. 

Cleo. You lie, up to the hearing of the gods ! sb 
B ut, if there be or ever were one such, 

It’s past the size of dreaming. Nature wants 
stuff 

To vie strange forms with fancy; yet, to 
imagine 

An Antony, were nature’s piece ’gainst fancy, 
Condemning shadows quite. 

Dol. Hear me, good madam. ioo 

Your loss is as yourself, great; and you bear it 
As answering to the weight. Would I might 
never 

O’ertake pursu’d success, but I do feel, 

By the rebound of yours, a grief that smites 
My very heart at root. 

Cleo. I thank you, sir. iob 

Know you what Caesar means to do with me ? 
Dol. I am loath to tell you what I would you 
knew. 

Cleo. Nay, pray you, sir, — 

Dol. Though he be honourable, — 

Cleo. He ’ll lead me, then, in triumph ? 

Dol. Madam, he will; I know’t. no 

[Flourish. 

Enter Caesar, Gallus, Proculeius, Majcenas, 
[Seleucus,] ana others of his train. 

All. Make way there! Caesar ! 

Coes. Which is the Queen of Egypt? 

Dol. It is the Emperor, madam. 

[Cleopatra kneels. 
Coes. Arise, you shall not kneel. 

I pray you, rise ; rise, Egypt. 

Cleo. Sir, the gods ns 

Will have it thus ; my master and my lord 
I must obey. 

Coes. Take to you no hard thoughts. 

The record of what injuries you did us, 
Though written in our flesh, we shall remember 
As things but done by chance. 

Cleo. Sole sir o’ the world. 






1094 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


v. ii. 


I cannot project mine own cause so well wi 
To make it clear ; but do confess I have 
Been laden with like frailties which before 
Have often sham’d our sex. 

Cces. Cleopatra, know 

We will extenuate rather than enforce. 125 
If you apply yourself to our intents, 

Which towards you are most gentle, you shall 
find 

A benefit in this change ; but if you seek 
To lay on me a cruelty, by taking 
Antony’s course, you shall bereave yourself 130 
Of my good purposes, and put your children 
To that destruction which I ’ll guard them 
from, 

If thereon you rely. I ’ll take my leave. 

Cleo. And may, through all the world ; ’t is 
yours; and we, 

iTour scutcheons and your signs of conquest, 
shall i 36 

Hang in what place you please. Here, my good 
lord. 

Cces. You shall advise me in all for Cleopa¬ 
tra. 

Cleo. This is the brief of money, plate, and 
jewels, 

I am possess’d of. ’T is exactly valued, 

Not petty things admitted. Where’s Seleu- 

cus ? 140 

Sel. Here, madam. 

Cleo. This is my treasurer ; let him speak, 
my lord, 

Upon his peril, that I have reserv’d 
To myself nothing. Speak the truth, Seleucus. 

Sel. Madam, 146 

I had rather seal my lips, than, to my peril, 
Speak that which is not. 

Cleo. What have I kept back ? 

Sel. Enough to purchase what you have 
made known. 

Cces. Nay, blush not, Cleopatra; I approve 
Your wisdom in the deed. 

Cleo. See, Caesar! O, behold, 

How pomp is followed! Mine will now be 
yours; mi 

And, should we shift estates, yours would be 
mine. 

Th’ ingratitude of this Seleucus does 
Even make me wild. 0 slave, of no more trust 
Than love that’s hir’d! What, goest thou 
back ? Thou shalt 155 

Go back, I warrant thee ; but I ’ll catch thine 
eyes, 

Though they had wings. Slave, soulless villain, 
dog! 

0 rarely base ! 

Cces. Good queen, let us entreat you. 

Cleo. 0 Caesar, what a wounding shame is 
this, 

That thou, vouchsafing here to visit me, 100 

Doing the honour of thy lordliness 
To one so meek, that mine own servant should 
Parcel the sum of my disgraces by 
Addition of his envy ! Say, good Caesar, 

That I some lady trifles have reserv’d, 105 
Immoment toys, things of such dignity 
As we greet modern friends withal; and say, 


Some nobler token I have kept apart 
For Livia and Octavia, to induce 
Their mediation ; must I be unfolded no 

With one that I have bred ? The gods! it 
smites me 

Beneath the fall I have. [To Seleucus .] Pri¬ 
thee, go hence; 

Or I shall show the cinders of my spirits 
Through the ashes of my chance. Wert thou a 
man, 

Thou wouldst have mercy on me. 

Cces. Forbear, Seleucus. 

[Exit Seleucus.] 
Cleo. Be it known, that we, the greatest, are 
misthought ns 

For things that others do ; and, when we fall, 
We answer others’ merits in our name, 

Are therefore to be pitied. 

Cces. Cleopatra, 

Not what you have reserv’d, nor what acknow¬ 
ledg’d, 180 

Put we i’ the roll of conquest. Still be ’t 
yours, 

Bestow it at your pleasure ; and believe, 

Caesar’s no merchant, to make prize with you 
Of things that merchants sold. Therefore be 
cheer’d, 

Make not your thoughts your prisons ; no, dear 
queen; 186 

For we intend so to dispose you as 
Yourself shall give us counsel. Feed, and sleep. 
Our care and pity is so much upon you, 

That we remain your friend ; and so, adieu. 189 
Cleo. My master, and my lord ! 

Cces. Not so. Adieu. 

[Flourish. Exeunt Ccesar and his train. 
Cleo. He words me, girls, he words me, that 
I should not 

Be noble to myself; but, hark thee, Charmian. 

[ Whispers Charmian .] 
Iras. Finish, good lady ; the bright day is 
done, 

And we are for the dark. 

Cleo. Hie thee again. 

I have spoke already, and it is provided ; iso 
Goput it to the haste. 

Char. Madam, I will. 


Re-enter Dolabella. 

I)ol. Where is the Queen ? 

CJ} ar - Behold, sir. [Exit.] 

rw°* at Dolabella! 

Dol. Madam, as thereto sworn by your com¬ 
mand. 

Which my love makes religion to obey, 

I tell you this: Caesar through Syria soo 

Intends his journey; and within three days 
You with your children will he send before. 
Make your best use of this. I have perform’d 
Your pleasure and my promise. 

Cleo. Dolabella, 

1 shall remain your debtor. 

D°l- I your servant. 205 

Adieu, good queen ; I must attend on Caesar. 

[Exit 

Cleo. Farewell, and thanks! Now, Iras! 
what think’st thou ? 




V. 11. 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


1095 


Thou, an Egyptian puppet, shall be shown 
In Rome, as well as I. Mechanic slaves 
With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, 
shall 210 

Uplift us to the view ; in their thick breaths, 
Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded, 

And forc’d to drink their vapour. 

Iras. The gods forbid ! 

Clto. Nay, ’t is most certain, Iras. Saucy 
lictors 

Will catch at us, like strumpets; and scald 
rhymers 21s 

Ballad us out o’ tune. The quick comedians 
Extemporally will stage us, and present 
Our Alexandrian revels ; Antony 
Shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see 
Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness 220 
I’ the posture of a whore. 

Iras. O the good gods ! 

Cleo. Nay, that’s certain. 

Iras. I ’ll never see ’t; for, I am sure, my 
nails 

Are stronger than mine eyes. 

Cleo. Why, that’s the way 

To fool their preparation, and to conquer 226 
Their most absurd intents. 


Re-enter Charmian. 

Now, Charmian! 

Show me, my women, like a queen. Go fetch 
My best attires ; I am again for Cydnus 
To meet Mark Antony. Sirrah Iras, go. 

Now, noble Charmian, we ’ll dispatch indeed ; 
And, when thou hast done this chare, I ’ll give 
thee leave 231 

To play till doomsday. Bring our crown and 

Wherefore’s this noise ? 

[Exit Iras.] A noise within. 


Enter a Guardsman. 

Guard. Here is a rural fellow 

That will not be deni’d your Highness’ pre¬ 
sence. 

He brings you figs. _ . _ . 236 

Cleo. Let him come in. [Exit Guardsman. 

What poor an instrument 
May do a noble deed ! He brings me liberty. 
My resolution’s plac’d, and I have nothing 
Of woman in me ; now from head to foot 
I am marble-constant; now the fleeting moon 
No planet is of mine. 

Re-enter Guardsman, with Clown [bringing in 
a basket ]. 

Guard. This is the man. *« 

Cleo. Avoid, and leave him. 

[Exit Guardsman. 

Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there, 
That kills and pains not ? , 2 “ 

Clown. Truly, I have him ; but I would not 
be the party that should desire you to touch 
him, for his biting is immortal; those that do 
die of it do seldom or never recover. 

Cleo. Remember’st thou any that have died 
on’t? , , 

Clown. Very many, men and women too. 1 


heard of one of them no longer than yesterday ; 
a very honest woman, but something given to 
lie, as a woman should not do, but in the way 
of honesty ; how she died of the biting of it, 
what pain she felt; truly, she makes a very 
good report o’ the worm. But he that will [20s 
believe all that they say, shall never be saved 
by half that they do. But this is most falliable, 
the worm’s an odd worm. 

Cleo. Get thee hence ; farewell. 200 

Clown. I wish you all joy of the worm. 

[Setting down his basket.] 

Cleo. Farewell. 

Clown. You must think this, look you, that 
the worm will do his kind. 

Cleo. Ay, ay ; farewell. 266 

Clown. Look you, the worm is not to be 
trusted but in the keeping of wise people ; for, 
indeed, there is no goodness in the worm. 

Cleo. Take thou no care ; it shall be heeded. 

Clown. Very good. Give it nothing, I pray 
you, for it is not worth the feeding. 271 

Cleo. Will it eat me ? 

Clown. You must not think I am so simple 
but I know the devil himself will not eat a wo¬ 
man. I know that a woman is a dish for the [275 
gods, if the devil dress her not. But, truly, 
these same whoreson devils do the gods great 
harm in their women ; for in every ten that 
they make, the devils mar five. 

Cleo. Well, get thee gone ; farewell. 220 

Clown. Yes, forsooth ; I wish you joy o’ the 
worm. [Exit. 


[Re-enter Iras with a robe, crown , etc.] 

Cleo. Give me my robe, put on my crown ; I 
have 

Immortal longings in me. Now no more 
The juice of Egypt’s grape shall moist this 
lip. 233 

Yare, yare, good Iras ; quick. Methinks I hear 
Antony call; I see him rouse himself 
To praise my noble act; I hear him mock 
The luck of Cflesar, which the gods give men 
To excuse their after wrath. Husband, I 
come! 290 

Now to that name my courage prove my title ! 

I am fire and air • my other elements 
I give to baser life. So ; have you done ? 

Come then, and take the last warmth of my 
lips. 

Farewell, kind Charmian; Iras, long farewell. 

[Kisses them. Iras falls and dies.] 
Have I the aspic in my lips ? Dost fall ? ««« 

If thou and nature can so gently part, 

The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, 
Which hurts, and is desir’d. Dost thou lie 
still ? 

If thus thou vanishest, thou tell’st the world 300 
It is not worth leave-taking. 

Char. Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain; that 
I may say 

The gods themselves do weep ! 

Cleo. This proves me base. 

If she first meet the curled Antony, 

He ’ll make demand of her, and spend that 
kiss 308 





1096 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 


v. ii. 


Which is my heaven to have. Come, thou mor¬ 
tal wretch, 

[To an asp , which she applies to her 
breast.] 

With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate 
Of life at once untie. Poor venomous fool, 

Be angry, and dispatch. O, couldst thou speak, 
That I might hear thee call great Caesar ass 310 
Unpolicied 1 

Char. O eastern star ! 

Cleo. Peace, peace! 

Dost thou not see my baby at my breast, 

That sucks the nurse asleep ? 

Char. O, break ! 0 , break ! 

Cleo. As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as 
gentle, — 

O Antony! —Nay, I will take thee too : sig 

[Applying another asp to her arm.] 
What should I stay— [Dies. 

Char. In this vile world ? So, fare thee well! 
Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies 
A lass unparallel’d. Downy windows, close ; 
And golden Phoebus never be beheld 320 

Of eyes again so royal! Your crown ’s awry ; 

I ’ll mend it, and then play — 

Enter the Guard, rushing in , 

1 . Guard. Where’s the Queen ? 

Char. Speak softly, wake her not. 

1 . Guard. Csesar hath sent — 

Char. Too slow a messenger. 

[Applies an asp.] 
0 , come apace, dispatch ! I partly feel thee. 325 

1 . Guard. Approach, ho ! All’s not well; 

Csesar’s beguil’d. 

2 . Guard. There’s Dolabella sent from Cse¬ 

sar ; call him. 

1 . Guard. What work is here ! Charmian, is 

this well done ? 

Char. It is well done, and fitting for a prin¬ 
cess 

Descended of so many royal kings. 330 

Ah, soldier! [Dies. 

Re-enter Dolabella. 

Dol. How goes it here ? 

2 . Guard. All dead. 

Dol. Csesar, thy thoughts 

Touch their effects in this ; thyself art coming 
To see perform’d the dreaded act which thou 
So sought’st to hinder. ssb 


Re-enter C^sar and all his train , marching. 

All. A way there, a way for Csesar ! 

Dol. 0 sir, you are too sure an augurer; 
That you did fear is done. 

Cces. Bravest at the last, 

She levell’d at our purposes, and, being royal. 
Took her own way. The manner of their 
deaths ? 340 

I do not see them bleed. 

Dol. Who was last with them ? 

1 . Guard. A simple countryman, that brought 
her figs. 

This was his basket. 

Cces. Poison’d, then. 

1 . Guard. 0 Csesar, 

This Charmian liv’d but now; she stood and 
spake. 

I found her trimming up the diadem 345 

On her dead mistress. Tremblingly she stood 
And on the sudden dropp’d. 

Coes. O noble weakness ! 

If they had swallow’d poison, ’t would appear 
By external swelling; but she looks like 
sleep, 

As she would catch another Antony sso 

In her strong toil of grace. 

Dol. Here, on her breast, 

There is a vent of blood and something blown. 
The like is on her arm. 

1 . Guard. This is an aspic’s trail; and these 
fig-leaves 

Have slime upon them, such as the aspic 
leaves 355 

Upon the caves of Nile. 

Cces. Most probable 

That so she died ; for her physician tells me 
She hath pursu’d conclusions infinite 
Of easy ways to die. Take up her bed ; 

And bear her women from the monument, seo 
She shall be buried by her Antony ; 

No grave upon the earth shall clip in it 
A pair so famous. High events as these 
Strike those that make them ; and their story 
is 

No less in pity than his glory which scs 

Brought them to be lamented. Our army shall 
In solemn show attend this funeral; 

And then to Rome. Come, Dolabella, see 
High order in this great solemnity. 

[Exeunt omnes. 






THE TRAGEDY OF CORIOLANUS 


External evidence on the date of Coriolanus is exceptionally scanty. It was first printed in 
the Folio of 1623 , and there is no earlier reference to it unless we interpret the line, “ You have 
lurched your friends of the better half of the garland,” in Ben Jonson’s The Silent Woman 
( 1609 ), as a gibing allusion to “He lurch’d all swords of the garland,” in n. ii. 105 . But the 
, phrase may have been a current one. Internal evidences of metre and style point decisively to 
its being a late play, and scholars are generally agreed on a date near 1609 . The text of the 
First Folio, which is our sole authority, is badly printed, and in several places almost quite un¬ 
intelligible. 

The source of the plot is Plutarch’s Life of Coriolanus , which Shakespeare knew in Sir Thomas 
North’s translation. As in the case of Julius Caesar and Antony and Chopatra, which are also 
based on Plutarch, he followed his authority closely. Whole passages of some of the most not¬ 
able speeches, such as the fable related by Menenius (i. i. 99 ), and the appeal of Volumnia to 
her son on behalf of Rome (y. iii. 94 ff.), are couched almost in the words of the biography. The 
main lines of the characters are also followed faithfully, though many of the more subtle points 
are due to Shakespeare. For example, the episode in which Coriolanus begs of Cominius the 
freedom of his Yolscian host is in Plutarch, but the finely characteristic touch by which he 
is represented as having forgotten the man’s name is Shakespeare’s. The portrait of Menenius is 
greatly elaborated in the play. Plutarch assigns to him merely the part of a dignified patrician 
who makes a single attempt to pacify the rebellious plebeians; Shakespeare conceives him as a 
genial and self-important old gentleman, who takes pride in his intimacy with the hero, and 
who in his various conversations with the tribunes is responsible for most of the humor which 
partially relieves the prevailing sombreness of the tragedy. The dialogues of the citizens and 
such scenes as those with the servants of Aufidius are wholly invented; while as a basis for the 
actual language in which Caius Martius expresses his haughty and contemptuous nature, the 
dramatist had merely Plutarch’s statements that he was rough and insolent in conversation and 
undisciplined in temper. In the biography, it is Valeria who induces the wife and mother of 
Coriolanus to go to plead with him, and her share in the action is treated with considerable full¬ 
ness. This is represented in the play merely by her presence in the deputation; but Shake¬ 
speare added from his own invention the admirable scene (i. iii.) where she calls on Volumnia 
and Virgilia, and finds them at their sewing. Virgilia is little more than a name in the source, 
and the skill with which in the play she is drawn in some half-dozen lines is all Shakespeare’s. 

The truth of the political situation in which the action takes place, Shakespeare either did 
not understand or did not care to state. The dignified secession of the plebs he misrepresented 
as the tumult of a hungry mob shouting for cheap corn ; and in this play, as elsewhere, his pic¬ 
ture of the common crowd is drawn in that spirit of contemptuous amusement which characterized 
the attitude of the Elizabethan aristocrat towards the working classes. This lack of historical ac¬ 
curacy is found to a considerable extent in Plutarch, but Shakespeare deliberately manipulated 
his material in the spirit indicated. All the more noteworthy, therefore, is the success with 
which he catches the antique Roman spirit of such patricians as Volumnia, and the impartiality 
with which he exhibits the intolerable arrogance of the hero driving him on to destruction. 
Nowhere does Shakespeare rise more triumphantly above what we may suppose to have been his 
own personal prejudices, to show the workings of the permanent laws that govern the relations 
of men in society. 


THE TRAGEDY OF CORIOLANUS 


[DRAMATIS PERSONAE 


Caius Marcius, afterwards Caius Marcius Coriolanus. 

CoMINIUs aTIUS, 1 8 enera ^ s a g a i Qst the Volscians. 
Menenius Agripfa, friend to Coriolanus. 

! tribu “ e * of the people - 
Young Marcius, son to Coriolanus. 

A Roman Herald. 

Tullus Aufidius, general of the Volscians. 


Lieutenant to Aufidius. 

Conspirators with Aufidius. 

A Citizen of Antium. 

Two Volscian Guards. 

Volumnia, mother to Coriolanus. 
Virgilia, wife to Coriolanus. 
Valeria, friend to Virgilia. 
Gentlewoman, attending on Virgilia. 


Roman and Volscian Senators, Patricians, iEdiles, Lictors, Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, Servants to Aufidius, 

and other Attendants. 


Scene : Rome and the neighbourhood ; Corioli and the neighbourhood ; Antium .] 


ACT I 

Scene I. [.Rome. A street.\ 

Enter a company of mutinous Citizens, with 
staves , clubs, and other weapons. 

1. Cit. Before we proceed any further, hear 
me speak. 

All. Speak, speak. 

1 . Cit. You are all resolv’d rather to die than 
to famish ? « 

All. Resolv’d, resolv’d. 

1. Cit. First, you know Caius Marcius is chief 
enemy to the people. 

All. We know ’t, we know ’t. # 

1. Cit. Let us kill him, and we ’ll have corn 
at our own price. Is’t a verdict ? 

All. No more talking on’t; let it be done. 
Away, away! 

2. Cit. One word, good citizens. i* 

1. Cit. We are accounted poor citizens, the 

patricians good. What authority surfeits on 
would relieve us; if they would yield us but 
the superfluity while it were wholesome, we 
might guess they relieved us humanely; but 
they think we are too dear. The leanness that 
afflicts us, the object of our misery, is as an [20 
inventory to particularize their abundance ; our 
sufferance is a gain to them. Let us revenge 
this with our pikes, ere we become rakes ; for 
the gods know I speak this in hunger for bread, 
not in thirst for revenge. 20 

2. Cit. Would you proceed especially against 
Caius Marcius ? 

All. Against him first; he’s a very dog to 
the commonalty. 29 

2. Cit. Consider you what services he has 
done for his country ? 

1. Cit. Very well; and could be content to 
give him good report for ’t, but that he pays 
himself with being proud. 

[2. Cit.] Nay, but speak not maliciously. 35 

1. Cit. I say unto j T ou, what he hath done 


famously, he did it to that end. Though soft- 
conscienc’d men can be content to say it was for 
his country, he did it to please his mother, and 
to be partly proud ; which he is, even to the al¬ 
titude of his virtue. # 41 

2. Cit. What he cannot help in his nature, 
you account a vice in him. You must in no way 
say he is covetous. 44 

1. Cit. If I must not, I need not be barren of 
accusations; he hath faults, with surplus, to 
tire in repetition. (Shouts within.) What shouts 
are these ? The other side o’ the city is risen; 
why stay we prating here ? To the Capitol I 

All. Come, come. 60 

1. Cit. Soft! who comes here? 

Enter Menenius Agrippa. 

2. Cit. Worthy Menenius Agrippa, one that 
hath always lov’d the people. 

1. Cit. He’s one honest enough ; would all 

the rest were so! se 

Men. What work’s, my countrymen, in 
hand ? Where go you 

With bats and clubs ? The matter ? Speak, I 
pray you. 

2. Cit. Our business is not unknown to the 

Senate. They have had inkling this fortnight 
what we intend to do, which now we ’ll show 
’em in deeds. They say poor suitors have strong 
breaths ; they shall know we have strong arms 
too. 6* 

Men. Why, masters, my good friends, mine 
honest neighbours, 

Will you undo yourselves ? 

2. Cit. We cannot, sir, we are undone already. 

Men. I tell you, friqpds, most charitable care 
Have the patricians 01 you. For your wants, 
Your suffering in this dearth, you may as well 
Strike at the heaven with your staves as lift 
them 7« 

Against the Roman state, whose course will on 
The way it takes, cracking ten thousand 
curbs 




CORIOLANUS 


1099 


1. i. 


Of more strong link asunder than can ever 
Appear in your impediment. For the dearth, 
The gods, not the patricians, make it, and 75 
Your knees to them, not arms, must help. 
Alack, 

You are transported by calamity 
Thither -where more attends you, and you 
slander 

The helms o’ the state, who care for you like 
fathers 

When you curse them as enemies. so 

2. Cit. Care for us! True, indeed! They 
ne’er car’d for us yet: suffer us to famish, and 
their store-houses cramm’d with grain ; make 
edicts for usury, to support usurers ; repeal 
daily any wholesome act established against the 
rich, and provide more piercing statutes [so 
daily, to chain up and restrain the poor. If the 
wars eat us not up, they will; and there’s all 
the love they bear us. 

Men. Either you must 90 

Confess yourselves wondrous malicious, 

Or be accus’d of folly. I shall tell you 
A pretty tale. It may be you have heard it; 
But, since it serves my purpose, I will ven¬ 
ture 

To stale’t a little more. 95 

2. Cit. Well, I ’ll hear it, sir; yet you must 
not think to fob off our disgrace with a tale ; 
but, an’t please you, deliver. 

Men. There was a time when all the body’s 
members 

Rebell’d against the belly, thus accus’d it: 100 

That only like a gulf it did remain 
I’ the midst o’ the body, idle and unactive, 
Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing 
Like labour with the rest, where the other in¬ 
struments 

Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel, 
And, mutually participate, did minister ioe 

Unto the appetite and affection common 
Of the whole body. The belly answer’d — 

2. Cit. Well, sir, what answer made the 

belly ? 110 

Men. Sir, I shall tell you. With a kind of 
smile, 

Which ne’er came from the lungs, but even 
thus — 

For, look you, I may make the belly smile 
As well as speak — it tauntingly replied 
To the discontented members, the mutinous 
parts 118 

That envied his receipt; even so most fitly 
As you malign our senators for that 
They are not such as you. 

2. Cit. Your belly’s answer ? What! 

The kingly-crowned head, the vigilant eye, 

The counsellor heart, the arm our soldier, 120 
Our steed the leg, the tongue our trumpeter, 
With other muniments and petty helps 
In this our fabric, if that they — 

Men. What then ? 

’Fore me, this fellow speaks! What then? 
what then ? 

2. Cit. Should by the cormorant belly be re¬ 
strain’d, 1,8 

Who is the sink o’ the body, — 


Men. Well, what then ? 

2. Cit. The former agents, if they did com¬ 
plain, 

What could the belly answer? 

Men. I will tell you. 

If you ’ll bestow a small — of what you have 
little — J29 

Patience a while, you ’st hear the belly’s answer. 
2. Cit. Ye ’re long about it. 

Men. Note me this, good friend ; 

Your most grave belly was deliberate, 

Not rash like his accusers, and thus answered : 
“ True is it, my incorporate friends,” quoth he, 
“ That I receive the general food at first iss 
Which you do live upon ; and fit it is, 

Because I am the store-house and the shop 
Of the whole body. But, if you do remember, 

I send it through the rivers of your blood, 

Even to the court, the heart, to the seat o’ the 
brain; m* 

And, through the cranks and offices of man, 
The strongest nerves and small inferior veins 
From me receive that natural competency 
Whereby they live. And though that all at 
once, 

You, my good friends,” — this says the belly, 
mark me, — 

2. Cit. Ay, sir ; well, well. 

Men. “ Though all at once cannot 

See what I do deliver out to each, 

Yet I can make my audit up, that all 
From me do back receive the flour of all, 

And leave me but the bran.” What say you 
to ’t ? 160 

2. Cit. It was an answer. How apply you 
this ? 

Men. The senators of Rome are this good 
belly, 

And you the mutinous members ; for examine 
Their counsels and their cares, digest things 
rightly 

Touching the weal o’ the common, you shall 
find . 166 

No public benefit which you receive 
But it proceeds or comes from them to you 
And no way from yourselves. What do you 
think, 

You, the great toe of this assembly? 

2. Cit. I the great toe! Why the great 
toe ? wo 

Men. For that, being one o’ the lowest, bas¬ 
est, poorest, 

Of this most wise rebellion, thou goest fore¬ 
most ; 

Thou rascal, that art worst in blood to run, 
Lead’st first to win some vantage. 

But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs ; 
Rome and her rats are at the point of battle, iss 
The one side must have bale. 

Enter Caius Marcius. 

Hail, noble Marcius ! 
Mar. Thanks. What’s the matter, you dis- 
sentious rogues, 

That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, i «9 
Make yourselves scabs ? 

2. Cit. We have ever your good word. 





IIOO 


CORIOLANUS 


Mar. He that will give good words to thee 
will flatter 

Beneath abhorring. What would you have, 
you curs, 

That like nor peace nor war ? The one af¬ 
frights you, 

The other makes you proud. He that trusts to 
you, 

Where he should find you lions, finds you 

hares; ire 

Where foxes, geese. You are no surer, no, 
Than is the coal of fire upon the ice, 

Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is 
To make him worthy whose offence subdues 
him, 

And curse that justice did it. Who deserves 

greatness _ iso 

Deserves your hate ; and your affections are 
A sick man’s appetite, who desires most that 
Which would increase his evil. He that de¬ 
pends 

Upon your favours swims with fins of lead 
And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye ! 

Trust ye ? . iso 

With every minute you do change a mind, 

And call him noble that was now your hate, 
Him vile that was your garland. What’s the 
matter, 

That in these several places of the city 
You cry against the noble Senate, who, 190 
Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else 
Would feed on one another? What’s their 
seeking ? 

Men. For corn at their own rates ; whereof, 
they say, 

The city is well stor’d. 

Mar. Hang ’em! They say ! 

They ’ll sit by the fire, and presume to know 195 
What’s done i’ the Capitol; who’s like to rise, 
Who thrives, and who declines ; side factions, 
and give out 

Conjectural marriages ; making parties strong, 
And feebling such as stand not in their liking 
Below their cobbled shoes. They say there’s 
grain enough ! 200 

Would the nobility lay aside their ruth 
And let me use my sword, I’d make a quarry 
With thousands of these quarter’d slaves, as 
high 

As I could pick my lance. 

Men. Nay, these are almost thoroughly per¬ 
suaded ; 205 

For though abundantly they lack discretion, 
Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech 
you, 

What says the other troop ? 

Mar. They are dissolv’d, hang ’em ! 

They said they were an-hungry; sigh’d forth 
proverbs, 

That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must 
eat, 210 

That meat was made for mouths, that the gods 
sent not 

Corn for the rich men only. With these shreds 
They vented their complainings ; which being 
answer’d, 

And a petition granted them, — a strange one 


I. L 


To break the heart of generosity, 21s 

And make bold power look pale, — they threw 
their caps 

As they would hang them on the horns o’ the 
moon, 

Shouting their emulation. 

Men. What is granted them ? 

Mar. Five tribunes to defend their vulgar 
wisdoms. 

Of their own choice. One’s Junius Brutus, 220 
Sicinius Velutus, and I know not — ’Sdeath ! 
The rabble should have first unroof’d the city, 
Ere so prevail’d with me. It will in time 
Win upon power and throw forth greater themes 
For insurrection’s arguing. 

Men. This is strange. 226 

Mar. Go, get you home, you fragments ! 

Enter a Messenger, hastily. 

Mess. Where’s Caius Marcius ? 

Mar. Here. What’s the matter ? 

Mess. The news is, sir, the Volsces are in 
arms. 

Mar. I am glad on ’t. Then we shall ha’ 
means to vent 

Our musty superfluity. See, our best elders. 230 

Enter Cominius, Titus Lartius, and other 
Senators ; Junius Brutus and Sicinius 
Velutus. 

1 . Sen. Marcius, ’t is true that you have 
lately told us; 

The Volsces are in arms. 

Mar. They have a leader, 

Tullus Aufidius, that will put you to’t. 

I sin in envying his nobility, 

And were I anything but what I am, 235 

I would wish me only he. 

Com. You have fought together ? 

Mar. Were half to half the world by the 
ears and he 

Upon my party, I’d revolt, to make 
Only my wars with him. He is a lion 
That I am proud to hunt. 

1 . Sen. Then, worthy Marcius, 

Attend upon Cominius to these wars. 241 

Com. It is your former promise. 

Mar. Sir, it is ; 

And I am constant. Titus Lartius, thou 
Shalt see me once more strike at Tullus’ face. 
What, art thou stiff ? Stand’st out ? 

Lart. No, Caius Marcius ; 

I ’ll lean upon one crutch and fight with 
t’ other, 246 

Ere stay behind this business. 

Men. ^ 0 , true-bred! 

[ 7 .] Sen. Your company to the Capitol; 
where, I know, 

Our greatest friends attend us. 

Lart. [To Com.] Lead you on. 

[To Mar.] Follow Cominius ; we must follow 
you; 250 

Right worthy you priority. 

Com. Noble Marcius! 

[■?•] Sen. [To the Citizens.] Hence to your 
homes; begone! 

Mar. Nay, let them follow. 




CORIOLANUS 


IIOI 


I. iii. 


The Volsces have much corn ; take these rats 
thither 

To gnaw their garners. Worshipful mutiners, 
Your valour puts well forth ; pray, follow. 255 
[Citizens steal away. Exeunt all but 
Sicinius and Brutus. 

Sic. Was ever man so proud as is this Mar- 
cius ? 

Bru. He has no equal. 

Sic. When we were chosen tribunes for the 
people, — 

Bru. Mark’d you his lip and eyes ? 

Sic. Nay, but his taunts. 

Bru. Being mov’d, he will not spare to gird 
the gods. 260 

Sic. Be-mock the modest moon. 

Bru. The present wars devour him ! He is 
grown 

Too proud to be so valiant. 

Sic. Such a nature, 

Tickled with good success, disdains the shadow 
Which he treads on at noon. But I do wonder 
His insolence can brook to be commanded 260 
Under Cominius. 

Bru. Fame, at the which he aims, 

In whom already he’s well grac’d, cannot 
Better be held nor more attain’d than by 
A place below the first; for what miscarries 270 
Shall be the general’s fault, though he perform 
To the utmost of a man, and giddy censure 
Will then cry out of Marcius, “ 0 , if he 
Had borne the business ! ” 

Sic. Besides, if things go well, 

Opinion that so stickg on Marcius shall 27e 

Of his demerits rob Cominius. 

Bru. Come. 

Half all Cominius’ honours are to Marcius, 
Though Marcius earn’d them not, and all [his 
faults 

To Marcius shall be honours, though indeed 279 
In aught he merit not. 

Sic. Let’s hence, and hear 

How the dispatch is made, and in what fashion, 
More than his singularity, he goes 
Upon this present action. 

Bru. Let’s along. [Exeunt. 

[Scene II. Corioli. The Senate-house .] 

Enter Tullus Aufiditts ivith Senators cf 
Corioli. 

1 . Sen. So, your opinion is, Aufidius, 

That they of Rome are ent’red in our counsels 
And know how we proceed. 

Auf. Is it not yours ? 

What ever have been thought on in this state, 
That could be brought to bodily act ere Rome e 
Had circumvention ? ’T is not four days gone 
Since I heard thence ; these are the words: — I 
think 

I have the letter here ; yes, here it is : — 
[Reads.] “ They have press’d a power, but it is 
not known 

Whether for east or west. The dearth is great; 
The people mutinous ; and it is rumour’d, 11 
Cominius, Marcius your old enemy, 

Who is of Rome worse hated than of you, 


And Titus Lartius, a most valiant Roman, 
These three lead on this preparation is 

Whither ’t is bent. Most likely ’t is for you ; 
Consider of it.” 

1 . Sen. Our army’s in the field. 

We never yet made doubt but Rome was ready 
To answer us. 

Auf. Nor did you think it folly 

To keep your great pretences veil’d till when 20 
They needs must show themselves; which in 
the hatching, 

It seem’d, appear’d to-Rome. By the discovery 
We shall be short’ned in our aim, which was 
To take in many towns ere almost Rome 
Should know we were afoot. 

2 . Sen. Noble Aufidius, 26 

Take your commisson ; hie you to your bands ; 
Let us alone to guard Corioli. 

If they set down before’s, for the remove 
Bring up your army ; but, I think, you ’ll find 
They ’ve not prepar’d for us. 

Auf. O, doubt not that; 

I speak from certainties. Nay, more, si 

Some parcels of their power are forth already, 
And only hitherward. I leave your honours. 

If we and Caius Marcius chance to meet, 

’T is sworn between us we shall ever strike 36 
Till one can do no more. 

All. The gods assist you ! 

Auf And keep your honours safe ! 

1 . Sen. Farewell. 

2 . Sen. Farewell. 

All. Farewell. [Exeunt. 

[Scene III. Rome. A room in Marcius ’ house.] 

Enter Volumnia and Virgilia : they set them 
down on two low stools , and sew. 

Vol. I pray you, daughter, sing; or express 
yourself in a more comfortable sort. If my son 
were my husband, I should freelier rejoice in 
that absence wherein he won honour than in 
the embracements of his bed where he would 
show most love. When yet he was but ten- [e 
der-bodied and the only son of my womb, when 
youth with comeliness pluck’d all gaze his way, 
when for a day of kings’ entreaties a mother 
should not sell him an hour from her beholding, 
I, considering how honour would become [10 
such a person, that it was no better than pic¬ 
ture-like to hang by the wall, if renown made 
it not stir, was pleas’d to let him seek danger 
where he was like to find fame. To a cruel 
warlsenthim ; from whence he return’d, his [n> 
brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, 
I sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was 
a man-child than now in first seeing he had 
proved himself a man. 19 

Vir. But had he died in the business, 
madam ; how then ? 

Vol. Then his good report should have been 
my son; I therein would have found issue. 
Hear me profess sincerely : had I a dozen sons, 
each in my love alike and none less dear than 
thine and my good Marcius, I had rather had [26 
eleven die nobly for their country than one 
voluptuously surfeit out of action. 






1102 


C0RI0LANUS 


I. IT. 


Enter a Gentlewoman. 

Gent. Madam, the Lady Valeria is come to 
visit you. 

Vir. Beseech you, give me leave to retire 
myself. 30 

Vol. Indeed, you shall not. 

Methinks I hear hither your husband’s drum, 
See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair, 

As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning 
him. 

Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus : 35 
“ Come on, you cowards ! you were got in fear, 
Though you were born in Rome.” His bloody 
brow 

With his mail’d hand then wiping, forth he 
goes, 

Like to a harvest-man that’s task’d to mow 
Or all or lose his hire. 40 

Vir. His bloody brow ! 0 Jupiter, no blood ! 

Vol. Away, you fool! it more becomes a 
man 

Than gilt his trophy. The breasts of Hecuba, 
When she did suckle Hector, look’d not love¬ 
lier 

Than Hector’s forehead when it spit forth 
blood 45 

At Grecian sword, contemning. Tell Valeria, 
We are fit to bid her welcome. [Exit Gent. 

Fir. Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufid¬ 
ius ! 

Vol. He ’ll beat Aufidius’ head below his 
knee 

And tread upon his neck. eo 

Enter Valeria, with an Usher and Gentle¬ 
woman. 


Val. Not out of doors ! 

Vol. She shall, she shall. »• 

Vir. Indeed, no, by your patience ; I ’ll not 
over the threshold till my lord return from the 
wars. 

Val. Fie, you confine yourself most un¬ 
reasonably. Come, you must go visit the good 
lady that lies in. 

Vir. I will wish her speedy strength, and 
visit her with my prayers; but I cannot go 
thither. 

Vol. Why, I pray you ? 

Vir. ’T is not to save labour, nor that I want 
love. 01 

Val. You would be another Penelope: yet, 
they say, all the yarn she spun in Ulysses’ 
absence did but fill Ithaca full of moths. 
Come; I would your cambric were sensible as 
your finger, that you might leave pricking it 
for pity. Come, you shall go with us. 97 

Vir. No, good madam, pardon me ; indeed, 
I will not forth. 

Val. In truth, la, go with me ; and I ’ll tell 
you excellent news of your husband. 101 

Vir. O, good madam, there can be none yet. 

Val. Verily, I do not jest with you; there 
came news from him last night. 

Vir. Indeed, madam ? 105 

Val. In earnest, it’s true ; I heard a senator 
speak it. Thus it is: the Volsces have an army 
forth; against whom Cominius the general is 
gone, with one part of our Roman power. 
Your lord and Titus Lartius are set down be¬ 
fore their city Corioli; they nothing doubt [no 
prevailing and to make it brief wars. This is 
true, on mine honour; and so, I pray, go with 
us. 


Val. My ladies both, good day to you. 

Vol. Sweet madam. 

Vir. I am glad to see your ladyship. 

Val. How do you both ? You are manifest 
house-keepers. What are you sewing here ? A 
fine spot, in good faith. How does your little 
son ? 67 

Vir. I thank your ladyship; well, good 
madam. 

Vol. He had rather see the swords and hear 
a drum than look upon his schoolmaster. ei 
Val. 0 ’ my word, the father’s son. I ’ll 
swear, ’t is a very pretty boy. O’ my troth, 
I look’d upon him o’ Wednesday half an hour 
together ; has such a confirm’d countenance. 
I saw him run after a gilded butterfly ; and [es 
when he caught it, he let it go again ; and 
after it again ; and over and over he comes, 
and up again; catch’d it again ; or whether 
his fall enrag’d him, or how’t was, he did so 
set his teeth and tear it. O, I warrant, how he 
mammock’d it! 71 

Vol. One on’s father’s moods. 

Val. Indeed, la, ’t is a noble child. 

Vir. A crack, madam. 74 

Val. Come, lay aside your stitchery; I must 
have you play the idle housewife with me this 
afternoon. 

Vir. No, good madam ; I will not out of 
doors. 


Vir. Give me excuse, good madam; I will 
obey you in everything hereafter. 115 

Vol. Let her alone, lady. As she is now, she 
will but disease our better mirth. 

Val. In troth, I think she would. Fare you 
well, then. Come, good sweet lady. Prithee, 
Virgilia, turn thy solemness out o’ door, and go 
alonj* with us. 121 

Vir. No, at a word, madam ; indeed, I must 
not. I wish you much mirth. 

Val. Well, then, farewell. [Exeunt. 


[Scene IV.] Before Corioli. 

Enter , with drum and colours , Marcius, Titus 
Lartius, Captains and Soldiers. To them a 
Messenger. 


Mar. Yonder comes news. A wager they 
have met. 

Lart. My horse to yours, no. 

Mar. ’T is done. 

'art. Agreed. 

Mar. Say, has our general met the enemy ? 

Mess. They lie in view ; but have not spoke 
as yet. 

Lart. So, the good horse is mine. 

Mar. I ’ll buy him of you. 

Lart. No, I ’ll nor sell nor give him; lend 
you him I will <j 

For half a hundred years. Summon the town. 





I. V. 


CORIOLANUS 


1103 


Mar. How far off lie these armies ? 

Mess. Within this mile and half. 

Mar. Then shall we hear their ’larum, and 
they ours. 

Now, Mars, 1 prithee, make us quick in work, 
That we with smoking swords may march from 
hence n 

To help our fielded friends! Come, blow thy 
blast. 


They sound a parley. Enter two Senators with 
others on the walls. 


Tullus Aufidius, is he within your walls? 

1 . Sen. No, nor a man that fears you less 
than he, 

That ’s lesser than a little. [Drum afar off'.] 
Hark ! our drums 15 

Are bringing forth our youth. We ’ll break 
our walls, 

Rather than they shall pound us up. Our 
gates, 

Which yet seem shut, we have but pinn’d with 
rushes; 

They ’ll open of themselves. [Alarum afar qff.} 
Hark you, far off ! 

There is Aufidius ; list, what work he makes 20 

Amongst your cloven army. 

Mar. O, they are at it! 

Lart. Their noise be our instruction. Lad¬ 
ders, ho! 


Enter the army of the Volsces. 

Mar. They fear us not, but issue forth their 
city. 

Now put your shields before your hearts, and 
fight 

With hearts more proof than shields. Advance, 
brave Titus! 26 

They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts, 

Which makes me sweat with wrath. Come on, 
my fellows ! 

He that retires, 1 ’ll take him for a Volsce, 

And he shall feel mine edge. [Exit.] 

Alarum. The Romans are heat back to their 
trenches. Re-enter Marcius, cursing. 


Another alarum. [The Volsces fly,} and Mar¬ 
cius follows them to the gates. 

So, now the gates are ope ; now prove good 
seconds. 

’T is for the followers fortune widens them, 
Not for the fliers. Mark me, and do the like. « 

[Enters the gates. 

1 . Sol. Fool-hardiness ; not I. 

2 . Sol. Nor I. 

[Marcius is shut in. 
1 . Sol. See, they have shut him in. 

[Alarum continues. 
All. To the pot, I warrant him. 

Re-enter Titus Lartius. 

Lart. What is become of Marcius ? 

All. Slain, sir, doubtless. 

1 . Sol. Following the fliers at the very heels, 
With them he enters ; who, upon the sudden, bo 
Clapp’d to their gates. He is himself alone, 

To answer all the city. 

Lart. 0 noble fellow ! 

Who sensibly outdares his senseless sword, 
And, when it bows, stands up. Thou art left, 
Marcius; 

A carbuncle entire, as big as thou art, bb 

Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a sol¬ 
dier 

Even to Cato’s wish, not fierce and terrible 
Only in strokes ; but, with thy grim looks and 
The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds, 
Thou mad’st thine enemies shake, as if the 
world 00 

Were feverous and did tremble. 

Re-enter Marcius, bleeding , assaulted by the 
enemy. 

1 . Sol. Look, sir. 

Lart. 0 , ’t is Marcius! 

Let’s fetch him off, or make remain alike. 

[They.fight, and all enter the city. 

[Scene V. Corioli. A street.} 

Enter certain Romans, with spoils. 


Mar. All the contagion of the south light on 
you, # 30 

You shames of Rome ! you herd of — Boils and 
plagues 

Plaster you o’er, that you may be abhorr’d 
Further than seen, and one infect another 
Against the wind a mile ! You souls of geese, 
That bear the shapes of men, how have you 

From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and 
hell! , 

All hurt behind ! Backs red, and faces pale 
With flight and agued fear! Mend and charge 
home, , 

Or, by the fires of heaven, I ’ll leave the 
foe 

And make my wars on you. Look to t; come 
on! . 40 

If you ’ll stand fast, we ’ll beat them to their 

As they us to our trenches followed. 


1 . Rom. This will I carry to Rome. 

2 . Rom. And I this. 

3 . Rom. A murrain on ’t! I took this for 
silver. [Exeunt. Alarum continues still 

afar off. 

Enter Marcius and Titus Lartius with a 
Trumpet. 

Mar. See here these movers that do prize 
their hours b 

At a crack’d drachma! Cushions, leaden spoons, 
Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would 
Bury with those that wore them, these base 
slaves, 

Ere yet the fight be done, pack up. Down with 
them! 

And hark, what noise the general makes! To 
him! 10 

There is the man of my soul’s hate, Aufidius, 
Piercing our Romans ; then, valiant Titus, take 
Convenient numbers to make good the city; 








1104 


C0RI0LANUS 


I. VI. 


Whilst I, with those that have the spirit, will 
haste 

To help Cominius. 

Lart. Worthy sir, thou bleed’st. is 

Thy exercise hath been too violent for 
A second course of fight. 

Mar. Sir, praise me not, 

My work hath yet not warm’d me ; fare you 
well. 

The blood I drop is rather physical 

Than dangerous to me. To Aufidius thus 20 

I will appear, and fight. 

Lart. Now the fair goddess, Fortune, 

Fall deep in love with thee ; and her great 
charms 

Misguide thy opposers’ swords! Bold gentle¬ 
man, 

Prosperity be thy page ! 

Mar. Thy friend no less 

Than those she placeth highest! So, farewell. 25 
Lart. Thou worthiest Marcius ! 

[Exit Marcius .] 

Go, sound thy trumpet in the market-place ; 
Call thither all the officers o’ the town, 

Where they shall know our mind. Away ! 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene VI. Near the camp of Cominius .] 

Enter Cominius, as it were in retire , with sol¬ 
diers. 

Com. Breathe you, my friends ; well fought. 
W e are come off 

Like Romans, neither foolish in our stands, 
Nor cowardly in retire. Believe me, sirs, 

We shall be charg’d again. Whiles we have 
struck, 

By interims and conveying gusts we have 
heard 5 

The charges of our friends. Ye Roman gods ! 
Lead their successes as we wish our own, 

That both our powers, with smiling fronts en- 
count’ring, 

May give you thankful sacrifice. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Thy news ? 

Mess. The citizens of Corioli have issued 10 
And given to Lartius and to Marcius battle. 

I saw our party to their trenches driven, 

And then I came away. 

Com. Though thou speak’st truth, 

Methinks thou speak’st not well. How long 
is ’t since ? 

Mess. Above an hour, my lord. 15 

Com. ’T is not a mile ; briefly we heard 
their drums. 

How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour, 
And bring thy news so late ? 

Mess. Spies of the Volsces 

Held me in chase, that I was forc’d to wheel 
Three or four miles about, else had I, sir, 20 
Half an hour since brought my report. 

Enter Marcius. 

Com. Who’s yonder, 

That does appear as he were flay’d ? 0 gods ! 


He has the stamp of Marcius ; and I have 
Before-time seen him thus. 

Mar. Come I too late ? 

Com. The shepherd knows not thunder from 
a tabor 26 

More than I know the sound of Marcius’ tongue 
From every meaner man. 

Mar. Come I too late ? 

Com. Ay, if you come not in the blood of 
others, 

But mantled in your own. 

Mar. O, let me clip ye 

In arms as sound as when I woo’d, in heart so 
As merry as when our nuptial day was done, 
And tapers burn’d to bedward ! 

Com. Flower of warriors, 

How is’t with Titus Lartius ? 

Mar. As with a man busied about decrees : 
Condemning some to death, and some to exile ; 
Ransoming him, or pitying, threat’ning the 
other; 36 

Holding Corioli in the name of Rome, 

Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash, 

To let him slip at will. 

Com. Where is that slave 

Which told me they had beat you to your 
trenches ? 40 

Where is he ? Call him hither. 

Mar. Let him alone ; 

He did inform the truth. But for our gentle¬ 
men, — 

The common file — a plague! tribunes for 

them! — 

The mouse ne’er shunn’d the cat as they did 
budge 

From rascals worse than they. 

Com. But how prevail’d you ? 

Mar. Will the time serve to tell ? I do not 
think. 48 

Where is the enemy? Are you lords o’ tli’ 

field? 

If not, why cease you till you are so ? 

Com. Marcius, 

We have at disadvantage fought, and did 
Retire to win our purpose. so 

Mar. How lies their battle ? Know you on 
which side 

They have plac’d their men of trust ? 

Com. As I guess, Marcius, 

•Their bands i’ the vaward are the Antiates, 

Of their best trust; o’er them Aufidius, 

Their very heart of hope. 

Mar. I do beseech you, m* 

By all the battles wherein we have fought, 

By the blood we have shed together, by the 
vows 

We have made to endure friends, that you di¬ 
rectly 

Set me against Aufidius and his Antiates ; 

And that you not delay the present, but, 60 
Filling the air with swords advanc’d and darts, 
We prove this very hour. 

Com. Though I could wish 

You were conducted to a gentle bath 
And balms applied to you, yet dare I never 
Deny your asking. Take your choice of those es 
That best can aid your action. 






I. IX. 


CORIOLANUS 


Mar. Those are they 

That most are willing. If any such be here — 
As it were sin to doubt — that love this painting 
Wherein you see me smear’d ; if any fear 
Lesser his person than an ill report; 70 

If any think brave death outweighs bad life, 
And that his country’s dearer than himself ; 
Let him alone, or so many so minded, 

Wave thus, to express his disposition, 

And follow Marcius. 75 

[ They all shout and wave their swords , 
take him up m their arms , and 
cast up their caps. 

O, me alone, make you a sword of me ? 

If these shows be not outward, which of you 
But is four Volsces ? None of you but is 
Able to bear against the great Aufidius 
A shield as hard as his. A certain number, »o 
Though thanks to all, must I select from all; 
the rest 

Shall bear the business in some other fight, 

As cause will be obey’d. Please you to march ; 
And four shall quickly draw out my command, 
Which men are best inclin’d. 

Com. March on, my fellows! 

Make good this ostentation, and you shall 86 
Divide in all with us. [Exeunt. 

[Scene VII. The gates of Corioli .] 

Titus Lartius, having set a guard upon Corioli , 
going with drum and trumpet toward Cominius 
and Caius Marcius , enters with a Lieuten¬ 
ant, other Soldiers , and a Scout. 

Lart. So, let the ports be guarded; keep 
your duties. 

As I have set them down. If I do send, dispatch 
Those centuries to our aid ; the rest will serve 
For a short holding. If we lose the field, 

We cannot keep the town. 

Lieu. Fear not our care, sir. 

Lart. Hence, and shut your gates upon’s. 6 

Our guider, come ; to the Roman camp conduct 
us. [Exeunt. 


[Scene VIII. A field of battle.] 

Alarum as in battle. Enter Marcius and Au¬ 
fidius at several doors. 

Mar. I ’ll fight with none but thee, for I do 
hate thee 

Worse than a promise-breaker. 

Auf. We hate alike. 

Not Afric owns a serpent I abhor 
More than thy fame and envy. Fix thy foot. 
Mar. Let the first budger die the other’s 
slave, 6 

And the gods doom him after ! 

Auf. If I Ay* Marcius, 

Holloa me like a hare. 

Mar. Within these three hours, iullus, 

Alone I fought in your Corioli walls. 

And made what work I pleas’d. ’T is not my 
blood 

Wherein thou seest me mask d ; for thy re¬ 
venge 10 

Wrench up thy power to the highest. 


1105 


Auf. Wert thou the Hector 

That was the whip of your bragg’d progeny, 
Thou shouldst not scape me here. 

[Here they fight, and certain Volsces 
come in the aid of Aufidius. 
Marcius fights till they be driven 
in breathless. 

Officious, and not valiant, you have sham’d me 
In your condemned seconds. [Exeunt.] is 

[Scene IX. The Roman camp.] 

Flourish. Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Enter , 
at one door , Cominius with the Romans; at 
another door , Marcius, with his arm in a scarf. 

Com. If I should tell thee o’er this thy day’s 
work, 

Thou ’It not believe thy deeds ; but I ’ll report 
it 

Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles, 
Where great patricians shall attend and shrug, 
I’ the end admire, where ladies shall be frighted. 
And, gladly quak’d, hear more ; where the dull 
tribunes, 6 

That with the fusty plebeians hate thine hon¬ 
ours, 

Shall say against their hearts, “We thank the 
gods 

Our Rome hath such a soldier.” 

Yet cam’st. thou to a morsel of this feast, 10 
Having fully din’d before. 

Enter Titus Lartius, with his power , from the 
pursuit. 

Lart. O general, 

Here is the steed, we the caparison. 

Hadst thou beheld — 

Mar. Pray now, no more. My mother, 

Who has a charter to extol her blood, 

When she does praise me grieves me. I have 
done _ 16 

As you have done, that’s what I can ; induc’d 
As you have been, that’s for my country. 

He that has but effected his good will 
Hath overta’en mine act. 

Com. You shall not be is 

The grave of your deserving ; Rome must know 
The value of her own. ’T were a concealment 
Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement, 
To hide your doings, and to silence that 
Which, to the spire and top of praises vouch’d, 
Would seem but modest; therefore, I beseech 
you — 25 

In sign of what you are, not to reward 
What you have done — before our army hear 
me. 

Mar. I have some wounds upon me, and they 
smart 

To hear themselves rememb’red. 

Com. Should they not, 

Well might they fester ’gainst ingratitude, 30 
And tent themselves with death. Of all the 
horses, 

Whereof we have ta’en good and good store, of 
all 

The treasure in this field achiev’d and city, 

We render you the tenth, to be ta’en forth, 




1106 


CORIOLANUS 


I. X. 


Before the common distribution, at ss 

Your only choice. 

Mar. I thank you, general; 

But cannot make my heart consent to take 
A bribe to pay my sword. I do refuse it, 

And stand upon my common part with those 
That have beheld the doing. 40 

[A long flourish. They all cry , 
“ Marcius ! Mareius ! ” cast 
up their caps and lances. Co- 
minius ana Lartius stand hare. 
May these same instruments, which you pro¬ 
fane, 

Never sound more ! When drums and trumpets 
shall 

I’ the field prove flatterers, let courts and cities 
be 

Made all of false-fac’d soothing ! 

When steel grows soft as the parasite’s silk, 46 
Let him be made a coverture for the wars ! 

No more, I say ! For that I have not wash’d 
My nose that bled, or foil’d some debile 
wretch, — 

Which, without note, here’s many else have 
done, — 

You shout me forth eo 

In acclamations hyperbolical, 

As if I lov’d my little should be dieted 
In praises sauc’d with lies. 

Com. Too modest are you ; 

More cruel to your good report than grateful 
To us that give you truly. By your patience, es 
If ’gainst yourself you be incens’d, we ’ll put 
you, 

Like one that means his proper harm, in man¬ 
acles, 

Then reason safely with you. Therefore be it 
known, 

As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius 
Wears this war’s garland ; in token of the 
which, «o 

My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him, 
With all his trim belonging ; and from this 
time, 

For what he did before Corioli, call him, 

With all the applause and clamour of the host, 
Caius Marcius Coriolanus ! Bear os 

The addition nobly ever ! 

[ Flourish. Trumpets sound , and 
drums. 

All. Caius Marcius Coriolanus ! 

Cor. I will go wash ; 

And when my face is fair, you shall perceive 
Whether I blush or no; howbeit, I thank 
you. to 

I mean to stride your steed, and at all times 
To undercrest your good addition 
To the fairness of my power. 

Com. So, to our tent; 

Where, ere we do repose us, we will write 
To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius, to 
M ust to Corioli back, send us to Rome 
The best, with whom we may articulate 
For their own good and ours. 

Lart. I shall, my lord. 

Cor. The gods begin to mock roe. I, that 
now 


Refus’d most princely gifts, am bound to 
beg 80 

Of my lord general. . , . 

Com. Take’t; ’t is yours. What is t? 
Cor. I sometime lay here in Corioli. 

At a poor man’s house ; he us’d me kindly. 

He cried to me, — I saw him prisoner, — 

But then Aufidius was within my view, »5 

And wrath o’erwhelm’d my pity. I request 
you 

To give my poor host freedom. 

Com. 0 , well begg’d ! 

Were he the butcher of my son, he should 
Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus. 
Lart. Marcius, his name ? 

Cor. By Jupiter ! forgot. 

I am weary ; yea, my memory is tir’d. »i 

Have we no wine here ? 

Com. Go we to our tent. 

The blood upon your visage dries ; ’t is time 
It should be look’d to. Come. [Exeunt. 


[Scene X. The camp of the Volsces .] 

A flourish. Carnets. Enter Tullus Aufidius, 
bloody, with two or three Soldiers. 

Auf. The town is ta’en ! 

[2.J Sol. ’T will be deliver’d back on good 
condition. 

Auf. Condition ! 

I would I were a Roman ; for I cannot, 

Being a Volsce, be that I am. Condition ! * 

What good condition can a treaty find 
I’ the part that is at mercy ? Five times, Mar¬ 
cius, 

I have fought with thee ; so often hast thou 
beat me, 

And wouldst do so, I think, should we en¬ 
counter 

As often as we eat. By the elements, io 

If e’er again I meet him beard to beard, 

He’s mine, or I am his. Mine emulation 
Hath not that honour in’t it had ; for where 
I thought to crush him in an equal force, 

True sword to sword, I ’ll potch at him some 
way; is 

Or wrath or craft may get him. 

[2.] Sol. He’s the devil. 

Auf. Bolder, though not so subtle. My val¬ 
our ’s poison’d 

With only suff’ring stain by him ; for him 
Shall fly out of itself. Nor sleep nor sanctu- 
ar y. 

Being naked, sick, nor fane nor Capitol, jo 
T he prayers of priests nor times of sacrifice, 
Embargements all of fury, shall lift up 
Their rotten privilege and custom ’gainst 
My hate to Marcius. Where I find him, were it 
At home, upon my brother’s guard, even 
there, 25 

Against the hospitable canon, would I 
Wash my fierce hand in ’s heart. Go you to 
the city; 

Learn how’t is held, and what they are that 
must 

Be hostages for Rome. 

[2.] Sol. Will not you go ? 





CORIOLANUS 


II. i. 


Auf. I am attended at the cypress grove. I 
. pray you— . . so 

T is south the city mills — bring me word 
thither 

How the world goes, that to the pace of it 
I may spur on my journey. 

[i.j Sol. I shall, sir. 

[Exeunt.] 

ACT II 

[Scene I. Rome. A public place.] 

Enter Menenius, with the two Tribunes of the 
people , Sicinius and Brutus. 

Men. The augurer tells me we shall have 
news to-night. 

Bru. Good or bad ? 

Men. Not according to the prayer of the 
people, for they love not Marcius. 5 

Sic. Nature teaches beasts to know their 
friends. 

Men. Pray you, who does the wolf love ? 

Sic. The lamb. 

Men. Ay, to devour him ; as the hungry 
plebeians would the noble Marcius. 11 

Bru. He’s a lamb indeed, that baes like a 
bear. 

Men. He’s a bear indeed, that lives like a 
lamb. You two are old men : tell me one thing 
that I shall ask you. is 

Both. Well, sir. 

Men. In what enormity is Marcius poor in, 
that you two have not in abundance ? 

Bru. He’s poor in no one fault, but stor’d 
with all. 21 

Sic. Especially in pride. 

Bru. And topping all others in boasting. 
Men. This is strange now. Do you two know 
how you are censured here in the city, I mean 
of us o’ the right-hand file ? Do you ? 26 

Both. Why, how are we censur’d ? 

Men. Because you talk of pride now, —will 
you not be angry ? 

Both. Well, well, sir, well. so 

Men. Why, ’t is no great matter ; for a very 
little thief of occasion will rob you of a great 
deal of patience. Give your dispositions the 
reins, and be angry at your pleasures ; at the 
least, if you take it as a pleasure to you in being 
so. You blame Marcius for being proud ? so 
Bru. We do it not alone, sir. 

Men. I know you can do very little alone, 
for your helps are many, or else your actions 
would grow wondrous single; your abilities 
are too infant-like for doing much alone. [« 
You talk of pride : O that you could turn your 
eyes toward the napes of your necks, and make 
but an interior survey of your good selves ! 0 
that you could! 

Both. What then, sir ? * 5 

Men. Why, then you should discover a brace 
of unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magis¬ 
trates, alias fools, as any in Rome. 

Sic. Menenius, you are known well enough 
too. “ 

Men. I am known to be a humorous patn- 


II07 


cian, and one that loves a cup of hot wine with 
not a drop of allaying Tiber in ’t; said to be 
something imperfect in favouring the first com¬ 
plaint ; hasty and tinder-like upon too trivial [m 
motion ; one that converses more with the but¬ 
tock of the night than with the forehead of the 
morning. What I think, I utter, and spend my 
malice in my breath. Meeting two sucn weals- 
meu as you are — I cannot call you Lyeurguses 
— if the drink you give me touch my palate [#o 
adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I can’t 
say your worships have deliver’d the matter 
well, when I find the ass in compound with the 
major part of your syllables ; and though I 
must be content to bear with those that say [m 
you are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly 
that tell you have good faces. If you see this 
in the map of my microcosm, follows it that I 
am known well enough too ? What harm can 
your bisson conspectuities glean out of this 
character, if I be known well enough too ? 72 

Bru. Come, sir, come, we know you well 
enough. 

Men. You know neither me, yourselves, nor 
anything. You are ambitious for poor knaves’ 
caps ana legs. You wear out a good wholesome 
forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange- 
wife and a faucet-seller ; and* then rejourn the 
controversy of three pence to a second day of [so 
audience. When you are hearing a matter be¬ 
tween party and party, if you chance to be 
pinch’d with the colic, you make faces like 
mummers; set up the bloody flag against all 
patience ; and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, 
dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more [ss 
entangled by your hearing. All the peace you 
make in their cause is calling both the parties 
knaves. You are a pair of strange ones. so 

Bru. Come, come, you are well understood 
to be a perfecter giber for the table than a 
necessary bencher in the Capitol. 

Men. Our very priests must become mock¬ 
ers, if they shall encounter such ridiculous sub¬ 
jects as you are. When you speak best unto [»* 
the purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your 
beards; ana your beards deserve not so hon¬ 
ourable a grave as to stuff a botcher’s cushion, 
or to be entomb’d in an ass’s pack-saddle. Yet 
you must be saying Marcius is proud ; who, in 
a cheap estimation, is worth all your prede- [100 
cessors since Deucalion, though peradventure 
some of the best of ’em were hereditary hang¬ 
men. God-den to your worships. More of your 
conversation would infect my brain, being the 
herdsmen of the beastly plebeians. I will be 
bold to take my leave of you. ion 

[Brutus and Sicinius go aside. 

Enter Volumnia, Virgilia, and Valeria. 

How now, my as fair as noble ladies, — and the 
moon, were she earthly, no nobler,—whither 
do you follow your eyes so fast ? iw> 

Vol. Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius 
approaches. For the love of Juno, let’s go. 

Men. Ha! Marcius coming home ? 

Vol. Ay, worthy Menenius; and with most 
prosperous approbation. 





iio8 


CORIOLANUS 


ii. i. 


Men. Take my cap, Jupiter, [tosses it up] and 
I thank thee. Hoo ! Marcius coming home ! ne 
2 Ladies. Nay, ’t is true. 

Vol. Look, here’s a letter from him; the 
state hath another, his wife another, and, I 
think, there ’s one at home for you. 120 

Men. I will make my very house reel to¬ 
night. A letter for me ! 

Vir. Yes, certain, there’s a letter for you; 
I saw’t. . _ 124 

Men. A letter for me ! it gives me an estate 
of seven years’ health, in which time I will 
make a lip at the physician. The most sove¬ 
reign prescription in Galen is but empiricutic, 
and, to this preservative, of no better report 
than a horse-drench. Is he not wounded ? He 
was wont to come home wounded. 131 

Vir. 0 , no, no, no. 

Vol. 0 , he is wounded; I thank the gods 
for’t. 

Men. So do I too, if it be not too much. 
Brings ’a victory in his pocket ? The wounds 
become him. 136 

Vol. On ’s brows. Menenius, he comes the 
third time home with the oaken garland. 

Men. Has he disciplin’d Aufidius soundly ? 
Vol. Titus Lartius writes, they fought to¬ 
gether, but Aufidius got off. 141 

Men. And’t was time for him too, I ’ll war¬ 
rant him that. An he had stay’d by him, I 
would not have been so fidius’d for all the 
chests in Corioli, and the gold that’s in them. 
Is the Senate possess’d of this ? ue 

Vol. Good ladies, let’s go. —Yes, yes, yes ; 
the Senate has letters from the general, wherein 
he gives my son the whole name of the war. 
He hath in this action outdone his former deeds 
doublv. 151 

Val. In troth, there ’s wondrous things 

spoke of him. 

Men. Wondrous ! ay, I warrant you, and not 
without his true purchasing. 155 

Vir. The gods grant them true ! 

Vol. True ! pow, wow. 

Men. True! I ’ll be sworn they are true. 
Where is he wounded ? [To the Tribunes .] God 
save your good worships! Marcius is coming 
home ; he has more cause to be proud. — Where 
is he wounded ? 162 

Vol. I’ the shoulder and i’ the left arm. 
There will be large cicatrices to show the peo¬ 
ple, when he shall stand for his place. He re¬ 
ceived in the repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i’ 
the body. 166 

Men. One i’ the neck, and two i’ the thigh, — 
there’s nine that I know. 

Vol. He had, before this last expedition, 

twenty-five wounds upon him. 170 

Men. Now it ’s twenty-seven; every gash 

was an enemy’s grave. Hark ! the trumpets. 

[A shout and flourish.] 
Vol. These are the ushers of Marcius; be¬ 
fore him he carries noise, and behind him he 
leaves tears. _ 176 

Death, that dark spirit, in’s nervy arm doth lie, 
Which, being advanc’d, declines, and then men 
die. 


A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter Comlnius the 
general , and Titus Lartius ; between them , 
Coriolanus, crown’d with an oaken garland; 
with Captains and Soldiers, and a Herald. 

Her. Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius 
did fight 

Within Corioli gates ; where he hath won, iso 
With fame, a name to Caius Marcius ; these 
In honour follows Coriolanus. 

Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus ! 

[Flourish. 

All. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriola¬ 
nus ! 

Cor. No more of this; it does offend my 

heart. i 85 

Pray now, no more. 

Com. Look, sir, your mother ! 

Cor. 0 , 

You have, I know, petition’d all the gods 
For my prosperity ! [Kneels. 

Vol. Nay, my good soldier, up ; 

My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and 
By deed-achieving honour newly nam’d, — 190 

What is it ? — Coriolanus must I call thee ?— 
But, 0 , thy wife ! 

Cor. My gracious silence, hail! 

Wouldst thou have laugh’d had I come coffin’d 
home, 

That weep’st to see me triumph ? Ah, my 
dear, 

Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear, ms 

And mothers that lack sons. 

Men. Now, the gods crown thee ! 

Cor. And live you yet ? [To Valeria.] Omy 
sweet lady, pardon. 

Vol. I know not where to turn. 0 , welcome 
home ; 

And welcome, general; and you ’re welcome 
all. 

Men. A hundred thousand welcomes! I 
could weep 200 

And I could laugh, I am light and heavy. 
Welcome! 

A curse begin at very root on’s heart, 

That is not glad to see thee ! You are three 
That Rome should dote on ; yet, by the faith 
of men, 

We have some old crab-trees here at home that 
will not 205 

Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, war¬ 
riors ; 

We call a nettle but a nettle and 
The faults of fools but folly. 

Com. * Ever right. 

Cor. Menenius ever, ever. 

Her. Give way there, and go on ! 

Cor. [To Volumnia and Virgilia.] Your 

hand, and yours. 219 

Ere in our own house I do shade my head, 

The good patricians must be visited ; 

From whom I have receiv’d not only greet¬ 
ings, 

But with them change of honours. 

m .... . I have lived 

lo see inherited my very wishes 215 

And the buildings of my fancy ; only 





II. 11. 


CORIOLANUS 


There’s one thing wanting, which I doubt not 
but 

Our Rome will cast upon thee. 

Cor. Know, good mother, 

I had rather be their servant in my way 
Than sway with them in theirs. 

Com. On, to the Capitol! 

[Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state , 
as before. Brutus and Sicmius 
[come forward ]. 

Bru. All tongues speak of him, and the 
bleared sights 221 

Are spectacled to see him. Your prattling 
nurse 

Into a rapture lets her baby cry 
While she chats him ; the kitchen Malkin pins 
Her richest lockram ’bout her reechy neck, 225 
Clamb’ring the walls to eye him ; stalls, bulks, 
windows, 

Are smother’d up, leads fill’d, and ridges 
hors’d 

With variable complexions, all agreeing 
In earnestness to see him. Seld-shown flamens 
Do press among the popular throngs and puff 
To win a vulgar station ; our veil’d dames 231 
Commit the war of white and damask in 
Their nicely-gawded cheeks to the wanton 
spoil 

Of Phoebus’ burning kisses ; — such a pother 
As if that whatsoever god who leads him 235 
Were slily crept into his human powers 
And gave him graceful posture. 

Sic. On the sudden, 

I warrant him consul. 

Bru. Then our office may, 

During his power, go sleep. 

Sic. He cannot temperately transport his 
honours 240 

From where he should begin and end, but will 
Lose those he hath won. 

Bru. In that there’s comfort. 

Sic. Doubt not 

The commoners, for whom we stand, but they 
Upon their ancient malice will forget 
With the least cause these his new honours, 
which 245 

That he will give them make I as little ques¬ 


tion 

As he is proud to do ’t. 

Bru. I heard him swear, 

Were he to stand for consul, never would he 
Appear i’ the market-place, nor on him put 
The napless vesture of humility, 250 

Nor, showing, as the manner is, his wounds 
To the people, beg their stinking breaths. 

Sic. ’T is right. 

Bru. It was his word. O, he would miss it 
rather 

Than carry it but by the suit of the gentry to 
hkn 264 

And the desire of the nobles. 

Sic, I wish no better 

Than have him hold that purpose and to put it 


In execution. 

Bru. ’T is most like he will. 

Sic. It shall be to him then as our good wills, 
A sure destruction. 


1109 


Bru. So it must fall out 

To him or our authorities for an end. 260 

We must suggest the people in what hatred 
He still hath held them ; that to’s power he 
would 

Have made them mules, silenc’d their pleaders 
and 

Dispropertied their freedoms, holding them, 

In human action and capacity, 200 

Of no more soul nor fitness for the world 
Than camels in the war, who have their pro- 
vand 

Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows 
For sinking under them. 

Sic. This, as you say, suggested 

At some time when his soaring insolence 270 
Shall touch the people — which time shall not 
want, 

If he be put upon’t; and that’s as easy 
As to set dogs on sheep — will be his fire 
To kindle their dry stubble ; and their blaze 
Shall darken him for ever. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Bru. What’s the matter ? 

Mess. You are sent for to the Capitol. ’T is 
thought 276 

That Marcius shall be consul. 

I have seen the dumb men throng to see him, 
and 

The blind to hear him speak. Matrons flung 
gloves, 

Ladies and maids their scarfs and handker- 
chers, 280 

Upon him as he pass’d ; the nobles bended, 

As to Jove’s statue, and the commons made 
A shower and thunder with their caps and 
shouts. 

I never saw the like. 

Bru. Let’s to the Capitol; 

And carry with us ears and eyes for the time, 
But hearts for the event. 

Sic. Have with you. 286 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. The same.] The Capitol. 

Enter two Officers, to lay cushions. 

1 . Off. Come, come, they are almost here. 
How many stand for consulships ? _ 

2 . Off. Three, they say ; but’t is thought of 

every one Coriolanus will carry it. 4 

1 . Off. That ’s a brave fellow ; but he’s 
vengeance proud, and loves not the common 
people. 

2 . Off. Faith, there hath been many great 

men that have flatter’d the people, who ne’er 
loved them; and there be many that they 
have loved, they know not wherefore; so [10 
that, if they love they know not why, they 
hate upon no better a ground. Therefore, for 
Coriolanus neither to care whether they love or 
hate him manifests the true knowledge he has 
in their disposition ; and out of his noble care¬ 
lessness lets them plainly see’t. it 

1 . Off. If he did not care whether he had 
their love or no, he waved indifferently ’twixt 





II 10 


C0RI0LANUS 


ii. a. 


doing them neither good nor harm; hut he 
seeks their hate with greater devotion than 
they can render it him ; and leaves nothing [21 
undone that may fully discover him their 
opposite. Now, to seem to affect the malice 
and displeasure of the people is as bad as that 
which he dislikes, to flatter them for their 
love. 26 

2 . Off. He hath deserved worthily of his 
country ; and his ascent is not by such easy de¬ 
grees as those who, having been supple and 
courteous to the people, bonneted, without any 
further deed to have them at all into their [31 
estimation and report. But he hath so planted 
his honours in their eyes, and his actions in 
their hearts, that for their tongues to be silent, 
and not confess so much, were a kind of in¬ 
grateful injury ; to report otherwise were a [35 
malice, that, giving itself the lie, would pluck 
reproof and rebuke from every ear that heard 
it. 

1 . Off. No more of him ; he’s a worthy man. 
Make way, they are coming. 40 

A sennet. Enter , with Lictors before them , Co¬ 
minius the consul , Menenius, Coriolanus, 
Senators, Sicinius and Brutus. The Sena¬ 
tors take their places; the Tribunes take their 
places by themselves. Coriolanus stands. 

Men. Having determin’d of the Volsces and 
To send for Titus Lartius, it remains, 

As the main point of this our after-meeting, 

To gratify his noble service that 
Hath thus stood for his country ; therefore, 
please you, 45 

Most reverend and grave elders, to desire 
The present consul and last general 
In our well-found successes, to report 
A little of that worthy work perform’d 
By Caius Marcius Coriolanus, whom so 

We met here both to thank and to remember 
With honours like himself. [ Coriolanus sits.] 
1 . Sen. Speak, good Cominius : 

Leave nothing out for length, and make us 
think 

Rather our state’s defective for requital 
Than we to stretch it out. [To the Tribunes .] 
Masters o’ the people, 55 

We do request your kindest ears, and after, 
Your loving motion toward the common body 
To yield what passes here. 

Sic. We are convented 

Upon a pleasing treaty, and have hearts 
Inclinable to honour and advance eo 

The theme of our assembly. 

Bru. Which the rather 

We shall be blest to do, if he remember 
A kinder value of the people than 
He hath hereto priz’d them at. 

Men. That’s off, that’s off ; 

I would you rather had been silent. Please 
you . _ 65 

To hear Cominius speak ? 

Bru. Most willingly ; 

But yet my caution was more pertinent 
Than the rebuke you give it. 

Men. Pie loves your people ; 


But tie him not to be their bedfellow. 

Worthy Cominius, speak. (Coriolanus rises 
and ffers to go away.) Nay, keep your 
place. 70 

1 . Sen. Sit, Coriolanus ; never shame to hear 
What you have nobly done. 

Cor. Your honours’ pardon ; 

I had rather have my wounds to heal again 
Than hear say how I got them. 

Bru. Sir, I hope 

My words disbench’d you not. 

Cor. No, sir ; yet oft, 

When blows have made me stay, I fled from 
words. 76 

You sooth’d not, therefore hurt not; but your 
people, 

I love them as they weigh. 

Men. Pray now, sit down. 

Cor. I had rather have one scratch my head 
i’ the sun 

When the alarum were struck, than idly sit so 
To hear my nothings monster’d. [Exit. 

Men. Masters of the people, 

Your multiplying spawn how can he flatter — 
That’s thousand to one good one — when you 
now see 

He had rather venture all his limbs for honour 
Than one on’s ears to hear it ? Proceed, 
Cominius. «s 

Com. I shall lack voice ; the deeds of Cori¬ 
olanus 

Should not be utter’d feebly. It is held 
That valour is the chiefest virtue, and 
Most dignifies the haver ; if it be, 

The man I speak of cannot in the world so 
Be singly counterpois’d. At sixteen years, 
When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he 
fought 

Beyond the mark of others. Our then dictator, 
Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight, 
When with his Amazonian chin he drove 96 
The bristled lips before him. He bestrid 
An o’er-press’d Roman, and i’ the consul’s view 
Slew three opposers. Tarquin’s self he met, 
And struck him on his knee. In that day’s 
feats, 

When he might act the woman in the scene, 100 
He prov’d best man i’ the field, and for his 
meed 

Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age 
Man-ent’red thus, he waxed like a sea, 

And in the brunt of seventeen battles since 
He lurch’d all swords of the garland. For this 
last, . 105 

Before and in Corioli, let me say, 

I cannot speak him home. He stopp’d the 
fliers; 

And by his rare example made the coward 
Turn terror into sport; as weeds before 
A vessel under sail, so men obey’d 110 

And fell below his stem. His sword, death’s 
stamp, 

Where it did mark, it took ; from face to foot 
He was a thing of blood, whose every motion 
Was tim’d with dying cries. Alone he ent’red 
The mortal gate of the city, which he painted ns 
With shunless destiny ; aidless came off, 




CORIOLANUS 


mi 


II. iii. 


And with a sudden reinforcement struck 
Corioli like a planet; now all’s his. 

When, by and by, the din of war ’gan pierce 
His ready sense, then straight his doubled spirit 
Ke-quick’ned what in flesh was fatigate, 121 
And to the battle came he, where he dia 
Run reeking o’er the lives of men, as if 
’T were a perpetual spoil ; and till we call’d 
Both field and city ours, he never stood 125 
To ease his breast with panting. 

Men. Worthy man! 

[i.] Sen. He cannot but with measure fit the 
honours 

Which we devise him. 

Com. Our spoils he kick’d at, 

And look’d upon things precious as they were 
The common muck of the world. He covets 
less 130 

Than misery itself would give, rewards 
His deeds with doing them, and is content 
To spend the time to end it. 

Men. He’s right noble. 

Let him be call’d for. 

[2.] Sen. Call Coriolanus. 

Off. He doth appear. is b 

Re-enter Coriolanus. 


Men. The Senate, Coriolanus, are well pleas’d 
To make thee consul. 

Cor. I do owe them still 

My life and services. 

Men. It then remains 

That you do speak to the people. 

Cor. I do beseech you, 

Let me o’erleap that custom ; for I cannot wo 
Put on the gown, stand naked and entreat 
them, 

For my wounds’ sake, to give their suffrage. 
Please you 

That I may pass this doing. 

Sic. Sir, the people 

Must have their voices ; neither will they bate 
One jot of ceremony. 

Men. Put them not to’t. u# 

Pray you, go fit you to the custom and 
Take to you, as your predecessors have, 

Your honour with your form. 

Cor. It is a part ' 

That I shall blush in acting, and might well 
Be taken from the people. 

Bru. Mark you that ? wo 

Cor. To brag unto them, thus I did, and 


thus; 

Show them the unaching scars which I should 
hide, 

As if I had receiv’d them for the hire 


Of their breath only ! 

Men. Do not stand upon’t. 

We recommend to you, tribunes of the people, 
Our purpose to them ; and to our noble consul 
Wish we all joy and honour. 

Senators. To Coriolanus come all joy and 
honour! 

[Flourish of cornets. Exeunt all but 
Sicinius and Brutus. 

Bru. You see how he intends to use the 
people. 


Sic. May they perceive’s intent! He will 
require them, ieo 

As if he did contemn what he requested 
Should be in them to give. 

Bru. Come, we ’ll inform them 

Of our proceedings here. On the market-place, 
I know, they do attend us. [ Exeunt. 

[Scene III. The same. The Forum.] 
Enter seven or eight Citizens. 

2 . Cit. Once, if he do require our voices, we 
ought not to deny him. 

2 . Cit. We may, sir, if we will. 

3 . Cit. We have power in ourselves to do it, 

but it is a power that we have no power to do ; [5 
for if he show us his wounds and tell us his 
deeds, we are to put our tongues into those 
wounds and speak for them ; so, if he tell us 
his noble deeds, we must also tell him our noble 
acceptance of them. Ingratitude is monstrous, 
and for the multitude to be ingrateful, were [10 
to make a monster of the multitude; of the 
which we being members, should bring our¬ 
selves to be monstrous members. « 

1 . Cit. And to make us no better thought 
of, a little help will serve; for once we stood 
up about the corn, he himself stuck not to call 
us the many-headed multitude. 

3 . Cit. We have been called so of many; not 
that our heads are some brown, some black, 
some auburn, some bald, but that our wits are 
so diversely colour’d; and truly I think if all 
our wits were to issue out of one skull, they 
would fly east, west, north, south, and their 
consent of one direct way should be at once to 
all the points o’ the compass. 26 

2 . Cit. Think you so? Which way do you 
judge my wit would fly ? 

3 . Cit. Nay, your wit will not so soon out 

as another man’s will, ’t is strongly wedg’d up 
in a block-head ; but if it were at liberty, 
’t would, sure, southward. 32 

2 . Cit. Why that way ? 

3 . Cit. To lose itself in a fog, where being 
three parts melted away with rotten dews, the 
fourth would return for conscience’ sake, to 
help to get thee a wife. 

2 . Cit. You are never without your tricks; 

you may, you may. 39 

3 . Cit. Are you all resolv’d to give your 
voices ? But that’s no matter, the greater part 
carries it. I say, if he would incline to the 
people, there was never a worthier man. 

Enter Coriolanus in a gown of humility , with 
Menenius. 

Here he comes, and in the gown of humility; 
mark his behaviour. We are not to stay all [45 
together, but to come by him where he stands, 
by ones, by twos, and by threes. He’s to make 
his requests by particulars, wherein every one 
of us has a single honour, in giving him our own 
voices with our own tongues; therefore follow 
me, and I ’ll direct you how you shall go by 
him. 62 

All. Content, content. [Exeunt citizens.] 








1112 


CORIOLANUS 


ir. iii. 


Men. 0 sir, you are not right. Have you not 
known 

The worthiest men have done’t ? 

Cor. What must I say ? 

I pray, sir, — Plague upon ’t! I cannot bring 66 
My tongue to such a pace, — look, sir, my 
wounds! 

I got them in my country’s service, when 
Some certain of your brethren roar’d and ran 
From the noise of our own drums. 

Men. O me, the gods ! 

You must not speak of that. You must desire 
them ei 

To think upon you. 

Cor. Think upon me ! Hang ’em ! 

I would they would forget me, like the virtues 
Which our divines lose by ’em. 

Men. You ’ll mar all. 

I ’ll leave you. Pray you, speak to ’em, I pray 

you, es 

In wholesome manner. [j Exit. 

Re-enter three of the Citizens. 

Cor. Bid them wash their faces 

And keep their teeth clean. So, here comes a 
brace.— 

You know the cause, sir, of my standing here. 

3 . Cit. We do, sir; tell us what hath brought 
you to’t. to 

Cor. Mine own desert. 

2. Cit. Your own desert! 

Cor. Ay, not mine own desire. 

3 . Cit. How not your own desire ? 

Cor. No, sir, ’twas never my desire yet to 
trouble the poor with begging. 76 

3 . Cit. You must think, if we give you any¬ 
thing, we hope to gain by you. 

Cor. Well then, I pray, your price o’ the 
consulship ? so 

1 . Cit. The price is to ask it kindly. 

Cor. Kindly! Sir, I pray, let me ha’t. I 
have wounds to show you, which shall be yours 
in private. Your good voice, sir; what say 
you? 

2. Cit. You shall ha’ it, worthy sir. ss 

Cor. A match, sir. There’s in all two worthy 

voices begg’d. I have your alms ; adieu. 

3 . Cit. JBut this is something odd. 

2. Cit. An’t were to give again, — but’t is no 
matter. [Exeunt [the three Citizens ]. »o 

Re-enter two other Citizens. 

Cor. Pray you now, if it may stand with the 
tune of your voices that I may be consul, I have 
here the customary gown. 

[4.] Cit. You have deserved nobly of your 
country, and you have not deserved nobly. 95 
Cor. Your enigma ? 

[4.] Cit. You have been a scourge to her ene¬ 
mies, you have been a rod to her friends ; you 
have not indeed loved the common people. 99 
Cor. You should account me the more virtu¬ 
ous that I have not been common in my love. 
I will, sir, flatter my sworn brother, the people, 
to earn a dearer estimation of them ; ’t is a con¬ 
dition they account gentle. And since the wis¬ 
dom of their choice is rather to have my hat [106 


than my heart, I will practise the insinuating 
nod and be oft' to them most counterfeitly; that 
is, sir, I will counterfeit the bewitchment of 
some popular man and give it bountiful to the 
desirers. Therefore, beseech you, I may be 

consul. 4 110 

[5.] Cit. We hope to find you our friend ; and 
therefore give you our voices heartily. 

[ 4 .] Cit. You have received many wounds 

for your country. 114 

Cor. I will not seal your knowledge with 
showing them. I will make much of your voices, 
and so trouble you no further. 

Both Cit. The gods give you joy, sir, heartily! 

[Exeunt.] 

Cor. Most sweet voices ! 

Better it is to die, better to starve, 120 

Than crave the hire which first we do deserve. 
Why in this woolless toge should I stand here, 
To beg of Hob and Dick, that do appear, 

Their needless vouches ? Custom calls me to ’t. 
What custom wills, in all things should we do’t, 
The dust on antique time would lie unswept, 126 
And mountainous error be too highly heapt 
For truth to o’er-peer. Rather than fool it so, 
Let the high office and the honour go 
To one that would do thus. —I am half 
through; 130 

The one part suffered, the other will I do. 

Re-enter three Citizens more. 

Here come moe voices. — 

Your voices ! For your voices I have fought; 
Watch’d for your voices ; for your voices bear 
Of wounds two dozen odd ; battles thrice six 135 
I have seen and heard of ; for your voices have 
Done many things, some less, some more. Your 
voices. 

Indeed, I would be consul. 

[6.] Cit. He has done nobly, and cannot go 
without any honest man’s voice. 140 

[ 7 .] Cit. Therefore let him be consul. The 
gods give him joy, and make him good friend 
to the people ! 

All Cit. Amen, amen. God save thee, noble 
consul! [Exeunt.] 

Cor. Worthy voices ! us 

Re-enter Menenius, with Brutus and Si- 

CINIUS. 

Men. You have stood your limitation, and 
the tribunes 

Endue you with the people’s voice. Remains 
That, in the official marks invested, you 
Anon do meet the Senate. 

Cor. Is this done ? 

Sic. The custom of request you have dis¬ 
charg’d. 150 

The people do admit you, and are summon’d 
To meet anon upon your approbation. 

Cor. Where ? At the Senate-house ? 

Sic. There, Coriolanus. 

Cor. May I change these garments ? 

Sic. You may, sir. 

Cor. That I’ll straight do; and, knowing 
myself again, iw 

Repair to the Senate-house. 





Ii. iii. 


CORIOLANUS 


in 3 


Men. ^ I ’11^ keep you company. Will you 

e. 

ire you well. 
[Exeunt Coriolanus and Menenius. 
He has it now, and by his looks methinks 
’T is warm at’s heart. ieo 

Bru. With a proud heart he wore his humble 
weeds. 

Will you dismiss the people ? 

Re-enter Citizens. 

Sic. How now, my masters ! have you chose 
this man ? 

1 . Cit. He has our voices, sir. 

Bru. W e pray the gods he may deserve your 
loves. i66 

2. Cit. Amen, sir. To my poor unworthy 

notice, 

He mock’d us when he begg’d our voices. 

3 . Cit. Certainly 

He flouted us downright. 

1 . Cit. No, ’t is his kind of speech ; he did 

not mock us. 

2 . Cit. Not one amongst us, save yourself, 

but says no 

He us’d us scornfully. He should have show’d 
us 

His marks of merit, wounds receiv’d for’s 
country. 

Sic. Why, so he did, I am sure. 

All. No, no ; no man saw ’em. 

3. Cit. He said he had wounds, which he 

could show in private ; 

And with his hat, thus waving it in scorn, its 
“ I would be consul,” says he ; “ aged custom, 
But by your voices, will not so permit me ; 
Your voices therefore.” When we granted that, 
Here was “ I thank you for your voices ; thank 
you ; 

Your most sweet voices. Now you have left 
your voices, iso 

I have no further with you.” Was not this 
mockery ? 

Sic. Why either were you ignorant to see’t, 
Or, seeing it, of such childish friendliness 
To yield your voices ? 

Bru. Could you not have told him 

As you were lesson’d : when he had no power, 
But was a petty servant to the state, i86 

He was your enemy, ever spake against 
Your liberties and the charters that you bear 
I’ the body of the weal; and now, arriving 
A place of potency and sway o’ the state, iao 
If he should still malignantly remain 
Fast foe to the plebeii , your voices might 
Be curses to yourselves ? You should have said 
That as his worthy deeds did claim no less 
Than what he stood for, so his gracious nature 
Would think upon you for your voices and we 
Translate his malice towards you into love, 
Standing your friendly lord. 

Sic. Thus to have said, 

As you were fore-advis’d, had touch’d his spirit 
And tried his inclination ; from him pluck’d 200 
Either his gracious promise, which you might, 
As cause had call’d you up, have held him to; 


along r 

Bru. We stay here for the peopl 
Sic. py 


Or else it would have gall’d his surly nature, 
Which easily endures not article 
Tying him to aught; so putting him to rage, 20s 
You should have ta’en the advantage of his 
choler 

And pass’d him unelected. 

. Did you perceive 

He did solicit you in free contempt 
When be did need your loves, and do you think 
That his contempt shall not be bruising to 
you, no 

When he hath power to crush ? Why, had your 
bodies 

No heart among you ? Or had you tongues to 
cry 

Against the rectorship of judgement ? 

Sic. Have you 

Ere now deni’d the asker, and now again 
Of him that did not ask, but mock, bestow 21B 
Your sued-for tongues ? 

3 . Cit. He ’s not confirm’d ; we may deny 
him yet. 

2 . Cit. And will deny him. 

I ’ll have five hundred voices of that sound. 

1 . Cit. I twice five hundred and their friends 
to piece ’em. 220 

Bru. Get you hence instantly, and tell those 
friends, 

They have chose a consul that will from them 
take 

Their liberties, make them of no more voice 
Than dogs, that are as often beat for barking 
As therefore kept to do so. 

Sic. Let them assemble, 

And on a safer judgement all revoke 226 

.Your ignorant election. Enforce his pride, 

And his old hate unto you ; besides, forget not 
With what contempt he wore the humble weed, 
How in his suit he scorn’d you; but your 
loves, 230 

Thinking upon his services, took from you 
The apprehension of his present portance, 
Which most gibingly, ungravely, he did fashion 
After the inveterate hate he bears you. 

Bru. Lay 

A fault on us, your tribunes, that we la¬ 
bour’d, 236 

No impediment between, but that you must 
Cast your election on him. 

Sic. Say, you chose him 

More after our commandment than as guided 
By your own true affections, and that your 
minds, 

Pre-occupi’d with what you rather must do 240 
Than what you should, made you against the 
grain 

To voice him consul. Lay the fault on us. 

Bru. Ay, spare us not. Say we read lectures 
to you, 

How youngly he began to serve his country, 
How long continued, and what stock he springs 

of, - 246 

The noble house o’ the Marcians, from whence 
came 

That Ancus Marcius, Numa’s daughter’s son, 
Who, after great Hostilius, here was king; 

Of the same house Publius and Quintus were, 






IH 4 


CORIOLANUS 


hi. i. 


That our best water brought by conduits 
hither; 250 

[And Censorinus, nobly named so, 

Twice being by the people chosen censor,] 

Was his great ancestor. 

Sic. One thus descended, 

That hath beside well in his person wrought 
To be set high in place, we did commend 266 
To your remembrances ; but you have found, 
Scaling his present bearing with his past, 

That he’s your fixed enemy, and revoke 
Your sudden approbation. 

Bru. Say, you ne’er had done’t — 

Harp on that still — but by our putting on ; 200 
And presently, when you have drawn your 
number, 

Repair to the Capitol. 

All. * We will so. Almost all 

Repent in their election. [ Exeunt Citizens. 

Bru. Let them go on ; 

This mutiny were better put in hazard, 

Than stay, past doubt, for greater. 265 

If, as his nature is, he fall in rage 
With their refusal, both observe and answer 
The vantage of his anger. 

Sic. _ To the Capitol, come. 

We will be there before the stream o’ the 
people ; 

And this shall seem, as partly ’t is, their 
own, 270 

Which we have goaded onward. [Exeunt. 


ACT III 

[Scene I. Rome. A street.] 

Cornets. Enter Coriolanus, Menenius, all the 
Gentry, Cominius, Titus Lartlus, and other 
Senators. 

Cor. Tullus Aufidius then had made new 
head ? 

Lart. He had, my lord; and that it was 
which caus’d 
Our swifter composition. 

Cor. So then the Volsces stand but as at first, 
Ready, when time shall prompt them, to make 
road 6 

Upon’s again. 

Com. They are worn, Lord Consul, so, 

That we shall hardly in our ages see 
Their banners wave again. 

Cor. Saw you Aufidius ? 

Lart. On safe-guard he came to me, and did 
curse 

Against the Volsces, for they had so vilely 10 
Yielded the town. He is retired to Antium. 
Cor. Spoke he of me ? 

Lart. He did, my lord. 

Cor. How ? What ? 

Lart. How often he had met you, sword to 
sword; 

That of all things upon the earth he hated 
Your person most; that he would pawn his 
fortunes 10 

To hopeless restitution, so he might 
Be call’d your vanquisher. 


Cor. At Antium lives he ? 

Lart. At Antium. 

Cor. I wish I had a cause to seek him there. 
To oppose his hatred fully. Welcome home. 20 

Enter Sicinius and Brutus. 

Behold, these are the tribunes of the people, 
The tongues o’ the common mouth. I do de¬ 
spise them, 

For they do prank them in authority, 

Against all noble sufferance. 

Sic. Pass no further. 

Cor. Ha ! what is that ? 20 

Bru. It will be dangerous to go on. No fur¬ 
ther. 

Cor. What makes this change ? 

Men. The matter ? 

Com. Hath he not pass’d the noble and the 
common ? 

Bru. Cominius, no. 

Cor. Have I had children’s voices ? 

[ 2 .] Sen. Tribunes, give way ; he shall to the 
market-place. 31 

Bru. The people are incens’d against him. 
Sic. Stop, 

Or all will fall in broil. 

Cor. Are these your herd ? 

Must these have voices, that can yield them 
now 

And straight disclaim their tongues ? What 
are your offices ? 3 s 

You being their mouths, why rule you not their 
teeth ? 

Have you not set them on ? 

Men. Be calm, be calm. 

Cor. It is a purpos’d thing, and grows by 
plot, 

To curb the will of the nobility. 

Suffer’t, and live with such as cannot rule «o 
Nor ever will be ruled. 

Bru. Call’t not a plot. 

The people cry you mock’d them, and of late, 
When corn was given them gratis, you repin’d, 
Scandal’d the suppliants for the people, call’d 
them 

Time-pleasers, flatterers, foes to nobleness. « 
Cor. Why, this was known before. 

Bru. Not to them all. 

Cor. Have you inform’d them sithence ? 

Bru. How ! I inform them ! 

Com. You are like to do such business. 

Bru. Not unlike, 

Each way, to better yours. 

Cor . Why then should I be consul ? By yond 
clouds, go 

Let me deserve so ill as you, and make me 
Your fellow tribune. 

Sic. You show too much of that 

For which the people stir. If you will pass 
To where you are bound, you must inquire your 
way, 

Which you are out of, with a gentler spirit, 55 
Or never be so noble as a consul, 

Nor yoke with him for tribune. 

Men. Let’s be calm. 

Com. The people are abus’d ; set on. This 
palt’ring 





III. 1. 


CORIOLANUS 


IIT 5 


Becomes not Rome, nor has Coriolanus 
Deserv’d this so dishonour’d rub, laid falsely eo 
I’ the plain way of his merit. 

Cor. Tell me of corn ! 

This was my speech, and I will speak’t again — 
Men. Not now, not now. 

[A] Sen. Not in this heat, sir, now. 

Cor. Now, as I live, I will. My nobler 
friends, 

I crave their pardons ; es 

For the mutable, rank-scented many, let them 
Regard me as I do not flatter, and 
Therein behold themselves. I say again, 

In soothing them we nourish ’gainst our Senate 
The cockle of rebellion, insolence, sedition, to 
W hich we ourselves have plough’d for, sow’d, 
and scatter’d, 

By mingling them with us, the honour’d num¬ 
ber, 

Who lack not virtue, no, nor power, but that 
Which they have given to beggars. 

Men. Well, no more, 

[i.] Sen. No more words, we beseech you. 
Cor. How ! no more ! 

As for my country I have shed my blood, 76 
Not fearing outward force, so shall my lungs 
Coin words till their decay against those 
measles, 

Which we disdain should tetter us, yet sought 
The very way to catch them. 

Bru. You speak o’ the people 

As if you were a god to punish, not »i 

A man of their infirmity. 

Sic. ’T were well 

We let the people know’t. 

Men. What, what ? his choler ? 

Cor. Choler! 

Were I as patient as the midnight sleep, ss 
By Jove, ’t would be my mind ! 

Sic. It is a mind 

That shall remain a poison where it is, 

Not poison any further. 

Cor. Shall remain! 

Hear you this Triton of the minnows ? Mark 
you 

His absolute “ shall ” ? 

Com. ’T was from the canon. 

Cor. “Shall”! 

O good but most unwise patricians ! why, »i 
You grave but reckless senators, have you thus 
Given Hydra here to choose an officer, 

That with his peremptory “ shall,” being but 
The horn and noise o’ the monster’s, wants not 
spirit _ _ 95 

To say he ’ll turn your current in a ditch, 

And make your channel his ? If he have power, 
Then vail your ignorance ; if none, awake 
Your dangerous lenity. If you are learn’d, 

Be not as common fools ; if you are not, 100 
Let them have cushions by you. You are ple¬ 
beians, 

If they be senators ; and they are no less, 
When, both your voices blended, the great’st 
taste 

Most palates theirs. They choose their magis¬ 
trate, 

And such a one as he, who puts his “ shall,” io« 


His popular “ shall,” against a graver bench 
Than ever frown’d in Greece. By Jove him¬ 
self ! 

It makes the consuls base ; and my soul aches 
To know, when two authorities are up, 

Neither supreme, how soon confusion no 

May enter ’twixt the gap of both and take 
The one by the other. 

Com. Well, on to the market-place. 

Cor. Whoever gave that counsel, to give 
forth 

The corn o’ the storehouse gratis, as’t was us’d 
Sometime in Greece, — 

Men. Well, well, no more of that. 

Cor. Though there the people had more ab¬ 
solute power, ue 

I say, they nourish’d disobedience, fed 
The ruin of the state. 

Bru. Why, shall the people give 

One that speaks thus their voice ? 

Cor. I ’ll give my reasons, 

More worthier than their voices. They know 
the corn 120 

Was not our recompense, resting well assur’d 
That ne’er did service for’t; being press’d to 
the war, 

Even when the navel of the state was touch’d, 
They would not thread the gates. This kind of 
service 124 

Did not deserve corn gratis. Being i’ the war. 
Their mutinies and revolts, wherein they show’d 
Most valour, spoke not for them. The accusa¬ 
tion 

Which they have often made against the Senate, 
All cause unborn, could never be the motive 
Of our so frank donation. Well, what then ? 130 
How shall this bisson multitude digest 
The Senate’s courtesy ? Let deeds express 
What’s like to be their words: “We did re¬ 
quest it; 

We are the greater poll, and in true fear 134 
They gave us our demands.” Thus we debase 
The nature of our seats and make the rabble 
Call our cares fears ; which will in time 
Break ope the locks o’ the Senate and bring in 
The crows to peck the eagles. 

Men. Come, enough. 

Bru. Enough, with over-measure. 

Cor. No, take more ! 

What may be sworn by, both divine and hu¬ 
man, m 

Seal what I end withal! This double worship, 
Where one part does disdain with cause, the 
other 

Insult without all reason, where gentry, title, 
wisdom, 

Cannot conclude but by the yea and no us 
Of general ignorance, — it must omit 
Real necessities, and give way the while 
To unstable slightness ; purpose so barr’d, it 
follows 

Nothing is done to purpose. Therefore, beseech 
you, — 

You that will be less fearful than discreet, ibo 
T hat love the fundamental part of state 
More than you doubt the change on’t, that 
prefer 





CORIOLANUS 


hi. i. 


1116 


A noble life before a long, and wish 
To jump a body with a dangerous physic 
That’s sure of death without it, at once pluck 

out 155 

The multitudinous tongue ; let them not lick 
The sweet which is their poison. Your dishon¬ 
our 

Mangles true judgement and bereaves the state 
Of that integrity which should become’t, 159 

Not having the power to do the good it would, 
For the ill which doth control ’t. 

Bru. Has said enough. 

Sic. Has spoken like a traitor, and shall 
answer 

As traitors do. 

Cor. Thou wretch, despite o’erwhelm thee ! 
What should the people do with these bald 
tribunes ? i 65 

On whom depending, their obedience fails 
To the greater bench. In a rebellion, 

When what’s not meet, but what must be, was 
law, 

Then were they chosen ; in a better hour, 

Let what is meet be said it must be meet, no 
And throw their power i’ the dust. 

Bru. Manifest treason! 

Sic. This a consul ? No ! 

Bru. The sediles, ho ! 

Enter an ^dile. 

— Let him be apprehended. 
Sic. Go, call the people; [Exit fEdile] in 
whose name myself 

Attach thee as a traitorous innovator, 11s 

A foe to the public weal. Obey, I charge 
thee, 

And follow to thine answer. 

Cor. Hence, old goat! 

[ Senators , etc.] We ’ll surety him. 

Com. Ag’d sir, hands off. 

Cor. Hence, rotten thing ! or I shall shake 
thy bones 

Out of thy garments. 

Sic. Help, ye citizens! no 

Enter a rabble of Citizens, with the ^Ediles. 

Men. On both sides more respect. 

Sic. Here’s he that would take from you all 
your power. 

Bru. Seize him, sediles ! 

[ Citizens.] Down with him ! down with him ! 
2. Sen. Weapons, weapons, weapons ! iss 
[They all bustle about Coriolanus 
[ crying,1 

Tribunes ! Patricians ! Citizens ! What, ho ! 
Sicinius ! Brutus ! Coriolanus ! Citizens ! 

All. Peace, peace, peace ! Stay, hold, peace ! 
Men. What is about to be ? I am out of 
breath ; 

Confusion’s near; I cannot speak. You, trib¬ 
unes 190 

To the people ! Coriolanus, patience ! 

Speak, good Sicinius. 

Sic. Hear me, people ; peace ! 

[Citizens.] Let’s hear our tribune ; peace ! 
Speak, speak, speak ! 

Sic. You are at point to lose your liberties. 


Marcius would have all from you ; Mareius, iws 
Whom late you have nam’d for consul. 

Men. Fie, fie, fie ! 

This is the way to kindle, not to quench. 

[ 2 .] Sen. To unbuild the city and to lay all 
flat. 

Sic. What is the city but the people ? 
[Citizens.] # True, 

The people are the city. 200 

Bru. By the consent of all, we were estab¬ 
lish’d 

The people’s magistrates. 

[Citizens.] You so remain. 

Men. And so are like to do. 

Com. That is the way to lay the city flat, 

To bring the roof to the foundation 205 

And bury all, which yet distinctly ranges, 

In heaps and piles of ruin. 

Sic. This deserves death. 

Bru. Or let us stand to our authority, 

Or let us lose it. We do here pronounce, 

Upon the part o’ the people, in whose power 210 
We were elected theirs, Marcius is worthy 
Of present death. 

Sic. Therefore lay hold of him ; 

Bear him to the rock Tarpeian, and from thence 
Into destruction cast him. 

Bru. iEdiles, seize him! 

[Citizens.] Yield, Marcius, yield ! 

Men. Hear me one word ; 

Beseech you, tribunes, hear me but a word. 216 
JEd. Peace, peace ! 

Men. [To Brutus.] Be that you seem, truly 
your country’s friend, 

And temperately proceed to what you would 
Thus violently redress. 

Bru. ' Sir, those cold ways 220 

That seem like prudent helps are very poison¬ 
ous 

Where the disease is violent. Lay hands upon 
him, 

And bear him to the rock. 

Cor. No, I ’ll die here. 

[Drawing his sword. 
There’s some among you have beheld me fight¬ 
ing; 

Come, try upon yourselves what you have seen 
me. 226 

Men. Down with that sword! Tribunes, 
withdraw a while. 

Bru. Lay hands upon him. 

Com. Help Marcius, help ; 

You that be noble, help him, young and old ! 
[Citizens.] Down with him, down with him ! 

[In this mutiny , the Tribunes , the 
AEdiles , and the People, are 
beat in. 

Men. Go, get you to your house ; begone, 
away! 230 

All will be nought else. 

2. Sen. Get you gone. 

. Stand fast; 

We have as many friends as enemies. 

Men. Shall it be put to that ? 

[ 2 .] Sen. . The gods forbid I 

I prithee, noble friend, home to thy house ; 
Leave us to cure this cause. 




III. 1. 


CORIOLANUS 


1117 


Men. For ’t is a sore upon us, 

You cannot tent yourself. Begone, beseech 
you. 230 

Com. Come, sir, along with us. 

Cor. I would they were barbarians — as they 
are. 

Though in Rome litter’d—not Romans — as 
they are not, 

Though calved i’ the porch o’ the Capitol! 

[Men.] Begone! 

Put not your worthy rage into your tongue ; 241 
One time will owe another. 

Cor. On fair ground 

I could beat forty of them. 

Men. I could myself 

Take up a brace of the best of them ; yea, the 
two tribunes. 

Com. But now ’t is odds beyond arithmetic ; 
And manhood is call’d foolery, when it stands 246 
Against a falling fabric. Will you hence 
Before the tag return, whose rage doth rend 
Like interrupted waters, and o’erbear 
What they are us’d to bear ? 

Men. Pray you, begone. 

I ’ll try whether my old wit be in request 201 
With those that have but little. This must be 
patch’d 

With cloth of any colour. 

Com. Nay, come away. 

[Exeunt Coriolanus, Cominius [and 
others ]. 

A Patrician. This man has marr’d his for¬ 
tune. 

Men. His nature is too noble for the world ; 255 
He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, 
Or Jove for’s power to thunder. His heart’s 
his mouth; 

What his breast forges, that his tongue must 
vent; 

And, being angry, does forget that ever 239 
He heard the name of death. [A noise within. 
Here’s goodly work ! 

A Patrician. I would they were a-bed ! 

Men. I would they were in Tiber ! What 
the vengeance! 

Could he not speak ’em fair ? 

Re-enter Brutus and Sicinius, with the rabble. 


Sic. Where is this viper 

That would depopulate the city and 
Be every man himself ? 

Men. You worthy tribunes,— 

Sic. He shall be thrown down the Tarpeian 
rock 266 

With rigorous hands. He hath resisted law, 
And therefore law shall scorn him further trial 
Than the severity of the public power 
Which he so sets at nought. 

j (Jit m He shall well know 

The noble tribunes are the people’s mouths, 271 
And we their hands. 

[Citizens.] He shall, sure on t. 

Men. Sir, sir, — 

Sic* Pgscg ! 

Men. Do not cry havoc, where you should 
but hunt 270 

With modest warrant. 


Sic. Sir, how comes ’t that you 

Have holp to make this rescue ? 

Men. Hear me speak. 

As I do know the consul’s worthiness, 

So can I name his faults, — 

Sic. Consul! what consul ? 

Men. The consul Coriolanus. 

Bru. He consul! 280 

[Citizens.] No, no, no, no, no. 

Men. If, by the tribunes’ leave, and yours, 
good people, 

I may be heard, I would crave a word or two ; 
The which shall turn you to no further harm 
Than so much loss of time. 

Sic. Speak briefly then ; 

For we are peremptory to dispatch 286 

This viperous traitor. To eject him hence 
Were but one danger, and to keep him here 
Our certain death ; therefore it is decreed 
He dies to-night. 

Men. Now the good gods forbid 200 

That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude 
Towards her deserved children is enroll’d 
In Jove’s own book, like an unnatural dam 
Should now eat up her own ! 294 

Sic. He’s a disease that must be cut away. 
Men. O, he’s a limb that has but a disease ; 
Mortal, to cut it off ; to cure it, easy. 

What has he done to Rome that’s worthy death ? 
Killing our enemies, the blood he hath lost — 
Which, I dare vouch, is more than that he 
hath, 800 

By many an ounce — he dropp’d it for his coun¬ 
try; 

And what is left, to lose it by his country 
Were to us all that do ’t and suffer it 
A brand to the end o’ the world. 

Sic. This is clean kam. 

Bru. Merely awry. When he did love his 
country, sob 

It honour’d him. 

Men. The service of the foot 

Being once gangren’d, is not then respected 
For what before it was, — 

Bru. We ’ll hear no more. 

Pursue him to his house and pluck him thence, 
Lest his infection, being of catching nature, sio 
Spread further. 

Men. One word more, one word. 

This tiger-footed rage, when it shall find 
The harm of unscann’d swiftness, will too late 
Tie leaden pounds to’s heels. Proceed by pro¬ 
cess, 

Lest parties, as he is belov’d, break out, 316 
And sack great Rome with Romans. 

Bru. If it were so, — 

Sic. What do ye talk ? 

Have we not had a taste of his obedience ? 

Our aediles smote ? ourselves resisted ? Come. 
Men. Consider this: he has been bred i’ the 
wars _ t 820 

Since ’a could draw a sword, and is ill school’d 
In bolted language ; meal and bran together 
He throws without distinction. Give me leave ; 
I ’ll go to him, and undertake to bring him 
Where he shall answer, by a lawful form, 32E 
In peace, to his utmost peril. 








Ill 


CORIOLANUS 


hi. u. 


1 . Sen . Noble tribunes, 

It is the humane way. The other course 
Will prove too bloody, and the end of it 
Unknown to the beginning. 

Sic. Noble Menenius, 

Be you then as the people’s officer. 330 

Masters, lay down your weapons. 

Bru. Go not home. 

Sic. Meet on the market-place. We ’ll at¬ 
tend you there; 

Where, if you bring not Marcius, we ’ll proceed 
In our first way. 

Men. I ’ll bring him to you. 

[To the Senators .] Let me desire your company. 

He must come, 335 

Or what is worst will follow. 

[i.] Sen. Pray you, let’s to him. 

[Exeunt. 

[Scene II. A room in Coriolanus's house.] 
Enter Coriolanus, with Nobles. 

Cor. Let them pull all about mine ears, pre¬ 
sent me 

Death on the wheel or at wild horses’ heels, 

Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock, 

That the precipitation might down stretch 
Below the beam of sight, yet will I still e 
Be thus to them. 

Enter Volumnia. 

Noble. You do the nobler. 

Cor. I muse my mother 
Does not approve me further, who was wont 
To call them woollen vassals, things created a 
To buy and sell with groats, to show bare heads 
In congregations, to yawn, be still and won¬ 
der, 

When one but of my ordinance stood up 
To speak of peace or war. — I talk of you. 

fro Voi.] 

Why did you wish me milder ? Would you have 
me 

False to my nature ? Rather say I play is 
The man I am. 

Vol. 0 , sir, sir, sir, 

I would have had you put your power well on, 
Before you had worn it out. 

Cor. Let go. 

Vol. You might have been enough the man 
you are, 

With striving less to be so. Lesser had been 20 
The thwartings of your dispositions, if 
You had not show’d them how ye were dispos’d, 
Ere they lack’d power to cross you. 

Cor. Let them hang ! 

Vol. Ay, and burn too. 

Enter Menenius with the Senators. 

Men. Come, come, you have been too rough, 
something too rough ; 25 

You must return and mend it. 

[ 7 .] Sen. There’s no remedy ; 

Unless, by not so doing, our good city 
Cleave in the midst, and perish. 

Vol. Pray, be counseled. 

I have a heart as little apt as yours, 


But yet a brain that leads my use of anger so 
To better vantage. 

Men. Well said, noble woman ! 

Before he should thus stoop to the herd, but 
that 

The violent fit o’ the time craves it as physic 
For the whole state, I would put mine armour 
on, 34 

Which I can scarcely bear. 

Cor. What must I do ? 

Men. Return to the tribunes. 

Cor. Well, what then ? what then? 

Men. Repent what you have spoke. 

Cor. For them ! I cannot do it to the gods ; 
Must I then do ’t to them ? 

Vol. You are too absolute ; 

Though therein you can never be too noble, 40 
But when extremities speak. I have heard you 
say 

Honour and policy, like unsever’d friends, 

I’ the war do grow together. Grant that, and 
tell me 

In peace what each of them by the other lose 
That they combine not there. 

Cor. Tush, tush ! 

Men. A good demand. 

Vol. If it be honour in your wars to seem 46 
The same you are not, which, for your best ends, 
You adopt your policy, how is it less or worse 
That it shall hold companionship in peace 
With honour, as in war, since that to both eo 
It stands in like request ? 

Cor. Why force you this ? 

Vol. Because that now it lies you on to speak 
To the people ; not by your own instruction, 
Nor by the matter which your heart prompts 
you* 

But with such words that are but roted in m 
Y our tongue, though but bastards and syllables 
Of no allowance to your bosom’s truth. 

Now, this no more dishonours you at all 
Than to take in a town with gentle words, 
Which else would put you to your fortune and 
The hazard of much blood. 61 

I would dissemble with my nature where 
My fortunes and my friends at stake requir’d 
I should do so in honour. I am in this, 

Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles ; 
And you will rather show our general louts 66 
How you can frown, than spend a fawn upon 
’em 

For the inheritance of their loves and safeguard 
Of what that want might ruin. 

Men. * Noble lady! 

Come, go with us; speak fair. You may salve 

SO, 70 

Not what is dangerous present, but the loss 
Of what is past. 

Vol. I prithee now, my son, 

Go to them, with this bonnet in thy hand ; 

And thus far having stretch’d it —here be 
with them — 

Thy knee bussing the stones — for in such busi¬ 
ness 76 

Action is eloquence, and the eyes of the igno¬ 
rant 

More learned than the ears — waving thy head, 





in. iii. 


CORIOLANUS 


1119 


Which often thus correcting thy stout heart, 
Now humble as the ripest mulberry 
That will not hold the handling: — or say to 
them, so 

Thou art their soldier, and being bred in broils 
Hast not the soft way which, thou dost confess, 
Were fit for thee to use as they to claim, 

In asking their good loves, but thou wilt frame 
Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far ss 
As thou hast power and person. 

Men. This but done, 

Even as she speaks, why, their hearts were 
yours ; 

For they have pardons, being ask’d, as free 
As words to little purpose. 

Vol. Prithee now, 

Go, and be rul’d ; although I know thou hadst 
rather »o 

Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf 
Than flatter him in a bower. 

Enter Cominius. 

Here is Cominius. 
Com. I have been i’ the market-place ; and, 
sir, ’t is fit 

You make strong party, or defend yourself 
By calmness or by absence. All’s in anger. 95 
Men. Only fair speech. 

Com. I think’t will serve, if he 

Can thereto frame his spirit. 

Vol. He must, and will. 

Prithee now, say you will, and go about it. 

Cor. Must I go show them my unbarb’d 
sconce ? Must I 

With my base tongue give to my noble heart 100 
A lie that it must bear ? Well, I will do ’t; 
Yet, were there but this single plot to lose, 

This mould of Marcius, they to dust should 
grind it 

And throw’t against the wind. To the market¬ 
place ! 

You have put me now to such a part which 
never 105 

I shall discharge to the life. 

Com. Come, come, we ’ll prompt you. 

Vol. I prithee now, sweet son, as thou hast 
said 

My praises made thee first a soldier, so, 

To have my praise for this, perform a part 
Thou hast not done before. 

Cor. Well, I must do’t. 

Away, my disposition, and possess me m 

Some harlot’s spirit! My throat of war be 
turn’d, 

Which choir d with my drum, into a pipe 
Small as an eunuch’s, or the virgin voice 
That babies lull asleep ! The smiles of knaves 
Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboys’ tears take 
up ns 

The glasses of my sight! A beggar’s tongue 
Make motion through my lips, and my arm’d 
knees, 

Who bow’d but in my stirrup, bend like his 
That hath receiv’d an alms ! — I will not do’t, 
Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth 121 
And by my body’s action teach my mind 
A most inherent baseness. 


Vol. At thy choice, then. 

To beg of thee, it is my more dishonour 
Than thou of them. Come all to ruin ! Let 12# 
Thy mother rather feel thy pride than fear 
Thy dangerous stoutness ; for I mock at death 
With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list. 
Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck’dst it 
from me, 

But owe thy pride thyself. 

Cor. Pray, be content. 

Mother, I am going to the market-place ; 131 

Chide me no more. I ’ll mountebank their 
loves, 

Cog their hearts from them, and come home 
belov’d 

Of all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going ; 
Commend me to my wife. I ’ll return consul; 13s 
Or never trust to what my tongue can do 
I’ the way of flattery further. 

Vol. Do your will. 

[Exit. 

Com. Away! the tribunes do attend you. 
Arm yourself 

To answer mildly ; for they are prepar’d 
With accusations, as I hear, more strong 140 
Than are upon you yet. 

Cor. The word is “mildly.” Pray you, let 
us go. 

Let them accuse me by invention, I 
Will answer in mine honour. 

Men. Ay, but mildly. 

Cor. Well, mildly be it then. Mildly ! us 

[Exeunt. 


[Scene III. The same. The Forum.] 

Enter Sicinius and Brutus. 

Bru. In this point charge him home, that he 
affects 

Tyrannical power. If he evade us there, 
Enforce him with his envy to the people, 

And that the spoil got on the Antiates 
Was ne’er distributed. 

Enter an ^Edlle. 

What, will he come ? b 

xEd. He’s coming. 

Bru. How accompanied ? 

xEd. With old Menenius, and those senators 
That always favour’d him. 

Sic. Have you a catalogue 

Of all the voices that we have procur’d 
Set down by the poll ? 

xEd. I have ; ’t is ready. 10 

Sic. Have you collected them by tribes ? 
xEd. I have. 

Sic. Assemble presently the people hither ; 
And when they hear me say, “ It shall be so 
I’ the right and strength o’ the commons,” be 
it either 

For death, for fine, or banishment, then let 
them, is 

If I say fine, cry “ Fine! ” if death, cry 
“Death!” 

Insisting on the old prerogative 
And power i’ the truth o’ the cause. 
sEd. I shall inform them. 










1120 


C 0 RI 0 LANUS 


hi. m. 


Bru. And when such time they have begun 
to cry, 

Let them not cease, hut with a din confus’d 20 
Enforce the present execution 
Of what we chance to sentence. 
zEd. Very well. 

Sic. Make them he strong and ready for this 
hint, 

When we shall hap to give ’t them. 

Bru. Go about it. 

[Exit zEdile .] 

Put him to choler straight. He hath been us’d 
Ever to conquer, and to have his worth 26 

Of contradiction. Being once chaf’d, he can¬ 
not 

Be rein’d again to temperance ; then he speaks 
What’s in his heart, and that is there which 
looks 

With us to break his neck. 

Enter Coriolanus, Menenius, and Cominius, 
with others [Senators and Patricians]. 

Sic. Well, here he comes. 

Men. Calmly, I do beseech you. 31 

Cor. Ay, as an ostler, that for the poorest 
piece 

Will bear the knave by the volume. The hon¬ 
our’d gods 

Keep Rome in safety, and the chairs of justice 
Supplied with worthy men ! plant love among’s! 
Throng our large temples with the shows of 
peace, 36 

And not our streets with war ! 

1 . Sen. Amen, amen. 

Men. A noble wish. 

Be-enter HCdile, with Citizens. 

Sic. Draw near, ye people. 

zEd. List to your tribunes. Audience! 

peace, I say ! 40 

Cor. First, hear me speak. 

Both Tri. Well, say. Peace, ho ! 

Cor. Shall I be charg’d no further than this 
present ? 

Must all determine here ? 

Sic. * I do demand 

If you submit you to the people’s voices, 

Allow their officers, and are content 45 

To suffer lawful censure for such faults 
As shall be prov’d upon you ? 

Cor. I am content. 

Men. Lo, citizens, he says he is content. 

The warlike service he has done, consider; 
think 

Upon the wounds his body bears, which show bo 
L ike graves i’ the holy churchyard. 

Cor. Scratches with briers, 

Scars to move laughter only. 

Men. Consider further, 

That when he speaks not like a citizen, 

You find him like a soldier. Do not take 
His rougher accents for malicious sounds, bb 
But, as I say, such as become a soldier 
Rather than envy you. 

Com. Well, well, no more. 

Cor. What is the matter 
That being pass’d for consul with full voice, 


I am so dishonour’d that the very hour 00 

You take it off again ? 

Sic. Answer to us. 

Cor. Say, then; ’t is true, I ought so. 

Sic. We charge you, that you have contriv’d 
to take 

From Rome all season’d office and to wind 
Yourself into a power tyrannical; 66 

For which you are a traitor to the people. 

Cor. How ! traitor ! 

Men. Nay, temperately ; your promise. 
Cor. The fires i’ the lowest hell fold in the 
people ! 

Call me their traitor ! Thou injurious tribune ! 
Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths, 
In thy hands clutch’d as many millions, in n 
Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say 
“ Thou liest ” unto thee with a voice as free 
As I do pray the gods. 

Sic. Mark you this, people ? 

[Citizens.] To the rock, to the rock with him ! 
Sic. Peace! 

We need not put new matter to his charge. 76 
What you have seen him do and heard him 
speak, 

Beating your officers, cursing yourselves, 
Opposing laws with strokes and here defying 
Those whose great power must try him ; even 
this, so 

So criminal and in such capital kind, 

Deserves the extremest death. 

Bru. But since he hath 

Serv’d well for Rome, — 

Cor. What do you prate of service ? 

Bru. I talk of that, that know it. 

Cor. You ? 86 

Men. Is this the promise that you made your 
mother ? 

Com. Know, I pray you, — 

Cor. I ’ll know no further. 

Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death, 
Vagabond exile, flaying, pent to linger 
But with a grain a day, I would not buy 90 
Their mercy at the price of one fair word ; 

Nor check my courage for what they can give, 
To have’t with saying “ Good morrow.” 

Sic. For that he has, 

As much as in him lies, from time to time 
Envi’d against the people, seeking means 96 
To pluck away their power, as now at last 
Given hostile strokes, and that not in the pre¬ 
sence 

Of dreaded justice, but on the ministers 
That do distribute it; in the name o’ the 
people 

And in the power of us the tribunes, we, 100 
Even from this instant, banish him our city, 

In peril of precipitation 
From off the rock Tarpeian never more 
To enter our Rome gates. I’ the people’s name, 
I say it shall be so. 105 

[Citizens.] It shall be so, it shall be so. Let 
him away ! 

He’s banish’d, and it shall be so. 

Com. Hear me, my masters, and my com¬ 
mon friends, — 

Sic. He’s sentenc’d ; no more hearing. 




IV. l. 


CORIOLANUS 


112 I 


Com. Let me speak. 

I have been consul, and can show for Rome no 
Her enemies’ marks upon me. I do love 
My country’s good with a respect more tender, 
More holy and profound, than mine own life, 
My dear wife’s estimate, her womb’s increase 
And treasure of my loins ; then if I would ns 
Speak that, — 

Sic. We know your drift; speak what ? 
Bru. There’s no more to be said, but he is 
banish’d 

As enemy to the people and his country. 

It shall be so. 

[Citizens.] It shall be so, it shall be so. 

Cor. You common cry of curs ! whose breath 
I hate 120 

As reek o’ the rotten fens, whose loves I prize 
As the dead carcasses of unburied men 
That do corrupt my air, I banish you ! 

And here remain with your uncertainty ! 

Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts ! 125 
Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes, 
Fan you into despair ! Have the power still 
To banish your defenders ; till at length 
Your ignorance, which finds not till it feels. 
Making not reservation of yourselves, 130 

Still your own foes, deliver you as most 
Abated captives to some nation 
That won you without blows ! Despising, 

For you, the city, thus I turn my back ; 

There is a world elsewhere. 13s 

[Exeunt Coriolanus , Cominius [Men- 
enius, Senators , and Patricians ]. 
They all shout , and throw up 
their caps. 

EEd. The people’s enemy is gone, is gone ! 
[Citizens.] Our enemy is banish’d! he is 
gone ! Hoo ! hoo ! 

Sic. Go, see him out at gates, and follow him, 
As he hath follow’d you, with all despite ; 

Give him deserv’d vexation. Let a guard 140 
Attend us through the city. 

[Citizens.] Come, come ; let’s see him out at 
gates; come. 

The gods preserve our noble tribunes ! Come. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT IV 

[Scene I. Borne. Before a gate of the city.] 

Enter Coriolanus, Volumnia, Virgilia, 
Menenius, Cominius, with the young Nobility 
of Rome. 

Cor. Come, leave your tears : a brief fare¬ 
well. The beast 

With many heads butts me away. Nay, mother, 
Where is your ancient courage ? You were us’d 
To say extremity was the trier of spirits ; 

That common chances common men could bear ; 
That when the sea was calm all boats alike e 
Show’d mastership in floating; fortune’s blows, 
When most struck home, being gentle, 
wounded, craves 

A noble cunning. You were us’d to load me 
With precepts that would make invincible 10 
The heart that conn’d them. 


Vir. 0 heavens! 0 heavens! 

Cor. Nay, I prithee, woman, — 

Vol. Now the red pestilence strike all trades 
in Rome, 

And occupations perish! 

Cor. What, what, what! 

I shall be lov’d when I am lack’d. Nay, mother, 
Resume that spirit, when you were wont to 
say, « 

If you had been the wife of Hercules, 

Six of his labours you’d have done, and sav’d 
Your husband so much sweat. Cominius, 

Droop not; adieu. Farewell, my wife, my 
mother; 20 

I’ll do well yet. Thou old and true Menen¬ 
ius, 

Thy tears are salter than a younger man’s, 

And venomous to thine eyes. My sometime 
general, 

I have seen thee stern, and thou hast oft be¬ 
held 

Heart-hard’ning spectacles; tell these sad 
women 25 

’T is fond to wail inevitable strokes, 

As ’tis to laugh at ’em. My mother, you wot 
well 

My hazards still have been your solace ; and 
Believe’t not lightly — though I go alone, 

Like to a lonely dragon, that his fen 3 t> 

Makes fear’d and talk’d of more than seen —> 
your son 

Will or exceed the common or be caught 
With cautelous baits and practice. 

Vol. My first son, 

Whither wilt thou go ? Take good Cominius 
With thee a while ; determine on some course, 
More than a wild exposture to each chance 36 
That starts i’ the way before thee. 

Cor. 0 the gods ! 

Com. I’ll follow thee a month, devise with 
thee 

Where thou shalt rest, that thou mayst hear of 
us 

And we of thee ; so if the time thrust forth 40 
A cause for thy repeal, we shall not send 
O’er the vast world to seek a single man, 

And lose advantage, which doth ever cool 
I’ the absence of the needer. 

Cor. Fare ye well! 

Thou hast years upon thee, and thou art too full 
Of the wars’ surfeits, to go rove with one 46 
That’s yet unbruis’d. Bring me but out at 
gate. 

Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and 
My friends of noble touch, when I am forth. 
Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you, come. 
While I remain above the ground, you shall 
Hear from me still, and never of me aught 
But what is like me formerly. 

Men. That’s worthily 

As any ear can hear. Come, let’s not weep. 

If I could shake off but one seven years bb 
F rom these old arms and legs, by the good 
gods, 

I’d with thee every foot. 

Cor. Give me thy hand: 

Come. [Exeunt. 








1122 


CORIOLANUS 


iv. iii. 


[Scene II. The same. A street near the gate.] 
Enter Sicinius, Brutus, and an ^Edile. 

Sic. Bid them all home ; he’s gone, and we ’ll 
no further. 

The nobility are vexed, whom we see have 
sided 

In his behalf. 

Bru. Now we have shown our power, 

Let us seem humbler after it is done 
Than when it was a-doing. 

Sic. Bid them home, c 

Say their great enemy is gone, and they 
Stand in their ancient strength. 

Bru. Dismiss them home. 

[Exit xEdile.] 

Here comes his mother. 


Enter Volumnia, Virgilia, and Menenius. 

Sic. Let’s not meet her. 

Bru. Why ? 

Sic. They say she ’s mad. 

Bru. They have ta’en note of us; keep on 
your way. 

Vol. O, you ’re well met. The hoarded 
plague o’ the gods 

Requite your love! 

Men. Peace, peace ; be not so loud. 

Vol. If that I could for weeping, you should 
hear, — 

Nay, and you shall hear some. [To Brutus.\ 
Will you be gone? 

Vir. [To Sicinius .] You shall stay too. I 
would I had the power is 

To say so to my husband. 

Sic. Are you mankind ? 

Vol. Ay, fool; is that a shame ? Note but 
this fool. 

Was not a man my father? Hadst thou fox- 
ship 

To banish him that struck more blows for 
Rome 

Than thou hast spoken words ? 

Sic. O blessed heavens ! 

Vol. Moe noble blows than ever thou wise 
words, 21 

And for Rome’s good. I ’ll tell thee what: — 
yet go. 

Nay, but thou shalt stay too: — I would my 
son 

Were in Arabia and thy tribe before him, 

His good sword in his hand. 

Sic. What then ? 

Vir. What then! 

He ’d make an end of thy posterity. 26 

Vol. Bastards and all! 

Good man, the wounds that he does bear for 
Rome! 

Men. Come, come, peace. 

Sic. I would he had continued to his coun¬ 
try so 

As he began, and not unknit himself 

The noble knot he made. 

Bru. I would he had. 

Vol. * I would he had ” ! ’T was you in¬ 
cens’d the rabble; 

Cats, that can judge as fitly of his worth 


As I can of those mysteries which heaven 35 
Will not have earth to know. 

Bru. Pray, let’s go. 

Vol. Now, pray, sir, get you gone ; 

You have done a brave deed. Ere you go, hear 
this: 

As far as doth the Capitol exceed sfl 

The meanest house in Rome, so far my son — 
This lady’s husband here, this, do you see ? — 
Whom you have banish’d, does exceed you all. 
Bru. Well, well, we ’ll leave you. 

Sic. Why stay we to be baited 

With owe that wants her wits ? 

[Exeunt Tribunes. 
Vol. Take my prayers with you. 

I would the gods had nothing else to do 45 
But to confirm my curses ! Could I meet ’em 
But once a-day, it would unclog my heart 
Of what lies heavy to ’t. 

Men. You have told them home ; 

And, by my troth, you have cause. You ’ll sup 
with me ? 

Vol. Anger’s my meat; I sup upon myself, 
And so shall starve with feeding. Come, let’s 
go. 61 

[To Virgilia.] Leave this faint puling and 
lament as I do, 

In anger, Juno-like. Come, come, come. 

[Exeunt. 

Men. Fie, fie, fie! [Exit. 


[Scene III. A highway between Borne and An- 
tium.] 

Enter a Roman and a Volsce [meeting]. 

Bom. I know you well, sir, and you know 
me. Your name, I think, is Adrian. 

Vols. It is so, sir. Truly, I have forgot you. 

Bom. I am a Roman ; and my services are, 
as you are, against ’em. Know you me yet? s 

Vols. Nicanor? No. 

Bom. The same, sir. 

Vols. You had more beard when I last saw 
you ; but your favour is well appear’d by your 
tongue. What’s the news in Rome ? I bave 
a note from the Volscian state, to find you out 
there. You have well saved me a day’s jour¬ 
ney. 12 

Bom. There hath been in Rome strange in¬ 
surrections ; the people against the senators, 
patricians, and nobles. 

Vols. Hath been! Ls it ended, then? Our 
state thinks not so. They are in a most warlike 
preparation, and hope to come upon them in the 
heat of their division. i» 

Bom. The main blaze of it is past, but a 
small thing would make it flame again ; for the 
nobles receive so to heart the banishment of 
that worthy Coriolanus, that they are in a ripe 
aptness to take all power from the people and 
to pluck from them their tribunes for ever. 
This lies glowing, I can tell you, and is almost 
mature for the violent breaking out. 27 

Vols. Coriolanus banish’d ! 

Bom. Banish’d, sir. 

Vols. You will be welcome with this intelli¬ 
gence, Nicanor. st 







iv. v. 


CORIOLANUS 


1123 


Rom. The day serves well for them now. I 
have heard it said, the fittest time to corrupt 
a man’s wife is when she’s fallen out with 
her husband. Your noble Tullus Aufidius will 
appear well in these wars, his great opposer, 
Coriolanus, being now in no request of his 
country. 3 s 

VoLs. He cannot choose. I am most fortunate 
thus accidentally to encounter you. You have 
ended my business, and I will merrily accom¬ 
pany you home. 42 

Rom. I shall, between this and supper, tell 
you most strange things from Rome ; all tend¬ 
ing to the good of their adversaries. Have you 
an army ready, say you ? 46 

Vols. A most royal one ; the centurions and 
their charges, distinctly billeted, already in the 
entertainment, and to be on foot at an hour’s 
warning. eo 

Rom. I am joyful to hear of their readiness, 
and am the man, I think, that shall set them 
in present action. So, sir, heartily well met, 
ana most glad of your company. 64 

Vols. You take my part from me, sir ; I have 
the most cause to be glad of yours. 

Rom. Well, let us go together. [ Exeunt. 


This enemy town. I ’ll enter. If he slay me, 
He does fair justice ; if he give me way, 2c 
I ’ll do his country service. [Exit. 

[Scene Y. The same. A hall in Aufidius's 
house.] 

Music within. Enter a Servingman. 

1 . Serv. Wine, wine, wine ! What service is 

here 1 I think our fellows are asleep. [Exit. 

Enter a second Servingman. 

2 . Serv. Where’s Cotus ? my master calls for 

him. Cotus! [Exit. 

Enter Coriolanus. 

Cor. A goodly house! The feast smells well, 
but I 6 

Appear not like a guest. 

Re-enter the first Servingman. 

1 . Serv. What would you have, friend ? 
Whence are you ? Here’s no place for you; 
pray, go to the door. [Exit. 

Cor. I have deserv’d no better entertainment, 

In being Coriolanus. 11 


[Scene IV. Antium. Before Aufidius's house.] 

Enter Coriolanus, in mean apparel , disguis'd 
and muffled. 

Cor. A goodly city is this Antium. City, 

’T is I that made thy widows ; many an heir 
Of these fair edifices ’fore my wars 
Have I heard groan and drop. Then know me 
not, 

Lest that thy wives with spits and boys with 
stones s 

In puny battle slay me. 

Enter a Citizen. 

Save you, sir. 

Cit. And you. 

Cor. Direct me, if it be your will, 

Where great Aufidius lies. Is he in Antium ? 

Cit. He is, and feasts the nobles of the state 
At his house this night. 

Cor. Which is his house, beseech you ? 10 
Cit. This, here before you. 

Cor. Thank you, sir: farewell. 

[Exit Citizen. 

O world, thy slippery turns ! Friends now fast 
sworn, 

Whose double bosoms seem to wear one heart, 
Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal and ex¬ 
ercise 

Are still together, who twin, as’t were, in love 
Unseparable, shall within this hour, 16 

On a dissension of a doit, break out 
To bitterest enmity ; so, fellest foes, 

Whose passions and whose plots have broke 
their sleep 

To take the one the other, by some chance, 20 
Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear 
friends 

And interjoin their issues. So with me ; 

My birthplace hate I, and my love ’s upon 


Re-enter second Servingman. 

2 . Serv. Whence are you, sir ? Has the porter 
his eyes in his head, that he gives entrance to 
such companions ? Pray, get you out. 

Cor. Away! 1 s 

2 . Serv. Away ! get you away. 

Cor. Now thou ’rt troublesome. 

2 . Serv. Are you so brave ? I ’ll have you 
talk’d with anon. 

Enter a third Servingman. The first meets him. 

3 . Serv. What fellow’s this ? 20 

1 . Serv. A strange one as ever I look’d on ; 

I cannot get him out o’ th’ house. Prithee, call 
my master to him. [Retires.] 

3 . Serv. What have you to do here, fellow ? 
Pray you, avoid the house. 26 

Cor. Let me but stand ; I will not hurt your 
hearth. 

3 . Serv. What are you ? 

Cor. A gentleman. 

3 . Serv. A marvellous poor one. so 

Cor. True, so I am. 

3 . Serv. Pray you, poor gentleman, take up 
some other station ; here ’s no place for you. 
Pray you, avoid. Come. 34 

Cor. Follow your function, go, and batten on 
cold bits. [Pushes him away from him. 

3 . Serv. What, you will not? Prithee, tell 
my master what a strange guest he has here. 

2 . Serv. And I shall. [Exit. 

3 . Serv. Where dwell’st thou ? 40 

Cor. Under the canopy. 

3 . Serv. Under the canopy ? 

Cor. Ay. 

3 . Serv. Where’s that ? 

Cor. I’ the city of kites and crows. 45 

3 . Serv. I’ the city of kites and crows ! What 
an ass it is! Then thou dwell’st with daws 
too ? 







1124 


CORIOLANUS 


iv. v. 


Cor. No, I serve not thy master. 

3 . Serv. How, sir ! do you meddle with my 
master ? . 61 

Cor. Ay ; ’t is an honester service than to 
meddle with thy mistress. 

Thou prat’st, and prat’st; serve with thy 
trencher, hence ! 

[Beats him away. [Exit third Serv- 
ingman.\ 

Enter Aufidius with the [second] Servingman. 

Auf. Where is this fellow ? w 

2 . Serv. Here, sir. I ’d have beaten him like 
a dog, but for disturbing the lords within. 

[Retires.] 

Auf. Whence com’st thou ? What wouldst 
thou ? Thy name ? 

Why speak’st not ? Speak, man: what’s thy 
name? 

Cor. If, Tullus [unmuffling], not yet thou [60 
know’st me, and, seeing me, dost not think me 
for the man I am, necessity commands me 
name myself. 

Auf. What is thy name ? 

Cor. A name unmusical to the Volscians’ 
ears, 

And harsh in sound to thine. 

Auf. Say, what’s thy name ? 

Thou hast a grim appearance, and thy face 66 
Bears a command in ’t; though thy tackle ’s 
torn, 

Thou show’st a noble vessel. What’s thy name ? 
Cor. Prepare thy brow to frown. Know’st 
thou me yet ? 

Auf. I know thee not. Thy name ? to 

Cor. My name is Caius Marcius, who hath 
done 

To thee particularly and to all the Volsces 
Great hurt and mischief ; thereto witness may 
My surname, Coriolanus. The painful service, 
The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood to 
S hed for my thankless country are requited 
But with that surname ; a good memory, 

And witness of the malice and displeasure 
Which thou shouldst bear me. Only that name 
remains. 

The cruelty and envy of the people, so 

Permitted by our dastard nobles, who 
Have all forsook me, hath devour’d the rest; 
And suffer’d me by the voice of slaves to be 
Whoop’d out of Rome. Now this extremity 
Hath brought me to thy hearth ; not out of 
hope — so 

Mistake me not — to save my life, for if 
I had fear’d death, of all the men i’ the world 
I would have ’voided thee, but in mere spite, 
To be full quit of those my banishers, 

Stand I before thee here. Then if thou hast so 
A heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge 
Thine own particular wrongs and stop those 
maims 

Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee 
straight. 

And make my misery serve thy turn. So use it 
That my revengeful services may prove so 
As benefits to thee, for I will fight 
Against my cank’red country with the spleen 


Of all the under fiends. But if so be 
Thou dar’st not this, and that to prove more 
fortunes 

Thou ’rt tired, then, in a word, I also am ioo 
Longer to live most weary, and present 
My throat to thee and to thy ancient malice ; 
Which not to cut would show thee but a fool, 
Since I have ever followed thee with hate, 
Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country’s 
breast, 105 

And cannot live but to thy shame, unless 
It be to do thee service. 

Auf. O Marcius, Marcius ! 

Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from 
my heart 

A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter 
Should from yond cloud speak divine things, no 
And say “’Tis true,” I’d not believe them 
more 

Than thee, all noble Marcius. Let me twine 
Mine arms about that body, whereagainst 
My grained ash an hundred times hath broke, 
And scarr’d the moon with splinters. Here I 
clip 115 

The anvil of my sword, and do contest 
As hotly and as nobly with thy love 
As ever in ambitious strength I did 
Contend against thy valour. Know thou first, 

I lov’d the maid I married ; never man 129 
Sigh’d truer breath ; but that I see thee here, 
Thou noble thing! more dances my rapt heart 
Than when I first my wedded mistress saw 
Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars! I 
tell thee, 

We have a power on foot; and I had purpose 
Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn, 
Or lose mine arm for ’t. Thou hast, beat me 
out 

Twelve several times, and I have nightly 
since 

Dreamt of encounters ’twixt thyself and me ; * 
We have been down together in my sleep, 130 
Unbuckling helms, fisting each other’s throat, 
And wak’d half dead with nothing. Worthy 
Marcius, 

Had we no quarrel else to Rome, but that 
Thou art thence banish’d, we would muster all 
From twelve to seventy, and pouring war 135 
Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, 

Like a bold flood o’er-beat. O, come, go in, 
And take our friendly senators by the hands ; 
Who now are here, taking their leaves of me, 
Who am prepar’d against your territories, 140 
Though not for Rome itself. 

Cor. You bless me, gods ! 

Auf. Therefore, most absolute sir, if thou 
wilt have 

The leading of thine own revenges, take 
The one half of my commission; and set 
down — 

As best thou art experienc’d, since thou know’st 
Thy country’s strength and weakness, — thine 
own ways; uo 

Whether to knock against the gates of Rome, 
Or rudely visit them in parts remote, 

To fright them, ere destroy. But come in ; 

Let me commend the first to those that shall 






IV. vi. 


CORIOLANUS 


1125 


Say yea to thy desires. A thousand wel¬ 
comes ! 161 

And more a friend than e’er an enemy ; 

Yet, Marcius, that was much. Your hand; 
most welcome! 

[.Exeunt Coriolanus and Aufidius. 
The two Servingmen [come for¬ 
ward ]. 

1 . Serv. Here’s a strange alteration ! 154 

2 . Serv. By my hand, I had thought to have 
strucken him with a cudgel; and yet my mind 
gave me his clothes made a false report of him. 

1 . Serv. What an arm he has ! He turn’d me 

about with his finger and his thumb, as one 
Would set up a top. iei 

2 . Serv. Nay, I knew by his face that there 
was something in him. He had, sir, a kind of 
face, methought,—I cannot tell how to term 
it. 

1 . Serv. He had so; looking as it were — 

would I were hang’d, but I thought there was 
more in him than I could think. 167 

2 . Serv. So did I, I ’ll be sworn. He is 
simply the rarest man i’ the world. 

1 . Serv. I think he is ; but a greater soldier 

jhan he you wot one. m 

2 . Serv. Who ? My master ? 

1 . Serv. Nay, it’s no matter for that. 

2 . Serv. Worth six on him. 

1 . Serv. Nay, not so neither ; but I take him 

to be the greater soldier. 176 

2 . Serv. Faith, look you, one cannot tell how 
to say that. For the defence of a town, our 
general is excellent. 

1 . Serv. Ay, and for an assault too. wo 

Re-enter third Servingman. 

3 . Serv. O slaves, I can tell you news, — 
news, you rascals! 

1 . and 2 . Serv. What, what, what? Let’s 
partake. 

3 . Serv. I would not be a Roman, of all na¬ 
tions ; I had as lieve be a condemn’d man. we 

1 . and 2 . Serv. Wherefore ? wherefore ? 

3 . Serv. Why, here’s he that was wont to 
thwack our general, Caius Marcius. 

1 . Serv. Why do you say, “ thwack our 

general ” ? wi 

3 . Serv. I do not say, “thwack our gen¬ 
eral ” ; but he was always good enough for him. 

2 . Serv. Come, we are fellows and friends ; 

he was ever too hard for him ; I have heard 
him say so himself. we 

1 . Serv. He was too hard for him directly, to 
say the troth on’t. Before Corioli he scotch’d 
him and notch’d him like a carbonado. 

2 . Serv. An he had been cannibally given, he 

might have boil’d and eaten him too. 201 

1 . Serv. But more of thy news. 

3 . Serv. Why, he is so made on here within, 
as if he were son and heir to Mars ; set at upper 
end o’ the table ; no question ask’d him by [205 
any of the senators, but they stand bald before 
him. Our general himself makes a mistress of 
him ; sanctifies himself with’s hand and turns 
up the white o’ the eye to his discourse. But 
the bottom of the news is, our general is cut i’ 


the middle and but one half of what he was [21# 
yesterday ; for the other has half, by the en¬ 
treaty and grant of the whole table. He ’ll go, 
he says, and sowl the porter of Rome gates by 
the ears. He will mow all down before him, 
and leave his passage poll’d. 215 

2 . Serv. And he’s as like to do’t as any man 
I can imagine. 

. 3 . Serv. Do’t! he will do’t; for, look you, 
sir, he has as many friends as enemies ; wnich 
friends, sir, as it were, durst not, look you, sir, 
show themselves, as we term it, his friends 
whilst he’s in directitude. 222 

1 . Serv. Direetitude ! What ’s that ? 

3 . Serv. But when they shall see, sir, his crest 

up again, and the man in blood, they will out 
of their burrows, like conies after rain, and 
revel all with him. 227 

1 . Serv. But when goes this forward ? 

3 . Serv. To-morrow ; to-day; presently; you 
shall have the drum struck up this afternoon. 
’T is, as it were, a parcel of their feast, and to 
be executed ere they wipe their lips. 232 

2 . Serv. Why, then we shall have a stirring 

world again. This peace is nothing, but to rust 
iron, increase tailors, and breed ballad-mak¬ 
ers. 286 

1 . Serv. Let me have war, say I; it exceeds 

peace as far as day does night; it’s spritely, 
waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a 
very apoplexy, lethargy ; mull’d, deaf, sleepy, 
insensible ; a getter of more bastard children 
than war’s a destroyer of men. 241 

2 . Serv. ’T is so ; and as wars, in some sort, 
may be said to be a ravisher, so it cannot be 
denied but peace is a great maker of cuckolds. 

1 . Serv. Ay, and it makes men hate one an¬ 
other. 246 

3 . Serv. Reason ; because they then less need 

one another. The wars for my money ! I hope 
to see Romans as cheap as Volscians. — They 
are rising, they are rising. 250 

1 . and 2 . Serv. In, in, in, in ! [Exeunt. 

[Scene VI. Rome. A public place.] 
Enter Sicinitts and Brutus. 

Sic. We hear not of him, neither need we 
fear him; 

His remedies are tame. The present peace 
And quietness of the people, which before 
Were in wild hurry, here do make his friends 
Blush that the world goes well, who rather 
had, # e 

Though they themselves did suffer by’t, be¬ 

hold 

Dissentious numbers pest’ring streets than see 
Our tradesmen singing in their shops and going 
About their functions friendly. 

Enter Menenius. 

Bru. We stood to’t in good time. Is this 
Menenius ? t 10 

Sic. ’Tis he, ’tis he. O, he is grown most 
kind of late. 

Hail, sir! 

Men. Hail to you both I 






1126 


CORIOLANUS 


IV. VI. 


Sic. Your Coriolanus 

Is not much miss’d, but with his friends. 

The commonwealth doth stand, and so would 
do, 

Were he more angry at it. is 

Men. All’s well; and might have been much 
better, if 

He could have temporiz’d. 

Sic. Where is he, hear you? 

Men. Nay, I hear nothing; his mother and 
his wife 

Hear nothing from him. 


Enter three or four Citizens. 

[Citizens.] The gods preserve you both! 

Sic. God-den, our neighbours. 20 

Bru. God-den to you all, god-den to you all. 
1. Cit. Ourselves, our wives, and children, on 
our knees, 

Are bound to pray for you both. 

Sic. Live, and thrive ! 

Bru. Farewell, kind neighbours ! We wish’d 
Coriolanus 24 

Had lov’d you as we did. 

[Citizens.] Now the gods keep you ! 

Both Tri. Farewell, farewell. 

[Exeunt Citizens. 
Sic. This is a happier and more comely time 
Than when these fellows ran about the streets, 
Crying confusion. 

Bru. Caius Marcius was 

A worthy officer i’ the war ; but insolent, 30 
O’ercome with pride, ambitious past all think¬ 
ing, 

Self-loving, — 

Sic. And affecting one sole throne, 

Without assistance. 

Men. I think not so. 

Sic. We should by this, to all our lamenta¬ 
tion, 

If he had gone forth consul, found it so. se 
Bru. The gods have well prevented it, and 
Rome 

Sits safe and still without him. 


Enter an ^Edile. 

EEd. Worthy tribunes, 

There is a slave, whom we have put in prison, 
Reports the Volsces with two several powers 
Are ent’red in the Roman territories, 40 

And with the deepest malice of the war 
Destroy what lies before ’em. 

Men. ’T is Aufidius, 

Who, hearing of our Marcius’ banishment, 
Thrusts forth his horns again into the w T orld ; 
Which were inshell’d when Marcius stood for 
Rome, 45 

And durst not once peep out. 

Sic. Come, what talk you 

Of Marcius ? 

Bru. Go see this rumourer whipp’d. It can¬ 
not be 

The Volsces dare break with us. 

Men. Cannot be ! 

We have record that very well it can ; 

And three examples of the like hath been so 
Within my age. But reason with the fellow, 


Before you punish him, where he heard this, 
Lest you shall chance to whip your informa¬ 
tion 

And beat the messenger who bids beware 
Of w hat is to be dreaded. 

Sic. Tell not me! es 

I know this cannot be. 

Bru. Not possible. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. The nobles in great earnestness are 
going 

All to the Senate-house ; some news is come 
That turns their countenances. 

Sic. ’T is this slave, — 

Go whip him ’fore the people’s eyes, — his 
raising; 00 

Nothing but his report. 

Mess. Yes, worthy sir, 

The slave’s report is seconded ; and more, 

More fearful, is deliver’d. 

Sic. What more fearful ? 

Mess. It is spoke freely out of many 
mouths — 

How probable I do not know — that Marcius, 66 
Join’d with Aufidius, leads a power ’gainst 
Rome, 

And vows revenge as spacious as between 
The young’st and oldest thing. 

Sic. This is most likely! 

Bru. Rais’d only, that the weaker sort may 
wish 

Good Marcius home again. 

Sic. The very trick on’t. 

Men. This is unlikely. n 

He and Aufidius can no more atone 
Than violentest contrariety. 

Enter [a second] Messenger. 

[2.] Mess. You are sent for to the Senate. 

A fearful army, led by Caius Marcius n 

Associated wi 4 h Aufidius, rages 
Upon our territories ; and have already 
O’er borne their way, consum’d with fire, and 
took 

What lay before them. 

Enter Cominius. 

Com. 0 , you have made good work ! 

Men. What news ? what news ? 

Com. You have holp to ravish your own 
daughters and si 

To melt the city leads upon your pates, 

To see your wives dishonour’d to your noses, — 
Men. What’s the news ? what’s the news ? 
Com. Your temples burned in their cement, 
and 86 

Your franchises, whereon you stood, confin’d 
Into an auger’s bore. 

Men. Pray now, your news ? — 

You have made fair work, I fear me. — Pray, 
your news ? 

If Marcius should be join’d with Volscians, — 
Com. ’ If J 

He is their god. He leads them like a thing »« 
Made by some other deity than nature, 

That shapes man better ; and they follow him, 





fV. Vll. 


CORIOLANUS 


1127 


Against us brats, with no less confidence 
Than boys pursuing summer butterflies, 

Or butchers killing flies. 

Men. You have made good work, 

1 ou and your apron-men; you that stood so 
much aa 

Upon the voice of occupation and 
The breath of garlic-eaters ! 
r Com. He will shake 

Your liome about your ears. 

Men. As Hercules 

Did shake down mellow fruit. You have made 
fair work ! 100 

Bru. But is this true, sir ? 

Com. Ay ; and you ’ll look pale 

Before you find it other. All the regions 
Do smilingly revolt; and who resists 
Are mock’d for valiant ignorance, 

And perish constant fools. Who is’t can blame 
him ? 100 

Your enemies and his find something in him. 

Men. We are all undone, unless 
The noble man have mercy. 

Com.' Who shall ask it ? 

The tribunes cannot do ’t for shame; the 
people 

Deserve such pity of him as the wolf no 

Does of the shepherds. For his best friends, if 
they 

Should say, “ Be good to Rome,” they charg’d 
him even 

As those should do that had deserv’d his hate, 
And therein show’d like enemies. 

Men. ’T is true. 

If he were putting to my house the brand ns 
That should consume it, I have not the face 
To say, “ Beseech you, cease.” You have made 
fair hands, 

You and your crafts ! You have crafted fair ! 

Com. You have brought 

A trembling upon Rome, such as was never 
So incapable of help. 

[Both] Tri. Say not we brought it. 120 

Men. How ! Was’t we ? We lov’d him ; but, 
like beasts 

And cowardly nobles, gave way unto your 
clusters, 

Who did hoot him out o’ the city. 

Com. But I fear 

They ’ll roar him in again. Tullns Aufidius, 
The second name of men, obeys his points 125 
As if he were his officer. Desperation 
Is all the policy, strength, and defence, 

That Rome can make against them. 


Enter a troop of Citizens. 

Men. Here come the clusters. 

And is Aufidius with him ? You are they 
That made the air unwholesome, when you 
cast . _ 130 

Your stinking greasy caps in hooting at 
Coriolanus’ exile. Now he’s coming ; 

And not a hair upon a soldier’s head 
Which will not prove a whip. As many cox¬ 
combs 

As you threw caps up will he tumble down, i 3 fi 
And pay you for your voices. ’T is no matter ; 


If he could burn us all into one coal, 

We have deserv’d it. 

[Citizens.] Faith, we hear fearful news. 

{• Git. For mine own part, 

W hen I said, banish him, I said, ’t was pity, no 

2 . Cit. And so did I. 

3 . Cit. And so did I; and, to say the truth, 

so did very many of us. That we did, we did 
for the best; and though we willingly con¬ 
sented to his banishment, yet it was against 
our will. 146 

Com. You ’re goodly things, you voices! 

Men. You have made 

Good work, you and your cry ! Shall’s to the 
Capitol ? 

Com. O, ay, what else ? 

[Exeunt Cominius and Menenius. 

Sic. Go, masters, get you home ; be not dis¬ 
may’d. 150 

These are a side that would be glad to have 
This true which they so seem to fear. Go home, 
And show no sign of fear. 

1 . Cit. The gods be good to us ! Come, mas¬ 

ters, let ’s home. I ever said we were i’ the 
wrong when we banish’d him. ice 

2 . Cit. So did we all. But, come, let’s home. 

[Exeunt Citizens. 

Bru. I do not like this news. 

Sic. Nor I. 

Bru. Let’s to the Capitol. Would half my 
wealth iso 

Would buy this for a lie ! 

Sic. Fray, let’s go. 

[Exeunt. 


[Scene VII. A camp , at a small distance from 
Borne.] 

Enter Aufidius with his Lieutenant. 

Auf. Do they still fly to the Roman ? 

Lieu. I do not know vhat witchcraft’s in 
him, but 

Your soldiers use him as the grace ’fore meat, 
Their talk at table, and their thanks at end ; 
And you are dark’ned in this action, sir, s 

Even by your own. 

Auf. I cannot help it now, 

Unless, by using means, I lame the foot 
Of our design. He bears himself more proud- 
lier, 

Even to my person, than I thought he would 
When first I did embrace him ; yet his na¬ 
ture 10 

In that’s no changeling ; and I must excuse 
What cannot be amended. 

Lieu. Yet I wish, sir, — 

I mean for your particular, —yon had not 
Join’d in commission with him ; but either 
Have borne the action of yourself, or else is 
To him had left it solely. 

Auf. I understand tnee well; and be thou 
sure, 

When he shall come to his account, he knows 
not 

What I can urge against him. Although it 
seems, 

And so he thinks, and is no less apparent *0 







1128 


CORIOLANUS 


v. i. 


To the vulgar eye, that lie bears all things 
fairly, 

And shows good husbandry for the Volscian 
state, 

Fights dragon-like, and does achieve as soon 
As draw his sword ; yet he hath left undone 
That which shall break his neck or hazard 
mine, 26 

Whene’er we come to our account. 

Lieu. Sir, I beseech you, think you he ’ll 
carry Rome ? 

Auf. All places yield to him ere he sits down, 
And the nobility of Rome are his. 

The senators and patricians love him too ; 30 

The tribunes are no soldiers, and their people 
Will be as rash in the repeal as hasty 
To expel him thence. I think he ’ll be to Rome 
As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it 
By sovereignty of nature. First he was 35 
A noble servant to them, but he could not 
Carry his honours even. Whether ’t was pride, 
Which out of daily fortune ever taints 
The happy man ; whether defect of judgement, 
To fail in the disposing of those chances 40 
Which he was lord of ; or whether nature, 

Not to be other than one thing, not moving 
From the casque to the cushion, but command¬ 
ing peace 

Even with the same austerity and garb 
As he con troll’d the war ; but one of these, — 
As he hath spices of them all — not all, — 46 

For I dare so far free him, — made him fear’d ; 
80, hated ; and so, banish’d : but he has a merit 
To choke it in the utterance. So our virtues 
Lie in the interpretation of the time ; eo 

And power, unto itself most commendable, 
Hath not a tomb so evident as a chair 
To extol what it hath done. 

One fire drives out one fire ; one nail, one nail; 
Rights by rights falter, strengths by strengths 
do fail. 66 

Come, let ’s away. When, Caius, Rome is 

thine, 

Thou art poor’st of all; then shortly art thou 
mine. [Exeunt. 


ACT V 

[Scene I. Rome. A public place.] 

Enter Menenius, Cominius, Sicinids, Bru¬ 
tus, with others. 

Men. No, I ’ll not go. You hear what he 
hath said 

Which was sometime his general; who lov’d 
him 

In a most dear particular. He call’d me father ; 
But what o’ that ? Go, you that banish’d him ; 
A mile before his tent fall down, and knee 6 
The way into his mercy. N ay, if he coy’d 
To hear Cominius speak, I ’ll keep at home. 
Com. He would not seem to know me. 

Men. Do you hear ? 

Com. Yet one time he did call me by my 
name. 

I urg’d our old acquaintance, and the drops 10 


That we have bled together. Coriolanus 
He would not answer to ; forbade all names ; 
He was a kind of nothing, titleless, 

Till he had forg’d himself a name o’ the fire 
Of burning Rome. 

Men. Why, so ; you have made good work ! 
A pair of tribunes that have wreck’d fair 
Rome is 

To make coals cheap ! A noble memory! 

Com. I minded him how royal’t was to par¬ 
don 

When it was less expected ; he replied, 

It was a bare petition of a state 20 

To one whom they had punish’d. 

Men. Very well; 

Could he say less ? 

Com. I offered to awaken his regard 
For’s private friends ; his answer to me was, 
He could not stay to pick them in a pile 26 
Of noisome musty chaff. He said’t was folly, 
For one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt 
And still to nose the offence. 

Men. For one poor grain or two! 

I am one of those ; his mother, wife, his child, 
And this brave fellow too, we are the grains. 30 
You are the musty chaff, and you are smelt 
Above the moon ; we must be burnt for you. 
Sic. Nay, pray, be patient. If you refuse 
your aid 

In this so never-needed help, yet do not 
Upbraid’s with our distress. But, sure, if 
you 36 

Would be your country’s pleader, your good 
tongue, 

More than the instant army we can make, 
Might stop our countryman. 

Men. No, I ’ll not meddle. 

Sic. Pray you, go to him. 

Men. What should I do ? 

Bru. Only make trial what your love can 

do 40 

For Rome, towards Marcius. 

Men. Well, and say that Marcius 

Return me, as Cominius is return’d, 

Unheard ; what then ? 

But as a discontented friend, grief-shot 
With his unkindness ? Say’t be so ? 

Sic. Yet your good will 

Must have that thanks from Rome, after the 
measure 46 

As you intended well. 

Men. I ’ll undertake’t. 

I think he ’ll hear me. Yet, to bite his lip 
And hum at good Cominius, much unhearts me. 
He was not taken well; he had not din’d. eo 
The veins unfill’d, our blood is cold, and then 
We pout upon the morning, are unapt 
To give or to forgive ; but when we have stuff’d 
These pipes and these conveyances of our blood 
With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls 
Than in our priest-like fasts: therefore I ’ll 
watch him ee 

Till he be dieted to my request, 

And then I ’ll set upon him. 

Bru. You know the very road into his kind¬ 
ness, 

And cannot lose your way. 





CORIOLANUS 


1129 


v. ii. 


Men. Good faith, I ’ll prove him, 

Speed how it will. I shall ere long have know¬ 
ledge 61 

Of my success. [Exit. 

Com. He ’ll never hear him. 

Sic. Not? 

Com. I tell you, he does sit in gold, his eye 
Red as’t would burn Rome ; and his injury 
The gaoler to his pity. I kneel’d before him ; 65 
’T was very faintly he said, “ Rise ” ; dismiss’d 
me 

Thus, with his speechless hand. What he would 
do, 

He sent in writing after me, what he would not, 
Bound with an oath to yield to his conditions ; 
So that all hope is vain, 70 

Unless his noble mother and his wife, — 

Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him 
For mercy to his country. Therefore, let’s 
hence, 

And with our fair entreaties haste them on. 

[Exeunt. 


[Scene II. Entrance of the Volscian camp be¬ 
fore Rome.] The Watch on guard. 

Enter to them , Menenius. 

1 . Watch. Stay ! Whence are you ? 

2. Watch. Stand, and go back. 

Men. You guard like men; ’t is well; but, 

by your leave, 

I am an officer of state, and come 
To speak with Coriolanus. 

1 . Watch. From whence ? 

Men. From Rome. 

1 . Watch. You may not pass, you must re¬ 

turn ; our general * 

Will no more hear from thence. 

2. Watch. You ’ll see your Rome embrac’d 

with fire before 
You ’ll speak with Coriolanus. 

Men. Good my friends, 

If you have heard your general talk of Rome 
And of his friends there, it is lots to blanks, 10 
My name hath touch’d your ears ; it is Menen¬ 
ius. 

1 . Watch. Beit so; go back. The virtue of 
your name 
Is not here passable. 

Men. I tell thee, fellow, 

Thy general is my lover. I have been 
The book of his good acts, whence men have 
read 16 

His fame unparallel’d haply amplified ; 

For I have ever magnified my friends, 

Of whom he’s chief, with all the size that 
verity 

Would without lapsing suffer ; nay, sometimes, 
Like to a bowl upon a subtle ground, 10 

I have tumbled past the throw; and in his 

praise _ 

Have almost stamp’d the leasing. Therefore, 
fellow, 

I must have leave to pass. 

1 . Watch. Faith, sir, if you had told as many 
lies in his behalf as you have uttered words 
in your own, you should not pass here; no, 


though it were as virtuous to lie as to live 
chastely. Therefore, go back. 28 

Men. Prithee, fellow, remember my name is 
Menenius, always factionary on the party of 
your general. 31 

2. Watch. Howsoever you have been his liar, 
as you say you have, I am one that, telling true 
under him, must say you cannot pass. There¬ 
fore, go back. 36 

Men. Has he din’d, canst thou tell ? for I 
would not speak with him till after dinner. 

1. Watch. You are a Roman, are you ? 

Men. I am, as thy general is. 39 

1 . Watch. Then you should hate Rome, as 
he does. Can you, when you have push’d out 
your gates the very defender of them, and, in a 
violent popular ignorance, given your enemy 
your shield, think to front.his revenges with 
the easy groans of old women, the virginal [*s 
palms of your daughters, or with the palsied 
intercession of such a decay’d dotant as you 
seem to be ? Can you think to blow out the in¬ 
tended fire your city is ready to flame in, with 
such weak breath as this? No, you are de- [so 
ceiv’d ; therefore, back to Rome, and prepare 
for your execution. You are condemn'd, our 
general has sworn you out of reprieve and par¬ 
don. ** 

Men. Sirrah, if thy captain knew I were here, 
he would use me with estimation. 

1. Watch. Come, my captain knows you not. 
Men. I mean, thy general. es 

1. Watch. My general cares not for you. 
Back, I say, go ; lest I let forth your half-pint 
of blood. Back, that’s the utmost of your hav¬ 
ing ; back ! 

Men. Nay, but, fellow, fellow, — 

Enter Coriolanus with Aufidius. 

Cor. What’s the matter ? e * 

Men. Now, you companion, I ’ll say an errand 
for you. You shall know now that I am in 
estimation ; you shall perceive that a Jack 
guardant cannot office me from my son Corio¬ 
lanus. Guess but by my entertainment with 
him if thou stand’st not i’ the state of hanging, 
or of some death more long in spectatorship, [70 
and crueller in suffering ; behold now presently, 
and swoon for what’s to come upon thee. [To 
Cor.] The glorious gods sit in hourly synod 
about thy particular prosperity, and love thee 
no worse than thy old father Menenius does ! [76 
0 my son, my son ! thou art preparing fire for 
us ; look thee, here’s water to quench it. I was 
hardly moved to come to thee; but being as¬ 
sured hone but myself could move thee, I have 
been blown out of our gates with sighs ; and [so 
conjure thee to pardon Rome, and thy petition¬ 
ary countrymen. The good gods assuage thy 
wrath, and turn the dregs of it upon this varlet 
here, — this, who, like a block, hath denied my 
access to thee. 85 

Cor. Away! 

Men. How ! away ! 

Cor. Wife, mother, child, I know not. My 
affairs 

Are servanted to others; though I owe 






ii 3 ° 


CORIOLANUS 


v. iii. 


My revenge properly, my remission lies »< 
In Volscian breasts. That we have been famil- 


Sliall I be tempted to infringe my vow 
In the same time ’t is made ? I will not. 


iar, 

Ingrate forgetfulness shall poison rather 
Than pity note how much. Therefore, begone. 
Mine ears against your suits are stronger than 
Your gates against my force. Yet, for I loved 
thee, 95 

Take this along. I writ it for thy sake, 

[Gives a letter .] 

And would have sent it. Another word, Menen- 
ius, 

I will not hear thee speak. This man, Aufidius, 
Was my belov’d in Rome ; yet thou behold’st! 
Auf. You keep a constant temper. 100 

[Exeunt [Coriolanus and Aufidius]. 

1. Watch. Now, sir, is your name Menenius ? 

2. Watch. ’Tis a spell, you see, of much 
power. You know the way home again. 

1. Watch. Do you hear how we are shent for 

keeping your greatness back ? 10 5 

2. Watch. What cause do you think I have 
to swoon ? 

Men. I neither care for the world nor your 
general; for such things as you, I can scarce 
think there ’s any, you ’re so slight. He that 
hath a will to die by himself fears it not from [no 
another. Let your general do his worst. For 
you, be that you are, long; and your misery 
increase with your age ! I say to you, as I was 
said to. Away ! [Exit. 

1. Watch. A noble fellow, I warrant him. no 

2. Watch. The worthy fellow is our general. 
He’s the rock, the oak not to be wind-shaken. 

[Exeunt. 


[Scene III. The tent of Coriolanus .] 

Enter Coriolanus, Aufidius [and others]. 

Cor. We will before the walls of Rome to¬ 
morrow 

Set down our host. My partner in this action, 
You must report to the Volscian lords, how 
plainly 

I have borne this business. 

Auf. Only their ends 

You have respected ; stopp’d your ears against s 
The general suit of Rome ; never admitted 
A private whisper, no, not with such friends 
That thought them sure of you. 

Cor. This last old man, 

Whom with a crack’d heart I have sent to 
Rome, 

Lov’d me above the measure of a father ; io 
Nay, godded me, indeed. Their latest refuge 
Was to send him ; for whose old love I have, 
Though I show’d sourly to him, once more 
offer’d 

The first conditions, which they did refuse 
And cannot now accept. To grace him only is 
That thought he could do more, a very little 
I have yielded to. Fresh embassies and suits, 
Nor from the state nor private friends, here- 
after 

Will I lend ear to. Ha ! what shout is this ? 

[Shout within. 


Enter [in mourning habits] Virgilia, Volum- 
nia [leading] young Marcius, Valeria, with 
Attendants. 

My wife comes foremost; then the honour’d 
mould 

Wherein this trunk was fram’d, and in her 
hand 

The grandchild to her blood. But out, affec¬ 
tion ! 

All bond and privilege of nature, break ! m 
Let it be virtuous to be obstinate. 

What is that curtsy worth ? or those doves’ 
eyes, 

Which can make gods forsworn ? I melt, and 
am not 

Of stronger earth than others. My mother 
bows, 

As if Olympus to a molehill should 30 

In supplication nod ; and ray young boy 
Hath an aspect of intercession which 
Great nature cries, “ Deny not.” Let the 
Volsces 

Plough Rome and harrow Italy, I ’ll never 
Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand 35 
As if a man were author of himself 
And knew no other kin. 

Vir. My lord and husband 1 

Cor. These eyes are not the same I wore in 
Rome. 

Vir. The sorrow that delivers us thus chang’d 
Makes you think so. 

Cor. Like a dull actor now 

I have forgot my part, and I am out, 

Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh, 
Forgive my tyranny ; but do not say 
For that, “ Forgive our Romans.” O, a kiss 
Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge ! « 

Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss 
I carried from thee, dear ; and my true lip 
Hath virgin’d it e’er since. You gods ! I prate, 
And the most noble mother of the world 
Leave unsaluted. Sink, my knee, i’ the earth ; 

[Kneels. 

Of thy deep duty more impression show ei 
Than that of common sons. 

Vol. O, stand up bless’d ! 

Whilst, with no softer cushion than the flint, 

I kneel before thee ; and improperly 
Show duty, as mistaken all this while es 

Between the child and parent. [Kneels.] 

Cor. [Instantly raising her.) What’s this ? 
Your knees to me ? to your corrected son ? 
Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach 
Fillip the stars ; then let the mutinous winds 
Strike the proud cedars ’gainst the fiery sun, eo 
Murd’ring impossibility, to make 
What cannot be, slight work. 

Vol. Thou art my warrior ; 

I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady ? 

Cor. The noble sister of Publicola, 

The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle m 
T hat’s curded by the frost from purest snow 
And hangs on Dian’s temple. Dear Valeria I 
Vol. This is a poor epitome of yours. 





CORIOLANUS 


1131 


V. iii. 


Which by the interpretation of full time 
May show like all yourself. 

Cor. The god of soldiers, 

With the consent of supreme Jove, inform n 
Thy thoughts with nobleness ; that thou mayst 
prove 

To shame unvulnerable, and stick i’ the wars 
Like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw, 
And saving those that eye thee ! 

Vol. Your knee, sirrah. 

Cor. That’s my brave boy ! 70 

Vol. Even he, your wife, this lady, and my¬ 
self, 

Are suitors to you. 

Cor. I beseech you, peace ; 

Or, if you ’d ask, remember this before : 

The thing I have forsworn to grant may never 
Be held by you denials. Do not bid me si 
Dismiss my soldiers, or capitulate 
Again with Rome’s mechanics ; tell me not 
Wherein I seem unnatural; desire not 
To allay my rages and revenges with sb 

Your colder reasons. 

Vol. O, no more, no more ! 

You have said you will not grant us anything ; 
For we have nothing else to ask, but that 
Which you deny already. Yet we will ask, 
That, if you fail in our request, the blame «o 
May hang upon your hardness ; therefore hear 
us. 

Cor. Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark; for 
we ’ll 

Hear nought from Rome in private. Your re¬ 
quest ? 

Vol. Should we be silent and not speak, our 
raiment 

And state of bodies would bewray what life 95 
We have led since thy exile. Think with thy¬ 
self 

How more unfortunate than all living women 
Are we come hither; since that thy sight, 
which should 

Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with 
comforts, 

Constrains them weep and shake with fear and 
sorrow; 100 

Making the mother, wife, and child to see 
The son, the husband, and the father tearing 
His country’s bowels out. And to poor we 
Thine enmity’s most capital. Thou barr’st us 
Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort iob 
T hat all but we enjoy ; for how can we, 

Alas, how can we for our country pray, 
Whereto we are bound, together with thy vic¬ 
tory, 

Whereto we are bound ? Alack, or we must 
lose 

The country, our dear nurse, or else thy per¬ 
son, 110 

Our comfort in the country. We must find 
An evident calamity, though we had 
Our wish, which side should win; for either 
thou 

Must, as a foreign recreant, be led 

With manacles through our streets, or else n« 

Triumphantly tread on thy country’s ruin, 

And bear the palm for having bravely shed 


Thy wife and children’s blood. For myself, son, 
I purpose not to wait on fortune till 
These wars determine. If I cannot persuade 
thee u« 

Rather to show a noble grace to both parts 
Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner 
March to assault thy country than to tread — 
Trust to ’t, thou shalt not — on thy mother’s 
womb, 

That brought thee to this world. 

Vir. Ay, and on mine, 

That brought you forth this boy, to keep your 
name 120 

Living to time. 

Young Mar. ’A shall not tread on me. 

I ’ll run away till I am bigger, but then I ’ll 
fight. 

Cor. Not of a woman’s tenderness to be, 
Requires nor child nor woman’s face to see. 130 
I have sat too long. [Rising.) 

Vol. Nay, go not from us thus. 

If it were so that our request did tend 
To save the Romans, thereby to destroy 
The Volsces whom you serve, you might con¬ 
demn us, 

As poisonous of your honour. No ; our suit wb 
I s, that you reconcile them : while the Volsces 
May say, “ This mercy we have show’d ” ; the 
Romans, 

“ This we receiv’d ” ; and each in either side 
Give the all-hail to thee, and cry, “ Be blest 
For making up this peace! ” Thou know’st, 
great, son, i«o 

The end of war’s uncertain, but this certain, 
That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit 
Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name 
Whose repetition will be dogg’d with curses ; 
Whose chronicle thus writ: “The man was 
noble, 145 

But with his last attempt he wip’d it out; 
Destroy’d his country; and his name remains 
To the ensuing age abhorr’d.” Speak to me, 
son. 

Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour, 
To imitate the graces of the gods ; iso 

To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o’ the 
air, 

And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt 
That should but rive an oak. Why dost not 
speak ? 

Think’st thou it honourable for a noble man 
Still to remember wrongs? Daughter, speak 
you; ins 

He cares not for your weeping. Speak thou, 
boy ; 

Perhaps thy childishness will move him more 
Than can our reasons. There’s no man in the 
world 

More bound to’s mother; yet here he lets me 
prate 

Like one i’ the stocks. — Thou hast never in 
thy life i«o 

Show’d thy dear mother any courtesy, 

When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood, 
Has cluck’d thee to the wars and safely home, 
Loaden with honour. Say my request’s unjust, 
And spurn me back ; but if it be not so, i«6 





xi3 2 


CORIOLANUS 


v. iv. 


Thou art not honest; and the gods will plague 
thee, 

That thou restrain’st from me the duty which 
To a mother’s part belongs. — He turns away. 
Down, ladies ; let us shame him with our knees. 
To his surname Coriolanus longs more pride no 
Than pity to our prayers. Down ! an end ; 

This is the last. So we will home to Rome, 

And die among our neighbours. — Nay, be¬ 
hold ’s ! 

This boy, that cannot tell what he would have, 
But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship, ns 
Does reason our petition with more strength 
Than thou hast to deny ’t. — Come, let us go. 
This fellow had a Volscian to his mother ; 

His wife is in Corioli, and his child 
Like him by chance. — Yet give us our dis¬ 
patch. 180 

I am hush’d until our city be a-fire, 

And then I ’ll speak a little. 

[He holds her by the hand, silent. 
Cor. 0 mother, mother! 

What have you done ? Behold, the heavens do 
ope, 

The gods look down, and this unnatural scene 
They laugh at. O my mother, mother ! O ! iss 
You have won a happy victory to Rome ; 

But, for your son, — believe it, O, believe it, 
Most dangerously you have with him prevail’d, 
If not most mortal to him. But, let it come. 
Aufidius, though I cannot make true wars, wo 
I ’ll frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufid¬ 
ius, 

Were you in my stead, would you have heard 
A mother less, or granted less, Aufidius ? 

Auf. I was mov’d withal. 

Cor. I dare be sworn you were ; 

And, sir, it is no little thing to make ios 

Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good sir, 
What peace you ’ll make, advise me. For my 
part, 

I ’ll not 1;o Rome, I ’ll back with you ; and 
pray you, 

Stand to me in this cause. — 0 mother ! wife ! 

[Speaks apart with them.] 
Auf. [Aside.] I am glad thou hast set thy 
mercy and thy honour 200 

At difference in thee. Out of that I ’ll work 
Myself a former fortune. 

Cor. [To Volumnia, Virgilia, etc.] Ay, by 
and by ; 

But we will drink together ; and you shall bear 
A better witness back than words, which we, 
On like conditions, will have counter-seal’d. 206 
Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve 
To have a temple built you. All the swords 
In Italy, and her confederate arms, 

Could not have made this peace. [Exeunt. 

[Scene IV. Rome. A public place.] 
Enter Menenius and Sicinius. 

Men. See you yond coign o’ the Capitol, yond 
corner-stone ? 

Sic. Why, what of that ? 

Men. If it be possible for you to displace it 
with your little finger, there is some hope the [6 


ladies of Rome, especially his mother, may pre¬ 
vail with him. But I say there is no hope in’t; 
our throats are sentenc’d and stay upon execu¬ 
tion. 

Sic. Is ’t possible that so short a time can 
alter the condition of a man ? 

Men. There is differency between a grub and 
a butterfly; yet your butterfly was a grub. 
This Marcius is grown from man to dragon; 
he has wings; he’s more than a creeping 
thing. 

Sic. He lov’d his mother dearly. us 

Men. So did he me ; and he no more remem¬ 
bers his mother now than an eight-year-old 
horse. The tartness of his face sours ripe 
grapes; when he walks, he moves like an en¬ 
gine, and the ground shrinks before his tread¬ 
ing. He is able to pierce a corslet with his [20 
eye; talks like a knell, and his hum is a bat¬ 
tery. He sits in his state, as a thing made for 
Alexander. What he bids be done is finish’d 
with his bidding. He wants nothing of a god 
but eternity and a heaven to throne in. 26 

Sic. Yes, mercy, if you report him truly. 
Men. I paint him in the character. Mark 
what mercy his mother shall bring from him. 
There is no more mercy in him than there is 
milk in a male tiger ; that shall our poor city 
find : and all this is long of you. 32 

Sic. The gods be good unto us ! 

Men. No, in such a case the gods will not be 
good unto us. When we banish’d him, we re¬ 
spected not them ; and, he returning to break 
our necks, they respect not us. 37 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. Sir, if you’d save your life, fly to your 
house. 

The plebeians have got your fellow-tribune 
And hale him up and down, all swearing, if 40 
The Roman ladies bring not comfort home, 
They ’ll give him death by inches. 

Enter a second Messenger. 

Sic. What’s the news ? 

[ 2 .] Mess. Good news, good news! The ladies 
have prevail’d, 

The Volscians are dislodg’d, and Marcius gone. 
A merrier day did never yet greet Rome, 46 
No, not the expulsion of the Tarquins. 

Sic. Friend, 

Art thou certain this is true ? Is’t most cer¬ 
tain ? 

[ 2 .] Mess. As certain as I know the sun is 
fire. 

Where have you lurk’d, that you make doubt 
of it ? 

Ne’er through an arch so hurried the blown 
tide, so 

As the recomforted through the gates. Why, 
hark you ! 

[Trumpets; hautboys; drums beat; 
all together. 

The trumpets, saekbuts, psalteries, and fifes, 
Tabors and cymbals and the shouting Romans, 
Make the sun dance. Hark you ! 

[A shout within. 




V. VI. 


CORIOLANUS 


ii 33 


Men. This is good news ; 

I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia 55 
Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians, 

A city full ; of tribunes, such as you, 

A sea and land full. You have pray’d well 
to-day. 

This morning for ten thousand of your throats 
I’d not have given a doit. Hark, how they 
joy ! [ Sound still , with the shouts, eo 

Sic. First, the gods bless you for your tid¬ 
ings ; next, 

Accept my thankfulness. 

[2.] Mess. Sir, we have all 

Great cause to give great thanks. 

Sic. They are near the city ? 

[2.] Mess. Almost at point to enter. 

Sic. We will meet them, 

And help the joy. [Exeunt. 

[Scene V. The same. A street near the gate.] 

Enter two Senators with Ladies [Volumnia, 
Virgilia, Valeria, etc.], passing over the stage , 
with other Lords. 

[i.] Sen. Behold our patroness, the life of 
Rome ! 

Call all your tribes together, praise the gods, 
And make triumphant fires! Strew flowers 
before them! 

Unshout the noise that banish’d Marcius ! 
Repeal him with the welcome of his mother ; 6 
Cry, “Welcome, ladies, welcome ! ” 

All. Welcome, ladies, 

Welcome ! [ANourish with drums and trumpets. 

[Exeunt.] 

[Scene VI. Corioli. A public place.] 
Enter Tullus Aufidius, with Attendants. 

Auf. Go tell the lords o’ the city I am here ; 
Deliver them this paper. Having read it, 

Bid them repair to the market-place, where I, 
Even in theirs and in the commons’ ears, 

Will vouch the truth of it. Him I accuse b 
T he city ports by this hath enter’d, and 
Intends to appear before the people, hoping 
To purge himself with words. Dispatch. 

[Exeunt Attendants.] 

Enter three or four Conspirators of Aufidius ’ 
faction. 

Most welcome ! 

1. Con. How is it with our general ? 

Auf. Even so 

As with a man by his own alms empoison’d, 11 
And with his charity slain. 

2. Con. Most noble sir, 

If you do hold the same intent wherein 
You wish’d us parties, we ’ll deliver you 
Of your great danger. 

Auf. Sir, I cannot tell. 

We must proceed as we do find the people. 

3. Con. The people will remain uncertain 

whilst 

’Twixt you there’s difference ; but the fall of 
either 

Makes the survivor heir of all. 


Auf. I know it; 

And my pretext to strike at him admits 20 
A good construction. I rais’d him, and I pawn’d 
Mine honour for his truth ; who being so height¬ 
en’d, 

He watered his new plants with dews of flat¬ 
tery, 

Seducing so my friends ; and, to this end, 

He bow’d his nature, never known before 20 
But to be rough, unswayable, and free. 

3 . Con. Sir, his stoutness 
When he did stand for consul, which he lost 
By lack of stooping, — 

Auf. That I would have spoke of. 

Being banish’d for’t, he came unto my hearth, 
Presented to my knife his throat. I took him ; 
Made him joint-servant with me ; gave him way 
In all his own desires ; nay, let him choose 
Out of my files, his projects to accomplish, 

My best and freshest men ; serv’d his design- 
ments ss 

In mine own person ; holp to reap the fame 
Which he did end all his, and took some pride 
To do myself this wrong ; till, at the last, 

I seem’d his follower, not partner, and 
He wag’d me with his countenance, as if *o 
I had been mercenary. 

1. Con. So he did, my lord. 

The army marvell’d at it, and, in the last, 
When he had carried Rome and that we look’d 
For no less spoil than glory, — 

Auf. There was it, 

For which my sinews shall be stretch’d upon 
him. # <5 

At a few drops of women’s rheum, which are 
As cheap as lies, he sold the blood and labour 
Of our great action. Therefore shall he die, 
And I ’ll renew me in his fall. But, hark ! 

[Drums and trumpets sound , with 
great shouts of the People. 

1. Con. Your native town you enter’d like a 

post, 60 

And had no welcomes home ; but he returns, 
Splitting the air with noise. 

2. Con. And patient fools, 

Whose children he hath slain, their base throats 

tear 

With giving him glory. 

3. Con. Therefore, at your vantage, 

Ere he express himself, or move the people bs 
W ith what he would say, let him feel your sword, 
Which we will second. When he lies along, 
After your way his tale pronounc’d shall bury 
His reasons with his body. 

Auf. Say no more. 

Here come the lords. 60 

Enter the Lords of the city. 

All the Lords. You are most welcome home. 
Auf. I have not deserv’d it. 

But, worthy lords, have you with heed perused 
What I have written to you ? 

Lords. We have. 

1. Lord. And grieve to hear’t. 

What faults he made before the last, I think 
Might have found easy fines; but there to 
end 6fi 






H 34 


CORIOLANUS 


V. VI. 


Where he was to begin, and give away 
The benefit of our levies, answering us 
With our own charge, making a treaty where 
There was a yielding, — this admits no excuse. 
Auf. He approaches ; you shall hear him. to 

Enter Coriolanus, marching with drum and 
colours; Commoners being with him. 

Cor. Hail, lords ! I am return’d your sol¬ 
dier, 

No more infected with my country’s love 
Than when I parted hence, but still subsisting 
Under your great command. You are to know 
That prosperously I have attempted and 75 
With bloody passage led your wars even to 
The gates of Rome. Our spoils we have 
brought home 

Do more than counterpoise a full third part 
The charges of the action. We have made 
peace 

With no less honour to the Antiates *0 

Than shame to the Romans; and we here de¬ 
liver, 

Subscrib’d by the consuls and patricians, 
Together with the seal o’ the Senate, what 
We have compounded on. 

Auf. Read it not, noble lords ; 

But tell the traitor, in the highest degree 
He hath abus’d your powers. 

Cor. “ Traitor ! ” How now ! 

Auf. Ay, traitor, Marcius! 

Cor. “Marcius!” 

Auf. Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius! Dost 
thou think 

I ’ll grace thee with that robbery, thy stolen 
name, 

Coriolanus, in Corioli ? »o 

You lords and heads o’ the state, perfidiously 
He has betray’d your business, and given 
up, 

For certain drops of salt, your city Rome, 

I say “ your city,” to his wife and mother ; 
Breaking his oath and resolution like 95 

A twist of rotten silk, never admitting 
Counsel o’ the war, but at his nurse’s tears 
He whin’d and roar’d away your victory, 

That pages blush’d at him and men of heart 
Look’d wond’ring each at others. 

Cor. Hear’st thou, Mars ? 100 

Auf. Name not the god, thou boy of tears ! 
Cor. Ha! 

Auf. No more. 

Cor. Measureless liar, thou hast made my 
heart 

Too great for what contains it. “Boy!” O 
slave! 

Pardon me, lords, ’t is the first time that 
ever 106 

I was forc’d to scold. Your judgements, my 
grave lords, 

Must give this cur the lie; and his own no¬ 
tion — 

Who wears my stripes impress’d upon him, 
that 

Must bear my beating to his grave — shall join 
To thrust the lie unto him. no 

1. Lord. Peace, both, and hear me speak. 


Cor. Cut me to pieces, Volsces ; men and 
lads, 

Stain all your edges on me. “ Boy ! ” False 
hound! 

If you have writ your annals true, ’t is there, 
That, like an eagle in a dove-cote, I n* 

Flutter’d your Volscians in Corioli; 

Alone I did it. “ Boy! ” 

Auf. Why, noble lords, 

Will you be put in mind of his blind fortune, 
Which was your shame, by this unholy brag'. 

gart, n» 

’Fore your own eyes and ears ? 

All Consp. Let him die for’t. 

All the people. Tear him to pieces! Do it 
presently ! — He kill’d my son! — My daughter! 
— He kill’d my cousin Marcus ! —He kill’d my 
father ! 

2 . Lord. Peace, I10 ! no outrage : peace ! n# 
The man is noble and his fame folds in 
This orb o’ the earth. His last offences to us 
Shall have judicious hearing. Stand, Aufidius, 
And trouble not the peace. 

Cor. O that I had him, 

With six Aufidiuses or more, his tribe, 130 
To use my lawful sword ! 

Auf. Insolent villain ! 

All Consp. Kill, kiU, kill, kill, kill him ! 

[Both the Conspirators draw , and 
kill Coriolanus , who falls : Au¬ 
fidius stands on him. 

Lords. Hold, hold, hold, hold ! 

Auf. My noble masters, hear me speak. 

1 . Lord. O Tullus! 

2 . Lord. Thou hast done a deed whereat 

valour will weep. 

3 . Lord. Tread not upon him. Masters all, 

be quiet; 13? 

Put up your swords. 

Auf. My lords, when you shall know — as in 
this rage, 

Provok’d by him, you cannot — the great dan¬ 
ger 

Which this man’s life did owe you, you ’ll re¬ 
joice 

That he is thus cut off. Please it your honours 
To call me to your Senate, I ’ll deliver m 

Myself your loyal servant, or endure 
Your heaviest censure. 

1 . Lord. Bear from hence his body ; 

And mourn you for him. Let him be regarded 
As the most noble corse that ever herald u* 
Did follow to his urn. 

2 . Lord. His own impatience 

Takes from Aufidius a great part of blame. 

Let’s make the best of it. 

Auf. My rage is gone, 

And I am struck with sorrow. Take him up. 
Help, three o’ the chiefest soldiers ; I ’ll be 
one. iso 

Beat thou the drum, that it speak mournfully. 
Trail your steel pikes. Though in this city he 
Hath widowed and unchilded many a one, 
Which to this hour bewail the injury, 

Yet he shall have a noble memory. ibs 

Assist. [ Exeunt , bearing the body of Cori¬ 

olanus. A dead march sounded. 






POEMS 





VENUS AND ADONIS 


This poem, the first product of Shakespeare’s pen to issue from the press, was printed in 1593 
by his fellow-townsman, Richard Field. It seems to have become popular at once ; and by the 
middle of the seventeenth century at least twelve editions had appeared. The dedication indi¬ 
cates that it was published with Shakespeare’s consent, and it is to be presumed that it was 
printed from the author’s manuscript. The first edition is the sole authority for the text. 

Of the date of composition the only additional evidence lies in the words of the dedication, 
“ the first heir of my invention.” Since, according to the received chronology, Shakespeare had 
by this time written several plays, it is necessary to suppose either that he used this phrase in a 
sense which excluded drama, or that the poem had at least been sketched some years before the 
date of publication. This second and more plausible hypothesis does not preclude the possibility 
of polishing and revision down to the date of entry in the Stationers’ Register, April 18 , 1593 . 

Venus and Adonis belongs to a somewhat large class of Elizabethan poems in which classical 
legends were re-told with the luxuriant decoration characteristic of the spirit of the Renaissance. 
Ovid was the most frequent source of these themes, and in the present instance we find borrow¬ 
ings from several of the poems of the Metamorphoses : the l’eluctance of the hero from the legend 
of Hermaphroditus in Book iv; the boar from that of Meleager in Book viii; and other details 
from the account of Adonis in Book x. A large number of poetical treatments of the myth, 
going back to Theocritus as well as to Ovid, are found in the works of sixteenth-century poets 
in Italy, France, and Spain; and traces of their influence are supposed to be discernible in the 
present poem. The essential feature of the reluctance of Adonis, however, is not explicitly stated 
in any of the Continental versions, classical or Renaissance. It is present in incidental treatments 
of the theme by Greene and Marlowe; and Thomas Lodge, in his ornate re-telling of the Ovidian 
tale of Glaucus and Scilla ( 1589 ), had described a situation similar to that in Shakespeare’s 
poem, by reversing, probably under the influence of Ovid’s Salmacis and Hermaphroditus , the 
parts played by the hero and heroine. Lodge also treated in passing the story of Adonis ; and 
the verse-form he employed is that used by Shakespeare. These indications, corroborated by the 
presence of numerous similarities in detail, point to Lodge’s poem as the most important imme¬ 
diate source of Shakespeare’s inspiration. 


Vilia nhretur vulgus : mihi flavus Apollo 
Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua. 


TO THE 

RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLEY, 

EARL OP SOUTHAMPTON AND BARON OP TICHFDSLD. 

Right Honourable, I know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolish’d lines to your 
Lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak 
a burden ; only if your Honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to 
take advantage of all idle hours till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the 
first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a godfather ; and never 
after ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honour¬ 
able survey, and your Honour to your heart’s content, which I wish may always answer your own 
wish and the world’s hopeful expectation. 

Your Honour’s in all duty, 

William Shakespeare. 



VENUS AND ADONIS 


Even as the sun with purple-colour’d face 
Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping: rnorn, 
Rose-cheek’d Adonis hied him to the chase ; 
Hunting he lov’d, but love he laugh’d to scorn. 
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto 
him, 5 

And like a bold-fac’d suitor gins to woo him. 

“ Thrice fairer than myself,” thus she began, 

“ The field’s chief flower, sweet above compare, 
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man, 
More white and red than doves or roses are ; 10 
Nature that made thee, with herself at strife, 
Saith that the world hath ending with thy 
life. 

“ Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed, 
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow : 

If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed 1 b 
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know. 
Here come and sit, where never serpent 
hisses, 

And being set, I ’ll smother thee with kisses ; 

“ And yet not cloy thy lips with loath’d satiety, 
But rather famish them amid their plenty, 20 
Making them red and pale with fresh variety, 
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty. 

A summer’s day will seem an hour but short, 
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.” 

With this she seizeth on his sweating palm, 25 
The precedent of pith and livelihood, 

And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm. 
Earth’s sovereign salve to do a goddess good. 
Being so enrag’d, desire doth lend her force 
Courageously to pluck him from his horse, so 

Over one arm the lusty courser’s rein, 

Under her other was the tender boy. 

Who blush’d and pouted in a dull disdain, 
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy ; 

She red and hot as coals of glowing fire, *« 
He red for shame, but frosty in desire. 

The studded bridle on a ragged bough 
Nimbly she fastens : — 0 , how quick is love ! — 
The steed is stalled up, and even now 
To tie the rider she begins to prove. 40 

Backward she push’d him, as she would be 
thrust, 

And govern’d him in strength, though not in 
lust. 

So soon was she along as he was down, 

Each leaning on their elbows and their hips. 
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he 
frown , , 48 

And gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips, 


And kissing speaks, with lustful language 
broken, 

“If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never 
open.” 

He burns with bashful shame ; she with her 
tears 

Doth quench the maiden burning of his 
cheeks; 

Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs 
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks. 

He saith she is immodest, blames her miss: 
What follows more she murders with a kiss. 

Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast, w 

Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh, and 
bone, 

Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste, 

Till either gorge be stuff’d or prey be gone ; 
Even so she kiss’d his brow, his cheek, his 
chin, 

And where she ends she doth anew begin, co 

Forc’d to content, but never to obey, 

Panting he lies and breatheth in her face. 

She feedeth on the steam as on a prey, 

And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace ; 
Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of 
flowers, 66 

So they were dew’d with such distilling 
showers. 

Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net, 

So fast’ned in her arms Adonis lies ; 

Pure shame and aw’d resistance made him 
fret, 

Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes. 70 
Rain added to a river that is rank 
Perforce will force it overflow the bank. 

Still she entreats, and prettily entreats, 

For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale ; 

Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets, 76 
’Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale. 
Being red, she loves him best; and being 
white, 

Her best is better’d with a more delight. 

Look how he can, she cannot choose but love ; 
And by her fair immortal hand she swears so 
From his soft bosom never to remove 
Till he take truce with her contending tears, 
Which long have rain’d, making her cheeks 
all wet; 

And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless 
debt. 

Upon this promise did he raise his chin, s5 
Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave, 






ii 3 8 


VENUS AND ADONIS 


Who, being look’d on, ducks as quickly in ; 

So offers he to give what she did crave ; 

But when her lips were ready for his pay, 

He winks, and turns his lips another way. s>o 

Never did passenger in summer’s heat 
More thirst for drink than she for this good 
turn. 

Her help she sees, but help she cannot get; 

She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn. 

“ 0 , pity,” gan she cry, “ flint-hearted boy ! *s 
’T is but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy ? 

“ I have been wooed, as I entreat thee now, 
Even by the stern and direful god of war, 
Whose sinewy neck in battle ne’er did bow, 
Who conquers where he comes in every jar ; 100 
Yet hath he been my captive and my slave, 
And begg’d for that which thou unask’d 
shalt have. 

“ Over my altars hath he hung his lance, 

His batt’red shield, his uncontrolled crest, 

And for my sake hath learn’d to sport and 
dance, n* 

To toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest, 
Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red, 
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed. 

“ Thus he that overrul’d I overswayed, 
Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain ; no 
Strong-temper’d steel his stronger strength 
obeyed, 

Yet was he servile to my coy disdain. 

0 , be not proud, nor brag not of thy might, 
For mast’ring her that foil’d the god of 
fight! 

“ Touch but my lips with those fair lips of 
thine, — us 

Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red, — 
The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine. 
What seest thou in the ground ? Hold up thy 
head ; 

Look in mine eye-balls, there thy beauty lies; 
Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in 
eyes ? 120 

“ Art thou asham’d to kiss ? Then wink again, 
And I will wink ; so shall the day seem night; 
Love keeps his revels where there are but 
twain; 

Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight; 

These blue-vein’d violets whereon we lean 126 
Never can blab, nor know not what we mean. 

“ The tender spring upon thy tempting lip 
Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be 
tasted. 

Make use of time, let not advantage slip ; 
Beauty within itself should not be wasted. 130 
Fair flowers that are not gath’red in their 
prime 

Rot and consume themselves in little time. 

“ Were I hard-favour’d, foul, or wrinkled-old, 
Ill-nurtur’d, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice. 


O’erworn, despised, rheumatic, and cold, 
Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice, 
Then mightst thou pause, for then I were 
not for thee; 

But having no defects, why dost abhor me ? 

“Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow ; 
Mine eyes are grey and bright and quick in 
turning; no 

My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow, 

My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burn- 
ing; 

My smooth moist hand, were it with thy 
hand felt, 

Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt. 

“ Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear, 
Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green, w« 

Or, like a nymph, with long dishevelled hair, 
Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen. 
Love is a spirit all compact of fire, 

Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire, iso 

“ Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie ; 
These forceless flowers like sturdy trees sup¬ 
port me ; 

Two strengthless doves will draw me through 
the sky 

From morn till night, even where I list to sport 
me. 

Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be iss 
That thou should think it heavy unto thee ? 

“ Is thine own heart to thine own face af¬ 
fected ? 

Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left ? 
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected, 

Steal thine own freedom and complain on theft. 
Narcissus so himself himself forsook, 101 

And died to kiss his shadow in the brook. 

“ Torches are made to light, jewels to wear, 
Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use, 
Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to 
bear; i«s 

Things growing to themselves are growth's 
abuse. 

Seeds spring from seeds and beauty bree’deth 
beauty; 

Thou wast begot; to get it is thy duty. 

“Upon the earth’s increase why shouldst thou 
feed, 

Unless the earth with thy increase be fed ? no 
By law of nature thou art bound to breed, 

That thine may live when thou thyself art 
dead; 

And so, in spite of death, thou dost survive, 
In that thy likeness still is left alive.” 

By this the love-sick queen began to sweat, it’s 
F or where they lay the shadow had forsook 
them, 

And Titan, tired in the mid-day heat, 

With burning eye did hotly overlook them ; 
Wishing Adonis had his team to guide, 

So he were like him and by Venus’ side, wo 





VENUS AND ADONIS 


”39 


And now Adonis, with a lazy spright, 

And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye, 

His louring brows o’erwhelming his fair sight, 
Like misty vapours when they blot the sky, 
Souring his cheeks, cries, “ Fie, no more of 
love! isr, 

The sun doth burn my face ; I must remove.” 

“Ay me,” quoth Venus, “young, and so un¬ 
kind ? 

What bare excuses mak’st thou to be gone ! 

I ’ll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind 
Shall cool the heat of this descending sun : iso 
I ’ll make a shadow for thee of my hairs ; 

If they burn too, I ’ll quench them with my 
tears. 

“ The sun that shines from heaven shines but 
warm, 

And, lo, I lie between that sun and thee ; 194 

The heat I have from thence doth little harm, 
Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth 
me ; 

And were I not immortal, life were done 
Between this heavenly and earthly sun. 

“ Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel, 

Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relent- 
eth ? 200 

Art thou a woman’s son, and canst not feel 
What’t is to love ? how want of love torment- 
eth? 

0 , had thy mother borne so hard a mind. 

She had not brought forth thee, but died un¬ 
kind. 

“ What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me 
this? 205 

Or what great danger dwells upon my suit ? 
What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss ? 
Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be 
mute. 

Give me one kiss, I ’ll give it thee again, 209 
And one for interest, if thou wilt have twain. 

“ Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone, 
Well-painted idol, image dull and dead, 

Statue contenting but the eye alone, 

Thing like a man, but of no woman bred ! 
Thou art no man, though of a man’s com¬ 
plexion, 215 

For men will kiss even by their own direc¬ 
tion.” 

This said, impatience chokes her pleading 
tongue, 

And swelling passion doth provoke a pause. 
Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her 
wrong; 

Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause : 
And now she weeps, and now she fain would 
speak, . 221 

And now her sobs do her intendments break. 

Sometimes she shakes her head and then his 
hand, 

Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground ; 


Sometimes her arms infold him like a band : 225 
She would, he will not in her arms be bound ; 
And when from thence he struggles to be 
gone, 

She locks her lily fingers one in one. 

Fondling, she saith, “Since I have hemm’d 
thee here 

Within the circuit of this ivory pale, iso 

I ’ll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer: 
Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale ; 
Graze on my lips ; and if those hills be dry, 
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie. 

“ Within this limit is relief enough, 235 

Sweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain, 
Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and 
rough, 

To shelter thee from tempest and from rain: 
Then be my deer, since I am such a park ; 

No dog shall rouse thee, though a tnousand 
bark.” 240 

At this Adonis smiles as in disdain, 

That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple. 
Love made those hollows, if himself were slain, 
He might be buried in a tomb so simple ; 

Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie, 2*5 
Why, there Love liv’d and there he could 
not die. 

These lovely caves, these round enchanting 
pits, 

Open’d their mouths to swallow Venus’ liking. 
Being mad before, how doth she now for wits ? 
Struck dead at first, what needs a second strik¬ 
ing ? 250 

Poor Queen of love, in thine own law forlorn, 
To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn ! 

Now which way shall she turn ? What shall 
she say ? 

Her words are done, her woes the more increas¬ 
ing ; 

The time is spent, her object will away, 266 
And from her twining arms doth urge releasing. 
“Pity,” she cries, “some favour, some re¬ 
morse ! ” 

Away he springs and hasteth to his horse. 

But, lo, from forth a copse that neighbours by, 
A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud, 260 
Adonis’ trampling courser doth espy, 

And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud. 
The strong-neck’d steed, being tied unto a 
tree, 

Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes 
he. 

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds, 265 
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder; 
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he 
wounds, 

Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven’s 
thunder ; 

The iron bit he crusheth ’tween his teeth, 
Controlling what he was controlled with, ** 





1140 


VENUS AND ADONIS 


His ears up-prick’d ; his braided hanging mane 
Upon his compass’d crest now stand on end ; 
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again, 

As from a furnace, vapours doth he send ; 

His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire, 275 
Shows his hot courage and his high desire. 

Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps. 

With gentle majesty and modest pride ; 

Anon he rears upright, curvets, and leaps, 

As who should say, “Lo, thus my strength is 
tried, 280 

And this I do to captivate the eye 
Of the fair breeder that is standing by.” 

What recketh he his rider’s angry stir, 

His flattering “ Holla,” or his “ Stand, I say ” ? 
What cares he now for curb or pricking 

Spur ? 285 

For rich caparisons or trappings gay ? 

He sees his love, and nothing else he sees, 
For nothing else with his proud sight agrees. 

Look, when a painter would surpass the life 
In limning out a well-proportioned steed, 290 
His art with nature’s workmanship at strife, 
As if the dead the living should exceed ; 

So did this horse excel a common one 
In shape, in courage, colour, pace, and bone. 

Round-hoof’d, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and 
long, 295 

Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril 
wide, 

High crest, short ears, straight legs and pass¬ 
ing strong, 

Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender 
hide: 

Look, what a horse should have he did not 
lack, 

Save a proud rider on so proud a back. 300 

Sometime he scuds far off and there he stares ; 
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather ; 

To bid the wind a base he now prepares, 

And whe’er he run or fly they know not 
whether ; 

For through his mane and tail the high wind 
sings, 305 

Fanning the hairs, who wave like feath’red 
wings. 

He looks upon his love and neighs unto her ; 
She answers him as if she knew his mind ; 
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo 
her, 

She puts on outward strangeness, seems un¬ 
kind, 310 

Spurns at his love, and scorns the heat he 
feels, 

Beating his kind embracements with her 
heels. 

Then, like a melancholy malcontent, 

He vails his tail that, like a falling plume, 

Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent; sis 

He stamps and bites the poor flies in his fume. 


His love, perceiving how he is enrag’d, 

Grew kinder, and his fury was assuag’d. 

His testy master goeth about to take him ; 
When, lo, the unback’d breeder, full of fear, 320 
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him, 
With her the horse, and left Adonis there. 

As they were mad, unto the wood they hie 
them, 

Out-stripping crows that strive to over-fly 
them. 

All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits, 325 
Banning his boisterous and unruly beast; 

And now the happy season once more fits, 

That love-sick Love by pleading may be blest; 
For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong 
When it is barr’d the aidance of the 
tongue. 3«o 

An oven that is stopp’d, or river stay’d, 
Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage ; 
So of concealed sorrow may be said ; 

Free vent of words love’s fire doth assuage ; 
But when the heart’s attorney once is 
mute, 336 

The client breaks, as desperate in his suit. 

He sees her coming, and begins to glow, 

Even as a dying coal revives with wind, 

And with his bonnet hides his angry brow ; 
Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind, 3*0 
Taking no notice that she is so nigh, 

For all askance he holds her in his eye. 

0 , what a sight it was, wistly to view 
How she came stealing to the wayward boy! 

To note the fighting conflict of her hue, 345 

How white and red each other did destroy! 

But now her cheek was pale, and by and by 
It flash’d forth fire, as lightning from the 
sky. 

Now was she just before him as he sat, 

And like a lowly lover down she kneels ; 350 

With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat, 

Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels : 

His tenderer cheek receives her soft hand’s 
print 

As apt as new-fallen snow takes any dint. 

0 , what a war of looks was then between 
them! 358 

Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing ; 

His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen 
them ; 

Her eyes wooed still, his eyes disdain’d the 
wooing: 

And all this dumb play had his acts made 
plain 

With tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did 
rain. 360 

Full gently now she takes him by the hand, 

A lily prison’d in a gaol of snow, 

Or ivory in an alabaster band ; 

So white a friend engirts so white a foe. 




VENUS AND ADONIS 


1141 


This beauteous combat, wilful and unwill¬ 
ing, 366 

Show’d like two silver doves that sit a-billing. 

Once more the engine of her thoughts began : 

“ 0 fairest mover on this mortal round, 

Would thou wei't. as I am, and I a man, 

My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my 
wound; 370 

For one sweet look thy help I would assure 
thee, 

Though nothing but my body’s bane would 
cure thee.” 

“ Give me my hand,” saith he, “ why dost thou 
feel it?” 

“Give me my heart,” saith she, “and thou 
shalt have it; 

O, give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it, 376 
And being steel’d, soft sighs can never grave it: 
Then love’s deep groans I never shall regard, 
Because Adonis’ heart hath made mine 
hard.” 

“For shame,” he cries, “let go, and let me 

go; 

My day’s delight is past, my horse is gone, aso 
And’t is your fault I am bereft him so. 

I pray you hence, and leave me here alone ; 

For all my mind, my thought, my busy care, 
Is how to get my palfrey from the mare.” 384 

Thus she replies: “ Thy palfrey, as he should, 
Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire ; 
Affection is a coal that must be cool’d ? 

Else, suffer’d, it will set the heart on tire. 

The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath 
none ; 

Therefore no marvel though thy horse be 
gone. 390 

“ How like a jade he stood, tied to the tree, 
Servilely master’d with a leathern rein ! 

But when he saw his love, his youth’s fair fee, 
He held such petty bondage in disdain ; 

Throwing the base thong from his bending 
crest, 396 

Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast. 

“ Who sees his true-love in her naked bed. 
Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white, 
But, when his glutton eye so full hath fed, 

His other agents aim at like delight ? <00 

Who is so faint, that dare not be so bold 
To touch the fire, the weather being cold ? 

“ Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy ; 

And learn of him, I heartily beseech thee, 

To take advantage on presented joy ; 405 

Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings 
teach thee. 

O, learn to love ; the lesson is but plain, 

And once made perfect, never lost again.” 

“I know not love,” quoth he, “nor will not 
know it, 

Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it; «o 


’T is much to borrow, and I will not owe it; 

My love to love is love but to disgrace it; 

For I have heard it is a life in death. 

That laughs and weeps, and all but with a 
breath. 

“Who wears a garment shapeless and un¬ 
finish’d ? 416 

Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth ? 
If springing things be any jot diminish’d, 

They wither in their prime, prove nothing 
worth. 

The colt that’s back’d and burden’d being 
young, 

Loseth his pride and never waxeth strong. 420 

“ You hurt my hand with wringing ; let us 
part, 

And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat; 
Remove your siege from my unyielding heart; 
To love’s alarms it will not ope the gate ; 
Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your 
flattery; 426 

For where a heart is hard they make no bat¬ 
tery.” 

“ What! canst thou talk? ” quoth she, “hast 
thou a tongue ? 

0, would thou hadst not, or 1 had no hearing ! 
Thy mermaid’s voice hath done me double 
wrong ; 

I had my load before, now press’d with bear¬ 
ing : 430 

Melodious discord, heavenly tune harsh- 
sounding, 

Ear’s deep sweet music, and heart’s deep 
sore wounding. 

“ Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love 
That inward beauty and invisible ; 

Or were I deaf, thy outward parts would 
move 435 

Each part in me that were but sensible: 

Though neither eyes nor ears to hear nor see, 
Yet should I be in love by touching thee. 

“Say, that the sense of feeling were bereft me, 
And that I could not see, nor hear, nor 

touch, 440 

And nothing but the very smell were left me, 
Yet would my love to thee be still as much ; 
For from the stillitory of thy face excelling 
Comes breath perfum’d that breedethlove by 
smelling. 

“ But, O, what banquet wert thou to the taste. 
Being nurse and feeder of the other four ! 440 

Would they not wish the feast might ever last, 
And bid Suspicion double-lock the door, 

Lest Jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest, 
Should, by his stealing in, disturb the 
feast?” ‘so 

Once more the ruby-colour’d portal open’d. 
Which to his speech did honey passage yield ; 
Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken’d 
Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field, 








1142 


VENUS AND ADONIS 


Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds, 455 
Gusts and foul flaws to lierdmen and to herds. 

This ill presage advisedly she marketh : 

Even as the wind is hush’d before it raineth, 
Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh, 

Or as the berry breaks before it staineth, 4eo 
Or like the deadly bullet of a gun, 

His meaning struck her ere his words begun. 

And at his look she flatly falleth down, 

For looks kill love and love by looks reviveth ; 
A smile recures the wounding of a frown ; 466 

But blessed bankrupt, that by love so thrivetli! 
The silly boy, believing she is dead, 

Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it 
red; 

And all amaz’d brake off his late intent, 

For sharply he did think to reprehend her, 470 
Which cunning love did wittily prevent: 

Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her ! 
For on the grass she lies as she were slain, 
Till his breath breatheth life in her again. 

He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the 
cheeks, 475 

He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard, 

He chafes her lips ; a thousand ways he seeks 
To mend the hurt that his unkindness marr’d : 
He kisses her ; and she by her good will 
Will never rise, so he will kiss her still. 48o 

The night of sorrow now is turn’d to day: 

Her two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth, 
Like the fair sun, when in his fresh array 
He cheers the morn and all the earth relieveth ; 
And as the bright sun glorifies the sky, 485 
So is her face illumin’d with her eye ; 

Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix’d, 
As if from thence they borrowed all their 
shine. 

Were never four such lamps together mix’d, 
Had not his clouded with his brow’s repine ; 490 
But hers, which through the crystal tears 
gave light, 

Shone like the moon in water seen by night. 

“0, where am I?” quoth she; “in earth or 
heaven. 

Or in the ocean drench’d, or in the fire ? 

What hour is this ? or morn or weary even ? 49 c 
Do I delight to die, or life desire ? 

But now I liv’d, and life was death’s annoy ; 
But now I died, and death was lively joy. 

“ 0, thou didst kill me ; kill me once again. 
Thy eyes’ shrewd tutor, that hard heart of 
thine, 500 

Hath taught them scornful tricks and such dis¬ 
dain 

That they have murd’red this poor heart of 
mine; 

And these mine eyes, true leadei's to their 
queen, 

But for thy piteous lips no more had seen. 


“ Long may they kiss each other, for this cure ! 
0, never let their crimson liveries wear ! ooc 
And as they last, their verdure still endure 
To drive infection from the dangerous year ! 
That the star-gazers, having writ on death. 
May say the plague is banish’d by thy breath. 

“ Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips im¬ 
printed, _ 611 

What bargains may I make, still to be sealing ? 
To sell myself I can be well contented, 

So thou wilt buy and pay and use good dealing; 
Which purchase if thou make, for fear of 
slips _ si fi 

Set thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips. 

“ A thousand kisses buys my heart from me ; 
And pay them at thy leisure, one by one. 

What is ten hundred touches unto thee ? 

Are they not quickly told and quickly gone ? 620 
Say, for non-payment that the debt should 
double, 

Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble ? ” 

“ Fair queen,” quoth he, “ if any love you owe 
me, 

Measure my strangeness with my unripe years ; 
Before I know myself, seek not to know me : 625 
No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears ; 

The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks 
fast, 

Or being early pluck’d is sour to taste. 

“ Look, the world’s comforter with weary gait 
His day’s hot task hath ended in the west; 530 
The owl, night’s herald, shrieks ; ’t is very late ; 
The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest; 
And coal-black clouds that shadow heaven’s 
light 

Do summon us to part and bid good-night. 

“ Now let me say 1 Good-night,’ and so say you ; 
If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.” 636 
“Good-night,” quoth she, and, ere he says 
“Adieu,” 

The honey fee of parting tend’red is : 

Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace ; 
Incorporate then they seem; face grows to 
face; 64# 

Till, breathless, he disjoin’d, and backward 
drew 

The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth, 
Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew, 
Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth. 
He with her plenty press’d, she faint with 
dearth, 646 

Their lips together glued, fall to the earth. 

Now quick desire hath caught the yielding 
prey, 

And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth ; 
Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey, 

Paying what ransom the insulter willeth ; 660 

Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price 
so high 

That she will draw his lips’ rich treasure dry. 





VENUS AND ADONIS 


ii 43 


And having- felt the sweetness of the spoil, 
With blindfold fury she begins to forage : 

Her face doth reek and smoke, her blooa doth 
boil, ocr, 

And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage ; 
Planting oblivion, beating reason back, 
Forgetting shame’s pure blush and honour’s 
wrack. 

Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embrac¬ 
ing, 

Like a wild bird being tam’d with too much 
handling, seo 

Or as the fleet-foot roe that’s tir’d with chas¬ 
ing, 

Or like the froward infant still’d with dandling, 
He now obeys, and now no more resisteth. 
While she takes all she can, not all she list- 
eth. 

What wax so frozen but dissolves with tem¬ 
pting, G65 

And yields at last to every light impression ? 
Things out of hope are compass’d oft with ven¬ 
turing, 

Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commis¬ 
sion : 

Affection faints not like a pale-fac’d coward, 
But then woos best when most his choice is 
froward. 570 

When he did frown, 0 , had she then gave over, 
Such nectar from his lips she had not suck’d. 
Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover ; 
What though the rose have prickles, yet ’tis 
pluck’d. 

Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast, 
Yet love breaks through and picks them all 
at last. 

For pity now she can no more detain him ; 

The poor fool prays her that he may depart: 
She is resolv’d no longer to restrain him ; 

Bids him farewell, and look well to her 
heart, fi8 ° 

The which, by Cupid’s bow she doth protest, 
He carries thence incaged in his breast. 

“ Sweet hoy,” she says, “ this night I ’ll waste 
in sorrow, 

For my sick heart commands mine eyes to 
watch. 

Tell me, Love’s master, shall we meet to¬ 
morrow ? 686 

Say, shall we ? shall we ? Wilt thou make the 
match ? ” 

He tells her, no ; to-morrow he intends 
To hunt the boar with certain of his friends. 

“The boar!” quoth she; whereat a sudden 
pale, 

Like lawn being spread upon the blushing 
rose, # 690 

Usurps her cheek ; she trembles at his tale, 
And on his neck her yoking arms she throws: 
She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck, 
He on her belly falls, she on her back. 


Now is she in the very lists of love, 6 ns 

Her champion mounted for the hot encounter : 
All is imaginary she doth prove, 

He will not manage her, although he mount 
her ; 

That worse than Tantalus’ is her annoy, 

To clip Elysium and to lack her joy. «oo 

Even so poor birds, deceiv’d with painted 
grapes, 

Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw ; 

Even so she languisheth in her mishaps, 

As those poor birds that helpless berries saw. 
The warm effects which she in him finds 
missing eos 

She seeks to kindle with continual kissing. 

But all in vain ; good queen, it will not be. 

She hath assay’d as much as may be prov’d ; 
Her pleading hath deserv’d a greater fee ; 

She’s Love, she loves, and yet she is not 
lov’d. 610 

“ Fie, fie,” he says, “you crush me; let me go; 
You have no reason to withhold me so.” 

“ Thou hadst been gone,” quoth she, “sweet 
boy, ere this, 

But that thou told’st me thou wouldst hunt 
the boar. 

0 , be advis’d ! thou know’st not what it is eis 
With javelin’s point a churlish swine to gore, 
Whose tushes never sheath’d he whetteth 
still, 

Like to a mortal butcher bent to kill. 

“ On his bow-back he hath a battle set 
Of bristly pikes, that ever threat bis foes ; 620 

His eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth 
fret; 

His snout digs sepulchres where’er he goes ; 
Being mov’d, he strikes wliate’er is in his 
way, 

And whom he strikes his crooked tushes slay. 

“ His brawny sides, with hairy bristles armed, 
Are better proof than thy spear’s point can 
enter; 626 

His short thick neck cannot be easily harmed ; 
Being ireful, on the lion he will venture. 

The thorny brambles and embracing bushes, 
As fearful of him, part, through whom he 
rushes. 630 

“ Alas, he nought esteems that face of thine, 
To which Love’s eyes pays tributary gazes ; 
Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne, 
Whose full perfection all the world amazes ; 
But having thee at vantage, — wondrous 
dread! — > ess 

Would root these beauties as he roots the 
mead. 

“ O, let him keep his loathsome cabin still ; 
Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends. 
Come not within his danger by thy will; 

They that thrive well take counsel of their 
friends. wo 





ii 44 


VENUS AND ADONIS 


When thou didst name the boar, not to dis¬ 
semble, 

I fear’d thy fortune, and my joints did 
tremble. 

“ Didst thou not mark my face ? Was it not 
white ? 

Saw’st, thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye ? 
Grew I not faint ? and fell I not downright ? 645 
Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie, 

My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no 
rest, 

But, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my 
breast. 

“ For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy 
Doth call himself Affection’s sentinel; eso 
Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny, 

And in a peaceful hour doth cry, ‘ Kill, kill! ’ 
Distemp’ring gentle Love in his desire, 

As air and water do abate the fire. 

“ This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy, ess 
This canker that eats up Love’s tender spring, 
This carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy, 

That sometime true news, sometime fajse doth 
bring, 

Knocks at my heart and whispers in mine 
ear 

That if I love thee, I thy death should fear: 

“ And more than so, presenteth to mine eye 66i 
The picture of an angry chafing boar, 

Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie 
An image like thyself, all stain’d with gore ; 
Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being 
shed 665 

Doth make them droop with grief and hang 
the head. 

“ What should I do, seeing thee so indeed, 
That tremble at the imagination ? 

The thought of it doth make my faint heart 
bleed, 

And fear doth teach it divination : 670 

I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow, 

If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow. 

“ But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul’d by me ; 
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare, 

Or at the fox which lives by subtlety, 675 

Or at the roe which no encounter dare : 

Pursue these fearful creatures o’er the downs, 
And on thy well-breath’d horse keep with thy 
hounds. 

“ And when thou hast on foot the purblind 
hare, 6-9 

Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles 
How he outruns the wind, and with what care 
He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles. 
The many musets through the which he goes 
Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes. 

“ Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep, ess 
To make the cunning hounds mistake their 
smell, 


And sometime where earth-delving conies keep, 
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell, 

And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer ; — 
Danger deviseth shifts ; wit waits on fear ; —* 

“For there his smell with others being min¬ 
gled, 691 

The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to 
doubt, 

Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have 
singled 

With much ado the cold fault cleanly out; 
Then do they spend their mouths: Echo re¬ 
plies, 696 

As if another chase were in the skies. 

“ By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill, 

Stands on his hinder legs with list’ning ear, 

To hearken if his foes pursue him still. 

Anon their loud alarums he doth hear ; too 

And now his grief may be compared well 
To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell. 

“ Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled 
wretch 

Turn, and return, indenting with the way; 
Each envious brier his weary legs doth 
scratch, 70 s 

Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur 
stay: 

For misery is trodden on by many, 

And, being low, never reliev’d by any. 

“ Lie quietly, and hear a little more ; 

Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise. 71c 
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar, 
Unlike myself thou hear’st me moralize, 
Applying this to that, and so to so ; 

For love can comment upon every woe. 

“ Where did I leave ? ” “No matter where,” 
quoth he; 71 s 

“ Leave me, and then the story aptly ends ; 

The night is spent.” “Why, what of that?” 
quoth she. 

“ I am,” quoth he, “ expected of my friends ; 
And now ’t is dark, and going I shall fall.” 

“ In night,” quoth she, “ desire sees best of 
all. 720 

“ But if thou fall, 0, then imagine this, 

The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips, 
And all is but to rob thee of a kiss. 

Rich preys make true men thieves ; so do thy 
lips 

Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn, 725 
Lest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn. 

“ Now of this dark night I perceive the rea¬ 
son : 

Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine, 
Till forging Nature be condemn’d of treason 
For stealing moulds from heaven that were di¬ 
vine ; 73 » 

Wherein she fram’d thee in high heaven’s 
despite. 

To shame the sun by day and her by night. 






VENUS AND ADONIS 


“ And therefore hath she brib’d the Destinies 
To cross the curious workmanship of Nature, 
To mingle beauty with infirmities, 735 

And pure perfection with impure defeature, 
Making it subject to the tyranny 
Of mad mischances and much misery; 

“ As burning fevers, agues pale and faint, 
Life-poisoning pestilence and frenzies wood, 740 
The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint 
Disorder breeds by heating of the blood ; 
Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn’d 
despair, 

Swear Nature’s death for framing thee so 
fair. 

“ And not the least of all these maladies 745 
But in one minute’s fight brings beauty un¬ 
der ; 

Both favour, savour, hue, and qualities, 
Whereat the impartial gazer late did wonder, 
Are on the sudden wasted, thaw’d and done, 
As mountain-snow melts with the midday 
sun. 760 

“ Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity, 
Love-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns, 
That on the earth would breed a scarcity 
And barren dearth of daughters and of sons, 
Be prodigal: the lamp that burns by night 755 
Dries up his oil to lend the world his light. 

“ What is thy body but a swallowing grave, 
Seeming to bury that posterity 
Which by the rights of time thou needs must 
have, 

If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity ? 700 
If so, the world will hold thee in disdain, 
Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain. 

“ So in thyself thyself art made away ; 

A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife, 
Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do 
slay, # 766 

Or butcher-sire that reaves his son of life. 
Foul-cank’ring rust the hidden treasure frets, 
But gold that ’s put to use more gold be¬ 
gets.” 

“Nay, then,” quoth Adon, “you will fall 
again 

Into your idle over-handled theme. 770 

The kiss I gave you is bestow’d in vain, 

And all in vain you strive against the stream ; 
For, by this black-fac’d Night, Desire’s foul 
nurse, 

Your treatise makes me like you worse and 
worse. 774 

“ If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues, 
And every tongue more moving than your 
own, 

Bewitching like the wanton mermaid’s songs, 
Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown ; 
For know, my heart stands armed in mine 
ear, 

And will not let a false sound enter there, 7ao 


”45 


“ Lest the deceiving harmony should run 
Into the quiet closure of my breast; 

And then my little heart were quite undone, 
In his bedchamber to be barr’d of rest. 

No, lady, no ; my heart longs not to groan, 7*6 
But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone. 

“ What have you urg’d that I cannot reprove ? 
The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger. 

I hate not love, but your device in love, 

That lends embracements unto every stranger. 
You do it for increase: O strange excuse, 791 
When reason is the bawd to lust’s abuse ! 

“ Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled, 
Since sweating Lust on earth usurp’d his name ; 
Under whose simple semblance he hath fed 795 
Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame ; 
Which the hot tyrant stains and soon be¬ 
reaves, 

As caterpillars do the tender leaves. 

“ Love comforteth like sunshine after rain, 

But Lust’s effect is tempest after sun ; soc 
Love’s gentle spring doth always fresh remain, 
Lust’s winter comes ere summer half be done ; 
Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies ; 
Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies. 

“ More I could tell, but more I dare not say ; so* 
The text is old, the orator too green. 

Therefore, in sadness, now I will away ; 

My face is full of shame, my heart of teen;. 
Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended. 
Do burn tnemselves for having so offended.” 

With this, he breaketh from the sweet em¬ 
brace, 811 

Of those fair arms which bound him to her 
breast, 

And homeward through the dark laund runs 
apace; 

Leaves Love upon her back deeply distress’d. 
Look, how a bright star shooteth from the 
sky, si* 

So glides he in the night from Venus’ eye ; 

Which after him she darts, as one on shore 
Gazing upon a late-embarked friend, 

Till the wild waves will have him seen no more, 
Whose ridges with the meeting clouds con¬ 
tend ; 8 io 

So did the merciless and pitchy night 
Fold in the object that did feed her sight. 

Whereat amaz’d, as one that unaware 
Hath dropp’d a precious jewel in the flood, 

Or stonish’d as night-wanderers often are, 826 
Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood, 
Even so confounded in the dark she lay, 
Having lost the fair discovery of her way. 

And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans, 
That all the neighbour caves, as seeming 
troubled, 880 

Make verbal repetition of her moans ; 

Passion on passion deeply is redoubled: 





VENUS AND ADONIS 


1146 


“Ay me!” she cries, and twenty times, 
“ Woe, woe ! ” 

And twenty echoes twenty times cry so. 

She marking them begins a wailing note 888 
And sings extemporally a woeful ditty ; 

How love makes young men thrall and old men 
dote ; 

How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty. 

Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, 

And still the choir of echoes answer so. 

Her song was tedious and outwore the night, 
For lovers’ hours are long, though seeming 
short; 

If pleas’d themselves, others, they think, de- 
light 

In such-like circumstance, with such-like sport: 
Their copious stories oftentimes begun mo 
E nd without audience and are never done. 

For who hath she to spend the night withal 
But idle sounds resembling parasites, 

Like shrill-tongu’d tapsters answering every 
call, 

Soothing the humour of fantastic wits ? ««<> 

She says, “ ’T is so:” they answer all, 
“ ’T is so ; ” 

And would say after her, if she said “ No.” 

Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest, 

From his moist cabinet mounts up on high. 

And wakes the morning, from whose silver 
breast 888 

The sun ariseth in his majesty ; 

Who doth the world so glorious behold 
That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish’d gold. 

Venus salutes him with this fair good-mor¬ 
row : 

“ 0 thou clear god, and patron of all light, mo 
F rom whom each lamp and shining star doth 
borrow 

The beauteous influence that makes him bright, 
There lives a son that suck’d an earthly 
mother, 

May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to 
other.” 

This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove, 888 
Musing the morning is so much o’erworn, 

And yet she hears no tidings of her love. 

She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn ; 
Anon she hears them chant it lustily, 

And all in haste she coasteth to the cry. « 7 o 

And as she runs, the bushes in the way 
Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face, 
Some twine about her thigh to make her stay. 
She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace, 
Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do 
ache, 876 

Hasting: to feed her fawn hid in some 
brake. 

By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay ; 
Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder 


Wreath’d up in fatal folds just in his way, 

The fear whereof doth make him 3 hake and 
shudder; 880 

Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds 

Appalls her senses and her spirit confounds. 

For now she knows it is no gentle chase, 

But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud. 
Because the cry remaineth in one place, 888 
Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud. 

Finding their enemy to be so curst, 

They all strain courtesy who shall cope him 
first. 

This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear, _ 
Through which it enters to surprise her 
heart; 800 

Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear, 
With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling 
part. 

Like soldiers, when their captain once doth 
yield, 

They basely fly and dare not stay the field. 

Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy ; so® 
Till, cheering up her senses all dismay’d, 

She tells them ’t is a causeless fantasy 
And childish error that they are afraid ; 

Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no 
more: — 

And with that word she spied the hunted 
boar, 

Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red. 
Like milk and blood being mingled both to¬ 
gether, 

A second fear through all her sinews spread, 
Which madly hurries her she knows not 
whither: 

This way she runs, and now she will no fur¬ 
ther, a ® 8 

But back retires to rate the boar for mur- 
ther. 

A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways; 
She treads the path that she untreads again ; 
Her more than haste is mated with delays, 
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain, »io 

Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting ; 

In hand with all things, nought at all effect¬ 
ing. 

Here kennell’d in a brake she finds a hound, 
And asks the weary caitiff for his master, 

And there another licking of his wound, 916 

’Gainst venom’d sores the only sovereign plas¬ 
ter ; 

And here she meets another sadly scowl- 
in g, 

To whom she speaks, and he replies with 
howling. 

When he hath ceas’d his ill-resounding noise, 
Another flap-mouth’d mourner, black and 
grim, 920 

Against the welkin volleys out his voice ; 
Another and another answer him, 





VENUS AND ADONIS 


ii 47 


Clapping their proud tails to the ground be¬ 
low, 

Shaking their scratch’d ears, bleeding as they 
go. 

Look, how the world’s poor people are amazed 
At apparitions, signs, and prodigies, 

Whereon with fearful eyes they long have 
gazed, 

Infusing them with dreadful prophecies ; 

So she at these sad signs draws up her breath, 
And sighing it again, exclaims on Death. #30 

“ Hard-favour’d tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean, 
Hateful divorce of love,” — thus chides she 
Death, — 

“ Grim-grinning ghost, earth’s worm, what dost 
thou mean 

To stifle beauty and to steal his breath, 

Who when he liv’d, his breath and beauty 
set 935 

Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet ? 

“ If he be dead, — O no, it cannot be, 

Seeing his beauty, thou should’st strike at it: 

0 yes, it may ; thou hast no eyes to see, 

But hatefully at random dost thou hit. »« 

Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart 
Mistakes that aim and cleaves an infant’s 
heart. 

“ Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had 
spoke, 

And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power. 
The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke ; 945 
They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck’st a 
flower. 

Love’s golden arrow at him should have fled, 
And not Death’s ebon dart, to strike him 
dead. 

“Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok’st 
such weeping ? 

What may a heavy groan advantage thee ? 900 

Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping 
Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see ? 
Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour, 
Since her best work is ruin’d with thy 
rigour.” 

Here overcome, as one full of despair, 

She vail’d her eyelids, who, like sluices, stopt 
The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair 
In the sweet channel of her bosom dropt ; 

But through the flood-gates breaks the silver 
rain, 

And with his strong course opens them 
again. 

O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow ! 
Her eye seen in the tears, tears in her eye ; ? 

Both crystals, where they view’d each other s 
sorrow, . 

Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry , 
But like a stormy day, now wind, now ram, 
Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet 
again. 966 


Variable passions throng her constant woe, 

As striving who should best become her grief ; 
All entertain’d, each passion labours so, 

That every present sorrow seemeth chief, 

But none is best: then join they all together, 
Like many clouds consulting for foul weather. 

By this, far off she hears some huntsman hallo ; 
A nurse’s song ne’er pleas’d her babe so well. 
The dire imagination she did follow »76 

This sound of hope doth labour to expel; 

For now reviving joy bids her rejoice, 

And flatters her it is Adonis’ voice. 

Whereat her tears began to turn their tide, 
Being prison’d in her eye like pearls in glass ; »*o 
Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside, 
Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should 
pass 

To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground, 
Who is but drunken when she seemeth 
drown’d. 

0 hard-believing love, how strange it seems 9 »s 
Not to believe, and yet too credulous 1 
Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes ; 
Despair and hope makes thee ridiculous : 

Tne one doth flatter thee in thoughts un¬ 
likely, 

In likely thoughts the other kills thee 
quickly. 990 

Now she unweaves the web that she hath 
wrought; 

Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame ; 

It was not she that call’d him all to nought: 
Now she adds honours to his hateful name ; 

She clepes him king of graves and grave for 
kings, 995 

Imperious supreme of all mortal things. 

“ No, no,” quoth she, “ sweet Death, I did but 
jest; 

Yet pardon me I felt a kind of fear 
Whenas I met the boar, that bloody beast, 
Which knows no pity, but is still severe ; 1000 

Then, gentle shadow, — truth I must con¬ 
fess, — 

I rail’d on thee, fearing my love’s decease. 

“’Tis not my fault; the boar provok’d my 
tongue; 

Be wreak’d on him, invisible commander ; 

’Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee 
wrong; 1006 

I did but act, he’s author of thy slander. 

Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet 
Could rule them both without ten women’s 
wit.” 

Thus hoping that Adonis is alive, 

Her rash suspect she doth extenuate ; 10 "» 

And that his beauty may the better thrive, 
With Death she humbly doth insinuate ; 

Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and 
stories 

His victories, his triumphs, and his glories. 






1148 


VENUS AND ADONIS 


“ 0 Jove,” quoth she, “ how much a fool was I 
To be of such a weak and silly mind 1016 

To wail his death who lives and must not die 
Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind ! 

For he being dead, with him is beauty slain, 
And, beauty dead, black chaos come 
again. 1020 

“ Fie, fie, fond love, thou art as full of fear 
As one with treasure laden, hemm’d with 
thieves; 

Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear, 

Thy coward heart with false bethinking 
grieves.” 

Even at this word she hears a merry horn, 102c 
Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn. 

As falcons to the lure, away she flies ; 

The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light; 
And in her haste unfortunately spies 
The foul boar’s conquest on her fair de¬ 
light ; 1030 

Which seen, her eyes, as murd’red with the 
view, 

Like stars asliam’d of day, themselves with¬ 
drew ; 

Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit, 
Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain, 
And there, all smoth’red up, in shade doth 

sit, _ _ 1035 

Long after fearing to creep forth again ; 

So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled 
Into the deep-dark cabins of her head ; 

Where they resign their office and their light 
To the disposing of her troubled brain ; 1040 

Who bids them still consort with ugly night, 
And never wound the heart with looks again ; 
Who, like a king perplexed in his throne, 

By their suggestion gives a deadly groan, 

Whereat each tributary subject quakes ; 1045 

As when the wind, imprison’d in the ground, 
Struggling for passage, earth’s foundation 
shakes, 

Which with cold terror doth men’s minds con¬ 
found. 

This mutiny each part doth so surprise 
That from their dark beds once more leap 
her eyes; 1050 

And, being open’d, threw unwilling light 
Upon the wide wound that the boar had 
trench’d 

In his soft flank ; whose wonted lily white 
With purple tears, that his wound wept, was 
drench’d. 

No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or 
weed, 1055 

But stole his blood and seem’d with him to 
bleed. 

This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth ; 
Over one shoulder doth she hang her head ; 
Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth ; 

She thinks he could not die, he is not dead. 1060 


Her voice is stopt, her joints forget to bow ; 

Her eyes are mad that they have wept till 
now. 

Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly, 

That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem 
three; 

And then she reprehends her mangling eye, 1066 
That makes more gashes where no breach 
should be. 

His face seems twain, each several limb is 
doubled; 

For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being 
troubled. 

“ My tongue cannot express my grief, for one, 
And yet,” quoth she, “behold two Adons 
dead! 1070 

My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone, 
Mine eyes are turn’d to fire, my heart to lead : 

Heavy heart’s lead, melt at mine eyes’ red 
fire ! 

So shall I die by drops of hot desire. 

“ Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou 
lost! 7 ® 7 ® 

What face remains alive that’s worth the 
viewing ? 

Whose tongue is music now ? W T hat canst thou 
boast 

Of things long since, or anything ensuing ? 

The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh 
and trim ; 

But true sweet beauty liv’d and died with 
him. 1080 

“ Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear ! 
Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you : 
Having no fair to lose, you need not fear ; 

The sun doth scorn you and the wind doth hiss 
you: 

But when Adonis liv’d, sun and sharp air loss 

Lurk’d like two thieves, to rob him of his 
fair. 

“ And therefore would he put his bonnet on, 
Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep ; 
The wind would blow it off and, being gone, 
Play with his locks : then would Adonis weep ; 

And straight, in pity of his tender years, 1001 

They both would strive who first should dry 
his tears. 

“ To see his face the lion walk’d along 
Behind some hedge, because he would not fear 
him; 

To recreate himself when he hath sung, 1095 
The tiger would be tame and gently hear him; 

If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his 
prey 

And never fright the silly lamb that day. 

“ When he beheld his shadow in the brook, 
The fishes spread on it their golden gills ; 1100 

When he was by, the birds such pleasure took, 
That some would sing, some other in their 
bills 





VENUS AND ADONIS 


1149 


Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red 
cherries ; 

He fed them with his sight, they him with 
berries. 1104 

“ But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar, 
Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave, 
Ne’er saw the beauteous livery that he wore ; 
Witness the entertainment that he gave. 

If he did see his face, why then I know 
He thought to kiss him, and hath kill’d him 
so. mo 

“ ’T is true, ’t is true ; thus was Adonis slain ; 
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear, 
Who did not whet his teeth at him again, 

But by a kiss thought to persuade him there ; 
And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine 
Sheath’d unaware the tusk in his soft 
groin. me 

“ Had I been tooth’d like him, I must confess, 
With kissing him I should have kill’d him first; 
But he is dead, and never did he bless 
My youth with his ; the more am I accurst.” 1120 
With this, she falleth in the place she stood, 
And stains her face with his congealed blood. 

She looks upon his lips, and they are pale ; 

She takes him by the hand, and that is cold ; 
She whispers in his ears a heavy tale, 1125 

As if they heard the woeful words she told ; 
She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes, 
Where, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness 
lies ; 

Two glasses, where herself herself beheld 
A thousand times, and now no more reflect; uso 
Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell’d, 
And every beauty robb’d of his effect. 
“Wonder of time,” quoth she, “this is my 
spite, 

That, thou being dead, the day should yet be 
light. 

“ Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy: 1135 
Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend ; 

It shall be waited on with jealousy, 

Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end, 
Ne’er settled equally, but high or low, 

That all love’s pleasure shall not match his 
woe. iwo 

“ It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud, 

Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while ; 

The bottom poison, and the top o’erstraw’d 
With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile. 
The strongest body shall it make most 
weak, 11 46 

Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to 
speak. 

“ It shall be sparing and too full of riot, 
Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures ; 
The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet, 

Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with trea¬ 
sures ; n®° 


It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild, 

Make the young old, the old become a child. 

“ It shall suspect where is no cause of fear ; 

It shall not fear where it should most mis¬ 
trust ; 

It shall be merciful and too severe, nee 

And most deceiving when it seems most just; 

Perverse it shall be where it shows most to¬ 
ward, 

Put fear to valour, courage to the coward. 

“ It shall be cause of war and dire events, 

And set dissension ’twixt the son and sire ; use 
Subject and servile to all discontents, 

As dry combustious matter is to fire. 

Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy, 

They that love best their loves shall not en¬ 
joy.” 

By this, the boy that by her side lay kill’d nee 
Was melted like a vapour from her sight, 

And in his blood that on the ground lay spill’d, 
A purple flower sprung up, check’red with 
white, 

Resembling well his pale cheeks and the 
blood 

Which in round drops upon their whiteness 
stood. 1170 

She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to 
smell, 

Comparing it to her Adonis’ breath, 

And says, within her bosom it shall dwell, 

Since he himself is reft from her by death. 

She crops the stalk, and in the breach ap¬ 
pears 1175 

Green-dropping sap, which she compares to 
tears. 

“Poor flower,” quoth she, “this was thy 
father’s guise — 

Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire — 

For every little grief to wet his eyes : 

To grow unto himself was his desire, uso 

And so’t is thine ; but know, it is as good 

To wither in my breast as in nis blood. 

“ Here was thy father’s bed, here in my breast; 
Thou art the next of blood* and ’t is thy 
right. 

Lo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest, uso 
My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and 
night; 

There shall not be one minute in an hour 

Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love’s 
flower.” 

Thus weary of the world, away she hies, 

And yokes her silver doves ; by whose swift 
aid uso 

Their mistress mounted through the empty 
skies 

In her light chariot quickly is convey’d ; 

Holding their course to Paphos, where theii 
queen 

Means to immure herself and not be seen. 






THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


The first edition of Lucrece, the source of all succeeding 1 texts, was printed in 1594 for John 
Harrison by Richard Field, the original publisher of Venus and Adonis. If it is assumed that it 
represents the “graver labour ” promised in the dedication of the earlier poem, the date of com¬ 
position must have been 1593-94. Eight editions are known to have been issued by 1655. 

The story of Lucrece was so widely familiar, and had been so often the theme of various kinds 
of artistic effort, that it is impossible to state accurately and exhaustively the sources from which 
Shakespeare drew his knowledge of it. The versions of Ovid and Livy, either in the original or 
in the translations of Golding and Painter, and that of Chaucer in the Legend of Good Women , 
seem certainly to have been known to him; and for the ornaments and digressions he seems to 
have laid under contribution many of his contemporaries. The apostrophe to Time is a common¬ 
place, of which that to Opportunity is a Shakespearean variation. The description of the paint¬ 
ing of the fall of Troy derives many details from Virgil’s iEneid, Books i and ii. Daniel’s Com¬ 
plaint of Rosamond (1592) seems to bear to Lucrece somewhat the same relation as Lodge’s 
Glaucus and Scilla does to Venus and Adonis. It is written in the seven-lined stanza used here, 
and in the remorse of Rosamond it treats a theme closely parallel in tone and method to the 
1 nuents of Lucrece. 


TO THE 

RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLEY, 

EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON AND BARON OF TICHFIELD. 

The love I dedicate to your Lordship is without end ; whereof this pamphlet, without begin¬ 
ning, is but a superfluous moiety. The warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not the 
worth of my untutor’d lines, makes it assured of acceptance. What I have done is yours ; what I 
have to do is yours ; being part in all I have, devoted yours. Were my worth greater, my duty 
would show greater ; meantime, as it is, it is bound to your Lordship, to whom I wish long life, 
still length’ned with all happiness. Your Lordship’s in all duty, 

William Shakespeare. 


THE ARGUMENT 

Lucius Tarquinius, for his excessive pride surnamed Superbus, after he had caused his own 
father-in-law Servius Tullius to be cruelly murd’red, and, contrary to the Roman laws and cus¬ 
toms, not requiring or staying for the people’s suffrages, had possessed himself of the kingdom, 
went, accompanied with his sons and other noblemen of Rome, to besiege Ardea: during which 
siege the principal men of the army meeting one evening at the tent of Sextus Tarquinius, the 
king’s son, in their discourses after supper every one commended the virtues of his own wife; 
among whom Collatinus extolled the incomparable chastity of his wife Lucretia. In that pleasant 
humour they all posted to Rome ; and intending, by their secret and sudden arrival, to make trial 
of that which every one had before avouched, only Collatinus finds his wife, though it were late 
in the night, spinning amongst her maids: the other ladies were all found dancing and revelling, 
or in several disports. Whereupon the noblemen yielded Collatinus the victory, and his wife the 
fame. At that time Sextus Tarquinius being inflamed with Lucrece’ beauty, yet smothering his 
passions for the present, departed with the rest back to the camp ; from whence he shortly after 
privily withdrew himself, and was, according to his estate, royally entertained and lodged by 
Lucrece at Collatium. The same night he treacherously stealeth into her chamber, violently 
ravish’d her, and early in the morning speedeth away. Lucrece, in this lamentable plight, hastily 
dispatcheth messengers, one to Rome for her father, another to the camp for Collatine. They 
came, the one accompanied with Junius Brutus, the other with Publius Valerius ; and finding 
Lucrece attired in mourning habit, demanded the cause of her sorrow. She, first taking an oath 
of them for her revenge, revealed the actor, and whole manner of his dealing, and withal sud¬ 
denly stabbed herself. Which done, with one consent they all vowed to root out the whole hated 
family of the Tarquins ; and bearing the dead body to Rome, Brutus acquainted the people with 
the doer and manner of the vile deed, with a bitter invective against the tyranny of the king; 
wherewith the people were so moved, that with one consent and a general acclamation the Tar- 
<piins were all exiled, and the state government changed from kings to consuls. 




THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


Prom the besieged Ardea all in post, 

Borne by the trustless wings of false desire, 
Lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host, 
And to Collatia bears the lightless fire 
Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire « 
And girdle with embracing flames the waist 
Of Collatine’s fair love, Lucrece the chaste. 

Haply that name of “ chaste ” unhappily set 
This bateless edge on his keen appetite ; 

When Collatine unwisely did not let 10 

To praise the clear unmatched red and white 
Which triumph’d in that sky of his delight. 
Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven’s 
beauties, 

With pure aspects did him peculiar duties. 

For he the night before, in Tarquin’s tent, is 
Unlock’d the treasure of his happy state ; 

What priceless wealth the heavens had him 
lent 

In the possession of his beauteous mate; 
Reck’ning his fortune at such high proud 
rate. 

That kings might be espoused to more 
fame, 20 

But king nor peer to such a peerless dame. 

0 happiness enjoy’d but of a few ! 

And, if possess’d, as soon decay’d and done 
As is the morning’s silver melting dew 
Against the golden splendour of the sun ! m 
A n expir’d date, cancell’d ere well begun: 
Honour and beauty, in the owner’s arms. 

Are weakly fortress’d from a world of harms. 

Beauty itself doth of itself persuade 

The eyes of men without an orator ; so 

What needeth then apology be made, 

To set forth that which is so singular ? 

Or why is Collatine the publisher 
Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown 
From thievish ears, because it is his own? 35 

Perchance his boast of Lucrece’ sovereignty 
Suggested this proud issue of a king, 

For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be ; 
Perchance that envy of so rich a thing, 

Braving compare, disdainfully did sting *0 
His high-pitch’d thoughts, that meaner men 
should vaunt 

That golden hap which their superiors want. 

But some untimely thought did instigate 
His all too timeless speed, if none of those. 

His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state, « 
Neglected all, with swift intent he goes 
To quench the coal which in his liver glows. 


0 rash false heat, wrapp’d in repentant cold, 
Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne’er grows 
old! 

When at Collatia this false lord arrived, 60 
Well was he welcom’d by the Roman dame, 
Within whose face beauty and virtue strived 
Which of them both should underprop her 
fame. 

When virtue bragg’d, beauty would blush for 
shame; 

When beauty boasted blushes, in despite 53 
Virtue _ would stain that o’er with silver 
white. 

But beauty, in that white intituled, 

From Venus’ doves doth challenge that fair 
field; 

Then virtue claims from beauty beauty’s red. 
Which virtue gave the golden age to gild go 
T heir silver cheeks, and call’d it then their 
shield ; 

Teaching them thus to use it in the fight, 
When shame assail’d, the red should fence 
the white. 

This heraldry in Lucrece’ face was seen. 
Argu’d by beauty’s red and virtue’s white ; ee 
Of either’s colour was the other queen, 

Proving from world’s minority their right: 

Yet their ambition makes them still to fight, 
The sovereignty of either being so great 
That oft they interchange each other’s 
seat. 70 

Their silent war of lilies and of roses, 

Which Tarquin view’d in her fair face’s field, 
In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses ; 
Where, lest between them both it should be 
kill’d, 

The coward captive vanquished doth yield 76 
To those two armies that would let him go, 
Rather than triumph in so false a foe. 

Now thinks he that her husband’s shallow 
tongue, — 

The niggard prodigal that prais’d her so, — 

In that high task hath done her beauty 
wrong, so 

Which far exceeds his barren skill to show ; 
Therefore that praise which Collatine doth owe 
Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise, 

In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes. 

This earthly saint, adored by this devil, 

Little suspecteth the false worshipper ; 

For unstain’d thoughts do seldom dream on 
evil ; 




ii 5 2 


THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


Birds never lim’d no secret bushes fear : 

So guiltless she securely gives good cheer 
And reverend welcome to her princely 
guest, _ 

Whose inward ill no outward harm express’d: 

For that he colour’d with his high estate, 
Hiding base sin in plaits of majesty ; 

That nothing in him seem’d inordinate, 

Save sometime too much wonder of his eye, se 
Which, having all, all could not satisfy ; 

But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store, 
That, cloy’d with much, he pineth still for 
more. 

But she, that never cop’d with stranger eyes, 
Could pick no meaning from their parling 
looks, 100 

Nor read the subtle shining secrecies 
Writ in the glassy margents of such books. 

She touch’d no unknown baits, nor fear’d no 
hooks; 

Nor could she moralize his wanton sight, 
More than his eyes were open’d to the light. 

He stories to her ears her husband’s fame, ioo 
Won in the fields of fruitful Italy ; 

And decks with praises Collatine’s high name, 
Made glorious by his manly chivalry 
With bruised arms and wreaths of victory, no 
Her joy with heav’d-up hand she doth ex¬ 
press, 

And, wordless, so greets Heaven for his suc¬ 
cess. 

Far from the purpose of his coming thither, 

He makes excuses for his being there. 

No cloudy show of stormy blust’ring weather ns 
Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear ; 

Till sable Night, mother of Dread and Fear, 
Upon the world dim darkness doth display, 
And in her vaulty prison stows the Day. 

For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed, 120 
Intending weariness with heavy spright; 

For, after supper, long he questioned 
With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night. 
Now leaden slumber with life’s strength doth 
fight; 

And every one to rest themselves betake, 125 
Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds, 
that wake. 

As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving 
The sundry dangers of his will’s obtaining ; 

Yet ever to obtain his will resolving, 

Though weak-built hopes persuade him to ab¬ 
staining. 130 

Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining ; 
And when great treasure is the meed pro¬ 
posed. 

Though d.eath be adjunct, there’s no death 
supposed. 

Those that much covet are with gain so fond 
That what they have not, that which they pos¬ 
sess, 136 


They scatter and unloose it from their bond, 
And so, by hoping more, they have but less ; 
Or, gaining more, the profit of excess 
Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain, 
That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich 
gain. 140 

The aim of all is but to nurse the life 
With honour, wealth, and ease, in waning age ; 
And in this aim there is such thwarting strife 
That one for all, or all for one, we gage, 

As life for honour in fell battle’s rage, i« 

Honour for wealth ; and oft that wealth doth 
cost 

The death of all, and all together lost. 

So that in vent’ring ill we leave to be 
The things we are for that which we expect; 
And this ambitious foul infirmity, ieo 

In having much, torments us with defect 
Of that we have: so then we do neglect 
The thing we have; and, all for want of wit, 
Make something nothing by augmenting it. 

Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make, ibs 
P awning his honour to obtain his lust; 

And for himself himself he must forsake: 

Then where is truth, if there be no self-trust ? 
When shall he think to find a stranger just, 
When he himself himself confounds, betrays 
To slanderous tongues and wretched hateful 
days ? lei 

Now stole upon the time the dead of night, 
When heavy sleep had clos’d up mortal eyes. 
No comfortable star did lend his light, 

No noise but owls’ and wolves’ death-boding 
cries; 105 

Now serves the season that they may surprise 
The silly lambs. Pure thoughts are dead and 
still, 

While lust and murder wakes to stain and 
kill. 

And now this lustful lord leap’d from his bed, 
Throwing his mantle rudely o’er his arm ; no 
Is madly toss’d between desire ancl dread ; 

The one sweetly flatters, the other feareth 
harm; 

But honest fear, bewitch’d with lust’s foul 
charm, 

Doth too too oft betake him to retire, 

Beaten away by brain-sick rude desire. ns 

His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth, 

That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly ; 
Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth, 
Which must be lode-star to his lustful eye ; 
And to the flame thus speaks advisedly: i«o 

“ As from this cold flint I enforc’d this fire, 
So Lucrece must I force to my desire.” 

Here pale with fear he doth premeditate 
The dangers of his loathsome enterprise, 

And in his inward mind he doth debate 1*6 
What following sorrow may on this arise. 

Then looking scornfully, he doth despise 





THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


” 5 J 


His naked armour of still slaughtered lust, 
And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust: 

“Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not 
To darken her whose light excelleth thine ; m 
And die, unhallow’d thoughts, before you blot 
With your uncleanness that which is divine ; 
Offer pure incense to so pure a shrine : 

Let fair humanity abhor the deed i»e 

That spots and stains love’s modest snow- 
white weed. 

“ 0 shame to knighthood and to shining arms ! 
O foul dishonour to my household’s grave ! 

O impious act, including all foul harms ! 

A martial man to be soft fancy’s slave ! 200 

True valour still a true respect should have ; 
Then my digression is so vile, so base, 

That it will live engraven in my face. 

“ Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive, 
And be an eye-sore in my golden coat; 206 

Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive, 
To cipher me how fondly I did dote ; 

That my posterity, sham’d with the note, 

Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin, 
To wish that I their father had not been. 210 

“ What win I, if I gain the thing I seek ? 

A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. 

Who buys a minute’s mirth to wail a week, 

Or sells eternity to get a toy ? «* 

For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy ? 
Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, 
Would with the sceptre straight be strncken 
down ? 

“ If Collatinus dream of my intent, 

Will he not wake, and in a desperate rage 
Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent ? 220 

This siege that hath engirt his marriage, 

This blur to youth, this sorrow to the sage, 
This dying virtue, this surviving shame, 
Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame ? 

“ 0 , what excuse can my invention make, 225 
When thou shalt charge me with so black a 
deed ? 

Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints 
shake, 

Mine eyes forgo their light, my false heart 
bleed? 

The guilt being great, the fear doth still ex¬ 
ceed ; 

And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly, 230 
But coward-like with trembling terror die. 

“ Had Collatinus kill’d my son or sire, 

Or lain in ambush to betray my life, 

Or were he not my dear friend, this desire 
Might have excuse to work upon his wife, 233 
As in revenge or quittal of such strife ; 

But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend, 
The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end. 

“ Shameful it is ; ay ? if the fact be known : 
Hateful it is ; there is no hate in loving : **o 


I ’ll beg her love ; but she is not her own : 

The worst is but denial and reproving. 

My will is strong, past reason’s weak remov¬ 
ing. 

Who fears a sentence or an old man’s saw 
Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.” 24* 

Thus, graceless, holds he disputation 
’Tween frozen conscience and hot burning will, 
And with good thoughts makes dispensation, 
Urging the worser sense for vantage still; 
Which in a moment doth confound and kill 25* 
All pure effects, and doth so far proceed, 
That what is vile shows like a virtuous deed. 

Quoth he, “She took me kindly by the hand, 
And gaz’d for tidings in my eager eyes, 

Fearing some hard news from the warlike 
band, 20s 

Where her beloved Collatinus lies. 

0 , how her fear did make her colour rise ! 

First red as roses that on lawn we lay. 

Then white as lawn, the roses took away. 

“ And how her hand, in my hand being lock’d, 
Forc’d it to tremble with her loyal fear ! 201 

Which struck her sad, and then it faster rock’d, 
Until her husband’s welfare she did hear; 
Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer, 

That had Narcissus seen her as she stood, see 
Self-love had never drown’d him in the flood. 

“ Why hunt I then for colour or excuses? 

All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth ; 
Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses ; 
Love thrives not in the heart that shadows 
dreadeth; 270 

Affection is my captain, and he leadeth ; 

And when his gaudy banner is display’d, 

The coward fights, and will not be dismay’d. 

“ Then, childish fear, avaunt! debating, die} 
Respect and reason, wait on wrinkled age ! 275 
My heart shall never countermand mine eye. 
Sad pause and deep regard beseem the sage ; 
My part is youth, and beats these from the 
stage. 

Desire my pilot is, beauty my prize; 

Then who fears sinking where such treasure 

lies ? ” 280 

As corn o’ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear 
Is almost chok’d by unresisted lust. 

Away he steals with open list’ning ear, 

Full of foul hope and full of fond mistrust; 
Both which, as servitors to the unjust, 28* 

So cross him with their opposite persuasion, 
That now he vows a league, and now invasion. 

Within his thought her heavenly image sits, 
And in the self-same seat sits Collatine. 

That eye which looks on her confounds his 
wits; 2»o 

That eye which him beholds, as more divine, 
Unto a view so false will not incline ; 

But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart, 
Which once corrupted takes the worser part; 






THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


ii 54 


And therein heartens up his servile powers, 29s 
Who, flatt’red by their leader’s jocund show, 
Stuff up his lust, as minutes fill up hours ; 

And as their captain, so their pride doth grow, 
Paying more slavish tribute than they owe. 

By reprobate desire thus madly led, 300 

The Roman lord marcheth to Lucrece’ bed. 

The locks between her chamber and his will, 
Each one by him enforc’d, retires his ward ; 
But, as they open, they all rate his ill, 

Which drives the creeping thief to some re¬ 
gard. 306 

The threshold grates the door to have him 
heard: 

Night-wand’ring weasels shriek to see him 
there ; 

They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear. 

As each unwilling portal yields him way, 
Through little vents and crannies of the 
place 310 

The wind wars with his torch to make him 
stay, 

And blows the smoke of it into his face, 
Extinguishing his conduct in this case ; 

But his hot heart, which fond desire doth 
scorch, 

Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch. 

And being lighted, by the light he spies 3ie 
Lucretia’s glove, wherein her needle sticks. 

He takes it from the rushes where it lies, 

And griping it, the needle his finger pricks ; 

As who should say, “This glove to wanton 
tricks 320 

Is not inur’d ; return again in haste ; 

Thou see’st our mistress’ ornaments are 
chaste.” 

But all these poor forbiddings could not stay 
him ; 

He in the worst sense construes their denial: 
The doors, the wind, the glove that did delay 
him, 325 

He takes for accidental things of trial; 

Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial, 
Who with a ling’ring stay his course doth let, 
Till every minute pays the hour his debt. 

“So, so,” quoth he, “these lets attend the 
time, 330 

Like little frosts that sometime threat the 
spring, 

To add a more rejoicing to the prime, 

And give the sneaped birds more cause to sing. 
Pain pays the income of each precious thing ; 
Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, 
shelves and sands, 335 

The merchant fears, ere rich at home he 
lands.” 

Now is he come unto the chamber-door, 

That shuts him from the heaven of his thought, 
Which with a yielding latch, and with no more, 
Hath barr’d him from the blessed thing he 

sought. 340 


So from himself impiety hath wrought, 

That for his prey to pray he doth begin, 

As if the heavens should countenance his sin. 

But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer, 
Having solicited the eternal power 346 

That his foul thoughts might compass his fair 
fair, 

And they would stand auspicious to the hour, 
Even there he starts : quoth he, “ I must de¬ 
flower : 

The powers to whom I pray abhor this fact, 
How can they then assist me in the act ? sso 

“Then Love and Fortune be my gods, my 
guide! 

My will is back’d with resolution. 

Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be 
tried: 

The blackest sin is clear’d with absolution ; 
Against love’s fire fear’s frost hath dissolution. 
The eye of heaven is out, and misty night 355 
Covers the shame that follows sweet delight.” 

This said, his guilty hand pluck’d up the latch, 
And with his knee the door he opens wide. 

The dove sleeps fast that this night-owl will 

catch; 300 

Thus treason works ere traitors be espi’d. 

Who sees the lurking serpent steps aside ; 

But she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing, 
Lies at the mercy of his mortal sting. 

Into the chamber wickedly he stalks, 365 

And gazetli on her yet unstained bed. 

The curtains being close, about he walks, 
Rolling his greedy eyeballs in his head. 

By their high treason is his heart misled ; 
Which gives the watch-word to his hand full 
soon 370 

To draw the cloud that hides the silver moon. 

Look, as the fair and fiery-pointed sun, 

Rushing from forth a cloud, bereaves our sight; 
Even so, the curtain drawn, his eyes begun 
To w’ink, being blinded with a greater light: 375 
Whether it is that she reflects so bright, 

That dazzletli them, or else some shame sup¬ 
posed ; 

But blind they are, and keep themselves en¬ 
closed. 

O, had they in that darksome prison died ! 
Then had they seen the period of their ill; sso 
Then Collatine again, by Lucrece’ side, 

In his clear bed might have reposed still: 

But they must ope, this blessed league to kill; 
And holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight 
Must sell her joy, her life, her world’s delight. 

Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under, 3*6 
Coz’ning the pillow of a lawful kiss ; 

Who. therefore angry, seems to part in sunder, 
Swelling on either side to want his bliss : 
Between whose hills her head entombed is: #>o 
Where, like a virtuous monument, she lies, 
To be admir’d of lewd unhallow’d eyes. 






THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


'•55 


Without the bed her other fair hand was, 

On the green coverlet; whose perfect white 
Show’d like an April daisy on the grass, 395 
With pearly sweat, resembling dew of night. 
Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheath’d their 
light, 

And canopi’d in darkness sweetly lay, 

Till they might open to adorn the day. 

Her hair, like golden threads, play’d with her 
breath ; 400 

0 modest wantons ! wanton modesty ! 

Showing life’s triumph in the map of death, 
And death’s dim look in life’s mortality. 

Each in her sleep themselves so beautify, 

As if between them twain there were no 
strife, 405 

But that life liv’d in death, and death in 
life. 

Her breasts, like ivory globes circled with blue, 
A pair of maiden worlds unconquered, 

Save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew, 
And him by oath they truly honoured : 410 

These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred ; 
Who, like a foul usurper, went about 
From this fair throne to heave the owner out. 

What could he see but mightily he noted ? 
What did he note but strongly he desired ? 415 
What he beheld, on that he firmly doted, 

And in his will his wilful eye he tired. 

With more than admiration he admired 
Her azure veins, her alabaster skin, 

Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled 
chin. 420 

As the grim lion fawneth o’er his prey, 

Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied, 

So o'er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay, 
His rage of lust by gazing qualified ; 

Slack’d, not suppress’d : for standing by her 
side, 425 

His eye, which late this mutiny restrains, 
Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins. 

And they, like straggling slaves for pillage 
fighting, 

Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting, 

In bloody death and ravishment delighting, 430 
Nor children’s tears nor mothers’ groans re¬ 
specting, 

Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting. 
Anon his beating heart, alarum striking, 
Gives the hot charge and bids them do their 
liking. 

His drumming heart cheers up his burning 
eye, 436 

His eye commends the leading to his hand ; 

His hand, as proud of such a dignity, 

Smoking with pride, march’d on to make his 
stand 

On her bare breast, the heart of all her land ; 
Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did 
scale, 440 

Left their round turrets destitute and pale. 


They, must’ring to the quiet cabinet 
Where their dear governess and lady lies, 

Do tell her she is dreadfully beset, 

And fright her with confusion of their cries. 445 
She, much amaz’d, breaks ope her lock’d-up 
eyes, 

Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold, 
Are by his flaming torch dimm’d and con- 
troll’d. 

Imagine her as one in dead of night 
From forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy wak¬ 
ing, 450 

That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly 
sprite, 

Whose grim aspect sets every joint a-shaking ; 
What terror’t is ! but she in worser taking, 
From sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view 
The sight which makes supposed terror 
true. 456 

Wrapp’d and confounded in a thousand fears, 
Like to a new-kill’d bird she trembling lies ; 
She dares not look; yet, winking, there ap¬ 
pears 

Quick-shifting antics, ugly in her eyes. 

Such shadows are the weak brain’s forgeries ; 
Who, angry that the eyes fly from their 
lights, 46i 

In darkness daunts them with more dreadful 
sights. 

His hand, that yet remains upon her breast, — 
Rude ram, to batter such an ivory wall! — 
May feel her heart—poor citizen! — dis¬ 
tress’d, 465 

Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall. 
Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal. 
This moves in him more rage and lesser pity 
To make the breach and enter this sweet city. 

First, like a trumpet, doth his tongue begin 470 
To sound a parley to his heartless foe ; 

Who o’er the white sheet peers her whiter chin, 
The reason of this rash alarm to know, 

Which he by dumb demeanour seeks to show ; 
But she with vehement prayers urgeth still 475 
Under what colour he commits this ill. 

Thus he replies : “ The colour in thy face, 

That even for anger makes the lily pale, 

And the red rose blush at her own disgrace, 
Shall plead for me and tell my loving tale. 
Under that colour am I come to scale 

Thy never-conquered fort. The fault is thine, 
For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine. 

“ Thus I forestall thee, if thou mean to chide : 
Thy beauty hath ensnar’d thee to this night, 495 
Where thou with patience must my will abide ; 
My will that marks thee for my earth’s delight, 
Which I to conquer sought with all my might; 
But as reproof and reason beat it dead, 

By thy bright beauty was it newly bred. 490 

“ I see what crosses my attempt will bring; 

I know what thorns the growing rose defends; 







1156 


THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


I think the honey guarded with a sting : 

All this beforehand counsel comprehends ; 

But Will is deaf and hears no heedful 
friends; 

Only he hath an eye to gaze on beauty, 

And dotes on what he looks, ’gainst law or 
duty. 


While she, the picture of pure piety, 

Like a white hind under the gripe’s sharp 
claws, 

Pleads, in a wilderness where are no laws, 

To the rough beast that knows no gentle 
right, 644 

Nor aught obeys but his foul appetite. 


“ I have debated, even in my soul, 

What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall 
breed; 

But nothing can affection’s course control, 600 
Or stop the headlong fury of his speed. 

I know repentant tears ensue the deed, 
Reproach, disdain, and deadly enmity; 

Yet strive I to embrace mine infamy.” 

This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade, 506 
Which, like a falcon tow’ring in the skies, 
Goucheth the fowl below with his wings’ shade, 
Whose crooked beak threats, if he mount, he 
dies: 

So under his insulting falchion lies 

Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells eio 
With trembling fear, as fowl hear falcon’s 
bells. 

“Lucrece,” quoth he, ‘‘this night I must en¬ 
joy thee. 

If thou deny, then force must work my way, 
For in thy bed I purpose to destroy thee ; 

That done, some worthless slave of thine I ’ll 
slay, cic 

To kill thine honour with thy life’s decay; 

And in thy dead arms do I mean to place 
him, 

Swearing I slew him, seeing thee embrace 
him. 


But when a black-fac’d cloud the world doth 
threat, 

In his dim mist the aspiring mountains hiding, 
From earth’s dark womb some gentle gust doth 


get, , . 

Which blow these pitchy vapours from their 
biding, _ 600 

Hind’ring their present fall by this dividing ; 
So his unhallow’d haste her words delays, 
And moody Pluto winks while Orpheus plays. 


Yet, foul night-waking cat, he doth but dally, 
While in his hold-fast foot the weak mouse 
panteth. ece 

Her sad behaviour feeds his vulture folly, 

A swallowing gulf that even in plenty wanteth. 
His ear her prayers admits, but his heart 
granteth 

No penetrable entrance to her plaining; 
Tears harden lust, though marble wear with 
raining. 660 

Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fixed 
In the remorseless wrinkles of his face ; 

Her modest eloquence with sighs is mixed, 
Which to her oratory adds more grace. 

She puts the period often from his place ; 666 

And midst the sentence so her accent breaks, 
That twice she doth begin ere once she 
speaks. 


“ So thy surviving husband shall remain 
The scornful mark of every open eye ; 620 

Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain, 
Thy issue blurr’d with nameless bastardy ; 

And thou, the author of their obloquy, 

Shalt have thy trespass cited up in rhymes, 
And sung by children in succeeding times. 626 

“ But if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend : 
The fault unknown is as a thought unacted ; 

A little harm done to a great good end 
For lawful policy remains enacted. 

The poisonous simple sometime is compacted 630 
In a pure compound ; being so applied, 

His venom in effect is purified. 

“Then, for thy husband and thy children’s 
sake, 

Tender my suit; bequeath not to their lot 
The shame that from them no device can 
take, 636 

The blemish that will never be forgot, 

Worse than a slavish wipe or birth-hour’s blot; 
For marks descri’d in men’s nativity 
Are nature’s faults, not their own infamy.” 

Here with a cockatrice’ dead-killing eye 540 
He rouseth up himself and makes a pause ; 


She conjures him by high almighty Jove, 

By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendship’s 
oath; 

By her untimely tears, her husband’s love, 670 

By holy human law, and common troth, 

By heaven and earth, and all the power of 
both, 

That to his borrow’d bed he make retire, 
And stoop to honour, not to foul desire. 

Quoth she, “ Reward not hospitality 675 

With such black payment as thou hast pre¬ 
tended ; 

Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee ; 

Mar not the thing that cannot be amended; 

End thy ill aim before thy shoot be ended ; 

He is no woodman that doth bend his bow *so 
To strike a poor unseasonable doe. 

“ My husband is thy friend ; for his sake spare 
me: 

Thyself art mighty ; for thine own sake leave 
me: 

Myself a weakling; do not then ensnare me : 

Thou look’st not like deceit; do not deceive 
me. 686 

My sighs, like whirlwinds, labour hence to 
1 heave thee. 





THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


”57 


If ever man were mov’d with woman’s moans, 
Be moved with my tears, my sighs, my 
groans: 

“ All which together, like a troubled ocean, 
Beat at thy rocky and wreck-threat’ning heart, 
To soften it with their continual motion ; ssn 
For stones dissolv’d to water do convert. 

O, if no harder than a stone thou art, 

Melt at my tears, and be compassionate ! 

Soft pity enters at an iron gate. 595 

“ In Tarquin’s likeness I did entertain thee: 
Hast thou put on his shape to do him shame ? 
To all the host of heaven I complain me, 

Thou wrong’st his honour, wound’st his princely 
name. 

Thou art not what thou seem’st; and if the 
same, eoo 

Thou seem’st not what thou art, a god, a 
king; 

For kings like gods should govern every¬ 
thing. 

“ How will thy shame be seeded in thine age, 
When thus thy vices bud before thy spring ? 

If in thy hope thou dar’st do such outrage, 606 
What dar’st thou not when once thou art a 
king ? 

0 , be rememb’red, no outrageous thing 
From vassal actors can be wip’d away ; 

Then kings’ misdeeds cannot be hid in clay. 

“ This deed will make thee only lov’d for 
fear; ®i<> 

But happy monarchs still are fear’d for love : 
With foul offenders thou perforce must bear, 
When they in thee the like offences prove. 

If but for fear of this, thy will remove ; 

For princes are the glass, the school, the 
book, 618 

Where subjects’ eyes do learn, do read, do 
look. 


“And wilt thou be the school where Lust shall 
learn ? 

Must he in thee read lectures of such shame ? 
Wilt thou be glass wherein it shall discern 
Authority for sin, warrant for blame, mo 

Toprivilege dishonour in thy name ? 

Thou back’st reproach against long-living 
laud, 

And mak’st fair reputation but a bawd. 


“Hast thou command? By him that gave it 
thee, 

From a pure heart command thy rebel will; «26 
Draw not thy sword to guard iniquity, 

For it was lent thee all that brood to kill. 

Thy princely office how canst thou fulfil, 

When, pattern’d by thy fault, foul sin may 

Sciy^ 

He learn’d to sin, and thou didst teach the 


way 


830 


“ Think but how vile a spectacle it were 
To view thy present trespass in another. 


Men’s faults do seldom to themselves appear ; 
Their own transgressions partially they 
smother: 

This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy 
brother. mo 

O, how are they wrapt in with infamies 
That from their own misdeeds askance their 
eyes! 

“ To thee, to thee, my heav’d-up hands appeal, 
Not to seducing lust, thy rash relier : 

I sue for exil’d majesty’s repeal; 040 

Let him return, and flatt’ring thoughts retire : 
His true respect will prison false desire, 

And wipe the dim mist from thy doting 
eyne, 

That thou shalt see thy state and pity mine.” 

“Have done,” quoth he; “my uncontrolled 
tide 045 

Turns not, but swells the higher by this let. 
Small lights are soon blown out, huge fires 
abide, 

And with the wind in greater fury fret. 

The petty streams that pay a daily debt 
To their salt sovereign, with their fresh falls’ 
haste 050 

Add to his flow, but alter not his taste.” 

“ Thou art,” quoth she, “ a sea, a sovereign 
king; 

And, lo, there falls into thy boundless flood 
Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning, 
Who seek to stain the ocean of thy blood. 055 
If all these petty ills shall change thy good, 
Thy sea within a puddle’s womb is hearsed, 
And not the puddle in thy sea dispersed. 

“ So shall these slaves be king, and thou their 
slave; 

Thou nobly base, they basely dignifi’d ; wo 
Thou their fair life, and they thy fouler grave ; 
Thou loathed in their shame, they in thy pride. 
The lesser thing should not the greater hide ; 
The cedar stoops not to the base shrub’s foot, 
But low shrubs wither at the cedar’s root. 005 

“ So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy 
state,”— 

“No more,” quoth he ; “ by heaven, I will not 
hear thee. 

Yield to my love ; if not, enforced hate. 

Instead of love’s coy touch, shall rudely tear 
thee; 

That done, despitefully I mean to bear thee m 
Unto the base bed of some rascal groom, 

To be thy partner in this shameful doom.” 

This said, he sets his foot upon the light, 

For light and lust are deadly enemies ; 

Shame folded up in blind concealing night, 075 
When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize. 
The wolf hath seiz’d his prey, the poor lamb 
cries ; 

Till with her own white fleece her voice con- 
troll’d 

Entombs her outcry in her lips’ sweet fold. 





THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


US 8 


For with the nightly linen that she wears sso 
He pens her piteous clamours in her head ; 
Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears 
That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed. 

O, that prone lust should stain so pure a bed ! 
The spots whereof could weeping purify, ess 
Her tears should drop on them perpetually. 

But she hath lost a dearer thing than life, 

And he hath won what he would lose again ; 
This forced league doth force a further strife, 
This momentary joy breeds months of pain, 600 
This hot desire converts to cold disdain ; 

Pure Chastity is rifled of her store, 

And Lust, the thief, far poorer than before. 

Look, as the full-fed hound or gorged hawk, 
Unapt for tender smell or speedy flight, 695 
Make slow pursuit, or altogether balk 
The prey wherein by nature they delight; 

So surfeit-taking Tarquin fares this night: 

His taste delicious, in digestion souring, 
Devours his will, that liv’d by foul devour¬ 
ing. 700 

O, deeper sin than bottomless conceit 
Can comprehend in still imagination ! 

Drunken Desire must vomit his receipt, 

Ere he can see his own abomination. 

While Lust is in his pride, no exclamation 70s 
Can curb his heat or rein his rash desire, 

Till, like a jade, Self-will himself doth tire. 

And then with lank and lean discolour’d cheek, 
With heavy eye, knit brow, and strengthless 
pace, 

Feeble Desire, all recreant, poor, and meek, 710 
Like to a bankrupt beggar wails his case. 

The flesh being proud, Desire doth fight with 
Grace, 

For there it revels ; and when that decays, 
The guilty rebel for remission prays. 

So fares it with this faultful lord of Rome, 71s 
Who this accomplishment so hotly chased ; 

For now against himself he sounds this doom, 
That through the length of times he stands dis¬ 
graced : 

Besides, his soul’s fair temple is defaced ; 

To whose weak ruins muster troops of 
cares, 720 

To ask the spotted princess how she fares. 

She says, her subjects with foul insurrection 
Have batter’d down her consecrated wall, 

And by their mortal fault brought in subjec¬ 
tion 

Her immortality, and made her thrall 725 

To jiving death and pain perpetual; 

Which in her prescience she controlled still, 
But her foresight could not forestall their 
will. 

Even in this thought through the dark night 
he stealetli, 

A captive victor that hath lost in gain ; 730 

Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth, 


The scar that will, despite of cure, remain ; 
Leaving his spoil perplex’d in greater pain. 

She bears the load of lust he left behind, 

And he the burden of a guilty mind. 73; 

He like a thievish dog creeps sadly thence ; 

She like a wearied lamb lies panting there ; 

He scowls and hates himself for his offence ; 
She, desperate, with her nails her flesh doth 
tear; 

He faintly flies, sweating with guilty fear; 740 

She stays, exclaiming on the direful night; 
He runs, and chides his vanish’d, loath’d de¬ 
light. 

He thence departs a heavy convertite; 

She there remains a hopeless castaway ; 

He in his speed looks for the morning light; 74s 
She prays she never may behold the day, 

“For day,” quoth she, “night’s scapes doth 
open lay, 

And my true eyes have never practis’d how 
To cloak offences with a cunning brow. 

“ They think not but that every eye can see 7 so 
The same disgrace which they themselves be¬ 
hold ; 

And therefore would they still in darkness be, 
To have their unseen sin remain untold ; 

For they their guilt with weeping will unfold, 
And grave, like water that doth eat in 
steel, 756 

Upon my cheeks what helpless shame I feel.” 

Here she exclaims against repose and rest, 

And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind. 

She wakes her heart by beating on her breast, 
And bids it leap from thence, where it may 
find 7 tto 

Some purer chest to close so pure a mind. 
Frantic with grief thus breathes she forth 
her spite 

Against the unseen secrecy of night: 

“ O comfort-killing Night, image of hell! 

Dim register and notary of shame ! 705 

Black stage for tragedies and murders fell! 
Vast sin-concealing chaos ! nurse of blame ! 
Blind muffled bawd ! dark harbour for defame ! 
Grim cave of death ! whisp’ring conspirator 
With close-tongu’d Treason and the rav- 
isher! 770 

“ O hateful, vaporous, and foggy Night! 

Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime, 
Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light, 
Make war against proportion’d course of time ; 
Or if thou wilt permit the sun to climb 77s 
His wonted height, yet ere he go to bed, 

Knit poisonous clouds about his golden head. 

“ With rotten damps ravish the morning air ; 
Let their exhal’d unwholesome breaths make 
sick 

The life of purity, the supreme fair, 7«« 

Ere he arrive his weary noon-tide prick ; 

And let thy musty vapours march so thick, 




THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


“59 


That in their smoky ranks his smoth’red light 
May set at noon and make perpetual night. 

“Were Tprquin Night, as he is but Night’s 
child, 785 

The silver-shining queen he would distain ; 

Her twinkling handmaids too, by him defil’d, 
Through Night’s black bosom should not peep 
again: 

So should I have co-partners in my pain ; 

And fellowship in woe doth woe assuage, 790 
As palmers’ chat makes short their pilgrim¬ 
age: 

u Where now I have no one to blush with me, 
To cross their arms and hang their heads with 
mine, 

To mask their brows and hide their infamy ; 
But I alone, alone must sit and pine, 795 

Seasoning the earth with showers of silver brine, 
Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with 
groans, 

Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans. 

“ 0 Night, thou furnace of foul reeking smoke, 
Let not the jealous Day behold that face «oo 
Which underneath thy black all-hiding cloak 
Immodestly lies martyr’d with disgrace ! 

Keep still possession of thy gloomy place, 

That all the faults which in thy reign are 
made 

May likewise be sepulchr’d in thy shade ! »ob 

“ Make me not object to the tell-tale Day ! 

The light will show, character’d in my brow, 
The story of sweet chastity’s decay, 

The impious breach of holy wedlock vow ; 

Yea, the illiterate, that know not how »io 

To cipher what is writ in learned books, 

Will quote my loathsome trespass in my 
looks. 

“ The nurse, to still her child, will tell my story, 
And fright her crying babe with Tarquin’s 
name ; 

The orator, to deck his oratory, *15 

Will couple my reproach to Tarquin’s shame ; 
Feast-finding minstrels, tuning my defame, 
Will tie the hearers to attend each line, 

How Tarquin wronged me, I Collatine. »t 9 

“ Let my good name, that senseless reputation, 
For Collatine’s dear love be kept unspotted : 

If that be made a theme for disputation, 

The branches of another root are rotted, 

And undeserv’d reproach to him allotted 

That is as clear from this attaint of mine 825 
As I, ere this, was pure to Collatine. 


“ If, Collatine, thine honour lay in me, 

From me by strong assault it is bereft. *35 
My honey lost, and I, a drone-like bee, 

Have no perfection of my summer left, 

But robb’d and ransack’d by injurious theft. 

In thy weak hive a wand’ring wasp hath 
crept, 

And suck’d the honey which thy chaste bee 
kept. 840 

“Yet am I guilty of thy honour’s wrack ; 

Yet for thy honour did I entertain him ; 
Coming from thee, I could not put him back, 
For it had been dishonour to disdain him. 
Besides, of weariness he did complain him, ms 
A nd talk’d of virtue : 0 unlook’d-for evil, 
When virtue is profan’d in such a devil! 

“Why should the worm intrude the maiden 
bud ? 

Or hateful cuckoos hatch in sparrows’ nests ? 
Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud ? “0 
Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts ? 

Or kings be breakers of thfeir own behests ? 
But no perfection is so absolute, 

That some impurity doth not pollute. 

“ The aged man that coffers-up his gold ms 
I s plagu’d with cramps and gouts and painful 
fits ; 

And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold, 
But like still-pining Tantalus he sits 
And useless barns the harvest of his wits ; 
Having no other pleasure of his gain sso 
But torment that it cannot cure his pain. 

“ So then he hath it when he cannot use it, 
And leaves it to be mast’red by his young ; 
Who in their pride do presently abuse it. 

Their father was too weak, and they too 
strong, 865 

To hold their cursed-blessed fortune long. 

The sweets we wish for turn to loathed 
sours 

Even in the moment that we call them ours. 

“ Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring ; 
Unwholesome weeds take root with precious 
flowers; «7o 

The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing 
What virtue breeds, iniquity devours. 

We have no good that we can say is ours, 

But ill-annexed Opportunity 

Or kills his life or else his quality. 875 

“ 0 Opportunity, thy guilt is great! 

’T is tnou that execut’st the traitor’s treason. 
Thou sets the wolf where he the lamb may 


“ 0 unseen shame ! invisible disgrace ! 

O unfelt sore ! crest-wounding, private scar ! 
Reproach is stamp’d in Collatinus’ face. 

And Tarquin’s eye may read the mot alar, 830 
How he in peace is wounded, not in war. 

Alas, how many bear such shameful blows, 
Which not themselves, but he that gives them 
knows! 


get; 

Whoever plots the sin, thou ’point’st the sea¬ 
son ; 

’T is thou that spurn’st at right, at law, at 
reason; sso 

And in thy shady cell, where none may spy 
him, 

Sits Sin, to seize the souls that wander by 
him. 







i i6o 


THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


“ Thou mak’st the vestal violate her oath ; 
Thou blow’st the fire when temperance is 
thaw’d ; 

Thou smotlier’st honesty, thou murd’rest 
troth; ess 

Thou foul abettor! thou notorious bawd ! 

Thou plantest scandal and displacest laud. 
Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief, 
Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief! 

“ Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame, 890 
Thy private feasting to a public fast, 

Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name, 

Thy sug’red tongue to bitter wormwood taste ; 
Thy violent vanities can never last. 

How comes it then, vile Opportunity, sos 
Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee ? 

“ When wilt thou be the humble suppliant’s 
friend 

Ynd bring him where his suit may be ob¬ 
tained ? 

When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to 
end ? * 

Or free that soul which wretchedness hath 
chained ? 900 

Give physic to the sick, ease to the pained ? 
The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out 
for thee; 

But they ne’er meet with Opportunity. 

“ The patient dies while the physician sleeps ; 
The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds ; 005 
Justice is feasting while the widow weeps ; 
Advice is sporting while infection breeds. 

Thou grant’st no time for charitable deeds 
Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder’s 
rages, 

•Thy heinous hours wait on them as their 
pages. eio 

“ When Truth and Virtue have to do with 
thee, 

A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid : 
They buy thy help ; but Sin ne’er gives a fee, 
He gratis comes ; and thou art well appaid 
As well to hear as grant what he hath said, 015 
My Collatine would else have come to me 
Wnen Tarquin did, but he was stay’d by 
thee. 

“ Guilty thou art of murder and of theft, 
Guilty of perjury and subornation. 

Guilty of treason, forgery, and shift, 020 

Guilty of incest, that abomination ; 

An accessary by thine inclination 

To all sins past, and all that are to come, 
From the creation to the general doom. 

“ Mis-shapen Time, copesmate of ugly Night, 026 
Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care. 

Eater of youth, false slave to false delight, 
Base watch of woes, sin’s pack-horse, virtue’s 
snare; 

Thou nursest all and murd’rest all that are. 

0 , hear me then, injurious, shifting Time ! »3o 
Be guilty of my death, since of my crime. 


“ Why hath thy servant, Opportunity, 

Betray’d the hours thou gav’st me to repose ? 
Cancell’d my fortunes, and enchained me 
To endless date of never-ending woes ? 03a 

Time’s office is to fine the hate of foes, 

To eat up errors by opinion bred, 

Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed. 

“ Time’s glory is to calm contending kings, 

To unmask falsehood and bring truth to light, 
To stamp the seal of time in aged things, 

To wake the morn and sentinel the night, 

To wrong the wronger till he render right, 

To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours, 
And smear with dust their glitt’ring golden 
towers; 04* 

“ To fill with worm-holes stately monuments, 
To feed oblivion with decay of things, 

To blot old books and alter their contents, 

To pluck the quills from ancient ravens’ wings. 
To dry the old oak’s sap and cherish springs, 050 
To spoil antiquities of hammer’d steel, 

And turn the giddy round of Fortune’s 
wheel; 

“ To show the beldam daughters of her 
daughter, 

To make the child a man, the man a child, 

To slay the tiger that doth live by slaughter, ooe 
To tame the unicorn and lion wild, 

To mock the subtle in themselves beguil’d, 

To cheer the ploughman with increaseful 
crops, 

And waste huge stones with little water- 
drops. 

“ Why work’st thou mischief in thy pilgrim¬ 
age, »eo 

Unless thou couldst return to make amends t 
One poor retiring minute in an age 
Would purchase thee a thousand thousand 
friends, 

Lending him wit that to bad debtors lends: 

0 , this dread night, wouldst thou one hour 
come back, 065 

I could prevent this storm and shun thy 
wrack! 

“Thou ceaseless lackey to eternity, 

With some mischance cross Tarquin in his 
flight. 

Devise extremes beyond extremity, 000 

To make him curse this cursed crimeful night. 
Let ghastly shadows his lewd eyes affright; 
And the dire thought of his committed evil 
Shape every bush a hideous shapeless devil. 

“ Disturb his hours of rest with restless trances, 
Afflict him in his bed with bedrid groans; 026 

Let there bechance him pitiful mischances 
To make him moan, but pity not his moans ; 
Stone him with hard’ned hearts, harder than 
stones; 

And let mild women to him lose their mild¬ 
ness, 

Wilder to him than tigers in their wildness. 




THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


1161 


“ Let him have time to tear his curled hair, osi 
Let him have time against himself to rave, 

Let him have time of Time’s help to despair, 
Let him have time to live a loathed slave, 

Let him have time a beggar’s orts to crave, oss 
And time to see one that by alms doth live 
Disdain to him disdained scraps to give. 

“ Let him have time to see his friends his foes, 
And merry fools to mock at him resort; 

Let him have time to mark how slow time goes 
In time of sorrow, and how swift and short 991 
His time of folly and his time of sport; 

And ever let his unrecalling crime 
Have time to wail the abusing of his time. 

“ 0 Time, thou tutor both to good and bad, 995 
Teach me to curse him that thou taught’st this 
ill! 

At his own shadow let the thief run mad, 
Himself himself seek every hour to kill! 

Such wretched hands such wretched blood 
should spill; 

For who so base would such an office have 1000 
As slanderous deathsman to so base a slave ? 

“ The baser is he, coming from a king, 

To shame his hope with deeds degenerate. 

The mightier man, the mightier is the thing 
That makes him honour’d, or begets him 
hate; ioob 

For greatest scandal waits on greatest state. 
The moon being clouded presently is miss’d, 
But little stars may hide them when they list. 

“ The crow may bathe his coal-black wings in 
mire, 

And unperceiv’d fly with the filth away ; 1010 

But if the like the snow-white swan desire, 
The stain upon his silver down will stay. 

Poor grooms are sightless night, kings glorious 
day. n 

Gnats are unnoted wheresoe’er they fly, 

But eagles gaz’d upon with every eye. 1015 

“ Out, idle words, servants to shallow fools ! 
Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators ! 

Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools ; 
Debate where leisure serves with dull debaters ; 
To trembling clients be you mediators. 1020 
For me, I force not argument a straw, 

Since that my case is past the help of law. 

“ In vain I rail at Opportunity, 

At Time, at Tarquin, and uncheerfuTNight.; 
In vain I cavil with mine infamy, 1026 

In vain I spurn at my confirm’d despite : 

This helpless smoke of words doth me no right. 
The remedy Indeed to do me good 
Is to let forth my foul defiled blood. 

“Poor hand, why quiver’st thou at this de¬ 
cree ? 1030 

Honour thyself to rid me of this shame ; 

For if I die, my honour lives in thee ; 

But if I live, thou liv’st in my defame. 

Since thou couldst not defend thy loyal dame, 


And wast afeard to scratch her wicked 
foe, 1036 

Kill both thyself and her for yielding so.” 

This said, from her be-tumbled couch she 
starteth, 

To find some desperate instrument of death : 
But this no slaughterhouse no tool imparteth 
To make more vent for passage of her 
breath; 1040 

Which, thronging through her lips, so vanish- 
eth 

As smoke from .Etna, that in air consumes, 
Or that which from discharged cannon fumes. 

“In vain,” quoth she, “I live, and seek in 
vain 

Some happy mean to end a hapless life. 1045 

I fear’d by Tarquin’s falchion to be slain, 

Yet for the self-same purpose seek a knife ; 

But when I fear’d, I was a loyal wife : 

So am I now : O no, that cannot be ; 

Of that true type hath Tarquin rifled me. 1000 

“ O, that is gone for which I sought to live, 
And therefore now I need not fear to die. 

To clear this spot by death, at least I give 
A badge of fame to slander’s livery, 

A dying life to living infamy. ioc 6 

Poor helpless help, the treasure stolen away, 
To burn the guiltless casket where it lay! 

“Well, well, dear Collatine, thou shalt not 
know 

The stained taste of violated troth ; 

I will not wrong thy true affection so, 1060 

To flatter thee with an infringed oath ; 

This bastard graff shall never come to growth. 
He shall not boast who did thy stock pol¬ 
lute 

That thou art doting father of his fruit. 

“Nor shall he smile at thee in secret 
thought. 1065 

Nor laugh with his companions at thy state ; 
But thou shalt know thy interest was not 
bought 

Basely with gold, but stolen from forth thy 
gate. 

For me, I am the mistress of my fate, 

And with my trespass never will dispense, ioto 
Till life to death acquit my forc’d offence. 

“ I will not poison thee with my attaint, 

Nor fold my fault in cleanly-coin’d excuses ; 
My sable ground of sin I will not paint, 

To hide the truth of this false night’s abuses. 1075 
My tongue shall utter all; mine eyes, like 
sluices, 

As from a mountain-spring that feeds a dale, 
Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure 
tale.” 

By this, lamenting Philomel had ended 
The well-tun’d warble of her nightly sor¬ 
row, 1080 

And solemn night with slow sad gait descended 









1162 


THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


To ugly hell; when, lo, the blushing morrow 
Lends light to all fair eyes that light will bor¬ 
row ; 

But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see, 
And therefore still in night would cloist’red 
be. io 86 

Revealing day through every cranny spies, 

And seems to point her out where she sits 
weeping; 

To whom she sobbing speaks : “0 eye of eyes, 
Why pry’st thou through my window ? Leave 
thy peeping; 

Mock with thy tickling beams eyes that are 
sleeping; nwo 

Brand not my forehead with thy piercing 
light, 

For day hath nought to do what’s done by 
night.” 

Thus cavils she with everything she sees. 

True grief is fond and testy as a child, 

Who wayward once, his mood with nought 
agrees. 105,5 

Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild ; 
Continuance tames the one ; the other wild, 
Like an unpractis’d swimmer plunging still, 
With too much labour drowns for want of 
skill. 

So she, deep-drenched in a sea of care, 1100 

Holds disputation with each thing she views, 
And to herself all sorrow doth compare ; 

No object but her passion’s strength renews ; 
And as one shifts, another straight ensues. 
Sometime her grief is dumb and hath no 

words; 1105 

Sometime ’tis mad and too much talk affords. 

The little birds that tune their morning’s joy 
Make her moans mad with their sweet melody ; 
For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy, 
Sad souls are slain in merry company ; mo 
Grief best is pleas’d with grief’s society ; 

True sorrow then is feelingly suffic’d 
When with like semblance it is sympathiz’d. 

’T is double death to drown in ken of shore ; 
He ten times pines that pines beholding food; ms 
To see the salve doth make the wound ache 
more ; 

Great grief grieves most at that would do it 
good ; 

Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood, 
Who, being stopp’d, the bounding banks 
o’erflows ; 

Grief dallied with nor law nor limit knows, mo 

“ You mockingbirds,” quoth she, “ your tunes 
entomb 

Within your hollow-swelling feathered breasts, 
And in my hearing be you mute and dumb ; 
My restless discord loves no stops nor rests; 

A woeful hostess brooks not merry guests, ms 
Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears ; 
Distress likes dumps when time is kept with 
tears. 


“ Come, Philomel, that sing’st of ravishment, 
Make thy sad grove in my dishevell’d hair: 

As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment, 
So I at each sad strain will strain a tear, mi 
And with deep groans the diapason bear ; 

For burden-wise I ’ll hum on Tarquin still, 
While thou on Tereus descants better skill. 

“ And whiles against a thorn thou bear’st thy 
part ns* 

To keep thy sharp woes waking, wretched I, 

To imitate thee well, against my heart 
Will fix a sharp knife to affright mine eye ; 
Who, if it wink, shall thereon fall and die. 
These means, as frets upon an instrument, iuo 
Shall tune our heart-strings to true languish¬ 
ment. 

“ And for, poor bird, thou sing’st not in the 
day, 

As shaming any eye should thee behold, 

Some dark deep desert, seated from the way, 
That knows not parching heat nor freezing 
cold, ms 

Will we find out; and there we will unfold 
To creatures stern, sad tunes to change their 
kinds; 

Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle 
minds.” 

As the poor frighted deer, that stands at gaze, 
Wildly determining which way to flj r , mo 

Or one encompass’d with a winding maze, 

That cannot tread the way out readily ; 

So with herself is she in mutiny, 

To live or die which of the twain were better, 
When life is sham’d, and death reproach’s 
debtor. 1155 

“To kill myself,” quoth she, “alack, what 
were it, 

But with my body my poor soul’s pollution ? 
They that lose half with greater patience bear it 
Than they whose whole is swallowed in con¬ 
fusion. 

That mother tries a merciless conclusion mo 

Who, having two sweet babes, when death 
takes one, 

Will slay the other and be nurse to none. 

“ My body or my soul, which was the dearer, 
When the one pure, the other made divine? 
Whose love of either to myself was nearer, me 
When both were kept for Heaven and Colla- 
tine ? 

Ay me ! the bark peel’d from the lofty pine, 
His leaves will wither and his sap decay ; 

So must my soul, her bark being peel’d away. 

“ Her house is sack’d, her quiet interrupted, 
Her mansion batter’d by the enemy ; mi 

Her sacred temple spotted, spoil’d, corrupted, 
Grossly engirt with daring infamy: 

Then let it not be call’d inmiety, 

If in this blemish’d fort I make some hole in» 
Through which I may convey this troubled 
soul. 





THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


1163 


“Yet die I will not till my Collatine 
Have heard the cause of my untimely death ; 
That he may vow, in that sad hour of mine, 
Revenge on him that made me stop my 
breath. mo 

My stained blood to Tarquin I ’ll bequeath, 
Which by him tainted shall for him be spent, 
And as his due writ in my testament. 

“ My honour I ’ll bequeath unto the knife 
That wounds my body so dishonoured. m 6 
’T is honour to deprive dishonour’d life ; 

The one will live, the other being dead : 

So of shame’s ashes shall my fame be bred ; 

For in my death I murder shameful scorn: 
My shame so dead, mine honour is new¬ 
born. 1100 

“ Dear lord of that dear jewel I have lost, 
What legacy shall I bequeath to thee ? 

My resolution, love, shall be thy boast, 

By whose example thou reveng’d mayst be. 
How Tarquin must be us’d, read it in me : ms 
Myself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe, 
And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so. 

“ This brief abridgement of my will I make : 
My soul and body to the skies and ground ; 

My resolution, husband, do thou take ; 1200 

Mine honour be the knife’s that makes my 
wound; 

My shame be his that did my fame confound ; 
And all my fame that lives disbursed be 
To those that live, and think no shame of 
me. 


“ Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee this will; 1205 

How was I overseen that thou shalt sea it! 

My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill ; 

My life’s foul deed, my life’s fair end shall free 
it. 

Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say, ‘ So be 
it: ’ 

Yield to my hand; my hand shall conquer 
thee: >210 

Thou dead, both die, and both shall victors 
be.” 


This plot of death when sadly she had laid, 
And wip’d the brinish pearl from her bright 


eyes 


With untun’d tongue she hoarsely calls her 


maid, 

Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies ; ms 
For fleet-wing’d duty with thought’s feathers 


flies. 

Poor Lucrece’ cheeks unto her maid seem so 
As winter meads when sun doth melt their 


snow. 


Her mistress she doth give demure good-mor¬ 
row, 

With soft slow tongue, true mark of mod¬ 
esty, 1220 

And sorts a sad look to her lady’s sorrow, 

For why her face wore sorrow’s livery ; 

But durst not ask of her audaciously 


Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so, 
Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash’d with 
woe: 1225 

But, as the earth doth weep, the sun being set, 
Each flower moist’ned like a melting eye ; 
Even so the maid with swelling drops gan wet 
Her circled eyne, enforc’d by sympathy 
Of those fair suns set in her mistress’ sky, 1230 
Who in a salt-wav’d ocean quench their light, 
Which makes the maid weep like the dewy 
night. 

A pretty while these pretty creatures stand, 
Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling: 

One justly weeps ; the other takes in hand 1235 
No cause, but company, of her drops spilling. 
Their gentle sex to weep are often willing, 
Grieving themselves to guess at others’ 
smarts, 

And then they drown their eyes or break 
their hearts. 

For men have marble, women waxen, minds, 1240 
And therefore are they form’d as marble will; 
The weak oppress’d, the impression of strange 
kinds 

Is form’d in them by force, by fraud, or skill. 
Then call them not the authors of their ill, 

No more than wax shall be accounted 
evil 1246 

Wherein is stamp’d the semblance of a devil. 

Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign 
plain, 

Lays open all the little worms that creep ; 

In men, sji in a rough-grown grove, remain 
Cave-keeping evils that obscurely sleep. 1200 

Through crystal walls each little mote will 
peep; 

Though men can cover crimes with bold stern 
looks, 

Poor women’s faces are their own faults’ 
books. 

No man inveigh against the withered flower, 
But chide rough winter that the flower hath 

kill’d; 1255 

Not that devour’d, but that which doth devour, 
Is worthy blame. 0 , let it not be hild 
Poor women’s faults, that they are so ful¬ 
fill’d 

W T ith men’s abuses: those proud lords, to 
blame, 

Make weak-made women tenants to their 
shame. 12W 

The precedent whereof in Lucrece view, 
Assail’d by night with circumstances strong 
Of present death, and shame that might ensue 
By that her death, to do her husband wrong. 
Such danger to resistance did belong, 2235 

That dying fear through all her body spread ; 
And who cannot abuse a body dead ? 

By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak 
To the poor counterfeit of her complaining: 






THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


1164 


“My girl,” quoth she, “on what occasion 
break 1270 

Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks 
are raining ? 

If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining, 
Know, gentle wench, it small avails my mood; 
If tears could help, mine own would do me 
good. 

“But tell me, girl, when went”—and there 
she stay’d 1275 

Till after a deep groan—“ Tarquin from 
hence ? ” 

“ Madam, ere I was up,” repli’d the maid, 

“ The more to blame my sluggard negligence. 
Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense ; 
Myself was stirring ere the break of day, mo 
And, ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away. 

“ But, lady, if your maid may be so bold, 

She would request to know your heaviness.” 

“ 0 , peace ! ” quoth Lucrece: “ if it should be 
told, 

The repetition cannot make it less ; 1285 

For more it is than I can well express, 

And that deep torture may be call’d a hell 
When more is felt than one hath power to tell. 

“ Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen ; 

Yet save that labour, for I have them here. — 
What should I say? — One of my husband’s 
men 1291 

Bid thou be ready, by and by, to bear 
A letter to my lord, my love, my dear. 

Bid him with speed prepare to carry it; 

The cause craves haste, and it will soon be 
writ.” 1295 

Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write, 
First hovering o’er the paper with her quill. 
Conceit and grief an eager combat fight; 

What wit sets down is blotted straight with will; 
This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill: 1300 
Much like a press of people at a door, 

Throng her inventions, which shall go before. 

At last she thus begins: “ Thou worthy lord 
Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee, 
Health to thy person! Next vouchsafe to af¬ 
ford — 1305 

If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see — 
Some present speed to come and visit me. 

So, I commend me from our house in grief; 
My woes are tedious, though my words are 
brief.” 

Here folds she up the tenour of her woe, 1310 
Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly. 

By this short schedule Collatine may know 
Her grief, but not her grief’s true quality. 

She dares not thereof make discovery, 

Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse, 
Ere she with blood had stain’d her stain’d ex¬ 
cuse. 1316 

Besides, the life and feeling of her passion 
She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her; 


When sighs and groans and tears may grace th# 
fashion 

Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her 132a 
From that suspicion which the world might bear 
her. 

To shun this blot, she would not blot the 
letter 

With words, till action might become them 
better. 

To see sad sights moves more than hear them 
told; 

For then the eye interprets to the ear 1325 

The heavy motion that it doth behold, 

When every part a part of woe doth bear. 

’T is but a part of sorrow that we hear ; 

Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow 
fords, 

And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of 
words. 1330 

Her letter now is seal’d, and on it writ, 

“ At Ardea to my lord with more than haste.” 
The post attends, and she delivers it, 

Charging the sour-fac’d groom to hie as fast 
As lagging fowls before the northern blast. 1335 
Speed more than speed but dull and slow she 
deems: 

Extremity still urgeth such extremes. 

The homely villain curtsies to her low ; 

And, blushing on her, with a steadfast eye 
Receives the scroll without or yea or no, 1340 
And forth with bashful innocence doth hie. 

But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie 
Imagine every eye beholds their blame; 

For Lucrece thought he blush’d to see her 
shame, 

When, silly groom ! God wot, it was defect 1345 
Of spirit, life, and bold audacity. 

Such harmless creatures have a true respect 
To talk in deeds, while others saucily 
Promise more speed, but do it leisurely; 

Even so this pattern of the worn-out age 1350 
Pawn’d honest looks, but laid no words to 
gage. 

His kindled duty kindled her mistrust, 

That two red fires in both their faces blazed ; 
She thought he blush’d, as knowing Tarquin’s 

lust, 1354 

And, blushing with him, wistly on him gazed ; 
Her earnest eye did make him more amazed. 
The more she saw the blood his cheeks re¬ 
plenish, 

The more she thought he spied in her some 
blemish. 

But long she thinks till he return again, 

And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone, i3«> 
The weary time she cannot entertain, 

For now’t is stale to sigh, to weep, and groan. 
So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan, 
That she her plaints a little while doth stay, 
Pausing for means to mourn some newer 
way. i3o5 






THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


1165 


At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece 
Of skilful painting, made for Priam’s Troy ; 
Before the which is drawn the power of Greece, 
For Helen’s rape the city to destroy, 
Threat’ning cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy ; 1370 
Which the conceited painter drew so proud, 
As heaven, it seem’d, to kiss the turrets 
bow’d. 

A thousand lamentable objects there, 

In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life: 

Many a dry drop seem’d a weeping tear, 1375 
Shed for the slaught’red husband by the wife ; 
The red blood reek’d, to show the painter’s 
strife ; 

And dying eyes gleam’d forth their ashy 
lights, 

Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights. 

There might you see the labouring pioner 1380 
Begrim’d with sweat, and smeared all with dust; 
And from the towers of Troy there would ap¬ 
pear 

The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust, 
Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust. 

Such sweet observance in this work was had, 
That one might see those far-off eyes look 
sad. 1386 

In great commanders grace and majesty 
You might behold, triumphing in their faces ; 
In youth, quick bearing and dexterity ; 

And here and there the painter interlaces 1300 
Pale cowards, marching on with trembling 
paces; 

Which heartless peasants did so well re¬ 
semble, 

That one would swear he saw them quake 
and tremble. 

In Ajax and Ulysses, 0 , what art 
Of physiognomy might one behold ! 1305 

The face of either cipher’d either’s heart; 
Their face their manners most expressly told : 
In Ajax’ eyes blunt rage and rigour roll’d ; 

But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent 
Showed deep regard and smiling govern¬ 
ment. 1400 

There pleading might you see grave Nestor 
stand, 

As’t were encouraging the Greeks to fight; 
Making such sober action with his hand, 

That it beguil’d attention, charm’d the sight. 
In speech, it seem’d, his beard, all silver white, 
Wagg’d up and down, and from his lips did 
fly , 1406 

Thin winding breath, which purl’d up to the 
sky. 

About him were a press of gaping faces, 

Which seem’d to swallow up his sound advice ; 
All jointly list’ning, but with several graces, 

As if some mermaid did their ears entice, 

Some high, some low, the painter was so nice; 
The scalps of many, almost hid behind, 

To jump up higher seem’d, to mock the mind. 


Here one man’s hand lean’d on another’s head, 
His nose being shadowed by his neighbour’s 
ear; m« 

Here one being throng’d bears back, all boll’n 
and red ; 

Another smother’d seems to pelt and swear; 
And in their rage such signs of rage they 
bear, 

As, but for loss of Nestor’s golden words, 1420 
It seem’d they would debate with angry 
swords. 

For much imaginary work was there ; 

Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind, 

That for Achilles’ image stood his spear, 
Gripp’d in an armed hand ; himself, behind, uss 
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind. 

A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head, 

Stood for the whole to be imagined. 

And from the walls of strong-besieged Troy 
When their brave hope, bold Hector, march’d 
to field, i43* 

Stood many Troyan mothers, sharing joy 
To see their youthful sons bright weapons 
wield ; 

And to their hope they such odd action yield, 
That through their light joy seemed to ap¬ 
pear, 

Like bright things stain’d, a kind of heavy 
fear. 1436 

And from the strand of Dardan, where they 
fought, 

To Simois’ reedy banks the red blood ran, 
Whose waves to imitate the battle sought 
With swelling ridges ; and their ranks began 
To break upon the galled shore, and than 1440 
Retire again, till, meeting greater ranks, 
They join and shoot their foam at Simois’ 
banks. 

To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come, 

To find a face where all distress is steel’d. 1444 
Many she sees where cares have carved some, 
But none where all distress and dolour dwell’d 
Till she despairing Hecuba beheld, 

Staring on Priam’s wounds with her old eyes, 
Which bleeding under Pyrrhus’ proud foot 
lies. 

In her the painter had anatomiz’d 1450 

Time’s ruin, beauty’s wreck, and grim care’s 
reign. 

Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were dis¬ 
guis’d ; 

Of what she was, no semblance did remain. 

Her blue blood chang’d to black in every vein, 
Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes 
had fed, 1405 

Show’d life imprison’d in a body dead. 

On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes, 
And shapes her sorrow to the beldam’s woes, 
Who nothing wants to answer her but cries, 
And bitter words to ban her cruel foes ; 14*) 

The painter was no god to lend her those. 






n66 


THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


And therefore Luerece swears he did her 
wrong, 

To give her so much grief and not a tongue. 

“Poor instrument,” quoth she, “without a 
sound, 

I ’ll tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue ; 
And drop sweet balm in Priam’s painted 
wound, 1*66 

And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong ; 
And with my tears quench Troy that burns so 
long; 

And with my knife scratch out the angry 
eyes 

Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies. 1470 

“ Show me the strumpet that began this stir, 
That with my nails her beauty I may tear. 

Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur 
This load of wrath that burning Troy doth 
bear; 

Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here ; 1475 
And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye, 
The sire, the son, the dame, and daughter 
die. 

“ Why should the private pleasure of some one 
Become the public plague of many moe? 

Let sin, alone committed, light alone 1480 

Upon his head that hath transgressed so ; 

Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe : 
For one’s offence why should so many fall, 
To plague a private sin in general ? 

“ Lo, here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies, i 486 
Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus swounds, 
Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies, 
And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds, 
And one man’s lust these many lives confounds. 
Had doting Priam check’d his son’s desire, 
Troy had been bright with fame and not with 
fire.” 1401 

Here feelingly she weeps Troy’s painted woes ; 
For sorrow, like a heavy-hanging bell, 

Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes ; 
Then little strength rings out the doleful 
knell: 1495 

So Lucrece, set a-work, sad tales doth tell 
To pencill’d pensiveness and colour’d sorrow ; 
She lends them words, and she their looks 
doth borrow. 

She throws her eyes about the painting round, 
And who she finds forlorn she doth lament. isoo 
At last she sees a wretched image bound, 

That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent: 
His face, though full of cares, yet show’d con¬ 
tent ; 

Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he 
goes, 

So mild, that Patience seem’d to scorn his 
woes. isos 

In him the painter labour’d with his skill 
To hide deceit, and give the harmless show 
An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still, 


A brow unbent, that seem’d to welcome woe ; 
Cheeks neither red nor pale, but mingled so m* 
That blushing red no guilty instance gave, 
Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have 

But, like a constant and confirmed devil, 

He entertain’d a show so seeming-just, 

And therein so ensconc’d his secret evil, me 
That jealousy itself could not mistrust 
False creeping craft and perjury should thrust 
Into so bright a day such black-fac’d storms, 
Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-likc 
forms. 

The well-skill’d workman this mild image 
drew 1620 

For perjur’d Sinon .whose enchanting story 
The credulous old Priam after slew ; 

Whose words like wildfire burnt the shining 
glory 

Of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were sorry, 
And little stars shot from their fixed 
places, 1626 

When their glass fell Avherein they view’d 
their faces. 

This picture she advisedly perus’d, 

And chid the painter for his wondrous skill, 
Saying, some shape in Sinon’s was abus’d ; 

So fair a form lodg’d not a mind so ill. 16M 

And still on him she gaz’d ; and gazing still, 
Such signs of truth in his plain face she 
spied, 

That she concludes the picture was belied. 

“ It cannot be,” quoth she, “ that so much 
guile ” — 

She would have said, “can lurk in such a 

look ; ” 1636 

But Tarquin’s shape came in her mind the 
while, 

And from her tongue “ can lurk ” from “ can¬ 
not ” took: 

“ It cannot be ” she in that sense forsook, 

And turn’d it thus, “ It cannot be, I find, 
But such a face should bear a wicked 
mind: mo 

“For even as subtle Sinon here is painted, 

So sober-sad, so weary, and so mild, 

As if with grief or travail he had fainted, 

To me came Tarquin armed to begild 
With outward honesty, but yet defil’d me 
With inward vice. As Priam him did cher¬ 
ish, 

So did I Tarquin ; so my Troy did perish. 

“Look, look, how list’ning Priam wets his 
eyes, 

To see those borrowed tears that Sinon sheds ! 
Priam, why art thou old and yet not wise ? iseo 
For every tear he falls a Troyan bleeds ; 

His eye drops fire, no water thence proceeds ; 
Those round clear pearls of his, that move 
thy pity, 

Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy 
city. 




THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


1167 


“ Such devils steal effects from lightless 

hell i 1CS6 

For Sinon in his fire doth qxxake with cold, 

And in that cold, hot-burning fire doth dwell; 
These contraries such unity do hold 
Only to flatter fools and make them bold : 

So Priam’s trust false Sinon’s tears doth 
flatter, lseo 

That he finds means to burn his Troy with 
water.” 

Here, all enrag’d, such passion her assails 
That patience is quite beaten from her breast. 
She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails, 
Comparing him to that unhappy guest 1005 
Whose deed hath made herself herself detest. 
At last she smilingly with this gives o’er ; 
“Fool, fool!” quoth she, “his wounds will 
not be sore.” 

Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow, 
And time doth weary time with her complain¬ 
ing. 1670 

She looks for night, and then she longs for 
morrow, 

And both she thinks too long with her remain¬ 
ing. 

Short time seems long in sorrow’s sharp sus¬ 
taining ; 

Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps ; 
And they that watch see time how slow it 
creeps: 1575 

Which all this time hath overslipp’d her thought, 
That she with painted images hath spent; 
Being from the feeling of her own grief brought 
By deep surmise of others’ detriment, 

Losing her woes in shows of discontent. isso 

It easeth some, though none it ever cured, 

To think their dolour others have endured. 

But now the mindful messenger, come back, 
Brings home his lord and other company, 
fc’ho finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black ; 
And round about her tear-distained eye w* 

Blue circles stream’d, like rainbows in the sky. 
These water-galls in her dim element 
Foretell new storms to those already spent: 

Which when her sad-beholding husband saw, 
Amazedly in her sad face he stares: is»t 

Her eyes, though sod in tears, look’d red and 
raw. 

Her lively colour kill’d with deadly cares. 

He hath no power to ask her how she fares. 
Both stood, like old acquaintance in a 

trance, 1696 

Met far from home, wond’ring each other’s 
chance. 

At last he takes her by the bloodless hand, 

And thus begins : “ What uncouth ill event 
Hath thee befallen, that thou dost trembling 
stand ? 

Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour 

spent ? ... 1600 

Why art thou thus attir’d in discontent ? 


Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness, 
And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.” 

Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow 
fire, 

Ere once she can discharge one word of woe. 
At length address’d to answer his desire, leoc 
She modestly prepares to let them know 
Her honour is ta’en prisoner by the foe ; 

While Collatine and his consorted lords 
With sad attention long to hear her words. 

And now this pale swan in her watery nest i«u 
Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending; 

“ Few words,” quoth she, “shall fit the tres¬ 
pass best, 

Where no excuse can give the fault amend¬ 
ing. 

In me moe woes than words are now depend¬ 
ing ; 10x6 

And my laments would be drawn out too 
long, 

To tell them all with one poor tired tongue. 

“ Then be this all the task it hath to say : 

Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed 
A stranger came, and on that pillow lay 1620 
Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head ; 
And what wrong else may be imagined 
By foul enforcement might be done to me, 
From that, alas, thy Lucrece is not free. 

“ For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight, 
With shining falchion in my chamber came i#2« 
A creeping creature, with a flaming light, 

And softly cried, 4 Awake, thou Roman dame, 
And entertain my love ; else lasting shame 
On thee and thine this night I will inflict, 1630 
If thou my love’s desire do contradict. 

“ ‘ For some hard-favour’d groom of thine,’ 
quoth he, 

4 Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will, 

I ’ll murder straight, and then I ’ll slaughter 
thee 

And swear I found you where you did fulfil 
The loathsome act of lust, and so did kill i« 3 « 
The lechers in their deed. This act will be 
My fame and thy pei’petual infamy.’ 

“ With this, I did begin to start and cry; 

And then against my heart he set his sword, 
Swearing, unless I took all patiently, 1641 

I should not live to speak another word ; 

So should my shame still rest upon record, 

And never be forgot in mighty Rome 
The adulterate death of Lucrece and her 
groom. 1645 

“ Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak, 
And far the weaker with so strong a fear. 

My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak ; 
No rightful plea might plead for justice there. 
His scarlet lust came evidence to swear ihso 
T hat my poor beauty had purloin’d his eyes ; 
And when the judge is robb’d, the prisoner 
dies. 






1168 


THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


“ 0 , teach me how to make mine own excuse ! 
Or at the least this refuge let me find ; 

Though my gross blood be stain’d with this 
abuse, _ _ iscs 

Immaculate and spotless is my mind ; 

That was not forc’d ; that never was inclin’d 
To accessary yieldings, but still pure 
Doth in her poison’d closet yet endure.” 

Lo, here, the hopeless merchant of this loss, 1660 
With head declin’d, and voice damm’d up with 
woe, 

With sad set eyes, and wretched arms across, 
From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow 
The grief away that stops his answer so : 

But, wretched as he is, he strives in vain ; 
What he breathes out his breath drinks up 
again. 1666 

As through an arch the violent roaring tide 
Outruns the eye that doth behold his haste, 

Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride 1009 

Back to the strait that forc’d him on so fast; 
In rage sent out, recall’d in rage, being past: 
Even so his sighs, his sorrows, make a saw, 
To push grief on and back the same grief 
draw. 

Which speechless woe of his, poor she attend- 
eth, 

And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh : i 67 5 

“ Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth 
Another power ; no flood by raining slaketh. 
My woe too sensible thy passion maketh 
More feeling-painful: let it then suffice 
To drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes. 

“And for my sake, when I might charm thee 

SO 1681 

For she that was thy Lucrece, now attend me : 
Be suddenly revenged on my foe, 

Thine, mine, his own: suppose thou dost de¬ 
fend me 

From what is past: the help that thou slialt 
lend me 1685 

Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die, 

For sparing justice feeds iniquity. 

“ But ere I name him, you fair lords,” quoth she, 
Speaking to those that came with Collatine, 

“ Shall plight your honourable faiths to me, 
With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of 
mine; * 1691 

For’t is a meritorious fair design 
To chase injustice with revengeful arms. 
Knights, by their oaths, should right poor 
ladies’ harms.” 

At this request, with noble disposition 1695 
Each present lord began to promise aid, 

As bound in knighthood to her imposition, 
Longing to hear the hateful foe bewray’d. 

But she, that yet her sad task hath not said, 
The protestation stops. “ 0 , speak,” quoth 
she, . 1700 

“ How may this forced stain be wip’d from 
me ? 


“ What is the quality of mine offence, 

Being constrain’d with dreadful circumstance ? 
May my pure mind with the foul act dis¬ 
pense, 

My low-declined honour to advance ? noe 

May any terms acquit me from this chance ? 
The poisoned fountain clears itself again ; 
And why not I from this compelled stain ? 

With this, they all at once began to say, 

Her body’s stain her mind untainted clears ; 
While with a joyless smile she turns away 1711 
The face, that map which deep impression 
bears 

Of hard misfortune, carv’d in it with tears. 

“ No, no,” quoth she, “ no dame, hereafter 
living, in* 

By my excuse shall claim excuse’s giving.” 

Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break, 
She throws forth Tarquin’s name: “ He, he,” 
she says, 

But more than “ he ” her poor tongue could 
not speak ; 

Till after many accents and delays, 1719 

Untimely breathings, sick and short assays, 

She utters this, “He, he, fair lords, ’t is 
he, 

That guides this hand to give this wound to 
me.” 

Even here she sheathed in her harmless breast 
A harmful knife, that thence her soul un¬ 
sheathed. 

That blow did bail it from the deep unrest ms 
Of that polluted prison where it breathed. 

Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed 
Her winged sprite, and through her wounds 
doth fly 

Life’s lasting date from cancell’d destiny. 

Stone-still, astonish’d with this deadly deed, 1730 
Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew ; 

Till Lucrece’ father, that beholds her bleed, 
Himself on her self-slaught’red body threw ; 
And from the purple fountain Brutus drew 
The murderous knife, and, as it left the 
place, 1736 

Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase ; 

And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide 
In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood 
Circles her body in on every side, 

Who, like a late-sack’d island, vastly stood .1740 
Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood. 

Some of her blood still pure and red re¬ 
main’d, 

And some look’d black, and that false Tar- 
quin stain’d. 

About the mourning and congealed face 
Of that black blood a watery rigol goes, ms 
Which seems to weep upon the tainted place : 
And ever since, as pitying Lucrece’ woes, 
Corrupted blood some watery token shows; 
And blood untainted still doth red abide, 
Blushing at that which is so putrifi’d. 






THE RAPE OF LUCRECE 


1169 


“Daughter, dear daughter,” old Lucretius 
cries, 

u That life was mine which thou hast here de¬ 
prived. 

If in the child the father’s image lies. 

Where shall I live now Lucrece is unlived ? 
Thou wast not to this end from me de¬ 
rived. 1756 

If children pre-decease progenitors, 

We are their offspring, and they none of 
ours. 

“ Poor broken glass, I often did behold 
In thy sweet semblance my old age new born ; 
But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and 

Old, 1760 

Shows me a bare-bon’d death by time outworn. 
0 , from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn, 
And shiver’d all the beauty of my glass, 

That I no more can see what once I was ! 

“ O Time, cease thou thy course and last no 
longer, 1705 

If they surcease to be that should survive. 
Shall rotten Death make conquest of th'e 
stronger 

And leave the falt’ring feeble souls alive? 

The old bees die, the young possess their hive : 
Then live, sweet Lucrece, live again and 
see 1770 

Thy father die, and not thy father thee ! ” 

By this, starts Collatine as from a dream, 

And bias Lucretius give his sorrow place ; 

And then in key-cold Lucrece’ bleeding stream 
He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his 
face, 1775 

And counterfeits to die with her a space ; 

Till manly shame bids him possess his breath 
And live to be revenged on her death. 

The deep vexation of his inward soul 
Hath serv’d a dumb arrest upon his tongue ; i 78 o 
Who, mad that sorrow should his use control, 
Or keep him from heart-easing words so long, 
Begins to talk ; but through his lips do throng 
Weak words, so thick come in his poor heart’s 
aid, 

That no man could distinguish what be 
said. 1785 

Yet sometime “ Tarquin ” was pronounced 
plain, 

But through his teeth, as if the name he tore. 
This windy tempest, till it blow up rain, 

Held back his sorrow’s tide, to make it more ; 
At last it rains, and busy winds give o’er: 1790 

Then son and father weep with equal strife 
Who should weep most, for daughter or for 
wife. 

The one doth call her his, the other his, 

Yet neither may possess the claim they lay. 

The father says, “She’s mine.” “ 0 , mine 
she is,” 1795 

Replies her husband : “ do not take away 
My sorrow’s interest; let no mourner say 


He weeps for her, for she was only mine, 
And only must be wail’d by Collatine.” 

“ O,” quoth Lucretius, “ I did give that life isoo 
Which she too early and too late hath spill’d.” 
“Woe, woe,” quoth Collatine, “she was my 
wife, 

I ow’d her, and ’t is mine that she hath kill’d.” 
“ My daughter ! ” and “ My wife ! ” with clam¬ 
ours fill’d 

The dispers’d air, who, holding Lucrece’ 
life, isos 

Answer’d their cries, “ My daughter 1 ” and 
“My wife!” 

Brutus, who pluck’d the knife from Lucrece’ 
side, 

Seeing such emulation in their woe. 

Began to clothe his wit in state and pride, 
Burying in Lucrece’ wound his folly’s show. 1810 
He with the Romans was esteemed so 
As silly jeering idiots are with kings, 

For sportive words and utt’ring foolish 
things. 

But now he throws that shallow habit by, 
Wherein deep policy did him disguise ; me 
And arm’d his long-hid wits advisedly, 

To check the tears in Collatinus’ eyes. 

“Thou wronged lord of Rome,” quoth he, 
“ arise. 

Let my unsounded self, suppos’d a fool, 

Now set thy long-experiene’d wit to school. 1820 

“Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe ? 

Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous 
deeds ? 

Is it revenge to give thyself a blow 
For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds ? 
Such childish humour from weak minds pro¬ 
ceeds ; 1820 

Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so, 

To slay herself, that should have slain her 
foe. 

“ Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart 
In such relenting dew of lamentations ; 

But kneel with me and help to bear thy part, mo 
To rouse our Roman gods with invocations 
That they will suffer these abominations, 

Since Rome herself in them doth stand dis¬ 
graced, 

By our strong arms from forth her fair streets 
chased. 

“ Now, by the Capitol that we adore, ms 

And by this chaste blood so unjustly stained, 
By heaven’s fair sun that breeds the fat earth’s 
store, 

By all our country rights in Rome maintained, 
And by chaste Lucrece’ soul that late com¬ 
plained 1839 

Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife, 
We will revenge the death of this true wife.” 

This said, he struck his hand upon his breast, 
And kiss’d the fatal knife, to end his vow ; 









1170 


SONNETS 


And to his protestation urg’d the rest, 

Who, wond’ring at him, did his words allow. 
Then jointly to the ground their knees they 
bow; 

And that deep vow, which Brutus made be¬ 
fore, 

He doth again repeat, and that they swore. 


When they had sworn to this advised doom, 
They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence ; 
To show her bleeding body thorough Rome, 
And so to publish Tarquin’s foul olfence : 
Which being done with speedy diligence, 

The Romans plausibly did give consent 
To Tarquin’s everlasting banishment. ises 


SONNETS 

The first collective edition of Shakespeare’s Sonnets was published by Thomas Thorpe in 1609 . 
It is manifest that the copy was surreptitiously obtained, and the volume issued without the 
author’s consent. The Sonnets were not again reprinted till they appeared with much miscella¬ 
neous matter in an edition published in 1640 . Thorpe’s edition is the basis of the present text. 

The date of composition is a matter of dispute. It is recognized that the period during which 
they were written must have included several years, but which years is not agreed. The chief 
external evidence is the reference in Meres’s Palladis Tamia ( 1598 ) to his “ sugred Sonnets 
among bis private friends,” a phrase which implies that some were then in private circulation. 
This is strengthened by the printing of Sonnets 138 and 144 in the Passionate Pilgrim in 1599 . 

There is nothing but internal evidence to tell us whether the order in which they appear in the 
edition of 1609 is due to the poet. A certain amount of reason in the present arrangement is 
admitted by all. A large number of the Sonnets 1 to 126 are addressed to a man; many of 
those after 126 to a woman. But many in both divisions have no indication of the sex of the 
person addressed; and not a few are generalized utterances addressed to no one in particular. 

Viewed in the light of the vast contemporary sonnet literature, many of these poems belong to 
well-recognized literary conventions. The pleading with a beautiful youth to marry ; the power 
of verse to bestow immortality; the analysis of amorous emotion; the vituperation of the lady; 
the adulation of a noble patron ; — these and other themes belong to the traditions of the form 
which were well established before Shakespeare essayed it. But after this is recognized, tho 
question remains whether, in re-working these ideas with unexampled brilliance and intensity, 
Shakespeare was prompted by mere professional emulation, or by actual personal experiences 
for which the current conventions gave a suitable form of utterance, or by such an imaginative 
impulse as lies behind the living utterances of his dramatic creations. It must be admitted that 
some sonnets are so artificial as to make plausible for them the first explanation ; others, espe¬ 
cially those expressing the uncommon situation in which his friend wins his lady away from him, 
while the poet retains his passion for both, and those referring to the indignity of the actor’s 
profession, may have reference to real incidents in his life; but the splendor of the poems as a 
whole is mainly due to the same cause as gave supreme distinction to his dramatic productions. — 
the intensity of the imaginative fervor of an essentially poetic mind. From this point of view it 
will be seen that attempts to decide the question of “ sincerity ” by historical identifications are 
bound to be futile and misleading, implying as they do a misconception of the nature of artistic 
emotion. 

As to the personages involved, one party identifies the fair youth with William Herbert, Earl 
of Pembroke, and finds confirmation in the “Mr. W. H.” to whom Thorpe dedicated the volume. 
But it is possible that the “ onlie begetter ” was merely the publisher’s friend who procured the 
manuscript. The Pembroke theory implies the later dating of the majority of the poems ( 1598 - 
1601 ), and is usually, though not necessarily, held to imply the identification of the “ dark lady ” 
with the blond Mistress Mary Fitton. Another finds in the young nobleman Shakespeare’s early 
patron, the Earl of Southampton ; and this view implies that most of the personal sonnets be¬ 
long to the years 1594 - 98 . As to the rival poet or poets alluded to in Sonnets 78 - 86 , Chapman, 
Drayton, Jonson, Barnes, and others have been proposed ; but on this point we have not, nor 
are likely to have, anything approaching assurance. 





SONNETS 


TO . THE . ONLIE . BEGETTER . OF . 
THESE . INSUING . SONNETS . 
MR. W. H. ALL . HAPPINESSE . 
AND . THAT . ETERNITIE . 
PROMISED . 

BY . 

OUR . EVER-LIVING . POET . 
WISHETII . 

THE . WELL-WISHING 
ADVENTURER . IN . 

SETTING . 

FORTH . 

T. T. 


l 


3 


Prom fairest creatures we desire increase. 

That thereby beauty’s rose might never aie. 
But as the riper should by time decease, 

His tender heir might bear his memory: 

But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, c 
Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial 
fuel, 

Making a famine where abundance lies, 
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. 
Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament 
And only herald to the gaudy spring, 10 

Within thine own bud buriest thy content 
And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggard- 
ing. 

Pity the world, or else this glutton be, 

To eat the world’s due, by the grave and 
thee. 


When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, 
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field, 
Thy youth’s proud livery, so gaz’d on now, 

Will be a tatter’d weed, of small worth held. 
Then being ask’d where all thy beauty lies, « 
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days, 

To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes, 
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise. 
How much more praise deserv’d thy beauty’s 
use 

If thou couldst answer, “This fair child of 
mine 10 

Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,” 
Proving his beauty by succession thine ! 

This were to be new made when thou art 
old, 

And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it 
cold. 


Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest 
Now is the time that face should form another ; 
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, 
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some 
mother. 

For where is she so fair whose unear’d womb o 
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry ? 

Or who is he so fond will be the tomb 
Of his self-love, to stop posterity ? 

Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee 
Calls back the lovely April of her prime ; io 
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see 
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. 

But if thou live, rememb’red not to be. 

Die single, and thine image dies with thee. 

4 

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend 
Upon thyself thy beauty’s legacy ? 

Nature’s bequest gives nothing, but doth lend, 
And being frank she lends to those are free. 
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse 
The bounteous largess given thee to give ? « 

Profitless usurer, why dost thou use 
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live ? 

For having traffic with thyself alone, 

Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive. n> 
Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone, 
What acceptable audit canst thou leave ? 

Thy unus’d beauty must be tomb’d with thee, 
Which, used, lives the executor to be. 

5 

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame 
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, 
Will play the tyrants to the very same 
And that unfair which fairly doth excel; 



1172 


SONNETS 


For never-resting time leads summer on e 

To hideous winter and confounds him there, 
Sap check’d with frost and lusty leaves quite 
gone, 

Beauty o’ersnow’d and bareness everywhere ; 
Then, were not summer’s distillation left, 

A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, 10 
Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft, 

Nor it nor no remembrance what it was: 

But flowers distill’d, though they with winter 
meet, 

Leese but their show ; their substance still 
lives sweet. 

. 6 

Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface 
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill’d : 
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some 
place 

With beauty’s treasure, ere it be self-kill’d. 
That use is not forbidden usury s 

Which happies those that pay the willing loan ; 
That’s for thyself to breed another thee, 

Or ten times happier, be it ten for one ; 

Ten times thyself were happier than thou art, 
If ten of thine ten times refigur’d thee : 10 

Then what could death do, if thou shouldst 
depart, 

Leaving thee living in posterity ? 

Be not self-wili’d, for thou art much too fair 
To be death’s conquest and make worms 
thine heir. 

7 

Lo ! in the orient when the gracious light 
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye 
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight, 
.Serving with looks his sacred majesty ; 

And having climb’d the steep-up heavenly hill, s 
Resembling strong youth in his middle age, 

Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still, 
Attending on his golden pilgrimage ; 

But when from highmost pitch, with weary car, 
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, 10 
The eyes, ’fore duteous, now converted are 
From his low tract and look another way: 

So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon, 
Unlook’d on diest, unless thou get a son. 

8 

Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly ? 
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy. 
Why lov’st thou that which thou receiv’st not 
gladly, 

Or else receiv’st with pleasure thine annoy ? 

If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, e 
By unions married, do offend thine ear, 

They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds 
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear. 
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, 
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering, 10 
Resembling sire and child and happy mother, 
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing; 
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming 
one, 

Sings this to thee: “Thou single wilt prove 
none,” 


9 

Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye 
That thou consum’st thyself in single life ? 

Ah ! if thou issueless shalt hap to die, 

The world will wail thee, like a makeiess wife ; 
The world will be thy widow and still weep s 
That thou no form of thee hast left behind, 
When every private widow well may keep 
By children’s eyes her husband’s shape in 
mind. 

Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend 
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys 
it; 1® 

But beauty’s waste hath in the world an end, 
And kept unus’d, the user so destroys it. 

No love toward others in that bosom sits 
That on himself such murderous shame com¬ 
mits. 

10 

For shame ! deny that thou bear’st love to any, 
Who for thyself art so improvident. 

Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov’d of many, 
But that thou none lov’st is most evident; 

For thou art so possess’d with murderous hate 
That ’gainst thyself thou stick’st not to con¬ 
spire, « 

Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate 
Which to repair should be thy chief desire. 

O, change thy thought, that I may change my 
mind ! 

Shall hate be fairer lodg’d than gentle love ? 
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind, it 
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove: 
Make thee another self, for love of me, 

That beauty still may live in thine or thee. 

11 

As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thougrow’st 
In one of thine, from that which thou depart- 
est; 

And that fresh blood which youngly thou be¬ 
stow’st 

Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth 
convertest. 

Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase ; e 
Without this, folly, age, and cold decay. 

If all were minded so, the times should cease 
And threescore year would make the world 
away. 

Let those whom Nature hath not made for 
store, 

Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish: 
Look, whom she best endow’d she gave the 
more; 11 

Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty 
cherish. 

She carv’d thee for her seal, and meant 
thereby 

Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy 
die. 

12 

When I do count the clock that tells the time, 
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; 
When I behold the violet past prime, 

And sable curls all silver’d o’er with white; 




SONNETS 


H 73 


When lofty trees I see barren of leaves o 

Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, 

And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves 
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard; 
Then of thy beauty do I question make, 

That thou among the wastes of time must go, 
Since sweets ana beauties do themselves for¬ 
sake 11 

And die as fast as they see others grow ; 

And nothing ’gainst Time’s scythe can make 
defence 

Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee 
hence. 


13 

O that you were yourself ! but, love, you are 
No longer yours than you yourself here live : 
Against this coming end you should prepare, 
And your sweet semblance to some other give. 
So should that beauty which you hold in lease 
Find no determination ; then you were e 

Yourself again after yourself’s decease. 

When your sweet issue your sweet form should 
bear. 

Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, 

Which husbandry in honour might uphold 10 
Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day 
And barren rage of death’s eternal cold ? 

0 , none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you 
know 

You had a father: let your son say so. 

14 

Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck ; 
And yetmethinks I have astronomy, 

But not to tell of good or evil luck, 

Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality ; 

Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, e 

’Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind, 
Or say with princes if it shall go well, 

By oft predict that I in heaven find : 

But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, 
And, constant stars, in them I read such art io 
As truth and beauty shall together thrive, 

If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert; 
Or else of thee this I prognosticate: 

Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and 
date. 


15 


When I consider everything that grows 
Holds in perfection but a little moment, 

That this huge stage presenteth nought but 
shows 

Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; 
When I perceive that men as plants increase, e 
Cheered and check’d even by the self-same 
sky, 

Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height de¬ 


crease, 

And wear their brave state out of memory ; 
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay 
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, i« 
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay. 

To change your day of youth to sullied night; 
And all in war with Time for love of you, 

As he takes from you, I engraft you new. 


16 

But wherefore do not you a mightier way 
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time ? 

And fortify yourself in your decay 
With means more blessed than my barren 
rhyme ? 

Now stand you on the top of happy hours, s 
And many maiden gardens yet unset 
With virtuous wish would bear your living 
flowers, 

Much liker than your painted counterfeit: 

So should the lines of life that life repair, 
Which this, Time’s pencil, or my pupil pen, io 
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair, 

Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. 

To give away yourself keeps yourself still, 
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet 
skill. 

17 

Who will believe my verse in time to come, 

If it were fill’d with your most high deserts ? 
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb 
Which hides your life and shows not half your 
parts. 

If I could write the beauty of your eyes s 
And in fresh numbers number all your graces, 
The age to come would say, “ This poet lies ; 
Such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly 
faces.” 

So should my papers, yellowed with their age, 
Be scorn’d like old men of less truth than 
tongue, io 

And your true rights be term’d a poet’s rage 
And stretched metre of an antique song : 

But were some child of yours alive that time, 
You should live twice, in it and in my rhyme. 

18 

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? 

Thou art more lovely and more temperate : 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date ; 
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, o 
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d ; 

And every fair from fair sometime declines, 

By chance or nature’s changing course un- 
trimm’d: 

But thy eternal summer shall not fade 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st; io 
Nor shall Death brag thou wand’rest in his 
shade, 

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st; 

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, 
So long lives this and this gives life to thee. 

19 

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws, 
And make the earth devour her own sweet 
brood ; 

Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s 
jaws, 

And burn the long-liv’d phoenix in her blood ; 
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets, s 
And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, 
To the wide world and all her fading sweets ; 
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime: 







1174 


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O, carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow, 
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen ; 
Him in thy course untainted do allow » 

For beauty’s pattern to succeeding men. 

Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy 
wrong, 

My love shall in my verse ever live young. 

20 

A woman’s face with Nature’s own hand 
painted 

Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion ; 
A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted 
With shifting change, as is false women’s fash¬ 
ion ; 

An eye more bright than theirs, less false in 
rolling, e 

Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth ; 

A man in hue, all hues in his controlling, 
Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls 
amazeth. 

And for a woman wert thou first created ; 

Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting. 
And by addition me of thee defeated u 

By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. 
But since she prick’d thee out for women’s 
pleasure, 

Mine be thy love, and thy love’s use their 
treasure. 

21 

So is it not with me as with that Muse, 

Stirr’d by a painted beauty to his verse, 

Who heaven itself for ornament doth use 
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse, 
Making a couplement of proud compare 5 
With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich 
gems, 

With April’s first-born flowers, and all things 
rare 

That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems. 

O let me, true in love, but truly write, 

And then believe me, my love is as fair io 
As any mother’s child, though not so bright 
As these gold candles fix’d in heaven’s air: 

Let them say more that like of hearsay well; 
I will not praise, that purpose not to sell. 

22 

My glass shall not persuade me I am old, 

So long as youth and thou are of one date ; 

But when in thee time’s furrows I behold, 
Then look I death my days should expiate. 

For all that beauty that doth cover thee s 
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, 

Which in thy bi’east doth live, as thine in me: 
How can I then be elder than thou art ? 

O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary 
As I, not for myself, but for thee will ; io 

Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary 
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. 
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain ; 
Thou gav’st me thine, not to give back again. 

23 

As an unperfect actor on the stage 
Who with his fear is put besides his part, 


Or some fierce thing replete with too much 
rage, 

Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own 
heart, 

So I, for fear of trust, forget to say * 

The perfect ceremony of love’s rite, 

And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay, 
O’ercharg’d with burden of mine own love’s 
might. 

0 , let my books be then the eloquence 
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, 
Who plead for love and look for recompense 
More than that tongue that more hath more 
express’d. 

0 , learn to read what silent love hath writ: 

To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit. 

24 


Mine eye hath play’d the painter and hath 
steel’d 

Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart; 

My body is the frame wherein’t is held, 

And perspective it is best painter’s art. 

For through the painter must you see his skill 
To find where your true image pictur’d lies ; « 
Which in my bosom’s shop is hanging still, 
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. 
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have 
done: 

Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for 
me io 

Are windows to my breast, wherethrough the 
sun 

Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee j 
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art; 
They draw but what they see, know not the 
heart. 


25 

Let those who are in favour with their stars 
Of public honour and proud titles boast, 

Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, 
Unlook’d for joy in that I honour most. 

Great princes’ favourites their fair leaves 
spread 5 

But as the marigold at the sun’s eye, 

And in themselves their pride lies buried, 

For at a frown they in their glory die. 

The painful warrior famoused for fight, 

After a thousand victories once foil’d, 10 

Is from the book of honour razed quite, 

And all the rest forgot for which he toil’d. 
Then happy I, that love and am beloved 
Where I may not remove nor he removed. 


26 

Lord of ray love, to whom in vassalage 
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, 

To thee I send this written ambassage, 

To witness duty, not to show my wit; 

Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine 
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show 
it, 

But that I hope some good conceit of thine 
In thy soul’s thought, all naked, will bestow it J 
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving 
Points on me graciously with fair aspect, « 




SONNETS 


And puts apparel on my tattered loving, 

To show me worthy of thy sweet respect: 

Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee ; 
Till then not show my head where thou mayst 
prove me. 

27 

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, 

The dear repose for limbs with travel tired ; 
But then begins a journey in my head, 

1 o work my mind, when body’s work’s expired; 
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide, 
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, 6 

And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, 
Looking on darkness which the blind do see ; 
Save that my soul’s imaginary sight 
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, 10 
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, 
Makes black night beauteous and her old face 
new. 

Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my 
mind, 

For thee and for myself no quiet find. 

28 

How can I then return in happy plight, 

That am debarr’d the benefit of rest ? 

When day’s oppression is not eas’d by night, 
But day by night, and night by day, oppress’d ? 
And each, though enemies to eitlier’s reign, fi 
Do in consent shake hands to torture me ; 

The one by toil, the other to complain 
How far I toil, still farther off from thee. 

I tell the day, to please him thou art bright 
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the 
heaven; io 

So flatter I the swart-complexion’d night, 

When sparkling stars twire not, thou gild’st 
the even: 

But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, 
And night doth nightly make grief’s length 
seem stronger. 

29 

When, in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes, 

I all alone beweep my outcast state, 

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless 
cries, 

And look upon myself and curse my fate, 
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, fi 
Featur’d like him, like him with friends pos¬ 
sess’d, 

Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope, 

With what I most enjoy contented least; 

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, 
Haply I think on thee ; and then my state, to 
Like to the lark at break of day arising 
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s 
gate ; 

For thy sweet love rememb’red such wealth 
brings 

That then I scorn to change my state with 
kings. 

30 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
I summon up remembrance of things past, 


IX 7 S 


I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 

And with old woes new wail my dear time’s 
waste: 

Then can I drown an eye, unus’d to flow, o 
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless 
night, 

And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d 
woe, 

And moan the expense of many a vanish’d 
sight : 

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, 

And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er to 

The sad account of fore-bemoan’d moan, 

Which I new pay as if not paid before. 

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 
All losses are restor’d and sorrows end. 

31 

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts 
Which I by lacking have supposed dead ; 

And there reigns love and all love’s loving 
parts, 

And all those friends which I thought buried. 
How many a holy and obsequious tear s 

Hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye 
As interest of the dead, which now appear 
But things remov’d that hidden in thee lie ! 
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, 
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, xc 
Who all their parts of me to thee did give, 

That due of many now is thine alone. 

Their images I lov’d I view in thee, 

And thou, all they, hast all the all of me. 

32 

If thou survive my well-contented day, 

When that churl Death my bones with dust 
shall cover, 

And shalt by fortune once more re-survey 
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, * 
Compare them with the bett’ring of the time, 
And though they be outstripp’d by every pen, 
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, 
Exceeded by the height of happier men. 

O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: 

“ Had my friend’s Muse grown with this grow¬ 
ing age, n 

A dearer birth than this his love had brought, 
To march in ranks of better equipage; 

But since he died and poets better prove, 
Theirs for their style I ’ll read, his for his 
love.” 

33 

Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, 
Kissing with golden face the meadows green, 
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy ; 
Anon ‘permit the basest clouds to ride b 

With ugly rack on his celestial face, 

And from the forlorn world his visage hide, 
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace : 

Even so my sun one early morn did shine 
With all-triumphant splendour on my brow ; 
But out., alack ! he was but one hour mine ; it 
The region-cloud hath mask’d him from me 
now. 





1176 


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Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; 
Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s 
sun staineth. 

34 

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day 
And make me travel forth without my cloak, 
To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way, 
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke ? 

’T is not enough that through the cloud thou 
break, b 

To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, 

For no man well of such a salve can speak 
That heals the wound and cures not the dis¬ 
grace. 

Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; 
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: 
The offender’s sorrow lends but weak relief n 
To him that bears the strong offence’s cross. 
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love 
sheds, 

And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds. 

35 

No more be griev’d at that which thou hast 
done: 

Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud ; 
Clonds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, 
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. b 
All men make faults, and even I in this, 
Authorizing thy trespass with compare, 

Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss, 

Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are ; 

For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense — 

Thy adverse party is thy advocate — 10 

And ’gainst myself a lawful plea commence. 
Such civil war is in my love and hate 
That I an accessary needs must be 
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from 
me. 

36 

Let me confess that we two must be twain, 
Although our undivided loves are one : 

So shall those blots that do with me remain, 
Without thy help by me be borne alone. 

In our two loves there is but one respeet, b 
Though in our lives a separable spite, 

Which though it alter not love’s sole effect, 

Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love’s de¬ 
light. 

I may not evermore acknowledge thee, 

Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame, 
Nor thou with public kindness honour me, 11 
Unless thou take that honour from thy name: 
But do not so ; I love thee in such sort 
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report. 

37 

As a decrepit father takes delight 
To see his active child do deeds of youth, 

So I, made lame by fortune’s dearest spite, 
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth. 
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, 
Or any of these all, or all, or more, « 

Entitled in their parts do crowned sit, 

X make my love engrafted to this store: 


So then I am not lame, poor, not despis’d, 
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance 
give 10 

That I in thy abundance am suffic’d 
And by a part of all thy glory live. 

Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee: 
This wish I have ; then ten times happy me ! 

38 

How can my Muse want subject to invent, 
While thou dost breathe, that pour’st into my 
verse 

Thine own sweet argument, too excellent 
For every vulgar paper to rehearse ? 

0 , give thyself the thanks, if aught in me « 
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight; 

For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee, 
When thou thyself dost give invention light ? 
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in 
worth 9 

Than those old nine which rhymers invocate ; 
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth 
Eternal numbers to outlive long date. 

If my slight Muse do please these curious days. 
The pain be mine, but thine shall be th* 
praise. 

39 

O, how thy worth with manners may I sing, 
When thou art all the better part of me ? 

What can mine own praise to mine own self 
bring ? 

And what is’t but mine own when I praise thee ? 
Even for this let us divided live, » 

And our dear love lose name of single one, 

That by this separation I may give 

That due to thee which thou deserv’st alone. 

O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove, 
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave 
To entertain the time with thoughts of love, 11 
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth de¬ 
ceive, 

And that thou teachest how to make one 
twain, 

By praising him here who doth hence remain ! 

40 

Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all; 
What hast thou then more than thou hadst be¬ 
fore ? 

No love, my love, that thou mayst true love 
call; 

All mine was thine before thou hadst this more. 
Then if for my love thou my love receivest, b 
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest; 
But yet be blam’d, if thou thyself deceivest 
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest. 

I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief, 

Although thou steal thee all my poverty; ie 
And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief 
To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury. 
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, 
Kill me with spites ; yet we must not be foes 

41 

Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits, 
When I am sometime absent from thy heart. 




SONNETS 


1 *77 


Thy beauty and thy years full well befits, 

For still temptation follows where thou art. 
Gentle thou art and therefore to be won ; r> 
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed ; 
And when a woman woos, what woman’s son 
Will sourly leave her till she have prevailed ? 
Ay me ! but yet thou mightst niy seat forbear, 
And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth, 
Who lead thee in their riot even there h 

Where thou art forc’d to break a twofold truth ; 
Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee, 
Thine, by thy beauty being false to me. 

42 

That thou hast her, it is not all my grief, 

And yet it may be said I lov’d her dearly ; 
That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief, 

A loss in love that touches me more nearly. 
Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye : s 

Thou dost love her, because thou know’st 1 
love her: 

And for my sake even so doth she abuse me, 
Stiff’ring my friend for my sake to approve her. 
If I lose thee, my loss is my love’s gain, 

And losing her, my friend hath found that loss ; 
Both find each other, and I lose both twain, 11 
And both for my sake lay on me this cross. 

But here’s the joy; my friend and I are one ; 
Sweet flattery ! then she loves but me alone. 

43 

When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see, 
For all the day they view things unrespected ; 
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee, 
And darkly bright are bright in dark directed. 
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make 
bright, b 

How would thy shadow’s form form happy 
show 

To the clear day with thy much clearer light, 
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so ! 
How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made 
By looking on thee in the living day, to 

When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade 
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth 
stay! 

All days are nights to see till I see thee, 

And nights bright days when dreams do 
show thee me. 

44 

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, 
Injurious distance should not stop my way ; 

For then, despite of space, I would be brought, 
From limits far remote, where thou dost stay. 
No matter then although my foot did stand » 
Upon the farthest earth remov’d from thee ; 
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land 
As soon as think the place where he would be. 
But, ah ! thought kills me that I am not 
thought, 

To leap large lengths of miles when thou art 
gone, 10 

But that so much of earth and water wrought 
I must attend time’s leisure with my moan, 
Receiving nought by elements so slow 
But heavy tears, badges of either’s woe. 


45 

The other two, slight air and purging fire, 

Are both with thee, wherever I abide; 

The first my thought, the other my desire, 
These present-absent with swift motion slide. 
For when these quicker elements are gone s 
In tender embassy of love to thee, 

My life, being made of four, with two alone 
Sinks down to death, oppress’d with melan¬ 
choly ; 

Until life’s composition be recured 
By those switt messengers return’d from thee, 
Who even but now come back again, assured u 
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me: 

This told, I joy ; but then no longer glad, 

I send them back again and straight grow 
sad. 

46 

Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war 
How to divide the conquest of thy sight; 

Mine eye my heart thy picture’s sight would 
bar, 

My heart mine eye the freedom of that right. 
My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie, — 
A closet never pierc'd with crystal eyes— e 
But the defendant doth that plea deny 
And says in him thy fair appearance lies. 

To side this title is impanneled 
A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart, 
And by their verdict is determined ii 

The clear eye’s moiety and the dear heart’s 
part; 

As thus: mine eye’s due is thy outward part, 
And my heart’s right thy inward love of 
heart. 

47 

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, 
And each doth good turns now unto the other. 
When that mine eye is famish’d for a look, 

Or heart in love with sighs himself doth 
smother, 

With my love’s picture then my eye doth feast 
And to the painted banquet bids my heart. « 
Another time mine eye is my heart’s guest 
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part. 
So, either by thy picture or my love, 

Thyself away art present still with me ; io 
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst 
move, 

And I am still with them and they with thee ; 
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight 
Awakes my heart to heart’s and eye’s delight. 

48 

How careful was I, when I took my way, 

Each trifle under truest bars to thrust, 

That to my use it might unused stay 
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust! 
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are, ® 
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief, 
Thou, best of dearest and mine only care, 

Art left the prey of every vulgar thief. 

Thee have I not lock’d up in any chest, 

Save where thou art not, though I feel thou 
art. * 





1178 


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Within the gentle closure of my breast, 

From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and 
part; 

And even thence thou wilt be stolen, I fear, 
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear. 

49 

Ag ainst that time, if ever that time come, 
When I shall see thee frown on my defects, 
Whenas thy love hath cast his utmost sum, 
Call’d to that audit by advis’d respects ; 
Against that time when thou shalt strangely 
pass 6 

And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye, 
When love, converted from the thing it was, 
Shall reasons find of settled gravity, — 

Against that time do I ensconce me here 
Within the knowledge of mine own desert, 10 
And this my hand against myself uprear, 

To guard the lawful reasons on thy part: 

To leave poor me thou hast the strength of 
laws, 

Since why to love I can allege no cause. 

50 

How heavy do I journey on the way, 

When what I seek, my weary travel’s end, 
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, 
“Thus far the miles are measur’d from tliy 
friend! ” 

The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, b 
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me, 

As if by some instinct the wretch did know 
His rider lov’d not speed, being made from 
thee. 

The bloody spur cannot provoke him on 
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide ; 10 
Which heavily he answers with a groan, 

More sharp to me than spurring to his side ; 
For that same groan doth put this in my 
mind ; 

My grief lies onward and my joy behind. 

51 

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence 
Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed : 
From where thou art why should I haste me 
thence ? 

Till I return, of posting is no need. 

O, what excuse will my poor beast then find, b 
When swift extremity can seem but slow ? 
Then should I spur, though mounted on the 
wind; 

In winged speed no motion shall I know: 

Then can no horse with my desire keep pace; 
Therefore desire, of perf ect’st love being made, 
Shall neigh — no dull flesh — in his fiery race ; 11 
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade ; 
Since from thee going he went wilful-slow, 
Towards thee I ’ll run, and give him leave to 
go. 

52 

So am I as the rich, whose blessed key 

Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, 

The which he will not every hour survey, 

For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. 


Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, b 
Since, seldom coming, in the long year set, 
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, 

Or captain jewels in the carcanet. 

So is the time that keeps you as my chest. 

Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, 10 
To make some special instant special blest 
By new unfolding his imprison’d pride. 

Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives 
scope. 

Being had, to triumph, being lack’d, to hope. 

53 

What is your substance, whereof are you made, 
That millions of strange shadows on you tend ? 
Since every one hath, every one, one shade, 
And you, but one, can every shadow lend. 
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit 0 

Is poorly imitated after you ; 

On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set, 

And you in Grecian tires are painted new : 
Speak of the spring and foison of the year; 

The one doth shadow of your beauty show, 10 
The other as your bounty doth appear ; 

And yo-u in every blessed shape we know. 

In all external grace you have some part, 

But you like none, none you, for constant 
heart. 

54 

O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem 
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give I 
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
For that sweet odour which doth in it live. 

The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye e 
As the perfumed tincture of the roses. 

Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly 
When summer’s breath their masked buds dis¬ 
closes : 

But, for their virtue only is their show, 

They live unwoo’d and unrespected fade, 10 
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ; 

Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours 
made: 

And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, 
When that shall fade, by verse distills your 
truth. 

55 

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme ; 
But you shall shine more bright in these con¬ 
tents 

Than unswept stone besmear’d with sluttish 
time. 

When wasteful war shall statues overturn, b 
And broils root out the work of masonry, 

Nor Mars his sword nor war’s quick fire shall 
burn 

The living record of your memory. 

’Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity 
Shall you pace forth ; your praise shall still find 
room 10 

Even in the eyes of all posterity 
That wear this world out to the ending doom. 
So, till the judgement that yourself arise, 
You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes. 





SONNETS 


11 79 


56 

Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said 
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, 
Which but to-day by feeding is allay’d, 
To-morrow sharp’ned in his former might. 

So, love, be thou ; although to-day thou fill c 
Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with ful¬ 
ness, 

To-morrow see again, and do not kill 
The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness. 
Let this sad interim like the ocean be 
Which parts the shore, where two contracted 
new io 

Come daily to the banks, that, when they see 
Return of love, more blest may be the view ; 

Or call it winter, which being full of care 
Makes summer’s welcome thrice more wish’d, 
more rare. 

57 

Being your slave, what should I do but tend 
Upon the hours and times of your desire? 

I have no precious time at all to spend, 

Nor services to do, till you require. 

Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour b 
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, 
Nor think tlie bitterness of absence sour 
When you have bid your servant once adieu ; 
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought 
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, io 
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought 
Save, where you are how happy you make 
those. 

So true a fool is love that in your will 
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill. 

58 

That god forbid, that made me first your slave, 
I should in thought control your times of 
pleasure, 

Or at your hand the account of hours to crave, 
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure ! 
O, let me suffer, being at your beck, b 

The imprison’d absence of your liberty ; 

And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each 
check, 

Without accusing you of injury. 

Be where you list, your charter is so strong 
That you yourself may privilege your time n> 
To what you will; to you it doth belong 
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime. 

I am to wait, though waiting so be hell; 

Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well. 

59 

if there be nothing new, but that which is 
Hath been before, how are our brains beguil’d, 
Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss 
The second burden of a former child! 

O, that record could with a backward look, b 
Even of five hundred courses of the sun, 

Show me your image in some antique book, 
Since mind at first in character was done ! 

That I might see what the old world could say 
To this composed wonder of your frame ; 10 

Whether we are mended, or whe’er better they, 
Or whether revolution be the same. 


O, sure I am, the wits of former days 
To subjects worse have given admiring praise. 

60 

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled 
shore, 

So do our minutes hasten to their end ; 

Each changing place with that which goes be¬ 
fore, 

In sequent toil all forwards do contend. 
Nativity, once in the main of light, s 

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d, 
Crooked eclipses ’gainst his glory fight, 

And Time that gave doth now his gift con¬ 
found. 

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth 
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow, io 
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth, 

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow ; 
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, 
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 

61 

Is it thy will thy image should keep open 
My heavy eyelids to the weary night ? 

Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, 
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight ? 
Is it thy spirit that thou send’st from thee b 
So far from home into my deeds to pry, 

To find out shames and idle hours in me, 

The scope and tenour of thy jealousy ? 

O, no ! thy love, though much, is not so great; 
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake ; io 
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, 
To play the watchman ever for thy sake. 

For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake else¬ 
where, 

From me far off, with others all too near. 

62 

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye 
And all my soul and all my every part; 

And for this sin there is no remedy, 

It is so grounded inward in my heart. 

Methinks no face so gracious is as mine, s 
No shape so true, no truth of such account; 
And for myself mine own worth do define, 

As I all other in all words surmount. 

But when my glass shows me myself indeed, 
Beated and chopp’d with tann’d antiquity, io 
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read ; 

Self so self-loving were iniquity. 

’T is thee, myself, that for myself I praise, 
Painting my age with beauty of thy days. 

63 

Against my love shall be, as I am now, 

With Time’s injurious hand crush’d and o’er- 
worn; 

When hours have drain’d his blood and fill’d 
his brow 

With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful 
morn 

Hath travell’d on to age’s steepy night, b 

And all those beauties whereof now he’s king 
Are vanishing or vanish’d out of sight, 

Stealing away the treasure of his spring; 





SONNETS 


1180 


For such a time do I now fortify 
Against confounding age’s cruel knife, 10 

That he shall never cut from memory 
My sweet love’s beauty, though my lover’s life: 
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, 
And they shall live, and he in them still green. 

64 

When I have seen by Time’s fell hand de¬ 
faced 

The rich proud cost of outworn buried age ; 
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed 
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage ; 

When I have seen the hungry ocean gain b 
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, 

And the firm soil win of the watery main, 
Increasing store with loss and loss with store ; 
When I have seen such interchange of state, 

Or state itself confounded to decay ; 10 

Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate, 

That Time will come and take my love away. 
This thought is as a death, which cannot 
choose 

But weep to have that which it fears to lose. 

65 

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless 
sea, 

But sad mortality o’er-sways their power, 

How with this rage shall beauty hold .a plea, 
Whose action is no stronger than a flower ? 

0 , how shall summer’s honey breath hold out b 
Against the wreckful siege of batt’ring days, 
When rocks impregnable are not so stout, 

Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays ? 
0 fearful meditation ! where, alack, 

Shall Time’s best jewel from Time’s chest lie 
hid ? 10 

Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot 
back ? 

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid ? 

0 , none, unless this miracle have might, 

That in black ink my love may still shine 
bright. 

66 

Tir’d with all these, for restful death I cry, 

As, to behold desert a beggar born, 

And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity, 

And purest faith unhappily forsworn, 

And gilded honour shamefully misplac’d, 6 
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, 

And right perfection wrongfully disgrac’d, 

And strength by limping sway disabled, 

And art made tongue-tied by authority, 

And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, 10 
And simple truth miscall’d simplicity, 

And captive good attending captain ill: 

Tir’d with all these, from these would I be 
gone, 

Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. 

67 

Ah ! wherefore with infection should he live, 
And with his presence grace impiety, 

That sin by him advantage should achieve 
And lace itself with his society ? 


Why should false painting imitate his cheek s 
And steal dead seeing of his living hue ? 

Why should poor beauty indirectly seek 
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true ? 

Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is, 
Beggar’d of blood to blush through lively veins ? 
For she hath no exchequer now but his, 11 
And, proud of many, lives upon his gains. 

0 , him she stores, to show what wealth she 
had 

In days long since, before these last so bad. 

68 

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, 
When beauty liv’d and died as flowers do now, 
Before these bastard signs of fair were born, 

Or durst inhabit on a living brow ; 

Before the golden tresses of the dead, 5 

The right of sepulchres, were shorn away, 

To live a second life on second head ; 

Ere beauty’s dead fleece made another gay. 

In him those holy antique hours are seen, 
Without all ornament, itself and true, 10 

Making no summer of another’s green, 

Robbing no old to dress his beauty new ; 

And him as for a map doth Nature store, 

To show false Art what beauty was of yore. 

69 

Those parts of thee that the world’s eye doth 
view 

Want nothing that the thought of hearts can 
mend ; 

All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that 
due, 

Utt’ring bare truth, even so as foes commend. 
Thy outward thus with outward praise is 
crown’d ; b 

But those same tongues that give thee so thine 
own 

In other accents do this praise confound 
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown. 
They look into the beauty of thy mind, 

And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds ; 
Then, churls, their thoughts, although their 

eyes were kind, 11 

To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds: 
But why thy odour mateheth not thy show, 
The soil is this, that thou dost common grow. 

70 

That thou art blam’d shall not be thy defect, 
For slander’s mark was ever yet the fair; 

The ornament of beauty is suspect, 

A crow that flies in heaven’s sweetest air. 

So thou be good, slander doth but approve b 

Thy worth the greater, being woo’d of Time ; 
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, 
And thou present’st a pure unstained prime. 
Thou hast pass’d by the ambush of young 
days, 

Either not assail’d, or victor being charg’d ; 10 
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thjr praise, 

To tie up envy evermore enlarg’d : 

If some suspect of ill mask’d not thy show, 
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst 
owe. 





SONNETS 


1181 


71 


No longer mourn for me when I am dead 
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell 
Give warning to the world that I am fled 
From this vile world, with vilest worms to 
dwell. 

Nay, if you read this line, remember not s 
The hand that writ it; for I love you so 
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot 
If thinking on me then should make you woe. 
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse 
When I perhaps compounded am with clay, 10 
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, 

But let your love even with my life decay, 

Lest the wise world should look into your 
moan 

And mock you with me after I am gone. 

72 

O, lest the.world should task you to recite 
What merit liv’d in me, that you should love, 
After my death, dear love, forget me quite, 

For you in me can nothing worthy prove ; 
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie, s 
To do more for me than mine own desert, 

And hang more praise upon deceased I 
Than niggard truth would willingly impart: 

O. lest your true love may seem false in this, 
That you for love speak well of me untrue, 10 
My name be buried where my body is, 

And live no more to shame nor me nor you. 

For I am sham’d by that which I bring forth, 
And so should you, to love things nothing 
worth. 

73 

That time of year thou mayst in me behold 
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang 
Upon those boughs which shake against the 
cold, 

Bare ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birds 
sang. 

In me thou see’st the twilight of such day e 
As after sunset fadeth in the west, 

Which by and by black night doth take away, 
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest. 

In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire 
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, io 
As the death-bed whereon it must expire, 
Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by. 
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love 
more strong, 

To love that well which thou must leave ere 
long. 

74 

But be contented: when that fell arrest 
Without all bail shall carry me away, 

My life hath in this line some interest, 

Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. 
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review e 
The very part was consecrate to thee: 

The earth can have but earth, which is his 
due; 

My spirit is thine, the better part of me: 

So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, 

The prey of worms, my body being dead, io 


The coward conquest of a wretch’s knife, 

Too base of thee to be remembered. 

The worth of that is that which it contains, 
And that is this, and this with thee remains. 

75 

So are you to my thoughts as food to life, 

Or as sweet-season’d showers are to the ground ; 
And for the peace of you I hold such strife 
As ’twixt a miser and his wealth is found ; 

Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon 5 

Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure, 
Now counting best to be with you alone, 

Then better’d that the world may see my plea¬ 
sure ; 

Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, 
And by and by clean starved for a look ; io 
Possessing or pursuing no delight, 

Save what is had or must from you be took. 
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, 

Or gluttoning on all, or all away. 

76 

Why is my verse so barren of new pride, 

So far from variation or quick change ? 

Why with the time do I not glance aside 
To new-found methods and to compounds 
strange ? 

Why write I still all one, ever the same, e 
And keep invention in a noted weed, 

That every word doth almost tell my name, 
Showing their birth and where they did pro¬ 
ceed ? 

0 , know, sweet love, I always write of you, 

And you and love are still my argument; io 
So all my best is dressing old words new, 
Spending again what is already spent: 

For as the sun is daily new and old, 

So is my love still telling what is told. 

77 

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, 
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste ; 

The vacant leaves thy mind’s imprint will bear, 
And of this book this learning mayst thou taste. 
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show s 
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory ; 
Thou by thy dial’s shady stealth mayst know 
Time’s thievish progress to eternity. 

Look, what thy memory cannot contain 
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt 
find io 

Those children nurs’d, deliver’d from thy brain, 
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. 

These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, 

Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book. 

78 

So oft have I invok’d thee for my Muse 
And found such fair assistance in my verse 
As every alien pen hath got my use 
And under thee their poesy disperse. 

Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to 
sing, i 

And heavy ignorance aloft to fly, 

Have added feathers to the learned’s wing 
And given grace a double majesty. 




SONNETS 


1182 


Yet be most proud of that which I compile, 
Whose influence is thine and born of thee : 10 

In others’ works thou dost but mend the style, 
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be ; 

But thou art all my art and dost advance 
As high as learning my rude ignorance. 

79 


Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, 

My verse alone had all thy gentle grace, 

But now my gracious numbers are decay’d 
And my sick Muse doth give another place. 

I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument 5 
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen, 

Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent 
He robs thee of and pays it thee again. 

He lends thee virtue and he stole that word 
From thy behaviour ; beauty doth he give 10 
And found it in thy cheek ; he can afford 
No praise to thee but what in thee doth live. 

Then thank him not for that which he doth 
say, 

Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost 
pay. 


80 


O, how I faint when I of you do write, 
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, 
And in the praise thereof spends all his might, 
To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your 
fame ! 

But since your worth, wide as the ocean is, s 
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, 

My saucy bark, inferior far to his, 

On your broad main doth wilfully appear. 

Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, 
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride : 
Or, being wreck’d, I am a worthless boat, 11 
He of tall building and of goodly pride. 

Then if he thrive and I be cast away, 

The worst was this : my love was my decay. 


81 


Or I shall live your epitaph to make, 

Or you survive when I in earth am rotten ; 
From hence your memory death cannot take, 
Although in me each part will be forgotten. 4 
Your name from hence immortal life shall have, 
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die : 
The earth can yield me but a common grave, 
When you entombed in men’s eyes shall lie. 
Your monument shall be my gentle verse, 
Which eyes not yet created shall o’er-read, 10 
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse 
When all the breathers of this world are dead ; 
You still shall live — such virtue hath my 
pen — 

Where breath most breathes, even in the 
mouths of men. 


82 


I grant thou wert not married to my Muse, 
And therefore mayst without attaint o’erlook 
The dedicated words which writers use 
Of their fair subject, blessing every book. 
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, e 
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise, 


And therefore art enforc’d to seek anew 
Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. 
And do so, love; yet when they have devis’d 
What strained touches rhetoric can lend, 10 
Thou truly fair wert truly sympathiz’d 
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend ; 
And their gross painting might be better us’d 
Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is 
abus’d. 

83 

I never saw that you did painting need, 

And therefore to your fair no painting set; 

I found, or thought I found, you did exceed 
The barren tender of a poet’s debt, 

And therefore have I slept in your report, s 
That you yourself being extant well might show 
How far a modern quill doth come too short, 
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth 
grow. 

This silence for my sin you did impute, 

Which shall be most my glory, being dumb ; 10 
For I impair not beauty being mute, 

When others would give life and bring a tomb. 
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes 
Than both your poets can in praise devise. 

84 

Who is it that says most ? Which can say more 
Than this rich praise, that you alone are you ? 
In whose confine immured is the store 
Which should example where your equal grew. 
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell 6 
That to his subject lends not some small glory ; 
But he that writes of you, if he can tell 
That you are you, so dignifies his story. 

Let him but copy what in you is writ, 

Not making worse what nature made so clear, 10 
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit, 
Making his style admired everywhere. 

Yoii to your beauteous blessings add a curse, 
Being fond on praise, which makes your 
praises worse. 

85 

My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still, 
While comments of your praise, richly com¬ 
pil’d, 

Reserve their character with golden quill 
And precious phrase by all the Muses fil’d. 

I think good thoughts whilst other write good 
words, 6 

And like unlettered clerk still cry “ Amen ” 
To every hymn that able spirit affords 
In polish’d form of well-refined pen. 

Hearing you prais’d, Isay, “ ’T is so, ’tis true,” 
And to the most of praise add something 
more; 10 

But that is in my thought, whose love to you, 
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank 
before. 

Then others for the breath of words respect, 
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect. 

86 

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, 
Bound for the prize of all too precious you, 




SONNETS 


1183 


That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, 
Making their tomb the womb wherein they 
grew ? 

Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write t> 
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead ? 
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night 
Giving him aid, my verse astonished. 

He, nor that affable familiar ghost 

Which nightly gulls him with intelligence, 10 

As victors of my silence cannot boast; 

I was not sick of any fear from thence : 

But when your countenance fill’d up his line, 
Then lack’d I matter ; that enfeebled mine. 

87 

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, 
And like enough thou know’st thy estimate. 
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ; 
My bonds in thee are all determinate. 

For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? o 
And for that riches where is my deserving? 
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, 
And so my patent back again is swerving. 
Thyself thou gav’st, thy own worth then not 
knowing, 

Or me, to whom thou gav’st it, else mistak¬ 
ing; ... . 10 

So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, 
Comes home again, on better judgement mak¬ 
ing. 

Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flat¬ 
ter, 

I11 sleep a king, but waking no such matter. 

88 

When thou shalt be dispos’d to set me light, 
And place my merit in the eye of scorn, 

Upon thy side against myself I ’ll fight 
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art for¬ 
sworn. 

With mine own weakness being best acquainted, 
Upon thy part I can set down a story 6 

Or faults conceal’d, wherein I am attainted, 
That thou in losing me shall win much glory : 
And I by this will be a gainer too ; 

For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, 10 
The injuries that to myself I do, 

Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. 

Such is my love, to thee I so belong, 

That for thy right myself will bear all wrong. 

89 

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, 
And I will comment upon that offence ; 

Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt, 
Against thy reasons making no defence. 

Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill, « 
To set a form upon desired change, 

As 1 ’ll myself disgrace: knowing thy will, 

I will acquaintance strangle and look strange, 
Be absent from thy walks ; and in my tongue 
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell, 10 
Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong, 
And haply of our old acquaintance tell. 

For thee against myself I ’ll vow debate, 

For I must ne’er love him whom thou dost 
hate. 


90 

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now ; 
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to 
cross. 

Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, 
And do not drop in for an after-loss: 

Ah, do not, when my heart hath scap’d this 
sorrow, s 

Come in the rearward of a conquer’d woe ; 

Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, 

To linger out a purpos’d overthrow. 

If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, 
When other petty griefs have done their spite, 
But in the onset come ; so shall I taste 11 

At first the very worst of fortune’s might, 

And other strains of woe, which now seem 
woe, 

Compar’d with loss of thee will not seem so. 

91 

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, 
Some in their wealth, some in their bodies’ 
force, 

Some in their garments, though new-fangled 

ill, 

Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their 
horse ; 

And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, « 
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest: 

But these particulars are not my measure; 

All these I better in one general best. 

Thy love is better than high birth to me, 

Hicher than wealth, prouder than garments’ 
cost, 10 

Of more delight than hawks or horses be; 

And having thee, of all men’s pride I boast; 
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take 
All this away and me most wretched make. 

92 

But do thy worst to steal thyself away, 

For term of life thou art assured mine, 

And life no longer than thy love will stay, 

For it depends upon that love of thine. 

Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs, s 
When in the least of them my life hath end. 

I see a better state to me belongs 
Than that which on thy humour doth depend ; 
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind, 
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie. 10 
O, what a happy title do I find, 

Happy to have thy love, happy to die ! 

But what’s so blessed-fair that fears no blot ? 
Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not. 

93 

So shall I live, supposing thou art true, 

Like a deceived husband ; so love’s face 
May still seem love to me, though alter’d new ; 
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place: 
For there can live no hatred in thine eye, o 
Therefore in that, I cannot know thy change. 

In many’s looks the false heart’s history 
Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles 
strange; 

But heaven in thy creation did decree 

That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell; 





SONNETS 


1184 


Whate’er thy thoughts or thy heart’s workings 
be, 11 

Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness 
tell. 

How like Eve’s apple doth thy beauty grow, 
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show! 

94 

They that have power to hurt and will do none, 
That do not do the thing they most do show, 
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, 
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow, 

They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces b 

And husband nature’s riches from expense ; 
They are the lords and owners of their faces, 
Others but stewards of their- excellence. 

The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet, 
Though to itself it only live and die, 10 

But if that flower with base infection meet, 
The basest weed outbraves his dignity : 

For sweetest things turn sourest by their 
deeds; 

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. 

95 

How sweet and lovely dost thou make the 
shame 

Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, 

Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name ! 

O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose ! 
That tongue that tells the story of thy days, b 
Making lascivious comments on thy sport, 
Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise ; 
Naming thy name blesses an ill report. 

0 , what a mansion have those vices got 
Which for their habitation chose out thee, 10 
Where beauty’s veil doth cover every blot, 

And all things turns to fair that eyes can see ! 
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privi¬ 
lege ; 

The hardest knife ill-us’d doth lose his edge. 

96 

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness ; 
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport; 
Both grace and faults are lov’d of more and 
less ; 

Thou mak’st faults graces that to thee resort. 
As on the finger of a throned queen 5 

The basest jewel will be well esteem’d, 

So are those errors that in thee are seen 
To truths translated and for true things 
deem’d. 

How many lambs might the stern wolf betray 
If like a lamb he could his looks translate ! 10 

How many gazers mightst thou lead away 
If thou wouldst use the strength of ail thy 
state! 

But do not so ; I love thee in such sort 
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report. 

97 

How like a winter hath my absence been 
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year ! 
What freezings have I felt, what dark days 
seen! 

What old December’s bareness everywhere! 


And yet this time remov’d was summer’s time, 
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, « 
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, 

Like widowed wombs after their lords’ decease. 
Yet this abundant issue seem’d to me 
But hope of orphans and unfathered fruit; 10 

For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, 
And, thou away, the very birds are mute ; 

Or, if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer 
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s 
near. 

98 

From you have I been absent in the spring, 
When proud-pied April, dress’d in all his trim, 
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, 

That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him. 
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell b 
O f different flowers in odour and in hue 
Could make me any summer’s story tell, 

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they 
grew ; 

Nor did 1 wonder at the lily’s white, 

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; 10 

They were but sweet, but figures of delight 
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. 

Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away, 

As with your shadow 1 with these did play. 

99 

The forward violet thus did I chide : 

Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet 
that smells, 

If not from my love’s breath ? The purple pride 
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells 
In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dy’d. b 
T he lily I condemned for thy hand, 

And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair: 

The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, 

One blushing shame, another white despair ; 

A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both 
And to his robbery had annex’d thy breath ; 11 
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth 
A vengeful canker eat him up to death. 

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see 
But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee. 

100 

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget’st so 
long 

To speak of that which gives thee all thy 
might ? 

Spend’st thou thy fury on some worthless song, 
Dark’ning thy power to lend base subjects 
light ? 

Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem 6 
In gentle numbers time so idly spent; 

Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem 
And gives thy pen both skill and argument. 
Rise, resty Muse, my love’s sweet face survey, 
If Time have any wrinkle graven there ; 1# 

If any, be a satire to decay, 

And make Time’s spoils despised everywhere. 
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes 
life ; 

So thou prevent’st his scythe and crooked 
knife. 






SONNETS 


1185 


101 

0 truant Muse, w hat shall he thy amends 
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy’d ? 

Both truth and beauty on my love depends ; 

So dost thou too, and therein dignifi’d. 

Make answer, Muse : wilt thou not haply say, e 
“ Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix’d ; 
Beauty no pencil, beauty’s truth to lay ; 

But best is best, if never intermix’d ” ? 

Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb ? 
Excuse not silence so ; for ’t lies in thee 10 
To make him much oiitlive a gilded tomb, 

And to be prais’d of ages yet to be. 

Then do thy office, Muse ; I teach thee how 
• To make him seem long hence as he shows 
now. 

102 

My love is strength’ned, though more weak in 
seeming; 

I love not less, though less the show appear; 
That love is merchandiz’d whose rich esteeming 
The owner’s tongue doth publish everywhere. 
Our love was new and then but in the spring s 
When I was wont to greet it with my lays, 

As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing 
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days : 

Not that the summer is less pleasant now 
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the 
night, 10 

But that wild music burdens every bough 
And sweets grown common lose their dear de¬ 
light. 

Therefore like her I sometime hold my 
tongue, 

Because I would not dull you with my song. 

103 

Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth, 
That having such a scope to show her pride, 
The argument all bare is of more worth 
Than when it hath my added praise beside ! 

O, blame me not, if I no more can write ! * 

Look in your glass, and there appears a face 
That over-goes my blunt invention quite, 
Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace. 

Were it not sinful then, striving to mend, 

To mar the subject that before was well ? 10 

For to no other pass my verses tend 
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell; 

And more, much more, than in my verse can 
sit . . 

Your own glass shows you when you look in it. 

104 

To me, fair friend, you never can be old, 

For as you were when first your eye I ey’d, 
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters 
cold 

Have from the forests shook three summers 
pride, 

Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn 
turn’d 6 

In process of the seasons have I seen. 

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn d, 
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. 
Ah ! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, 


Steal from his figure and no pace perceiv’d ; 10 
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth 
stand, 

Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv’d : 
For fear of which, hear this, thou age un¬ 
bred ; 

Ere you were born was beauty’s summer 
dead. 

105 

Let not my love be call’d idolatry, 

Nor my beloved as an idol show. 

Since all alike my songs and praises be 
To one, of one, still such, and ever so. 

Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, * 
Still constant in a wondrous excellence ; 
Therefore my verse to constancy confin’d, 

One thing expressing, leaves out difference. 

“ Fair, kind, and true ” is all my argument, 

“ Fair, kind, and true ” varying to other words ; 
And in this change is my invention spent, n 
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope 
affords. 

“Fair, kind, and true,” have often liv’d 
alone, 

Which three till now never kept seat in one. 

106 

When in the chronicle of wasted time 
I see descriptions of the fairest wights, 

And beauty making beautiful old rhyme 
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights ; 
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best, » 
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 

I see their antique pen would have express’d 
Even such a beauty as you master now. 

So all their praises are but prophecies 
Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; 10 

And, for they look’d but with divining eyes, 
They had not skill enough your worth to sing: 
For we, which now behold these present days, 
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to 
praise. 

107 

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul 
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come, 
Can yet the lease of my true love control, 
Suppos’d as forfeit to a confin’d doom. 

The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur’d, e 
And the sad augurs mock their own presage ; 
Incertainties now crown themselves assur’d, 
And peace proclaims olives of endless age. 

Now with the drops of this most balmy time 
My love looks fresh, and Death to me sub¬ 
scribes, 10 

Since, spite of him, I ’ll live in this poor rhyme, 
While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes : 
And thou in this shalt find thy monument, 
When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are 
spent. 

108 

What’s in the brain that ink may character 
Which hath not figur’d to thee my true spirit ? 
What’s new to speak, what new to register, 
That may express my love or thy dear merit ? 








1186 


SONNETS 


Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers 
divine, 5 

I must each day say o’er the very same, 
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, 
Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name. 
So that eternal love in love’s fresh case 
Weighs not the dust and injury of age, 10 

Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, 

But makes antiquity for aye his page, 

Finding the first conceit of love there bred 
Where time and outward form would show it 
dead. 

109 

0 , never say that I was false of heart, 

Though absence seem’d my flame to qualify. 
As easy might I from myself depart 
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie. 
That is my home of love ; if I have rang’d, s 
Like him that travels I return again, 

Just to the time, not with the time exchang’d, 
So that myself bring water for my stain. 

Never believe, though in my nature reign’d 
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, 10 
That it could so preposterously be stain’d, 

To leave for nothing all thy sum of good ; 

For nothing this wide universe I call, 

Save thou, my rose ; in it thou art my all. 

110 

Alas, ’t is true I have gone here and there 
And made myself a motley to the view, 

Gor’d mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is 
most dear, 

Made old offences of affections new ; 

Most true it is that I have look’d on truth c 
Askance and strangely : but, by all above, 
These blenches gave my heart another youth, 
And worse essays prov’d thee my best of love. 
Now all is done, have what shall have no end: 
Mine appetite I never more will grind 10 

On newer proof, to try an older friend, 

A god in love, to whom I am confin’d. 

Then give me welcome, next my heaven the 
best, 

Even to thy pure and most most loving breast. 

111 

0 , for my sake do you with Fortune chide, 

The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, 

That did not better for my life provide 
Than public means which public manners 
breeds. 

Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, 
And almost thence my nature is subdu’d c 
To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand. 

Pity me then and wish I were renew’d ; 

Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink 
Potions of eisel ’gainst my strong infection ; 10 

No bitterness that I will bitter think, 

Nor double penance, to correct correction. 

Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye 
Even that your pity is enough to cure me. 

112 

Your love and pity doth the impression fill 
Which vulgar scandal stamp’d upon my brow ; 


For what care I who calls me well or ill, 

So you o’er-green my bad, my good allow ? 

You are my all the world, and I must strive « 
To know my shames and praises from your 
tongue; 

None else to me, nor I to none alive, 

That my steel’d sense or changes right or wrong. 
In so profound abysm I throw all care 
Of others’ voices, that my adder’s sense 10 
To critic and to flatterer stopped are. 

Mark how with my neglect I do'dispense : 

You are so strongly in my purpose bred 
That all the world besides me thinks you ’re 
dead. 

113 

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind ; 

And that which governs me to go about 
Loth part his function and is partly blind. 
Seems seeing, but effectually is out; 

For it no form delivers to the heart 
Of bird, of flower, or shape, which it doth 
latch: 

Of his quick objects hath the mind no part, 
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch ; 
For if it see the rud’st or gentlest sight, 

The most sweet favour or deformed’st creature, 
The mountain or the sea, the day or night, it 
The crow or dove, it shapes them to your 
feature. 

Incapable of more, replete with you, 

My most true mind thus maketh mine [eye] 
untrue. 

114 

Or whether doth my mind, being crown’d with 
you, 

Drink up the monarch’s plague, this flattery ? 
Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true. 
And that your love taught it this alchemy, 

To make of monsters and things indigest 6 
Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble, 
Creating every bad a perfect best, 

As fast as objects to his beams assemble ? 

0 , ’tis the first; ’t is flattery in my seeing, 

And my great mind most kingly drinks it up: 
Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 
’greeing, 11 

And to his palate doth prepare the cup. 

If it be poison’d, ’t is the lesser sin 
That mine eye loves it and doth first begin. 

115 

Those lines that I before have writ do lie, 

Even those that said I could not love you 
dearer; 

Yet then my judgement knew no reason why 
My most full flame should afterwards burn 
clearer. 

But reckoning time, whose million’d accidents 
Creep in ’twixt vows and change decrees of 
kings, e 

Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharpest intents, 
Divert strong minds to the course of alt’ring 
things ; 

Alas, why, fearing of time’s tyranny, 

Might I not then say, “ Now I love you best,” 




SONNETS 


1187 


When I was certain o’er incertainty, 11 

Crowning the present, doubting of the rest ? 
Love is a babe ; then might I not say so, 

To give full growth to that which still doth 
grow ? 

116 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
Admit impediments. Love is not love 
Which alters when it alteration finds, 

Or bends with the remover to remove. 

O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark e 

That looks on tempests and is never shaken ; 

It is the star to every wand’ring bark, 

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height 
be taken. 

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and 
cheeks 

Within his bending sickle’s compass come ; 10 

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 

If this be error and upon me proved, 

I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

117 

Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all 
Wherein I should your great deserts repay, 
Forgot upon your dearest love to call, 

Whereto all bonds do tie me day by (lay ; 

That I have frequent been with unknown 
minds, i> 

And given to time your own dear-purchas’d 
right; 

That I have hoisted sail to all the winds 
Which should transport me farthest from your 
sight. 

Book both my wilfulness and errors down, 

And on just proof surmise accumulate ; 10 

Bring me within the level of your frown, 

But shoot not at me in your wakened hate, 
Since my appeal says I did strive to prove 
The constancy and virtue of your love. 

118 

Like as, to make our appetites more keen, 
With eager compounds we our palate urge, 

As, to prevent our maladies unseen, 

We sicken to shun sickness when we purge ; 
Even so, being full of your ne’er-cloying sweet¬ 
ness, s 

To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding, 

And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meet- 
ness 

To be diseas’d ere that there was true need¬ 
ing- 

Thus policy in love, to anticipate 
The ills that were not, grew to faults assured, 10 
And brought to medicine a healthful state 
Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured : 
But thence I learn, and find the lesson true, 
Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you. 

119 

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears, 
Distill’d from limbecks foul as hell within, 
Applying fears to hopes and hopes to fears, 

Still losing when I saw myself to win! 


What wretched errors hath my heart com¬ 
mitted, e 

Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never ! 
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been 
fitted 

In the distraction of this madding fever! 

0 benefit of ill! now 1 find true 

That better is by evil still made better; 10 

And ruin’d love, when it is built anew, 

Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far 
greater. 

So I return rebuk’d to my content, 

And gain by ills thrice more than I have 
spent. 

120 

That you were once unkind befriends me now, 
And for that sorrow which I then did feel 
Needs must I under my transgression bow, 
Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel. 
For if you were by my unkindness shaken s 
As I by yours, you’ve pass’d a hell of time, 
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken 
To weigh how once I suffered in your crime. 

O, that our night of woe might have remem- 
b’red 

My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, 10 
And soon to you, as you to me, then tend’red 
The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits 1 
But that your trespass now becomes a fee ; 
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom 
me. 

121 

’T is better to be vile than vile esteemed 
When not to be receives reproach of being, 

And the just pleasure lost which is so deemed 
Not by our feeling but by others’ seeing. 

For why should others’ false adulterate eyes b 
G ive salutation to my sportive blood ? 

Or on my frailties why are frailer spies. 

Which in their wills count bad what I think 
good ? 

No, I am that I am, and they that level 
At my abuses reckon up their own ; 10 

I may be straight, though they themselves be 
bevel; 

By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be 
shown ; 

Unless this general evil they maintain, 

All men are bad, and in their badness reign. 

122 

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain 
Full character’d with lasting memory, 

Which shall above that idle rank remain 
Beyond all date, even to eternity ; 

Or at the least, so long as brain and heart b 
H ave faculty by nature to subsist; 

Till each to raz’d oblivion yield his part 
Of thee, thy record never can be miss’d. 

That poor retention could not so much hold, 
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score ; i« 
Therefore to give them from me was I bold, 

To trust those tables that receive thee more. 

To keep an adjunct to remember thee 
Were to import forgetfulness in me. 





n88 


SONNETS 


123 

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do 
change. 

Thy pyramids built up with newer might 
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange ; 
They are but dressings of a former sight. 

Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire b 
W hat thou dost foist upon us that is old, 

And rather make them born to our desire 
Than think that we before have heard them 
told. 

Thy registers and thee 1 both defy, 

Not wond’ring at the present nor the past, 10 
For thy records and what we see doth lie, 

Made more or less by thy continual haste. 

This I do vow and this shall ever be ; 

I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee. 

124 

If my dear love were but the child of state, 

It might for Fortune’s bastard be unfather’d, 
As subject to Time’s love or to Time’s hate, 
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers 
gather’d. 

No, it was budded far from accident; 6 

It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls 
Under the blow of thralled discontent, 

Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls ; 

It fears not policy, that heretic, 

Which works on leases of short-numb’red 
hours, 

But all alone stands hugely politic, 

That it nor grows with heat nor drowns with 
showers. 

To this I witness call the fools of Time, 
Which die for goodness, who have liv’d for 
crime. 

125 

Were ’t aught to me I bore the canopy, 

With my extern the outward honouring, 

Or laid great bases for eternity, 

Which proves more short than waste or ruin¬ 
ing ? 

Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour b 
L ose all, and more, by paying too much rent 
For compound sweet; forgoing simple savour, 
Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent ? 

No, let me be obsequious in thy heart, 

And take thou my oblation, poor but free, io 
Which is not mix’d with seconds, knows no 
art, 

But mutual render, only me for thee. 

Hence, thou suborn’d informer ! A true soul 
When most impeach’d stands least in thy 
control. 

126 

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power 
Dost hold Time’s nckle glass, his sickle, hour ; 
Who hast by waning grown, and therein sliow’st 
Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow’st; 
If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack, b 
A s thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee 
back, 

She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill 
May Time disgrace and wretched minutes kill. 


Yet fear her, 0 thou minion of her pleasure ! 
She may detain, but not still keep, her trea¬ 
sure ; ip 

Her audit, though delay’d, answer’d must be, 
And her quietus is to render thee. 


127 

In the old age black was not counted fair, 

Or if it were, it bore not beauty’s name ; 

But now is black beauty’s successive heir, 

And beauty slander’d with a bastard shame: 
For since each hand hath put on nature’s 
power, b 

Fairing the foul with art’s false borrow’d face, 
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower, 
But is profan’d, if not lives in disgrace. 
Therefore my mistress’ brows are raven black, 
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem io 
At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack, 
Sland’ring creation with a false esteem : 

Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe, 
That every tongue says beauty should look so. 

128 

How oft, when thou, my music, music play’st, 
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds 
With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently 
sway’st 

The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, 

Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap b 

To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, 

Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest 
reap, 

At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand ! 
To be so tickled, they would change their state 
And situation with those dancing chips, io 
O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, 
Making dead wood more blest than living lips. 
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, 

Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. 

129 

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame 
Is lust in action; and till action, lust 
Is perjur’d, murd’rous, bloody, full of blame, 
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust, 
Enjoy’d no sooner but despised straight, b 
P ast reason hunted, and no sooner had 
Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait 
On purpose laid to make the taker mad ; 

Mad in pursuit and in possession so ; 

Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme ; to 
A bliss in proof, and prov’d, a very woe ; 
Before, a joy propos’d ; behind, a dream. 

All this the world well knows; yet none 
knows well 

To shun the heaven that leads men to this 
hell. 

130 

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun ; 
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red ; 

If snow be white, why then her breasts are 
dun; 

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. 








SONNETS 


I have seen roses damask’d, red and white, s 
But no such roses see I in her cheeks ; 

And in some perfumes is there more delight 
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. 
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know 
That music hath a far more pleasing sound ; 10 
I grant I never saw a goddess go ; 

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the 
ground: 

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare 
As any she beli’d with false compare. 

131 

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, 

As those whose beauties proudly make them 
cruel; 

For well thou know’st to my dear doting heart 
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel. 
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold * 
Thy face hath not the power to make love 
groan : 

To say they err I dare not be so bold, 

Although I swear it to myself alone. 

And, to be sure that is not false I swear, 

A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face, 10 
One on another’s neck, do witness bear 
Thy black is fairest in my judgement’s place. 
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds, 
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds. 

132 

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, 
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain, 
Have put on black and loving mourners be, 
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. 

And truly not the morning sun of heaven t> 
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, 
Nor that full star that ushers in the even 
Doth half that glory to the sober west, 

As those two mourning eyes become thy face. 
O, let it then as well beseem thy heart. io 

To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee 
grace, 

And suit thy pity like in every part. 

Then will I swear beauty herself is black 
And all they foul that thy complexion lack. 

133 

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to 
groan 

For that deep wound it gives my friend and 
me! 

Is’t not enough to torture me alone, 

But slave to slavery my sweet’st friend must 
be? 

Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken, ® 
And my next self thou harder hast engrossed : 
Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken ; 

A torment thrice threefold thus to be crossed. 
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward. 

But then my friend’s heart let my poor he*rt 
bail; 10 

Whoe’er keeps me, let my heart be his guard ; 
Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol: 
And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in 
thee, 

Perforce am thine, and all that is in me. 


1189 


134 

So, now I have confess’d that he is thine 
And I myself am mortgag’d to thy will, 

Myself I ’ll forfeit, so that other mine 
Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still. 

But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free, s 
For thou art covetous and he is kind ; 

He learn’d but surety-like to write for me 
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind. 
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take, 

Thou usurer, that put’st forth all to use, 10 
And sue a friend came debtor for my sake ; 

So him I lose through my unkind abuse. 

Him have I lost; thou hast both him and 
me: 

He pays the whole, and yet am I not free. 

135 

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will , 
And Will to boot, and Will in overplus; 

More than enough am I that vex thee still, 

To thy sweet will making addition thus. 

Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, r 
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine ? 
Shall will in others seem right gracious, 

And in my will no fair acceptance shine ? 

The sea, all water, yet receives rain still 
And in abundance addeth to his store ; t< 

So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will 
One will of mine, to make thy large Will more 
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill; 

Think all but one, and me in that one Will. 

136 

If thy soul check thee that I come so near, 
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will , 
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there; 
Thus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil. 
Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love, i 

Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one. 

In things of great receipt with ease we prove 
Among a number one is reckon’d none : 

Then in the number let me pass untold, 

Though in thy store’s account I one must 
be; 10 

For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold 
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee. 
Make but my name thy love and love that 
still, 

And then thou lov’st me, for my name is Will. 

137 

Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine 

eyes, 

That they behold, and see not what they see ? 
They know what beauty is, see where it lies, 
Yet what the best is take the worst to be. 

If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks b 

Be anchor’d in the bay where all men ride, 
Why of eyes’ falsehood hast thou forged hooks, 
Whereto the judgement of my heart is tied ? 
Why should my heart think that a several 
plot 

Which ray heart knows the wide world’s com¬ 
mon place ? w 

Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not, 

To put fair truth upon so foul a face ? 





1190 


SONNETS 


In things right true my heart and eyes have 
erred, 

And to this false plague are they now trans¬ 
ferred. 

138 

When my love swears that she is made of truth, 
I do believe her, though I know she lies, 

That she might think me some untutor’d youth, 
Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties. * 
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, 
Although she knows my days are past the best, 
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue: 

On both sides thus is simple truth suppress’d. 
But wherefore says she not she is unjust ? 

And wherefore say not I that I am old ? 10 

0 , love’s best habit is in seeming trust, 

And age in love loves not to have years told: 
Therefore I lie with her and she with me, 
And in our faults by lies we flattered be. 

139 

0 , call not me to justify the wrong 
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart; 
Wound me not with thine eye but with thy 
tongue, 

Use power with power and slay me not by art. 
Tell me thou lov’st elsewhere, but in my sight, s 
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside: 
What need’st thou wound with cunning when 
thy might 

Is more than my o’er-press’d defence can bide ? 
Let me excuse thee : ah ! my love well knows 
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies, 10 
And therefore from my face she turns my foes, 
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries. 
Yet do not so ; but since I am near slain, 

Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain. 

140 

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press 
My tongue-tied patience with too much dis¬ 
dain, 

Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express 
The manner of my pity-wanting pain. 

If I might teach thee wit, better it were, b 
T hough not to love, yet, love, to tell me so ; 

As testy sick men, when their deaths be near, 
No news but health from their physicians 
know ; 

For if I should despair, I should grow mad, 
And in my madness might speak ill of thee ; 10 
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad, 
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be. 

That I may not be so, nor thou beli’d, 

Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud 
heart go wide. 

141 

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes, 

For they in thee a thousand errors note ; 

But’t is my heart that loves what they despise, 
Who in despite of view is pleas’d to dote ; 

Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune de¬ 
lighted, 6 

Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone, 

Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited 


To any sensual feast with thee alone : 

But my five wits nor my five senses can 
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, i« 
Who leaves unsway’d the likeness of a man, 
Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to 
be: 

Only my plague thus far I count my gain, 
That she that makes me sin awards me pain. 

142 

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, 

Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving: 

0 , but with mine compare thou thine own state, 
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving ; 

Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine, e 
That have profan’d their scarlet ornaments 
And seal’d false bonds of love as oft as mine, 
Robb’d others’ beds’ revenues of their rents. 
Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov’st those 
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune 
thee: 10 

Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows 
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. 

If thou dost seek to have what thou dost 
hide. 

By self-example mayst thou be deni’d ! 

143 

Lo ! as a careful housewife runs to catch 
One of her feathered creatures broke away, 

Sets down her babe and makes all swift dis¬ 
patch 

In pursuit of the thing she would have stay, 
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase, 
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent • 
To follow that which flies before her face, 

Not prizing her poor infant’s discontent; 

So runn’st thou after that which flies from 
thee, 

Whilst I, thy babe, chase thee afar behind ; « 

But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me, 
And play the mother’s part, kiss me, be kind : 
So will I pray that thou mayst have thy 
Will, 

If thou turn back, and my loud crying still. 

144 

Two loves I have of comfort and despair, 

Which like two spirits do suggest me still: 

The better angel is a man right fair, 

The worser spirit a woman colour’d ill. 

To win me soon to hell, my female evil i 

Tempteth my better angel from my side, 

And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, 
Wooing his purity with her foul pride. 

And whether that my angel be turn’d fiend 
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell; if 

But being both from me, both to each friend, 

I guess one angel in another’s hell: 

Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt. 
Till my bad angel fire my good one out. 

145 

Those lips that Love’s own hand did make 
Breath’d forth the sound that said, “ I hate,” 
To me that, languish’d for her sake ; 

But when she saw my woeful state, 




SONNETS 


Straight in her heart did mercy come, s 

Chiding that tongue that ever sweet 
Was us’d in giving gentle doom, 

And taught it thus anew to greet: 

“ I hate ” she alter’d with an end, 

That follow’d it as gentle day 10 

Doth follow night, who like a fiend 
From heaven to hell is flown away ; 

“ I hate ” from hate away she threw, 

And saved my life, saying “ not you.” 

140 

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 

[Thrall to] these rebel powers that thee array, 
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, 
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? 

Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 6 
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ? 
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, 

Eat up thy charge ? Is this thy body’s end ? 
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss, 
And let that pine to aggravate thy store ; 10 

Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ; 
Within be fed, without be rich no more : 

So slialt thou feed on Death, that feeds on 
men, 

And Death once dead, there’s no more dying 
then. 

147 

My love is as a fever, longing still 
For that which longer nursetli the disease, 
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, 
The uncertain sickly appetite to please. 

My reason, the physician to my love, o 

Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, 

Hath left me, and I desperate now appi’ove 
Desire is death, which physic did except. 

Past cure I am, now reason is past care, 

And frantic-mad with evermore unrest; io 
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are, 
At random from the truth vainly express’d ; 
For I have sworn ihee fair and thought thee 
bright, 

Who art as blick as hell, as dark as might. 

148 

O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head. 
Which have no correspondence with true sight! 
Or, if they have, where is my judgement fled, 
That censures falsely what they see aright ? 

If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, b 
What means the world to say it is not so ? 

If it be not, then love doth well denote 
Love’s eye is not so true as all men’s: no, 

How can it ? 0 , how can Love’s eye be true, 
That is so vex’d with watching ana with tears ? 
No marvel then, though I mistake my view ; n 
The sun itself sees not till heaven clears. 

0 cunning Love ! with tears thou keep’st me 
blind, 

Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should 
find. 

149 

Canst thou, 0 cruel! say I love thee not. 

When I against myself with thee partake ? 


119 i 


Do I not think on thee, when I forgot 
Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake ? 

Who hateth thee that I do call my friend ? £ 

On whom frown’st thou that I do fawn upon V 
Nay, if thou lour’st on me, do I not spend 
Revenge upon myself with present moan ? 
What merit do I in myself respect, 

That is so proud thy service to despise, 10 

When all my best doth worship thy defect, 
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes ? 

But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind ; 
Those that can see thou lov’st, and I am blind. 

150 

0 , from what power hast thou this powerful 
might 

With insufficiency my heart to sway ? 

To make me give the lie to my true sight, 

And swear that brightness doth not grace the 
day ? 

Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill, e 
That in the very refuse of thy deeds 
There is such strength and warrantise of skill 
That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds ? 
Who taught thee how to make me love thee 
more 

The more I hear and see just cause of hate ? 10 
O, though I love what others do abhor, 

With others thou shouldst not abhor my stater 
If thy unworthiness rais’d love in me, 

More worthy I to be belov’d of thee. 

151 

Love is too young to know what conscience is ; 
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love? 
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss, 

Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove: 
For, thou betraying me, I do betray b 

My nobler part to my gross body’s treason ; 

My soul doth tell my body that he may 
Triumph in love ; flesh stays no farther reason, 
But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee 
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride, 10 
He is contented thy poor drudge to be, 

To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. 

No want of conscience holds it that I call 
Her “love” for whose dear love I rise and 
fall. 

152 

In loving thee thou know’st I am forsworn, 

But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swear¬ 
ing - ’ 

In r/ct thj bjd-vow broke and new faith torn 
In vowing new hate after new love bearing. 

But why of two oaths’ breach do I accuse thee, 
When I break twenty ? I am perjur’d most; 6 
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee, 
And all my honest faith in thee is lost, 

For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kind¬ 
ness, 

Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy, 10 
And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness, 
Or made them swear against the thing they see ; 
For I have sworn thee fair ; more perjur’d I, 
To swear against the truth f 0 foul a lie ! 






XI 9 2 


A LOVER’S COMPLAINT 


153 

Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep. 

A maid of Dian’s this advantage found, 

And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep 
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground ; 
Which borrow’d from this holy fire of Love b 
A dateless lively heat, still to endure, 

And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove 
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure. 

But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new- 
fired, 

The boy for trial needs would touch my breast; 
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired, u 

And thither hied, a sad distemper’d guest, 

But found no cure : the bath for my help lies 
Where Cupid got new fire — my mistress’ 
eyes. 


154 

The little Love-god lying once asleep 
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand, 
Whilst many nymphs that vow’d chaste life to 
keep 

Came tripping by ; but in her maiden hand 
The fairest votary took up that fire 8 

Which many legions of true hearts had warm’d ; 
And so the general of hot desire 
Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarm’d. 

This brand she quenched in a cool well by, 
Which from Love’s fire took heat perpetual, io 
Growing a bath and healthful remedy 
For men diseas’d ; but I, my mistress’ thrall, 
Came there for cure, and this by that I 
prove, 

Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love. 


A LOVER’S COMPLAINT 


This poem is appended to the Sonnets in the edition of 1609, and is there ascribed to Shake¬ 
speare. No external evidence of date of composition exists, and no contemporary allusion con¬ 
firms the ascription of authorship. But there is nothing in the style of this literary pastoral to 
make it difficult to believe it the work of the author of Venus and Adonis , at a period not far 
removed from the date of that poem. 


From off a hill whose concave womb re-worded 
A plaintful story from a sist’ring vale, 

My spirits to attend this double voice accorded, 
And down I laid to list the sad-tun’d tale; 

Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale, 8 

Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain, 
Storming her world with sorrow’s wind and rain. 

Upon her head a platted hive of straw, 

Which fortified her visage from the sun, 
Whereon the thought might think sometime it 
saw io 

The carcass of a beauty spent and done. 

Time had not scythed all that youth begun, 
Nor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven’s fell 
rage, 

Some beauty peep’d through lattice of sear’d 
age. 

Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne, u> 
Which on it had conceited characters, 
Laund’ring the silken figures in the brine 
That seasoned woe had pelleted in tears, 

And often reading what contents it bears ; 

As often shrieking undistinguish’d woe 20 

In clamours of all size, both high and low. 

Sometimes her levell’d eyes their carriage ride, 
As they did battery to the spheres intend ; 
Sometimes diverted their poor balls are tied 
To the orbed earth ; sometimes they do ex¬ 
tend 25 

Their view right on ; anon their gazes lend 
To every place at once, and, nowhere fix’d, 
The mind and sight distractedly commix’d. 


Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat, 
Proclaim’d in her a careless hand of pride ; so 
For some, untuck’d, descended her sheav’d 
hat, 

Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside ; 
Some in her threaden fillet still did bide, 

And true to bondage would not break from 
thence, 

Though slackly braided in loose negligence, so 

A thousand favours from a maund she drew, 
Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet, 

Which one by one she in a river threw, 

Upon whose weeping margent. she was set, 

Like usury, applying wet to wet, 40 

Or monarch’s hands that lets not bounty 
fall 

Where want cries some, but where excess begs 
all. 

Of folded schedules had she many a one, 

Which she perus’d, sigh’d, tore, and gave the 
flood ; 

Crack’d many a ring of posied gold and bone, 45 
Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud ; 
Found yet moe letters sadly penn’d in blood, 
With sleided silk feat and affectedly 
Enswath’d, and seal’d to curious secrecy. 

These often bath’d she in her fluxive eyes, bo 
And often kiss’d, and often gan to tear : 

Cried, “ O false blood, thou register of lies, 
What unapproved witness dost thou bear ! 

Ink would have seem’d more black and 
damned here 1 ” 






A LOVER’S COMPLAINT 


n 9 3 


This said, in top of rage the lines she rents, ss 
Big discontent so breaking their contents. 

A reverend man that graz’d his cattle nigh — 
Sometime a blusterer, that the rutile knew 
Of court, of city, and had let go by 
The swiftest hours, observed as they flew — «o 
Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew, 

And, privileg’d by age, desires to know 
In brief the grounds and motives of her woe. 

So slides he down upon his grained bat. 

And comely-distant sits he by her side ; cc 
When he again desires her, being sat, 

Her grievance with his hearing to divide: 

If that from him there may be aught appli’d 
Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage, 

’T is promis’d in the charity of age. 70 

“Father,” she says, “though in me you be¬ 
hold 

The injury of many a blasting hour, 

Let it not tell your judgement I am old; 

Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power. 

I might as yet have been a spreading flower, 75 
Fresh to myself, if I had self-appli’d 
Love to myself and to no love beside. 

“ But, woe is me ! too early I attended 
A youthful suit — it was to gain my grace — 

Of one by nature’s outwards so commended, 80 
That maidens’ eyes stuck over all his face. 
Love lack’d a dwelling, and made him her 
place; 

And when in his fair parts she did abide, 

She was new lodg’d and newly deifi’d. 

“ His browny locks did hang in crooked curls ; 
And every light occasion of the wind 
Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls. 

What’s sweet to do, to do will aptly find. 

Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind, 
For on his visage was in little drawn «o 

What largeness thinks in Paradise was sawn. 

“ Small show of man was yet upon his chin ; 
His phoenix down began but to appear 
Like unshorn velvet on that termless skin. 
Whose bare out-bragg’d the web it seem’d to 
wear; tt5 

Yet show’d his visage by that cost more dear ; 
And nice affections wavering stood in doubt 
If best were as it was, or best without. 

“ His qualities were beauteous as his form, 99 
For maiden-tongu’d he was, and thereof free ; 
Yet, if men mov’d him, was he such a storm 
As oft ’twixt May and April is to see, 

When winds breathe sweet, unruly though they 
be. 

His rudeness so with his authoriz’d youth 
Did livery falseness in a pride of truth. nw 

“Well could he ride, and often men would 
say, 

‘ That horse his mettle from his rider takes. 

I Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, 


What rounds, what bounds, what course, what 
stop he makes ! ’ 

And controversy hence a question takes, no 
Whether the horse by him became his deed, 

Or he his manage by the well-doing steed : 

“ But quickly on this side the verdict went : 
His real habitude gave life and grace 
To appertainings and to ornament, 11s 

Accomplish’d in himself, not in his case : 

All aids, themselves made fairer by their place, 
Came for additions ; yet their purpos’d trim 
Piec’d not his grace, but were all grac’d by him. 

“ So on the tip of his subduing tongue no 

All kind of arguments and question deep, 

All replication prompt and reason strong, 

For his advantage still did wake and sleep. 

To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep, 
He had the dialect and different skill, ns 

Catching all passions in his craft of will; 

“ That he did in the general bosom reign 
Of young, of old ; and sexes both enchanted, 
To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain 
In personal duty, following where he haunted. 
Consents bewitch’d, ere he desire, have granted; 
And dialogu’d for him what he would say, 132 
Ask’d their own wills, and made their wills 
obey. 

“Many there were that did his picture get, 

To serve their eyes, and in it. put their mind ; 135 
Like fools that in the imagination set 
The goodly objects which abroad they find 
Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought 
assign’d; 

And labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them 
Than the true gouty landlord which doth owe 
them: wo 

“So many have, that never touch’d his hand, 
Sweetly suppos’d them mistress of his heart. 
My woeful self, that did in freedom stand, 

And was my own fee-simple, not in part, 

What with his art in youth, and youth in art, 
Threw my affections in his charmed power, 
Reserv’d the stalk and gave him all my flower. 

“ Yet did I not, as some my equals did, 
Demand of him, nor being desired yielded ; 
Finding myself in honour so forbid, »o 

With safest distance I mine honour shielded. 
Experience for me many bulwarks builded 
Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain’d the foil 
Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil. 

“ But, ah, who ever shunn’d by precedent 155 
The destin’d ill she must herself assay ? 

Or forc’d examples, ’gainst her own content, 

To put the by-past perils in her way ? 

Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay ; 
For when we rage, advice is often seen 100 
By blunting us to make our wits more keen. 

“Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood, 

That we must curb it upon others’ proof ; 







H94 


A LOVER’S COMPLAINT 


To be forbod the sweets that seem so good, 

For fear of harms that preach in our behoof. 

O appetite, from judgement stand aloof ! 

The one a palate hath that needs will taste, 
Though Reason weep, and cry, ‘ It is thy last.’ 

“ For further I eould say, ‘ This man ’s untrue,’ 
And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling ; 
Heard where his plants in others’ orchards 
grew, in 

Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling ; 
Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling ; 
Thought characters and words merely but art, 
And bastards of his foul adulterate heart, ns 

“ And long upon these terms I held my city, 
Till thus he gan besiege me : ‘ Gentle maid, 
Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity, 
And be not of my holy vows afraid. 

That’s to ye sworn to none was ever said ; iso 
For feasts of love I have been call’d unto, 

Till now did ne’er invite, nor never vow. 

“ * All my offences that abroad you see 
Are errors of the blood, none of the mind ; 

Love made them not; with acture they may 
be, iso 

Where neither party is nor true nor kind. 

They sought their shame that so their shame 
did find ; 

And so much less of shame in me remains. 

By how much of me their reproach contains. 

“ ‘ Among the many that mine eyes have seen, 
Not one whose flame my heart so much as 
warmed, «u 

Or my affection put to the smallest teen, 

Or any of my leisures ever charmed. 

Harm have I done to them, but ne’er was 
harmed; 

Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free, 
And reign’d, commanding in his monarchy, m 

“ * Look here, what tributes wounded fancies 
sent me, 

Of pallid pearls and rubies red as blood ; 
Figuring that they their passions likewise lent 
me 

Of grief and blushes, aptly understood 200 

In bloodless white and the encrimson’d mood ; 
Effects of terror and dear modesty, 

Encamp’d in hearts, but fighting outwardly. 

“ ‘ And, lo, behold these talents of their hair, 
With twisted metal amorously impleach’d, 205 
I have receiv’d from many a several fair, 

Their kind acceptance weepingly beseech’d, 
With the annexions of fair gems enrich’d, 

And deep-brain’d sonnets that did amplify 
Each stone’s dear nature, worth, and quality. 

“ ‘ The diamond, — why, ’t was beautiful and 
hard, 211 

Whereto his invis’d properties did tend ; 

The deep-green emerald, in whose fresh regard 
Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend ; 
The heaven-hu’d sapphire and the opal blend 


With objects manifold: each several stone, 
With wit well blazon’d, smil’d or made some 
moan. 

“ ‘ Lo, all these trophies of affections hot, 

Of pensiv’d and subdu’d desires the tender, 
Nature hath charg’d me that I hoard their 
not, 

But yield them up where I myself mu?' 

render, **' 

That is, to you, my origin and ender ; 

For these, of force, must your oblations be.. 
Since I their altar, you enpatron me. 

“ ‘ 0, then, advance of yours that phraselesa 
hand, 

Whose white weighs down the airy scale of 
praise ; 

Take all these similes to your own command, 
Hallowed with sighs that burning lungs did 
raise; 

What me, your minister, for you obeys, 

Works under you ; and to your audit comes *so 
Their distract parcels in combined sums. 

“ ‘ Lo, this device was sent me from a nun, 

Or sister sanctified, of holiest note ; 

Which late her noble suit in court did shun, 
Whose rarest havings made the blossoms 
dote; 236 

For she was sought by spirits of richest coat, 
But kept cold distance, and did thence remove 
To spend her living in eternal love. 

“ ‘ But, 0 my sweet, what labour is’t to leave 
The thing we have not, mast’ring what not 
strives, 240 

Playing the place which did no form receive, 
Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves ? 
She that her fame so to herself contrives, 

The scars of battle scapeth by the flight, 

And makes her absence valiant, not her 
might. 246 

“ ‘ 0, pardon me, in that my boast is true. 

The accident which brought me to her eye 
Upon the moment did her force subdue. 

And now she would the caged cloister fly. 
Religious love put out Religion’s eye. 250 

Not to be tempted, would she be immur’d. 

And now, to tempt, all liberty procur’d. 

“ ‘ How mighty then you are, 0 . hear me tell! 
The broken bosoms that to me belong 
Have emptied all their fountains in my well, 
And mine I pour your ocean all among. 266 

I strongo’er them, and you o’er me being strong, 
Must for your victory us all congest, 

As compound love to physic your cold breast. 

“ ‘ My parts had power to charm a sacred nun, 
Who, disciplin’d, ay, dieted in grace, *ci 

Believ’d her eyes when they to assail begun, 
All vows and consecrations giving place. 

0 most potential love ! vow, bond, nor space, 

In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine, 205 
For thou art all, and all things else are thine. 





A LOVER’S COMPLAINT 


“95 


“ ‘ When thou impressest, what are precepts 
worth 

Of stale example ? When thou wilt inflame, 
How coldly those impediments stand forth 
Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame ! 270 
Love’s arms are peace, ’gainst rule, ’gainst 
sense, ’gainst shame, 

And sweetens, in the suff’ring pangs it bears, 
The aloes of all forces, shocks, and fears. 

“ ‘ Now all these hearts that do on mine de¬ 
pend, 

Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they 
pine; 275 

And supplicant their sighs to you extend, 

To leave the battery that you make ’gainst 
mine, 

Lending soft audience to my sweet design, 

And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath 
That shall prefer and undertake my troth.’ 280 

“ This said, his watery eyes he did dismount, 
Whose sights till then were levell’d on my face ; 
Each cheek a river running from a fount 
With brinish current downward flowed apace. 
O, how the channel to the stream gave grace ! 28B 
Who glaz’d with crystal gate the glowing roses 
That flame through water which their hue 
encloses. 

“ 0 father, what a hell of witchcraft lies 
In the small orb of one particular tear ! 

But with the inundation of the eyes 290 

What rocky heart to water will not wear ? 
What breast so cold that is not warmed here ? 
O cleft effect! cold modesty, hot wrath, 

Both fire from hence and chill extincture 
hath. 

“ For, lo, his passion, but an art of craft, 295 
Even there resolv’d my reason into tears ; 


There my white stole of chastity I daff’d, 
Shook off my sober guards and civil fears ; 
Appear to him, as he to me appears, 

All melting ; though our drops this difference 
bore, 300 

His poison’d me, and mine did him restore. 

“ In him a plentitude of subtle matter, 

Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives, 
Of burning blushes, or of weeping water, 

Or swooning paleness ; and he takes and leaves, 
In either’s aptness, as it best deceives, 30? 

To blush at. speeches rank, to weep at woes, 

Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows; 

“ That not a heart which in his level came 
Could scape the hail of his all-hurting aim, sio 
Showing fair nature is both kind and tame ; 
And, veil’d in them, did win whom he would 
maim. 

Against the thing he sought he would exclaim ; 
When he most burn’d in heart-wish’d luxury, 
He preach’d pure maid, and prais’d cold chas¬ 
tity. 315 

“ Thus merely with the garment of a Grace 
The naked and concealed fiend he cover’d ; 
That the unexperient gave the tempter place, 
Which like a cherubin above them hover’d. 
Who, young and simple, w r ould not be so 

lover’d ? 310 

Ay me ! I fell; and yet do question make 
What I should do again for such a sake. 

“ O, that infected moisture of his eye, 

0 , that false fire which in his cheek so glow’d, 
0 , that forc’d thunder from his heart did fly, 325 
0 , that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow’d, 
0 , all that borrowed motion seeming ow’d, 
Would yet again betray the fore-betray’d, 

And new pervert a reconciled maid ! ” nas 







THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM 


The volume entitled “ The Passionate Pilgrim. By William Shakespeare” is a small piratical 
publication printed for W. Jaggard in 1599 . Of the second edition, no copy is known to survive. 
A third edition, also ascribed to Shakespeare, appeared in 1612 , with unacknowledged additions 
from Thomas Heywood. Heywood, claiming to speak for Shakespeare as well as himself, pro¬ 
tested against the theft, and a new title-page was printed without Shakespeare’s name. In 1640 
the contents were again re-printed, along with Shakespeare’s Sonnets and other miscellaneous 
poems. The whole of the first edition is here reprinted ; but, of its twenty poems, only five are 
certainly by Shakespeare. Of these, I and ii appeared later as Sonnets 138 and 144 in the edition 
of 1609 ; hi, v, and xvi are from Love's Labour ’s Lost , iv. ii. 96 - 109 , iv. iii. 58 - 71 , and IV. 
iii. 99 - 118 . The authorship of four others is definitely known : vill, xx (and probably xvil) 
are by Richard Barnefield; xi appears as the third sonnet in Bartholomew Griffin’s Fidessa; 
xix is by Marlowe, and its last stanza, “ Love’s Answer,” is ascribed by Walton to Raleigh. 
Of the authorship of the remaining ten nothing is known, the probability of Shakespeare’s 
authorship depending on evidences of style which vary from poem to poem, but which are in 
no case strong. Some critics accept iv and VI ; fewer, vii, ix, xil, xvm ; while x, xm, xiv, and 
xv are usually rejected. “Sonnets to Sundry Notes of Music ” is merely the title of the second 
part of The Passionate Pilgrim. 


I 

When my love swears that she is made of 
truth, 

I do believe her, though I know she lies, 

That she might think me some untutor’d youth, 
Unskilful in the world’s false forgeries. 

Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, 
Although I know my years be past the best, e 
I, smiling, credit her false-speaking tongue, 
Outfacing faults in love with love’s ill rest. 

But wherefore says my love that she is young ? 
And wherefore say not I that 1 am old ? io 
0 , love’s best habit is a soothing tongue, 

And age, in love, loves not to have years told. 
Therefore I ’ll lie with love, and love with 
me, 

Since that our faults in love thus smother’d 
be. 

ii 

Two loves I have, of comfort and-despair, is 
That like two spirits do suggest me still; 

My better angel is a man right fair, 

My worser spirit a woman colour’d ill. 

To win me soon to hell, my female evil 
Tempteth my better angel from my side, »o 
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, 
Wooing his purity with her fair pride. 

But whether that my angel be turn’d fiend, 
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell; 

For being both to me, both to each friend, 2B 
I guess one angel in another’s hell. 

The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt, 
Till my bad angel fire my good one out. 

in 

Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, 
’Gainst whom the world could not hold argu¬ 
ment, so 


Persuade my heart to this false perjury ? 

Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment. 

A woman I forswore ; but I will prove, 

Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee: 

My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love ; sb 
T hy grace being gain’d cures all disgrace in 
me. 

My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is ; 
Then, thou fair sun, that on this earth doth 
shine, 

Exhale this vapour vow ; in thee it is: 

If broken, then it is no fault of mine ; 

If by me broke, what fool is not so wise 
To break an oath to win a paradise? 

iv 

Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook 
With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green, 
Did court the lad w ith many a lovely look, « 
Such looks as none could look but beauty’s 
queen. 

She told him stories to delight his ear ; 

She show’d him favours to allure his eye ; 

To win his heart, she touch’d him here and 
there, — 

Touches so soft still conquer chastity. bo 

But whether unripe years did want conceit, 

Or he refus’d to take her figured proffer. 

The tender nibbler would not touch the bait, 
But smile and jest at every gentle offer. 

Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and 
toward: w 

He rose and ran away; ah, fool too fro- 
ward ! 

v 

If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to 
love ? 

0 never faith could hold, if not to beauty 
vowed: 




THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM 


1197 


Though to myself forsworn, to thee I ’ll con¬ 
stant prove ; 

Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like 
osiers bowed. eo 

Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine 
eyes, 

Where all those pleasures live that art can com¬ 
prehend. 

If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall 
suffice; 

Well learned is that tongue that well can thee 
commend; 

All ignorant that soul that sees thee without 
wonder; as 

Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts 
admire. 

Thine eye Jove’s lightning seems, thy voice his 
dreadful thunder, 

Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet 
fire. 

Celestial as thou art, O do not love that 
wrong, 

To sing heaven’s praise with such an earthly 
tongue. 70 

VI 

Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn, 
And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for 
shade, 

When Cytherea, all in love forlorn, 

A longing tarriance for Adonis made 
Under an osier growing by a brook, 75 

A brook where Adon us’d to cool his spleen. 
Hot was the day ; she hotter that did look 
For his approach, that often there had been. 
Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by, 

And stood stark naked on the brook’s green 
brim. > so 

The sun look’d on the world with glorious eye, 
Yet not so wistly as this queen on him. 

He, spying her, bounc’d in whereas he stood. 

“O Jove,” quoth she, “why was not I a 
flood ? ” 

VII 

Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle ; *0 

Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty ; 
Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brit¬ 
tle ; 

Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty : 

A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her, 

None fairer, nor none falser to deface her. »o 

Her lips to mine how often hath she joined, 
Between each kiss her oaths of true loveswear- 
ing! 

How many tales to please me hath she coined, 
Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fear- 
ing! 

Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings, 

Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were 
jestings. 

She bum’d with love, as straw with fire 
flaraeth ; 

She burn’d out love, as soon as straw out- 
burneth ; 


She fram’d the love, and yet she foil’d the 
framing ; 

She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning. 
Was this a lover, or a lecher whether ? 101 

Bad in the best, though excellent in neither. 

[vm] 

If music and sweet poetry agree, 

As they must needs, the sister and the brother. 
Then must the love be great ’twixt thee and 
me, 10c 

Because thou lov’st the one, and I the other. 
Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch 
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense ; 
Spenser to me. whose deep conceit is such 
As, passing all conceit, needs no defence. no 
Thou lov’st to hear the sweet melodious sound 
That Phoebus’ lute, the queen of music, makes ; 
And I in deep delight am chiefly drown’d 
Whenas himself to singing he betakes. 

One god is god of both, as poets feign ; m 
One knight loves both, and both in thee re¬ 
main. 

IX 

Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love, 

Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove, 

For Adon’s sake, a youngster proud and 
wild; no 

Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill. 

Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds ; 

She, silly queen, with more than love’s good 
will, 

Forbade the boy he should not pass those 
grounds. 

“Once,” quoth she, “did I see a fair sweet 
youth t *6 

Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar, 
Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth ! 

See, in my thigh,” quoth she, “ here was the 
sore.” 

She showed hers: he saw more wounds than 
one, 

And blushing fled, and left her all alone. 130 

x 

Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely pluck’d, soon 
faded, 

Pluck’d in the bud, and faded in the spring! 
Bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded! 
Fair creature, kill’d too soon by death’s sharp 
sting! 

Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree, 136 
And falls, through wind, before the fall 
should be. 

I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have, 

For why thou left’st me nothing in thy will; 
And yet thou left’st me more than I did crave, 
For why I craved nothing of thee still. i« 

0 yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee, 
Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me. 


Venus, with young Adonis sitting by her 
Under a myrtle shade, began to woo him. 






1198 


THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM 


She told the youngling how god Mars did try 
her, 

And as he fell to her, so fell she to him. 

“ Even thus,” quoth she, “ the wai'like god em¬ 
brac’d me,” 

And then she clipp’d Adonis in her arms; 

“ Even thus,” quoth she, “ the warlike god un¬ 
lac’d me,” 

As if the boy should use like loving charms ; iso 
“ Even thus,” quoth she, “he seized on my lips,” 
And with her lips on his did act the seizure : 
And as she fetched breath, away he skips, 

And would not take her meaning nor her plea¬ 
sure. 

Ah, that I had my lady at this bay, iss 

To kiss and clip me till I run away ! 

XII 

Crabbed age and youth cannot live together: 
Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care ; 
Youth like summer morn, age like winter 
weather; 

Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare. 
Youth is full of sport, age’s breath is short; iei 
Youth is nimble, age is lame ; 

Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold ; 

Youth is wild, and age is tame. 

Age, I do abhor thee ; youth, I do adore thee ; 105 
0 , my love, my love is young ! 

Age, 1 do defy thee: 0 , sweet shepherd, hie 
thee, 

For methinks thou stay’st too long. 

XIII 

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good ; 

A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly ; 170 

A flower that dies when first it gins to bud ; 

A brittle glass that’s broken presently: 

A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, 
Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour. 

And as goods lost are seld or never found, ns 
As faded gloss no rubbing will refresh, 

As flowers dead lie withered on the ground, 

As broken glass no cement can redress, 

So beauty blemish’d once’s for ever lost, 

In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost, iso 


XIV 

Good-night, good rest. Ah, neither be my 
share! 

She bade good-night that kept my rest away; 
And daff’d me to a cabin hang’d with care, 

To descant on the doubts of my decay. 

“Farewell,” quoth she, “and come again 
to-morrow.” iss 

Fare well I could not, for I supp’d with sor¬ 
row. 

Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, 

In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether. 
’T may be, she joy’d to jest at my exile, 

’T may be, again to make me wander thither: 190 

“ Wander,” a word for shadows like myself, 

As take the pain but cannot pluck the 
pelf. 

Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east! 
My heart doth charge the watch ; the morning 
rise 

Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest. io« 
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes, 

While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and 
mark, 

And wish her lays were tuned like the lark : 

For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty, 
And drives away dark dreaming night. 2»o 
The night so pack’d, I post unto my pretty ; 
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished 
sight; 

Sorrow chang’d to solace, and solace mix’d 
with sorrow ; 

For why, she sigh’d and bade me come to¬ 
morrow. 

Were I with her, the night would post too 
soon; 205 

But now are minutes added to the hours ; 

To spite me now, each minute seems a moon ; 
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers ! 

Pack night, peep day; good day, of night 
now borrow : 

Short, night, to-night, and length thyself to¬ 
morrow. 210 


SONNETS TO SUNDRY NOTES OF MUSIC 


[xv] 

It was a lording’s daughter, the fairest one of 
three, 

That liked of her master as well as well might be, 

Till looking on an Englishman, the fair’st that 
eye could see, 

Her fancy fell a-turning. 

Long was the combat doubtful that love with 
love did fight, 215 

To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant 
knight: 

To put in practice either, alas, it was a spite 
Unto the silly damsel! 


But one must be refused ; more mickle was 
the pain 

That nothing could be used to turn them both 
to gain, 220 

For of the two the trusty knight was wounded 
with disdain : 

Alas, she could not help it! 

Thus art with arms contending was victor of 
the day, 

Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid 
away. 

Then, lullaby, the learned man hath got the 
lady gay; 225 

For now my song is ended. 





THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM 


1199 


XVI 

On a day, alack the day ! 

Love, whose month was ever May, 

Spied a blossom passing fair, 

Playing in the wanton air. 230 

Through the velvet leaves the wind, 

All unseen, gan passage find ; 

That the lover, sick to death, 

Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath. 

“ Air,” quoth he, “ thy cheeks may blow ; 235 
Air, would I might triumph so ! 

But, alas ! my hand hath sworn 
Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn ; 

Vow, alack ! for youth unmeet, 

Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet. 240 

Thou for whom Jove would swear 
Juno but an Ethiope were ; 

And deny himself for Jove, 

Turning mortal for thy love.” 

[xvuj 

My flocks feed not, 245 

My ewes breed not, 

My rams speed not, 

All is amiss ; 

Love is dying, 

Faith’s defying, 2.™ 

Heart’s renying, 

Causer of this. 

All my merry jigs are quite forgot, 

All my lady’s love is lost, God wot. 

Where her faith was firmly fix’d in love, 25s 
There a nay is plac’d without remove. 

One silly cross 
Wrought all my loss ; 

O frowning Fortune, cursed, fickle dame ! 
For now I see 260 

Inconstancy 

More in women than in men remain. 

In black mourn I, 

All fears scorn I, 

Love hath forlorn me, 266 

Living in thrall; 

Heart is bleeding, 

All help needing, 

O cruel speeding, 

Fraughted with gall. 270 

My shepherd’s pipe can sound no deal; 

My wether’s bell rings doleful knell; 

My curtal dog, that wont to have play’d, 
Plays not at all, but seems afraid; 

With sighs so deep 2™ 

Procures to weep, 

In howling wise, to see my doleful 
plight. 

How sighs resound 
Through heartless ground, 

Like a thousand vanquish’d men in bloody 
fight! wo 

Clear wells spring not, 

Sweet birds sing not, 

Green plants bring not 
Forth their dye; 

Herds stand weeping, 286 

Flocks all sleeping. 


Nymphs back peeping 
Fearfully. 

All our pleasure known to us poor swains, 
All our merry meetings on the plains, 29c 
All our evening sport from us is fled, 

All our love is lost, for Love is dead. 
Farewell, sweet lass, 

Tlryr like ne’er was 

For a sweet content, the cause of all my 
moan. 295 

Poor Corydon 
Must live alone ; 

Other help for him I see that there is none. 
XVIII 

Whenas thine eye hath chose the dame, 

And stall’d the deer that thou shouldst 
strike, 

Let reason rule things worthy blame, 301 

As well as fancy, partial like. 

Take counsel of some wiser head, 

Neither too young nor yet unwed. 

And when thou com’st thy tale to tell, 3o« 

Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk. 

Lest she some subtle practice smell, — 

A cripple soon can find a halt; — 

But plainly say thou lov’st her well, 

And set thy person forth to sell. sic 

What though her frowning brows be bent, 

Her cloudy looks will calm ere night; 

And then too late she will repent 
That thus dissembled her delight; 

And twice desire, ere it be day, su 

That which with scorn she put away. 

What though she strive to try her strength, 
And ban and brawl, and say thee nay, 

Her feeble force will yield at length, 

When craft hath taught her thus to say: 32c 

“ Had women been so strong as men, 

In faith, you had not had it then.” 

And to her will frame all thy ways ; 

Spare not to spend, and chiefly there 
Where thy desert may merit praise, 32s 

By ringing in thy lady’s ear. 

The strongest castle, tower, and town, 

The golden bullet beats it down. 

Serve always with assured trust, 

And in thy suit be humble true ; s.« 

Unless thy lady prove unjust, 

Press never thou to choose a new. 

When time shall serve, be thou not slack 
To proffer, though she put thee back. 

The wiles and guiles that women work, 335 
Dissembled with an outward show, 

The tricks and toys that in them lurk, 

The cock that treads them shall not know. 
Have you not heard it said full oft, 

A woman’s nay doth stand for nought ? »« 

Think women seek to strive with men 
To sin, and never for to saint: 









1200 


THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM 


Here is no heaven ; they holy then 
Begin, when age doth them attaint. 

Were kisses all the joys in bed, 

One woman would another wed. 

But, soft! enough ; too much, I fear, 

Lest that my mistress hear my song ; 

She will not stick to wring my ear, 

To teach my tongue to be so long. sco 

Yet will she blush, here be it said, 

To hear her secrets so bewray’d. 

XIX 

Live with me, and be my love, 

And we will all the pleasures prove 

That hills and valleys, dales and fields, 3 bb 

And all the craggy mountains yields. 

There will we sit upon the rocks, 

And see the shepherds feed their flocks 
By shallow rivers, by whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 3eo 

There will I make thee a bed of roses, 

With a thousand fragrant posies ; 

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle ; 

A belt of straw and ivy buds, 366 

With coral clasps and amber studs; 

And if these pleasures may thee move, 

Then live with me and be my love. 

Love’s Answer 

If that the world and love were young, 

And truth in every shepherd’s tongue, 370 
These pretty pleasures might me move 
To live with thee and be thy love. 

xx 

As it fell upon a day 
In the merry month of May, 

Sitting in a pleasant shade 375 

Which a grove of myrtles made, 

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing. 

Trees did grow, and plants did spring ; 

Every thing did banish moan, 

Save the nightingale alone. sso 


She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 

Lean’d her breast up-till a thorn, 

And there sung the dolefull’st ditty. 

That to hear it was great pity. 

“ Fie, fie, fie,” now would she cry ; 385 

“ Tereu, tereu! ” by and by; 

That to hear her so complain, 

Scarce I could from tears refrain ; 

For her griefs, so lively shown. 

Made me think upon mine own. 390 

Ah, thought I, thou mourn’st in vain ! 

None takes pity on thy pain. 

Senseless trees they cannot hear thee ; 
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee. 
King Pandion he is dead ; 395 

All thy friends are lapp’d in lead ; 

All thy fellow birds do sing, 

Careless of thy sorrowing. 

[Even so, poor bird, like thee, 

None alive will pity me.] 400 

Whilst as fickle Fortune smil’d, 

Thou and I were both beguil’d. 

Every one that flatters thee 
Is no friend in misery. 

Words are easy, like the wind ; 405 

Faithful friends are hard to find: 

Every man will be thy friend 
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend ' 

But if store of crowns be scant, 

No man will supply thy want. « r 

If that one be prodigal, 

Bountiful they will him call, 

And with such-like flattering, 

“ Pity but he were a king ! ” 

If he be addict to vice, 415 

Quickly him they will entice: 

If to women he be bent, 

They have at commandement: 

But if Fortune once do frown, 

Then farewell his great renown ; 420 

They that fawn’d on him before 
Use his company no more. 

He that is thy friend indeed. 

He will help thee in thy need: 

If thou sorrow, he will weep ; 126 

If thou wake, he cannot sleep ; 

Thus of every grief in heart 
He with thee doth bear a part. 

These are certain signs to know 

Faithful friend from flatt’ring foe, *30 






THE PHCENIX AND THE TURTLE 


This poem, with Shakespeare’s name attached, appeared in Robert Chester’s Love's Martyr , 01 
Rosalia's Complaint. Resides Chester’s own work, the volume contained verses on the Phoenix 
and the Turtle attributed to Shakespeare, Marston, Chapman, Jonson, and “Ignoto.” The 
ascription to Shakespeare is generally, though not universally, accepted, such scepticism as exists 
being usually based upon the absence among his acknowledged works of anything with precisely 
the same characteristics. The poem exhibits the influence of a number of literary conventions, 
such as the congress of birds, the metaphysical quibbling on unity in duality, Platonic affection, 
the debate between Love and Reason, and the emblematic signification of the Phoenix and the 
Turtle-dove as typifying Rarity and Constancy, or Beauty and Truth. There is no difficulty in 
conceiving Shakespeare as joining with a group of his fellows to exercise his ingenuity on such 
themes. No valid evidence exists either for or against the poem’s having an historical or personal 


reference. 

Let the bird of loudest lay, 

On the sole Arabian tree, 

Herald sad and trumpet be, 

To whose sound chaste wings obey. 

But thou shrieking harbinger, 

Foul precurrer of the fiend, 

Augur of the fever’s end, 

To this troop come thou not near ! 

From this session interdict 
Every fowl of tyrant wing, 

Save the eagle, feath’red king; 

Keep the obsequy so strict. 

Let the priest in surplice white, 

That defunctive music can, 

Be the death-divining swan. 

Lest the requiem lack his right. 

And thou treble-dated crow. 

That thy sable gender mak’st 

With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st, 

’Mongst our mourners shalt thou go. 

Here the anthem doth commence : 
Love and Constancy is dead ; 

Phoenix and the turtle fled 
In a mutual flame from hence. 

So they lov’d, as love in twain 
Had the essence but in one ; 

Two distincts, division none: 

Number there in love was slain. 

Hearts remote, yet not asunder ; 
Distance, and no space was seen 
’Twixt this turtle and his queen : 

But in them, it were a wonder. 

So between them love did shine, 

That the turtle saw his right 
Flaming in the phoenix’ sight; 

Either was the other’s mine. 


Property was thus appalled, 

That the self was not the same; 

Single nature’s double name 
Neither two nor one was called. 

Reason, in itself confounded, 

Saw division grow together, 

To themselves yet either neither, 

Simple were so well compounded, 

That it cried, “ How true a twain « 

Seemeth this concordant one ! 

Love hath reason. Reason none, 

If what parts can so remain.” 

Whereupon it made this threne 

To the phoenix and the dove, s° 

Co-supremes and stars of love, 

As chorus to their tragic scene. 


THRENOS 


Beauty, Truth, and Rarity, 

Grace in all simplicity, 

Here enclos’d, in cinders lie. 

Death is now the phoenix’ nest; 
And the turtle’s loyal breast 
To eternity doth rest; 

Leaving no posterity: 

’T was not their infirmity, 

It was married chastity. 

Truth may seem, but cannot be ; 
Beauty brag, but ’t is not she ; 
Truth and Beauty buried be. 

To this urn let those repair 
That are either true or fair ; 

For these dead birds sigh a prayer. 











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TEXTUAL NOTES 

In the following 1 notes are recorded the more important variations of the text from the readings 
of the edition chosen as a basis in each case. 


Love’s Labour’s Lost 

Text based on 

I. i. 62. feast] fast Q Ff. i. 1S4. tharborough] 
Farborough Q. ii. 106. blushing] F 2 ; 
blush-in Q Fi. ii. 150. [Dull] Clo. Q. 

II. i. 88. unpeopled] Ff; unpeeled Q. i. 115, 
etc. Kath. J Q ; Rosa. Ff. i. 193. [Exit] Exit. 
Enter Dumaine Q Ff. i. 195. [Katherine] 
Rosalin Q Ff ; i. 219. Hath.] Q ; La. Ma. Ff. 

i. 221, 222. 224. Hath.] La. Q Ff. i. 254. 
Bos.] Ff; Lad. Q. i. 255. Mar.] Ff; Lad. 2. 
Q. i. 256. Kath.] Lad. 3. Q; Lad. 2. Ff. i. 
257. Bos.] Lad. Q; La. 1. Ff. i. 258. Mar.] 
Lad. Q ; Lad. 2. Ff. 

III. i. 1. -Song] Ff ; om. Q. i. 1-67. For Arm., 
Moth, and Cost., in speech tags, Ff read 
Brag., Boy, and Clow. 

IV. i. 1, etc. Prin.] Quee. Q ; Qu. Ff. ii. 67, 80, 
85,89, 95, 107, 135. Hoi] Nath. Q Ff. ii. 75, 
106,152. Nath.] Holo. Q Ff. ii. 80. ingenious] 
ingenous Q. ii. 95. Fauste . . . pecus omne ] 
Facile . . .pecas omnia Q. ii. 99,100. Venetia, 
etc.] vemchie, vencha, que non te vnde, que non te 
perreche Q Fi. ii. 123,154. Hoi] Pedan. Q Ff. 

ii. 125-132. Given to Nath. Q Ff. ii. 140 Sir 
Nathaniel] Ped. Sir Holofernes Q ; Per. Sir 
IIolofernes Ff. iii. 176. to me ... by you] 
by mee ... to you Q Ff. iii. 299-304. These 
lines, substantially repeated at 320, 350-352, 
are supposed to be a survival of the earlier 
form of the play. 

V. i. 27. insanie] infamie Q Ff. i. 30. bone] bene 
Q Ff. i. 31. Bone . . . Priscian] Borne boon for 
boon prescian Q Ff. i. 56. third] last Q Ff. i. 
125. [Nathaniel] Holofernes Q Ff. ii. 28. 
cure . . . care] care . . . cure Q Ff. ii. 67. 
pedant-like] perttaunt-like Q. ii. 407. affec¬ 
tation] affection Q Ff. ii. 517. least] Ff; best 
Q. ii. 598. [Moth retires] Exit Boy Q Ff. ii. 
773. strange] straying Q Ff. ii. 826. ever] 
Ff; herrite Q. ii. 834. A wife ?] This begins 
Katherine's speech in Q Ff. ii. 905, 906. 
Transposed in Q Ff. ii. 926. foul] full Q. ii. 
940-1. You . . . this way] Ff; om. Q. 

The Comedy of Errors 
Text based on F\ 

I. i. 55. meaner] meane Fi; poor meane F 2 3 4* 
ii. 1. Antipholus of Syracuse] Antipholis 
Erotes Ff. 


II. i. 1. Adriana] Adriana, wife to Antipholis 
Sereptus Ff. i. 64. home] om. Ff. i. 107 
alone, alone] F 2 ; alone, aloue Fi. i. 110, 

111. and tho’ . . . yet] yet the . . . and Ff. 
i. 112. Wear] where Fi. ii. 99. tiring] trying 
Ff. ii. 188. offer’d] free’d Ff. ii. 197. not 
I] I not Ff. 

III. ii. 1 . Luciana] F 2 ; Juliana Fi- ii. 4. 
ruinous] ruinate Ff. ii. 21 but] not Ff. ii. 
49. bed] F 2 ; bud F 2 . them] thee Ff. 

IV. i. 17 her ] their Ff. ii. 61. ’a] I Ff. iii. 24. 
bob] sob Ff. iv. 1. the Officer] a Jailor Ff. 
iv. 45. to prophesy] the prophesie Ff. iv. 149. 
again] again. Bunne all out Ff. 

V. 195. AEge ] Mar Fat. Fi. i. 356-361. In¬ 
serted after 345 in Ff. i. 402. ne’er] are Ff. 


The Two Gentlemen of Verona 
Text based on F l 

I. i. 65. leave] love Ff. 

II. iii. 41, 42, 44, 57. tied] tide Ff ; iv. 196. 
Is . . . praise] It is mine, or Valentine’s 
praise Fi. v. 2. Milan] Padua Ff. 

III. i. 326. [kiss’d] om. Ff. 

V. ii. 7. [Julia. Aside] Pro. Ff. ii. 13 [Julia. 
Aside] Thu. Ff. 


A Midsummer Night's Dream 

Text based on Qi (Fisher's) 

I. i. 10. New-bent] Now bent Q. i. 136. low] 
lone Q. i. 187. Yours would] Your words Q. 
i. 216. sweet] sweld Q. i. 219. stranger com¬ 
panies] strange companions Q. 

II. i. 101. cheer] heere Q. i. 109. thin] chinne 
Q. i. 247. Be-enter . . .] Enter Puck ( after 
247) Q. ii. 77. kill-courtesy] this kill- 
courtesy Q. 

III. i. 85. Odorous, odorous] Odours, odorous 
Qq ; Odours, odours Ff. ii. 48. knee-deep] 
the deep Q. ii. 57. dread] dead Q. ii. E0. 
so] om. Q. ii. 215. rend] rent Q. ii. 250. 
prayers] praise Q. ii. 257. [but] om. Q; Sir, 
Ff. ii. 279. doubt] of doubt Q. 

V. i. 127- Enter . . .] Tawyer Ff. i. 193. up in 
thee] Ff; now againe Q. i. 209. moon used] 
morall downe Ff. i. 279. gleams] beamed Q. 
i. 330. moans] means Q. i, 379, behowls] 
beholds Q, 



1204 


TEXTUAL NOTES 


The Merchant of Venice 
Text based on Qi ( Roberts's ) and Q 2 ( Heyes's) 

I. i. 89. cream] Q 2 ; dreame Qi. ii. 36. who 
you]Q 2 ; whoQi. ii. 83. Scottish] Qq; other 
Ff. iii. 65-6. Is . . . would] Q 2 ; Are you 
resolv’d, How much he would have Qi. 

II. i. 35. page] rage Qq. ii. 23. w'ell] Q 2 ; ill 
Qi. ii. 28 incarnation] Q 2 ; incarnall Qi. ii. 
33. commandment] Q 2 ; command Qi. ii. 39. 
confusions] Q 2 ; conclusions Qi. ii. 85. in 
the end] Q 2 ; at the length Qi. vi. 51. Gen¬ 
tile] Qi; gentle Q 2 . vii. 69. tombs] timber 
Qq. 

III. ii. 106. plainness] paleness Qq. iii. 1. 
Enter Shylock, Salakino] Enter the Jew, 
and Salerio Q 2 (Salarino, Qi; Solanio Fi). 
iv. 21. misery] Qi; cruelty Q 2 . iv. 49. [Padua] 
Mantua Qq. iv. 53. traject] Tranect Qq. iv. 
63. accoutred] Q 2 ; apparreld Qi. v. 75. 
far’st] Qi; cherst Q 2 . v. 82-3. mean it, then 
In] Qi; mean it, it In Q 2 . 

IV. i. 281. instantly] Q 2 ; presently Qi. i. 326. 
tak’st] Q 2 ; cutstQi. i. 434. depends . . . on] 
Q 2 ; then this depends upon Qi. 

V. i. 114. welfare] Q 2 ; health Qi. 

The Taming of the Shrew 
Text based on F\ 

Ind. i. 88. A Player ] Sincklo Fi. 

I. ii. 18. masters] mistris Fi- ii. 267. feat] 
seeke Fi. 

II. i. 3. gawds] good Fi. 

III. i. 4S-51 to Luc., 52-3 to Bian., 54-8 to 
Hort., Fi. i. 81. change] F 2 ; charge Fi. odd] 
old Fi. ii. 30. [old news] 6m. Ff. ii. 130. to 
her love] sir, Love Fi. 

IV. iii. 63. [ Hab.] Eel. F x . 

The Merry Wives of Windsor 
Text based on F\. Passages in brackets from Q\ 

I i. 45. George] Thomas F. iii. 54. well] Qi; 
will F. iii. 104-5. Page . . . Ford] Ford . . . 
Page F. 

II. i. 63. Hundredth Psalm] hundred Psalms 
F. i. 226. Brook] Qi; Broome F (and so 
throughout), i. 228. Mynheers] An-heires F. 

III. v. 5-6. and . . . offal] Qi; like a . . . offal, 
and to be thrown in the Thames F. v. 90. 
[By the Lord] Qi; Yes F. 

IV. ii. 122. ging] F 2 ; gin Fi. ii. 194. hag] 
Ql; rag Fi. iv. 43. [Disguis’d . . .] Malone, 
adapted from Qi; om. F. iv. 83. Quickly] 
quickly F. 

Much Ado about Nothing 

Text based on Q 

i. 1. Enter Leonato] Enter Leonato . , . In¬ 
nogen his wife Q Ff. Pedro] Peter Q. 


II. i. 1. Enter Leonato] Enter Leonato . .. , his 
wife Q Ff. iii. 39. Music [within] Musicke Q ; 
and Iacke Wilson Ff. 

III. ii. 28. can] cannot Q. iii. 84. statues] Fi; 
statutes Q 

IV. ii. 1. Dog.] Keeper Q. ii. 2, 5, etc. Verg.] 
Cowley Q. ii. 4. Dog.] Andrew Q. ii. 13, 17, 
etc. Dog.] Kemp. Q. ii. 53, etc. Verg.] Const. 
Q. ii. 69. etc. Dog.] Const. Q. ii. 70-1. Verg. 

. . . coxcomb!] Cowley. Let them be in the 
hands of Coxcombe Q. 

V. iv. 98. [Bene.] Leon. Q. 

As You Like It 
Text based on F\ 

I. ii. 4. I were] were F. ii. 55. perceiving] 
perceiveth F. ii, 88. Cel.] Bos. F. 

II. iv. 1. weary] merry F. iv. 44. thy wound] 
they would F. vii. 73. wearer’s] wearie F. 

III. ii. 163. pulpiter] Jupiter F. 

IV. i. 19. my] by F 

V. iii. 31-4. F places after 22. This order is 
taken from an early 17th century MS. iv. 120. 
her] his F. 

Twelfth Night 

Text based on F, 

I. ii. 40-1. company And sight] sight And com¬ 
pany F. iii. 105. curl by] coole my F. iii. 
144. damn’d] darn’d F. v. 177. Viola] 
Violenta F. 

II. ii. 33. made of,] made, if F. v. 157. born] 
become F. 

III. i. 75. wise men, folly-fallen] wisemens 
folly falne F. iv. 77. tang] F 2 ; langer Fi. 

V. i. 207. pavin] F 2 ; panyn Fi. 

Troilus and Cressida 
Text based on Fi 

Prol. 19. spar] stirre F. 

I. i. 37. a storm] a-scorne F. ii. 92. wit] will 
F. ii. 260. money] an eye Q. iii. 54. Retorts] 
Retyres Q F. iii. 228. bid] Q ; on F. iii. 293. 
host] Q ; mould F. 

II. i. 15. unsalted] Q; whinid’st F. ii. 48. 
hare] Q; hard F. ii. 70. soil’d] Q; spoylVl 
F. ii. 104. eld] elders Q; old F. ii. 126. 
brach] brooch F. iii. 86. shent] sate Q ; sent 
F. iii. 109. composure] Q; counsell that F. 
iii. 115. flexure] Q ; flight F. iii. 232. He’s 
. . . warm] Continued to Ajax Q F. 

III. i. 172 [Par.] Q; om. F. ii. 23. repured] 
Q; reputed F. ii. 25. tun’d] Q; and F. ii. 
216. whose] which Q F. iii. 43. bent] bent? 
why turn’d Q F. iii. 137. fasting] Q ; feast¬ 
ing F. iii. 162. rear] neere F. iii. 178. give] 
goe Q F. iii. 225. air] ayrie avre F. 

I IV. ii. 10. joys] Q; eyes F. ii. 13. tediously] 




TEXTUAL NOTES 


1205 


Q ; hidiously F. ii. 76. Re-enter ] Enter Pan- 
darus and F. iii. 9. own] Q; om. F. iv. 4 . 
violenteth] Q; no lesse F. iv. 9. dross] Q; 
crosse F. iv. 26. strain’d] Q; strange F. iv. 
124. zeal] seale Q F. to thee] Q ; towards F. 

iv. 146. Dei] Dio F v. 96. knight] knight; 
they call him Troylus F. 

V. ii. 10-11. sing . . . cliff] Q ; finde . . . life 
F. ii. 43. all hell’s] Q ; hell F. ii. 81. Nay 
. . . me] To Dio. Q F. ii. 82. doth take] Q; 
rakes F. ii. 103. you] Q; me F. iii. 21. give 
. . . use] count give much to as F. iii. 27. 
brave] deere Q F. iii. 114. broker] brother 
F. iii. 113—115. om. Q. Cf. x. 32—34. vii. 6. 
aims] arme F. viii. 20. bait] Q; bed F. 

All’s Well That Ends Well 

Text based on F x 

I. ii. 56. Thus] This F. iii. 118. [Diana no] 
om. F. 

II. i. 64. fee] see F. i. 147. fits] shifts F. i. 176. 
nay] ne F. i. 195. heaven] helpe F. iii. 68 . 
After father F inserts [ She addresses her to a 
Lord. iii. 309. detested] detected F. v. 29. 
End] And F. v. 94. Ber.] om. F. 

III. i. 9. I. Lord] French E F. i. 17. 2. Lord] 
Fren. G F. ii. 9. sold.] F 3 ; hold Fi 2 . ii. 20. 
E’en] In F. ii. 47, etc. 1. Lord] French E 
F. ii. 49, etc. 2. Lord] French G F. ii. 65. 

1. Lord] IGF. vi. 1 , etc. 1. Lord] Cap. E 
F. vi. 3, etc. 2. Lord] Cap. G F. vi. 40. ore] 
ours F. 

IV. i. 1 . 1. Lord] 1. Lord E F. i. 10, etc. 1. 
Lord] Lord E F. ii. 38. Hopelessly corrupt. 
iii. 1, etc. 2. Lord] Cap. G F. iii. 2, etc. 1. 
Lord] Cap. E F. iii. 158. All’s one to him] 
Continued to Par. F. iii. 222 . lordship] Lord 
F. v. 19. [salad] om. F. 

V. ii. 25. similes] smiles F. iii. 27. 1. Lord] 
Gent. F. iii. 158. Diana] Diana and Parolles 
F. iii. 216. infinite cunning] insuite comming 
F. 

Measure for Measure 

Text based on F\ 

I. i. 9. Hopelessly corrupt, ii. 120. F marks a 
• new scene here. ii. 138. morality] mortality 

F. iii. 20. steeds] weeds F. iii. 21. nineteen] 
fourteen F. Cf. I- ii. 172. iii. 42-3. sight 
... it] fight ... in F. iv. 52. in hope] and 
hope F. 

II. i. 39. vice] ice F. i. 255. day] bay F. ii. 25. 
God save] ’Save F. iii. 11. flames] flawes F. 

iii. 40. law] love F. iv. 9. sear’d] fear’d F. 

iv. 123. this] thy F. 

III. ii. 41. Free] F 2 ; om. Fj. ii. 193. say’t] 
say F. ii. 237. and] and as F. 

IV. i. 76. tilth] tithe F. ii. 47. If] Clo. If F. 
ii. 103. This] Duke. This F. ii. 104. [Duke] 
Pro. F. ii. 218. here] om. F. iii. 93. the 


under] yond F. iv. 6 . redeliver] re-liver F. 
iv. 29. bears] bears of F. v. 8 . Valentinus] 
Valencius F. 

V. i. 428. confiscation] F 2 ; confutation Fi. 
Pericles 

Text based on Q\ 

I. 21. fere] Peere Q. ii. 3. Be my] By me Q. 

11. 25. ostent] stint Q. ii. 30. am] once Q. ii. 
41. blast] sparke Q. iii. 28. ears it] seas Q. 

iv. 13-14. do . . . do] to ... to Q. iv. 74. 
him’s] himnes Q. iv. 77-8. fear ? The] leave 
our Qi; feare, the Q 4 . 

II. i. 86 . holidays] all day Q. i. 140. father’s 
gift] Father gave Q. i. 171. equal] a goal 
Q. ii. 14. interpret] entertaine Q. iv. 55. 
thus] us Q. iv. 56. us] om. Q. 

III. 46. fortune s mood] fortune mov’d Q. i. 
53. custom] easterne Q. i. 53-4 for . . . 
straight] After meet in 55. Q. i. 61. the ooze] 
oare Q. i. 63. And aye] The ayre Q. ii. 48. 
ne’er decay] never Q. iii. 7. wanderingly] 
wondringly Q. iv. 6 . eaning] F 3 ; learning 

Q. 

IV. 10. her . . . heart] hie . . . art Q. 17. ripe 
. . . rite] right . . . sight Q. i. 5. inflaming, 
etc.] in flaming, thy love bosome Q. i. 20. 
like] Q 4 ; om. Qi. i. 27. Near . . . margent] 
ere . .. marre it Q. ii. 1. Enter , etc.] Enter 
the three Bawdes Q. ii. 80. like] om. Q. iii. 

12 . fact] face Q. iii. 27. prime] prince Q. 

111. 28. sources] courses Q. 

V. 13. lost] left Q. i. 1 [ Tyr .] 1. Q. i. 7. 
[ Tyr.] 2. Q. i. 11 . [Tyr. Sail.'] Hell. Q. i. 70. 
bounty] beautie Q. i. 72. feat] fate Q. i. 
247. life] like Q. iii. 89. preserv’d] preferd 

Q. 

Cymbeline 
Text based on F x 

I. i. 29. gain] ioyne F. i. 70. F. begins Sc. i*. 
here. i. 116. cere] seare F. iv. 50. [not] om. 
F. iv. 80. [but] om. F. iv. 146. afraid] a 
Friend F. vi. 108. lie] by F. vi. 109. illus- 
trous] illustrious F. 

II. ii. 51. [Goes, etc.] Exit. F. iv. 37. [PAL] 
Post. F. v. 16. German one] Iarmen on F. 

v. 27. may be nam’d] F 2 ; name Fi. 

Ill i. 19. ribbed and paled] ribb’d and pal’d 
F. i. 20. rocks] Oakes F. ii. 80. nor there] 
not heere F. iii. 2. Stoop] Sleepe F. iii. 23. 
bribe] babe F. iv. 81. afore’t] a-foot, F. v. 
56. thou, that stands] thou that stand’st F. 

vi. 28. F. begins Sc. vii. here. vi. 71. I’d] I 
do F. 

IV. i. 19. her] thy F. ii. 57. him] them F. ii. 

112. cease] cause F. 

V. iii. 42. stoop’d] stopt F. v. 262. lock] rock 
F. v. 334. mere] reere F. 







1206 


TEXTUAL NOTES 


The Winter’s Tale 

Text based on F\ 

I. ii. 70. no] F 2 ; om. Fi. ii. 337. forsealing] 
for sealing F. 

II. i. 90. fedary] federarie F. ii. 148. beseech] 
beseech’ F. 

III. ii. 172. [dark] F 2 ; om. Fi. 

IV. iii. 10. [with heigh!] F 2 ; om. F 1# iv. 759. 
or touse] at toaze F. 

V- i. 60. Begin, 41 And] And begin F. iii. 18; 
Lonely] Louely F. 

The Tempest 

Text based on F\ 

L i. 71. furze] firrs F. ii. 141. set] nor set F. 
ii. 351. [Fro*-.] Mira. F. 

II. i. 36. Antonio] Ant. F (as speech-tag). 

IV. i. 13. gift] guest F. i. 123. wise] Some 
copies of Fi are said to read wife. i. 128. 
winding] windring F. 


King John 

Text based on F\ 

I. i. 50. Bast.] Philip F. But usually F calls 
Philip Bastard. 

II. i. F begins I. ii. here. i. 149. Philip] Lewis 
F. i. 215. Confronts your] Comfort yours F. 
i. 325. Cit.] Hubert F ( and throughout this 
scene except 368.) i. 335. run] rome F. i. 368. 
Cit.] Fra. F. i. 424. niece] neere F. 

III. 1. F begins II. i. here. i. 75. F begins III. 
i. here. i. 259. chafed] cased F. i. 271. most 
not F. iii. 26. time] tune F. iii. 39. ear 
race F. iv. 44. not] F 4 ; om. Fi. 

IV. ii. 42. when] then F. ii. 117. care] F 
doubtful; perhaps eare. iii. 71. head] hand 
F. iii. 155. cincture] center F. 

V. i. F begins IV. i. here. ii. 36. grapple] crip¬ 
ple F. ii. 133. unhair’d] un-heard F. vi. 12. 
eyeless] endless F. vii. mind] winde F. 

Richard II 

Text based on Q, (for TV. i. 154-318 on F\) 

I. iii. 193. far] F 4 ; fare Q. iv. 20. cousin, 
cousin] Ff ; coosens coosin Q. iv. 23. [Bagot 
. . . Greene] Qs; om. Qi. iv. 53. [Bushy, 
what news'?] Ff; om. Q. iv. 65. All.] 
om. Q. 

II. i. 102. incaged] F 1 ; inraged Q. i. 280. 
Substantially from Holinshed; om. Qq Ff. 

III. ii. 134. offence] Ff; om. Q. iii. 13. with 
you] Ff ; om. Q. iv. 11. joy] grief Q. iv, 57. 
We] om. Q. 

IV. i, 154-318, om. Qi 2 . 


V. i. 84. North.] Ff. King Q. iii. 106. shall] 
Ff; still Q. vi. 43. the] Q 2 Ff; om. Qi- 

1 Henry IV 

Text based on Qi 

I. i. 76-7. In faith, It is] Continued to King Qq 
Ff. ii. 177. thou] the Q. ii. 181. [Bardolph, 
Peto] Harvey, Rossill Qq Ff. iii. 108. base] 
Ff; bare Q. iii. 201. Hot.] om. Q. iii. 256. 
for] Ff; om. Q. 

II. i. 7. The] Ff; om. Q. ii. 118. [fat] In a 
fragment of Qi. The rest omit. iv. 36. prece¬ 
dent] present Q; president Ff. iv. 185. sun] 
Q 3 Fi sonnes Qi- iv. 192. Prince] Ff; Gad. 
Q. iv. 193,195, 199. Gads.] Ff; Ross Q. iv. 
434. tristful] trustfull Qq Ff. iv. 441. yet] 
Ff; so Q. 

III. iii. 66 . tithe] tight Q. 

IV. i. 127. yet] Ff; it Q. 

V. i. 1. Enter . . . Sir] Enter . . . Earle of 
Westmorland , Sir Qq Ff. i. 2. busky] Ff; 
bulky Q. i. 25. do] Ff; om. Q- ii. 3. undone] 
Q 5 ; under one Qi. iv. 77. [and exit. . . falls ] 
the Prince killeth Percie Qq Ff. 

2 Henry IV 

Text based on Q\. Passages in brackets from F\ 
Ind. 35. hold] hole Q. 

I. i. 161. Tra.] Umfr. Q. ii. 55. Where’s Bar¬ 
dolph ?] After through it in 53, Q. ii. 111 . 
hath . . . age] Ff; have ... an ague Q. ii. 
137. [Fal. J Ff; Old. Q. ii. 163. slenderer] 
Ff; slender Q. iii. 37. Needed] Indeed F. 
iii. 79. To] om. Q. 

II. i. 182. [Basingstoke] Ff; Billingsgate Q. 
ii. 1. Poins] Poynes, Sir Iohn Russel, with other 
Q. ii. 17. viz.] Ff; with Q. ii. 126. borrow¬ 
er’s] borowed Q. iv. 1, 11. 1■ Draw.] Ff; 
Francis Q. iv. 14. Dispatch] Dr a. Dispatch 
Q. iv. 16, 23. 2. Drawf] Ff; Francis Q. iv. 
20. word] word. Enter Will Q. 

III. i. 27. sea-boy] Ff; season Q. i. 32. Sur¬ 

rey] Surry, and Sir Iohn Blunt Q. ii. 121 . 
Fal. Prick him] Ff ; Iohn priekes him Q. ii. 
160. [j Fal.] Shal. Q. • 

IV. i. 84. rags] rage Q. i. 94-5. Hopelessly 
corrupt, ii. 24. Employ] Ff; Imply Q. ii. 
69. [Hast.] Ff; Prince Q. iii. 45. Rome] Ff; 
Rome, there cosin Q. iv. 32. melting] Ff ; 
meeting Q. iv. 104. write . . . letters] Ff ; 
wet. . . termes Q. v. 13. alter’d] vttred Q 
( Devonshire ). v. 161. worst of] Ff ; worse 
then Q. v. 205. [my] thy Q. 

V. iv. 1 . Enter, etc.] Enter Sincklo and three 
or foure Officers Q. iv. 4, etc. 1. Bead.] 
Sinrklo Q. iv. 8 , etc. Dol.] Ff; Whoore Q. 
v. 16. [SftaZ.] Ff; Pist. Q. Epi. 35-6. And so 
. . . Queen] After infinitely in 17, Q, 







TEXTUAL NOTES 


1207 


Henky V 
Text based on Fi 

Pro. Enter [Chorus] Enter Prologue F. 

I. ii. 1 . Bedford] Bedford, Clarence F. 

II. i. 110, 111. Qq ; om. F. ii. 130. mark the] 
make thee F. ii. 148. [Henry] Qq; Thomas 
F. iii. 17. ’a babbled] a Table F. iii. 26. 
[and . . . stone] Qq ; om. F. iii. 44. hell-fire] 
Qi ; Hell F. iv. 107. pining] Qq; priuy F. 

III. i. F begins Act II here. Pro. 4. [Hampton] 
Dover F. i. 32. Straining] Straying F. iii. 
32. heady] F 3 ; headdy F 2 ; headly Fi. iii. 
35. Defile Desire F. v. 1. the Duke of 
Bourbon Bourbon Q ; om. F. v. 10, 32. 
Bour.] Brit. F. v. 46. knights] Kings F. vii. 
13. pasterns] F 2 ; postures Fi. 

IV. i. 96. Thomas] John F. i. 308. reckoning, 
if] reck’ning of F. ii. 47. drooping] F 2 ; 
dropping Fi- iii. 13, 14. After 11 in F. iii. 
44. live . ■ . see] see . . . live F. iii. 48. Qq ; 
om. F. vii. 1. F. begins Act IV here. 

V. ii. 12. England] F 2 ; Ireland Fi. ii. 275. 
d'une ] d’une nostre Seigneur F. 


1 Henry VI 

Text based on F, 

I. i. 49. moist] F 2 ; moistned Fi. i. 50. marish] 
nourish F. i. 92, etc. Dauphin] Dolphin F. 
i. 131, etc. Fastolfe] Falstaffe F. i. 176. 
steal] send F. iv. 33. vile] pil’d F. 

II. iv. 1 , etc. Plan.] Yorlce F. iv. 76. faction] 
fashion F. 

III. i. 52. [Sowi.] om. F. i. 53. [IFar.] Som.F. 
i. 54. Sow.] om. F. 

IV. i. 180. wist] wish F. iii. 17, etc. [Lucy] 2. 
Mes. F. iv. 16. legions] Regions F. 


2 Henry VI 

Text based on Fi 

II. i. 47-8. Are . . . you] Continued to Clou. F. 

i. 91. Simpcox] Symon F. i. 131. his] it F. 

ii. 45-6. was son To . . . son] was to . . . 
Sonnes Sonne F. 

III. i. 140. suspect] suspence F. ii. 26. [Meg] 
Nell F. ii. 79, 100, 120. [Margaret] Elianor 
F. ii. 116. witch] watch F. ii. 146. [ Re-enter , 
etc.] Bed put forth F ; Warwicke drawes the 
curtaines and showes Duke Humphrey in his 
bed Qq. ii. 366. to] no F. 

IV. i. 48. Qq ; om. Ff. i. 70. [Lieu. . . Pole !] 
Qq ; om. Ff. i. 117. Gelidus] Pine gelidus 
F. vii. 75. But] Kent F. 

V. i. 109. these] thee F. i. 201. household] 
Qq; housed F. 

3 Henry VI 

Text based on Fi 

I. i. 268, coast] cost F ii. 48, etc- a Messen¬ 


ger] Gabriel F. iv. 50. buckle] Qq ; buckler 
F. 

II. i. 113. Qq ; om. F. i. 131. an idle] Qq ; a 
lazy F. ii. 89. Since] F 2 ; Cla. Since Fi. ii. 
133. Rich.] Qq ; War. F. v. 55. [dragging, 
etc.] at one doore: and a Father that hath 
kill'd his Sonne at another doore F. v. 119. 
E ’en] Men F. vi. 8 . Qq ; om. Ff. 

III. i. 1, etc. two Keepers] Qq; Sinklo ard 
Humfrey F. i. 24. thee, sour Adversity] the 
sower adversaries F. ii. 18, etc. [L. Greu 1 
Wid. F. 

V. ii. 44. clamour] Qq; cannon F. iv. 27- 
ragged] raged F. 

Richard III 

Text based on Fi 

I. i. 75. to her for his] Qq ; for her F. ii. 79. 
For] Qq ; of F. ii. 202. [Glou.] Qq ; om. F. 
ii. 203. Qq ; om. F. ii. 226. [Glou. . . . corse.] 
Qq ; om. F. iii. 114. Qi; om. F. iii. 342, 350, 
356. 1. Murd.] Vii. F. iv. 129. ’Zounds] Qq; 
Come F. iv. 137. [it is . . . thing] Qq ; om. 
F. iv. 148. [’Zounds] Qq ; om. F. iv. 148- 


150. ’t is] 1. ’T is F. iv. 151,156,162,164. 


Murd.] 2. Qq Ff. iv. 154, 159, 163. 
Murd. 1. Qq Ff. iv. 165, 170, 172, 174. 
Murd.] Qq ; 1. Ff. iv. 167. [1.] Murd.] Qq ; 
2. Ff. iv. 194-5. [to . . sins] Qq; for any 
goodnesse F. iv. 243. Qq; om. Ff. iv. 264-5. 
After 273 in F. iv. 270-2. Before 274 in F. 

II. i. 1. Hastings] Hastings, Catesby F. i. 7. 
Hastings and Rivers] Dorset and Rivers F; 
Rivers and Hastings Qq. i. 56. unwittingly] 
Qq ; unwillingly F. ii. 84-5 [and . . . weep] 
Qq ; om. F. ii. 142, 154. Ludlow] Qq; Lon¬ 
don F. ii. 145. Qq ; om. F. iv. 1 , 2. North¬ 
ampton . . . Stratford] Qq ; Stony Stratford, 
And at Northampton F. 

III. i. 97. dread] Qi; deare F. iii. 1. Qq ; om. 
F. iv. 10. [Who . . . lord] Qq ; om. F. iv. 32, 
33. Qq; My Lord of Ely F. iv. 57. likeli¬ 
hood] Qq ; livelyhood F. iv. 60. Qq ; om. F. 
v. 50. I] Qq; Buck. I F. v. 52. Glou.] Q 4 ; 
continued to Buck. F. v. 69. But] Qq; Which 
F. v. 108. notice] Qq ; order F. vii. 43. Qq ; 
om. F. vii. 158. my right] Q 2 ; the ripe F ; 
my ripe Qi. vii. 220. Qq ; om. F. 

IY. ii. 84,85. Qq ; om. F. ii. 101-121. [perhaps, 
— ... tut] Qq ; Buck. May it please you to 
resolve me in my suit. Rich. F. iii. 31. at] 
Qq ; and F. iv. 10. unblown] Qq ; unblowed 
F. iv. 39. Qq ; om. F. iv. 41. Harry] Richard 
Qq ; Husband F. iv. 52,53. Transposed in F; 
om. Qq. iv. 100, 101, Qq; transposed in F. iv. 
102, 104. one] Qq ; she F. iv. J03. one] she 
F. iv. 128. intestate] Qq ; intestine F. iv. 
323. loan] Loue F. iv. 324. Of ten] Often F. 
iv. 376. Qq ; after 373 in F. thyself misusest] 
Qq ; is self misus’d F. iv. 377. God . . . 










1208 


TEXTUAL NOTES 


God’s] Qq; Heaven . . . Heavens F. iv. 396. 
o'erpast] Qq; repast F. iv. 443 [Ratcliff] 
Catesby F. 

V. iii. 58-9. Catesby! Cate.] Ratcliffe. Rat. F ; 
Catesby! Rat. Qq. iii. 82. loving] Qi; noble 
F. iii. 104. thoughts] Qq ; noise F. iii. 125. 
deadly] Qi; om. F. iii. 196. Qi; F omits 
second perjury, iii. 208. [’Zounds !] Qq ; om. 
F. iii. 212-14. [0 . . . lord] Qq ; om. F. iii. 
255. sweat] Q 4 ; sweare F. iii. 293. out all] 
Qi; om. F. iii. 319. ventures] adventures F. 
iii. 338. Fight] Qi; Right F. bold] Qi; 
boldly F. v. 11 . if . . . now] Qq; if you 
please we may F. 

Henry VIII 

Text based on F\ 

I. i. 42. All] Buc. All F. i. 47. as] F 4 ; Nor. 
As Fi. i. 167. rinsing] wrenching F. i. 219. 
chancellor] councellour F. i. 221. [Nicholas] 
from Holinshed; Michaell F. ii. 164. confes¬ 
sion’s] from Holinshed ; commissions F. 

II. i. 53. [William] from Holinshed; Walter 
F. i. 86 . mark] make F. ii. 63. [ Norfolk ] 
. . . King ] and the King dr awes the Curtaine 
and sits F. iii. 61. of you] of vou, to you F. 

III. ii. 171. fil’d] fill’d F. ii. 343. Chattels] 
Castles F. 

V. iii. 85, 87. [Chan.] Cham. F. iii. 125. bare] 
base F. iii. 133. this] his F. 


Titus Andronicus 

Text based on Q 2 . Readings from, Q\ are derived from 
the collation published in the Shakespeare-Jahrbuch , 
XLI, 211-15 

I. i. 35-6. In coffins . . . And now] Q 2 ; In 
coffins from the field, and at this day/To 
the Monument of that Andronicy / Done 
sacrifice of expiation/And slaine the Noblest 
prisoner of the Gothes /And now Qi. i. 122. 
your] Qi; you Q 2 . i. 131. never . . . barbar¬ 
ous] Qi; ever . . . barbarous ? Q 2 . i. 162. 
the] Q 2 ; this Q 2 . i. 214. friends] Qi; friend 
Q 2 . i. 219. you] Q 2 ; yee Qi. i. 224. your] 
Q 2 ; our Qi. i. 304. there none else] F 2 ; 
none Qq. i. 316. Phoebe] F 2 ; Thebe Qq. i. 
398. Ff; om. Qq. i. 477. I do] Q 2 ; do I Qi. 
i. 495. Flourish . . . Act II. . . Enter Aaron] 
Exeunt , sound trumpets , Man*t Moore Qq ; Ex¬ 
eunt, Actus Secunda. Flourish. Enter Aaron 
alone Fi. 

II. i. 110. than] thisQq. ii. 1 . morn] Moone Q 2 . 
iii. 20. yelping] Ff ; yellowing Q 2 . iii. 72. 
swarth] Ff; swartie Q 2 . iii. 85. note] notice 
Q 2 . iii. 88 . have I] F 2 ; I have Q 2 . iii. 147. 
woman’s] Qi; woman Q 2 . iii. 222. embrued 
here] Q 2 ; bereaud in blood Qi- iv. 9. case] 


cause Q 2 . iv. 21. have] half Q 2 . iv. 27. him] 
them Q 2 . iv. 30. three] theyr Q 2 . 

III. i. 17. urns] ruines Q 2 . i. 125. as] like Qi; 
in Q 2 . i. 146. with his] F 4 ; with her Q 2 . i. 
210. would] Q 2 ; wouldst Qi- i. 226. do 
blow] F 2 ; doth flow Qi; do flow Q 2 . i. 282. 
things] Ff; Armes Q 2 . i. 292. leaves] loves 
Q 2 . ii. This scene is omitted in Qq. Text is 
based on F 4 . ii. 38. mash’d] mesh’d Ff. 

IV. i. 10. [Marc.] om. Qq Ff. i. 106. your] Fi; 
our Qi; you Q 2 . i. 109 bad] Q 2 ; base Q 4 . 

i. 117. my] Qi; thy Q 2 . ii. 152. Muli lives] 
Muliteus Q 2 . iv. 5. [as know] om. Qq Ff. 
iv. 93. feed] Q 3 ; seede Q 2 ; Foode F 4 . 

V. i. 1. [ colours ] Souldiers Qq Ff. i. 27. dam] 
Q 2 ; dame Qi- i. 53. Get] Aron. Get Qq Ff. 

i. 96. that] Qo ; which Q 4 . i. 107. the letter] 
Q 2 ; that letter Q 4 . ii. 18.it action] Ff ; that 
accord Q 2 . ii. 52. murderers] murder Qq Ff. 

ii. 71. fits] Q 2 ; humors Qi- ii. 106. mayst] 
Q 2 ; shalt Qi. ii. 137. abide] Qi; bide Q 2 . 

ii. 142. know . . . suppose] Q 2 ; knew . . . 
supposd Qi- ii. 157. Rape] Q 2 ; and Rape 
Qi. iii. 73. Lest] Roman Lord. Let Q 2 ; Goth. 
Let Ff. iii. 93-97. Lending . . . Demetrius] 
Q 2 ; And force you to commiseration, / Her’s 
Romes young Captaine let him tell the tale, / 
While I stand by and weepe to heare him 
speake. / Lucius. Then gratious auditorie 
be it knowne to you, / That Chiron and the 
damn'd Demetrius, Qi- iii. 125. cause] F 4 ; 
course Q 2 . iii. 130. now] Q 2 ; pleading Q 4 . 

iii. 132. cast us down] Q 2 ; hurle our selves 
Qi. iii- 141, 146. [All] Marcus Q 2 . iii. 164. 
matter] Q 2 ; storie Q 4 . iii. 165-170. Q 2 ; And 
bid thee bare his prettie tales in minde, / 
And talke of them when he was dead and 
gone. / Marcus. How manie thousand times 
hath these poore lips, / When they were 
living warmd them selves on thine, / Oh now 
sweete boy give them their latest kisse,/ Bid 
him farewell commit him to the grave, Qi. 

iii. 171. him . . . him] them . . . them Q 2 . iii. 
195. ravenous] Qi; hainous Q 2 . iii. 196. 
weeds] Q 2 ; weecle Q\. iii. 200. Q 2 ; And 
being dead let birds on her take pittie Qi. 

Romeo and Juliet 
Text based on Q 2 

I. i. 27. cruel] Q 4 ; civil Q 2 . i. 70. swashing] 
Q 4 ; washing Q 2 . i. 159. sun] same Qq Ff. 
i. 183. create] Qi; created Q 2 . i. 198. lovers’] 
a lovers Qi; loving Q 2 . i. 203. left] lost 
Qq Ff. i. 217. unharm’d] Qi ; uncliarmd 
Q 2 . ii. 18. An she agree] And she agreed 
Q 2 . ii. 29. female] Qi; fennell Q 2 . ii. 32. 
on] Q 4 ; one Q 2 . iii. 66 , 67. honour] Qi; 
houre Q 2 . iv. 7, 8 . Qi om. Q 2 . iv. 39. done] 
Qi; dum Q 2 ; dun Q 3 . iv. 42. Of this sir- 
reverence] Qi; Or save your reverence Q 2 - 






TEXTUAL NOTES 


1209 


iv. 66 . maid] Qi; man Q 2 . iv. 103. face] Qi ; 
side Q 2 . iv. 113. sail] Qx; sute Q 2 . v. 19. 
walk a bout] have about Qi; walke about 
Q 2 . v. 96. fine] sin Q 2 . 

II. i. 6. Mer.\ Qj; om. Qo. i. 13. trim] Qx; 
true Q 2 . i. 38. et cetera] Qi; or Q 2 . ii. 31. 
pacing-] Qi; puffing Q 2 . ii. 41. nor . . . part] 
Qi; om. Q>. ii. 42. O . . . name] After face 
in 41, Qo. ii. 101. more cunning] Qi; coying 
Q 2 . ii. 152. suit] Q 4 ; strife Q 2 . ii. 164. 
[Romeo’s name] Qi; om. Q 2 . ii. 168. dear] 
Q 4 > Neece Q 2 . ii. 188. After rest, Q 2 inserts 
iii. 1-4. iii. 4. fiery] Qx; burning Q 2 . iv. 4 . 
Ah] Qi; Why Q 2 . iv. 30. fantasticoes] 
Qi; phantacies Q 2 . v. 16. marry,] many Qq 
Ff. 

III. i. 94. o’ both your] on your Qx; a both 
Q 2 . i. 127. Alive] Qi; He gan Qo. i. 171. 
agile] Qi; aged Q 2 . i. 193! hate’s] Qi; 
hearts Q 2 . ii. 6 - 8 . wink . . . Lovers] wincke, 
and Romeo Leape to these armes, untalkt of 
and unseene, Lovers Q 2 . ii. 76. Dove . . . 
lamb] Ravenous dovefeatherd Raven, wolv- 
ishravening lamb Q 2 . iii. 40-44. In Q 2 the 
order is 41,43, 40, (41,) 42. iii. 143. mis¬ 
behav’d] Qi ; mishaved Q 2 . iii. 144. pout’st 
upon] Q 5 ; puts up Q 2 . v. 102. [Tybalt] F 2 ; 
om. Q 2 . v. 127. air] Q 4 ; earth Q 2 . v. 182. 
train’d] Qi; Hand Q 2 ; allied Q 3 . 

IY. i. 81. shut] Qi; hide Q 2 . i. 85. shroud] 
Q 4 ; grave F 1 ; om. Q 2 . i. 100. paly] Q 4 ; 
many Q 2 . i. 110. bier] beere, Be borne to 
buriall in thy kindreds grave Q 2 . iii. 58. 
Romeo . . . thee] Qi ; Romeo, Romeo, 
Romeo, heeres drink, I drinke to thee Q 2 . 

v. 82. fond] F 2 ; some Q 2 . v. 100. 1. Mus.] 
Fid. Qo. v. 102. Enter Peter] Q 4 ; Enter 
Will Kemp Q 2 . v. 107. of woe] Q 4 ; om. Q 2 . 
v. 109. 1. Mus.] Minstrels Q 2 . v. 129. Qi; 
om. Q<>. v. 135, 138. Pretty] Qi; Prates 
Q 2 . 

V. i. 15. fares my] Qi ; doth my Lady Q 2 . i. 
24. defy] Qi; denie Q 2 . iii. 3. yew] E\v Qx ; 
young Q 2 . iii. 22. Enter . . . Balthasar] 
Qi ; Enter . . . Peter Qo. iii. 68 . conjura¬ 
tions] Qi; commiration Q 2 . iii. 107. After 
night, Qo inserts , Depart againe, come lye 
thou in my arme, / Heer’s to thy health, 
where ere thou tumblest in./ O true Appo- 
thecarie! / Thy drugs are quicke. Thus 
with a kisse I die. iii. 137. yew] yong Q 2 . 
iii. 209. more early] Qi; now earling Q 2 . 

Julius C^sar 
Text based on F\ 

I. ii. 3, etc. Antonius’] Antonio’s F. ii. 72. 
laugher] laughter F. ii. 155. walls] walkes 
F. 

II. i. 40. ides] first F. ii. 23. did] do F. ii. 46. 
are] heare F. 


III. i. 39. law] lane F. ii. 11 . Brutus . . . pul¬ 
pit] Before line 1 in F. ii. 208. [All.] om. F. 
ii. 225. wit] F 2 ; writ Fi. 

IV. i. 37. abjects, orts] Obiects, Arts F. ii. 
50. [Lucius] Lucilius F. ii. 52. [Lucilius] 
Let Lucius F. iii. 1 . [Enter] Manet F (with 
no division of scene). 

V. iii. 104. Thassos] Tharsus F. 

Hamlet 

Text based on F\. Passages in brackets from 

I. i. 65. jump] Q 2 ; just F. i. 94. design’d] 
F 2 5 designe Fi- i. 150. morn] Q 2 ; day F. 
ii. 150, etc. God] Q 2 ; Heaven F. ii. 198. 
waste] vast Qi ; wast Q 2 F. ii. 204. distill’d] 
Q 2 ; bestil’d F. ii. 248. tenable] Q 2 ; treble 
F. iii. 8 . forward] Q 2 ; froward F. iii. 16. 
will] Qo ; feare F. iii. 21. sanity] safty Q 2 ; 
sanctity F. iii. 26. particular act and place] 
Qo ; peculiar Sect and force F. iii. 34. you 
in] Q 2 ; within F. iii. 74. Are ... in that] 
Are of a . . . cheff in that F; Or of a . . . 
chiefe in that Q 2 . iii. 109. Running] Roam¬ 
ing F ; wrong Q 2 . iii. 114. almost . . . holy] 
Q 2 ; all the F. iii. 117. Lends] Q 2 ; Gives 
F. iii. 128. that dye] Q 2 ; the eye F. iii. 
130. bawds] bonds Qq Ff. iv. 37. often 
dout] of a doubt Q 2 . v. 29. Haste] Q 2 ; 
Hast, hast F. I] om. F. v. 33. roots] Q 2 ; 
rots F. v. 71. bark’d] Q 2 ; bak’d F. v. 114. 
Ilam.] Q 2 ; Mar. F. v. 115. Mar.] Q 2 ; Hor. 
F. v. 133. whirling] whurling Q 2 ; hurling 
F. v. 162. earth] Q 2 ; ground F. v. 167. 
our] F ; your Q 2 . 

II. i. 111. heed] Q 2 ; speed F. i. 114. By heaven] 
Q 2 ; It seemes F. ii. 10. dream] Q 2 ; deeme 
F. ii. 45. and] Q 2 ; one F. ii. 308. heavily] Qo; 
heavenly F. ii. 312. firmament] Q 2 ; om. F. 
ii. 338. tickle] tickled F. ii. 438. pious] Q 2 ; 
pons F. ii. 442. valanc’d] Q 2 ; valiant F. ii. 
479. total] Q 2 ; to take F. ii. 525, 526. 
mobled] Q 2 ; inobled F. ii. 579. own] Qo ; 
whole F. ii. 580. wann’d] Q 2 ; w r arm’d F. ii. 
604. [’Swounds] Q 2 ; Why F. ii. 612. a dear 
father] Q 4 ; the Deere F. 

III. i. 71. proud] Q 2 ; poore F. i. 76. fardels] 
Q 2 ; these fardels F. i. 86. pith] F; pitch 
Q 2 . i. 87. awry] Qo ; away F. i. 97. I] F; 
you Q 2 . i. 99. Their . . . lost] Qo ; then . . . 
left F. i. 136. nowhere] Q 2 ; no way F. i. 
148. paintings] Q 2 ; pratlings F. i. 149. 
face] Q 2 ; pace F. ii. 35. nor man] Q 2 ; or 
Norman F. ii. 89. heedful] Q 2 ; needfull F. 
ii. 151. Enter Prologue] after fellow, Q 2 ; 
after 158, F. this fellow] Q 2 ; these fellows 
F. ii. 171, etc. P. Queen] Bap. F. ii. 262. 
your] Q 2 ; om. F. ii. 351. surely . . . upon] 
Q 2 ; freely ... of F. iii. 81. flush] Q 2 ; fresh 
F. iv. 12. a wicked] Q; an idle F. iv. 65. 
brother] Q 2 ; breath F. iv. 169. either 








1210 


TEXTUAL NOTES 


[master] either Q 2 ; Maister Q 4 . iv. 182. 
bloat] blowt Q 2 ; blunt F. 

IV. i. 40. [so, haply slander] om. Qq Ff. ii. 
19. as . . . nuts] Qi; like an ape F ; like an 
apple Q 2 . iii- 47. is] Q 2 ; at F. v. 1-20. So 
Q 2 ; F has no Gent, in the scene , and 2-3, 4-13 
are given to Hor ., the rest to Queen, v. 146. 
pelican] Q 2 ; Politician F. vii. 27. Whose 
worth] Q 2 ; Who was F. vii. 85. can] Q 2 ; 
ran F. vii. 143. that, but dip] Q 2 ; I but 
dipt F. 

V. i. 80. claw’d] Q 2 ; caught F. i. 87. now 
o’er-reaches] Q 2 ; o’re Offices F. i. 88 . would] 
Q 2 ; could F. i. 211 . grinning] Q 2 ; leering 
F. i. 255. rites] F ; crants Q 2 . i- 288-9. [All. 
Gentlemen, — Hor.] Q 2 ; Gen. F. i. 297. 
[’Swounds] Q 2 ; Come F. i. 307. [Queen.] 
Q 2 ; Kin. F. ii. 9. deep] Q 2 ; deare F. ii. 
58. defeat] Q 2 ; debate F. ii. 91. lordship] 
Q 2 ; friendship F. ii. 132. do ’t] Q 3 ; too’t 
Q 2 . ii. 174. laid on] Q 2 ; one F. ii. 175. 
nine] Q 2 ; mine F. ii. 192. turn] Q 2 ; tongue 
F. ii. 196. has . . . many] Q 2 ; had . . . mine 
F. ii. 255. brother] Q 2 ; Mother F. ii. 299. 
Here . . . napkin] Q 2 ; Heere’s a napkin F. 

ii. 369. silence] Q 2 ; silence. O, o, o, o F. 

Othello 
Text based on F\ 

I. i. 1. Tush!] Qq ; om. F. i. 4. ’Sblood] Qi; 
om. F (and so frequently with oaths), i. 25. 
toged] Qi ; tongued F. i. 72. changes] Qq ; 
chances F. i. 100. bravery] Qq; knaverie 
F. i. 183. night] Qi; might F. iii. 139. 
travel’s] Qq ; travellours F. iii. 145. Do grow 
. . . These] Q 2 ; Grew . . . These things F. iii. 
155. intentively] Qq; instinctively F. iii. 159. 
sighs] Qq ; kisses F. iii. 225 a] Qq ; a more 
F. iii. 240-1. If . . . father’s] Qq ; Why at 
her Fathers ? F. iii. 242. Des. Nor . . . not] 
Qq ; Des. Nor would I F. iii. 258. which] 
Qq ; why F. iii. 300. worldly matters] Qq ; 
wordly matter F. iii. 330. balance] Qq ; 
braine F. 

II. i. 25-6. in. A Veronese] in : A Veronessa 
Qq ; in : A Verennessa F. i. 65. ingener] 
Ingeniuer F. i. 105. list] Qi; leave F. i. 
230. again] Qi; a game F. i. 267. mutuali¬ 
ties] Qq; mutabilities F. i. 312. I trash] I 
trace F. i. 315. rank] Qq ; right F. iii. 66 , 
etc. God] Qi; Heaven F. iii. 149 [Cry . . . 
help!] Qq; om. F. iii. 161. hold] Qq; om. 
F. iii. 322 k denotement] Q 2 ; deuotement F. 

iii. 391. the while] a while F. 

III. i. 22. mine] me, mine F; my Qq. i. 27. 
general’s wife] Qq; Generali F. iii. 67. 
their] her Qq Ff. iii. 106. By . . . me] Alas, 
thou ecchos’t me F. iii. 138-9. a . . . But 
some] Qq ; that . . . Wherein F. iii. 147. 
oft] Qq; of F iii. 148, yet] Q 2 ; om- F. 


iii. 180. once] Qq; om. F. iii. 259. qualities] 
Q ; quantities F. iii. 386. Her] Qq ; My F. 
iii. 395. supervisor] Qi; supervision F. iv. 
188. sweet] Qq ; neither F 

IV. i. 21. infected] Qq; infectious F. i. 78 
unsuiting] Qi; resulting F ; unfitting Q 2 . i. 
99. refrain] Qq ; restraine F. i. 102. con¬ 
strue] conster Qq; conserve F. i. 108. 
power] Qq; doure F. i. 134. beckons] Qq ; 
becomes F. ii. 64. Ay, there] I here Qq Ff. 
iii. 41. sighing] Q 2 ; singing F. 

V. i. 1. bulk] Qq; Barke F. i. 35. Forth] Qq ; 
For F. ii. 13. the rose] Qq ; thy rose F. ii. 
15. it on] Qq ; thee on F. ii. 236. [He runs , 
etc.] Before Are in 234, Qq; om. F. ii. 347. 
Indian] Qq; Iudean F. ii. 351. medicinal] 
Qq; Medicinable F. 

King Lear 

Text based on T\. Passages in brackets from Q x 

I. i. 70. Speak] Qq; om. F. i. 76. possesses] 
Qq; professes F. i. 112. mysteries] F 2 ; 
miseries Fi; mistresse Qq. i. 228. well] Qq; 
will F. i. 284. shame them] Qq ; with shame 
F. i. 292. not] Qq; om. F. i. 308. hit] Qq; 
sit F. ii. 21. top] tooth’ Qi 2 ; to’ th’ F. 
ii. 24. subscrib’d] Qq ; Prescrib’d F. ii. 145- 
6 . Edgar—and] Qq ; om. F. iv. 110. Qq ; 
Lear. Why my Boy F. iv. 125. Lady the] 
Ladie oth’e Qq ; the Lady F. 

II. i. 78. spurs] Qq; spirits F. i. 80. I . . . 
him] Qq ; said he ? F. i. 122. poise] Qi; 
prize F. ii. 83. Bring] Qq; Being F. ii. 
84. Renege] F 2 ; Revenge Fi; Reneag Qq. 
ii. 128. That ’t] That F ; that That Qq- ii. 
150. Contemned’st] temnest Qq. ii. 152. 
King] Qq; King his master needs F. ii. 
158. Come, my good] Qi; Corn. Come, my 
F. iv. 103. her] Qq ; tends F. iv. 170. blast 
her pride] Qq ; blister F. 

III. iv. 53. ford] foord Qq; sword F. iv. 83. 
word justly] words justly Q ; words Iustice 
F. iv. 121. till the] Qq; at F. v. 26. 
dearer] Qq ; deere F. vi. 23. justicer] iustice 
Qq. vi. 27. bourn] broome Qq. vi. 72. lym] 
Hym F. 

IV. ii. 57. to threat] thereat Qi; threats Q 2 . 

ii. 79. justicers] Qi; Justices F. iii. om. F. 

iii. 13. Ay, sir] I say Qq. iii. 18. strove] 
streme Qq. iii. 33. moistened] moistened 
her Qq. iv. 1. Doctor.] Qq; Gentlemen F. 

iv. 6. sentry] Centery F; centurie Qi. iv. 
11. Doct.] Qq; Gent. F. iv. 18. distress] 
Qq; desires F. iv. 26. importune] impor¬ 
tun’d F. vi. 41. thee well] F; thee well. 
He falls Qq. vi. 71. enridged] Qq ; enraged 
F. vi. 83. coining] Qq; crying F. vi. 209. 
one] Qq; a F. vi. 256. English] F ; British 
Qq. vii. 1, etc. Doctor] Qq; Gentleman 
F. vii. 21 , Gent.] F; Diet. Qq, vii- 23. 







TEXTUAL NOTES 


12 11 


Doct.] Gent. Qi; Kent. Q 2 ; om. F. vii. 24. 
not] Qq; om. F. vii. 32. warring - ] Qq ; 
iarring - F. 

V. iii. 93. prove] Qq; make F. iii. 128. the] 
my privilege, The F. iii. 213. him] me Qq. 
iii. 322. Edg.] F; Duke Qq. 

Macbeth 

Text based on F\ 

I. i. 10. [2. Witch] All F. ii. 14. quarrel] 
quarry F. ii. 26. break] om. F. iii. 97. 
hail] tale F. v. 48. it] F 3 ; hit Fi. vi. 4. 
martlet] Barlet F. vi. 5. masonry] man- 
sonry F. vi. 9. most] must F. vii. 6. shoal] 
schoole F. 

II. i. 55. strides] sides F. i. 57. way they] 
they may F. ii. 37. sleave] sleeve F. 

III. ii. 13. scotch’d] scorch’d F. vi. 24. son] 
Sonnes F. 

IV. i. 59. germens] Germaine F. i. 97. Rebel¬ 
lion’s head] Rebellious dead F. i. 112. A 
shew ...] A shew of eight Kings, and Banquo 
last, with a glasse in his hand F. iii. 15. de¬ 
serve] diseerne F. iii. 107. accurs’d] accurst 
F 2 ; accust Fi. iii. 235. tune] time F. 

V. iii. 55. senna] Ft; Cyme Fi. viii. 34. Alar¬ 
ums] Alarums. Enter Fighting, and Macbeth 
slaine F. 

Timon of Athens 
Text based on T\ 

I. i. 1. others] Mercer F. i. 21. gum, which 
oozes] gowne, which uses F. i. 25. chafes] 
chases F. i. 40. man] men F. i. 87. slip] 
sit F. i. 241. my angry will] no angry wit 
F. i. 256-7. there! Aches] their Aches F. 

ii. 29. ever] verie F. ii. 120. [ Tucket within] 
Sound Tucket. Enter the Maskers of Amazons, 
with, etc. (as at 137) F. ii. 128. Enter Cupid] 
Enter Cupid with the Maske of Ladies F. ii. 
131. The ear] there F. ii. 132. and smell] 
all F. ii. 157 [Lady] Lord F. 

II. i. 35. in compt] in. Come F. ii. 1, etc. 
[Flav.] Steward F. ii. 38. date-broke] debt, 
broken F. ii. 194. [Flaminius] Flavius F. 

III. iii. 20. I] Ed. ; it F. iv. 113. [Ventidius] 
Vllorxa F. v. 22. behave] behoove F. v. 
49. felon] fellow F. v. 63. I ... he has] 
Why . . . ha’s F. vi. 36. harshly. O] harshly 
o’ F. vi. 89. foes] fees F. vi. 90. lag] legge F. 

IV. i. 21. let] yet F. iii. 12. rother’s] Brothers 
F. iii. 116. bars] Barne F. iii. 185. doth] 
do F. iii. 223. moss’d] moyst F. iii. 383. 
son and sire] Sunne and fire F. iii. 398. 
Moe] Apem. Moe F. iii. 499. mild] wilde F. 

iii. 437. villainy] Villaine F. 

V. i. 150. sense] since F. i. 223. sour] foure 
F. iii. 4. rear’d] reade F. iv. 55. Descend] 
Defend F. iv. 62. render’d] remedied F. 


Antony and Cleopatra 

Text based on Fi 

I. i. 50. whose] F 2 ; who Fi. ii. 5. charge] 
change F. ii. 39. fertile] foretell F. ii. 64. 
Alexas] Alexas. F. ii. 114. minds] windesF. 

ii. 186. leave] love F. iv. 3 our] one F. 
iv. 44. dear’dj fear’d F. iv. 46. lackeying] 
lacking F. iv. 56. wassails] Vassailes F. 

II. i. 21. wan’d] wand F. i. 41. warr’d] wan’d 
F. ii. 53. not] om. F. v. 12. finn’d] fine F. 
vii. 118. bear] beate F. 

III. v. 14. world, thou hast] would thou hadst 
F. v. 16. the one] om. F. vi. 61. obstruct] 
abstract F. vi. 88 . make them] makes his 
F. vii. 36. Muleters] Muliters F. x. 10. 
ribaldred] ribaudred F. xii. 31, etc. Thy- 
reus] Thidias F. xiii. 74. this: in deputa¬ 
tion] this in desputation F. xiii. 165. dis, 
candying] discandering F. 

IV. iii. 1 . [two] a Company of F. iv. 3. mine] 
thine F. v. 1 , 3, 6 . [£o/c/.] Eros F. ix. 1 . 
Sentry] Centerie F. x. 7. [Go we up] om. 
F. xii. 4. augurers] Auguries F. xii. 9. 
[Alarum, etc.] At end of xi. F. xii. 21 . span¬ 
iel’d] pannelled F. xv. 73. e’en] in F. 

V. i. 28, 31. [Agr.] Dol. F. i. 36. lance] 
launch F. i. 59. live] leave F. ii. 81. 0,] o 
F. ii. 87. autumn ’t] Anthony it F. ii. 104. 
smites] suites F. ii. 317. vile] wilde F. ii. 
321. awry] away F. 

Coriolanus 

Text based on F x 

I i. 35. [2. Cit.] All F. i. 58. 2. Cit] F. Most 
modern editors change to 1. Cit. here and 
throughout the rest of the scene, i. 95. stale] 
scale F. i. 119. crowned] crown’d F. iii. 46. 
contemning. Tell] Contenning, tell F. iv. 57. 
[Cato’s] From Plutarch. Calues F. vi. 59. A 11 - 
t.iates] Antients F. vi. 76. of me ?] of me : 
F. ix. 46. coverture] overture F. x. 22. 
embargements] embarquements F. 

II. i. 61. can’t] can F. i. 71. bisson] beesome 
F. i. 79. faucet] forset F. i. 181, etc. Caius 
Marcius] Martius Caius. i. 182. Coriolanus] 
Martius Caius Coriolanus F. i. 267. the] 
their F. i. 271. touch] teach F. ii. 85. one 
on’s] F 3 ; on ones F 12 . iii- 21 . auburn] 
F 4 ; Abram Fi. iii. 122. woolless toge] 
Woluish tongue Fi; Woolvish gowne F 2 . 

iii. 123. do] F 4 ; does Fi. iii. 163. Citizens] 
the Plebeians F. iii. 251-52. [And . . . 
censor.] Globe Ed. after Plutarch; And 
Nobly nam’d, so twice being Censor, F. 

III. i. 91. good] God! F. i. 92. reckless] 
wreaklesse F. i. 129. motive] native F. i. 
131. bisson multitude] Bosome-multiplied 
F. i. 143. Where one] Whereon F. i. 181. 
Citizens] Plebeians F. i. 1S4, etc. [Citizens] 







1212 


TEXTUAL NOTES 


All F. i. 237. [Com.] F 2 ; Corio. F x . i. 238. 
[Cor.] Mene. Ff. i. 240. [Men.] om. Ff. ii. 
21. thwartings] things F. ii. 32. herd] heart 
F. ii. 113. choir’d] quier’d F. iii. 36. 
Throng] Through F. iii. 130. not] but F. 

IV. i. 4. extremity] F 2 ; extreamities Fi- iv. 
23. hate] have F. v. 237. spritely, waking] 
sprightly walking F. vi. 4. hurry, here do] 
hurry. Here do we F. vii. 28. yield] yeelds 
F. vii. 49. virtues] Vertue F. vii. 55. falter] 
fouler F. 

V. i. 16. wreck’d fair] wrack’d for F. ii. 17. 
magnified] verified F. ii. 80. our] F 4 ; your 
Fi. iii. 48. prate] pray F. iii. 63. holp] 
hope F. vi. 116. Flutter’d] F 3 ; Flatter’d 
Fi 2 . 


Venus and Adonis 

Text based on Qi 

181. spright] sprite Q. 185. Souring] So 
wring Q. 366. Show’d] Showed Q. 498. 
died] dy’de Q. 546. glued] glewed. 749. 
thaw’d] thawed Q. 873. twine] twin’d Q. 
1031. as] Q 3 ; are Qi 2 . 1054. was] had Q. 
1080. died] di’de Q. 

The Rape of Lucrece 
Text based on Qi 

4. Collatia] Colatium Q. 8 . Haply . . . un¬ 
happily] Hap’ly . . . unhap’ly Q. 23. de¬ 
cay’d] Q5; decayed Qi. 64. Argu’d] Argued 
Q. 361. espi’d] espied Q. 398. canopi’d] 
canopied Q. 425. slack’d] slakt Q. 538. 
descri’d] discried Q. 782. musty] Qi; mys- 
tie Q 3 . 917. stay’d] staied Q. 1167, 1169. 
peel’d] pild Q. 1444. steel’d] steld Q. 1544. 
begild] beguild Q. 1803. ow’d] owed Q. 


Sonnets 
Text based on Q\ 

12 . 4. all] or Q. 19. 5. fleets] fleet’st Q. 20. 
7. hue . . . hues] hew . . . Hews Q. 25. 9. 
fight] worth Q. 26.12; 27.10; 35.8 (twice); 
43. 11; 45. 12; 46. 3, 8, 13, 14; 69. 5; 70. 
6 ; 128. 11, 14. thy] their Q. 34. 12. cross] 
losse Q. 41. 8. she] he Q. 47. 10. art] are 
Q. 47. 11. not] nor Q. 51. 10. perfect’st] 
perfects Q. 54. 14, etc. fade] vade Q. 56. 

13. Or] As Q. 57. 13. will] Will Q. 65.12. 
of] or Q. 69. 3. due] end Q. 69. 14. soil] 
solye Q. 76. 7. tell] fel Q. 102. 8. her] his 
Q. 106. 12. skill] still Q. 113. 6. latch] 
lack Q. 113. 14. [eye] om. Q. 125. 13. in¬ 
former! Informer Q. 127. 9. brows] eyes Q. 
132. 2 torments] torment Q. 144. 6. side] 
Pass. Pil. sight Q. 146. 2. [Thrall to] My 
sinfull earth Q. 

A Lover’s Complaint 

Text based on Q, 

51. gan] gaue Q. 118. Came] Can Q. 251. 
immur’d] enur’d Q. 260. nun] Sunne Q. 

The Passionate Pilgrim 

Based on edition of 1599 (= Q in notes) 

94. thereof] Ed. 1612; whereof Q. 146. so 
fell she] Griffin; she fell Q. 179. once ’s 
once Q. 207. moon] houre Q. 238. thorn 
throne Q. 287. back] blacke Q. 293. lass 
love Q. 295. moan] woe Q. 302. fancy, 
partial like] Early MS.; fancy (party all 
might) Q. 343. Here . . . they] Early MS.; 
There ... by Q. 344. Begin, when age 
doth] Early MS. ; When time with age doth 
Q. 349. Wring my ear] round me on th’ 
are Q. 







GLOSSARY 
















■ 



















































GLOSSARY 


A, on; in. 

'A, he. 

Abate, humble ; diminish ; blunt; de¬ 
preciate ; deduct; curtail. 
Abatement, diminution; deprecia¬ 
tion. 

Abhor, refuse; horrify. 

Abide, meet in combat. 

Abjects, outcasts. 

Able, vb., warrant. 

Abode, vb., forebode. 

Abodements, forebodings. 

About, intent on. Go about, prepare 
to do. 

Abridgement, entertainment. 
Abroach, (to set) going. 

Abrook, endure. 

Abruption, breaking off. 

Absey-book, ABC book, primer. 
Absolute, positive. faultless. 

Abuse, disfigure ; dishonor; corrupt; 
deceive. 

Abuser, corrupter. 

Aby, pay for. 

Accept, sb., acceptance. 

Accepted, welcome, T. and C. III. 
iii. 30. 

Accite, cite. 

Accomplish, obtain; equip. 
Accountant, liable. 

Accuse, sb., accusation. 

Acknown, acquainted. 

Aconitum, aconite. 

Acture, performance. 

Adamant, lodestone. 

Addiction, inclination. 

Addition, title. 

Address, direct; prepare. 

Adhere, suit. 

Admiral, ship carrying the com¬ 
mander. 

Admiration, wonder. 

Admire, wonder. 

Admit, choose. 

Admittance, fashion. Of gTeat a., 
admitted to the best society. 
Adoptions, given in adoption, not 
by right. 

Adulterate, adulterous, unchaste. 
Advance, raise. 

Advertise, inform ; counsel; attend. 
Advertisement, information ; advice. 
Advice, deliberation. 

Advise, instruct; consider, deliber¬ 
ate. 

Advocation, pleading. 
iEdile, a high official in Rome; in 
Cor. III. i. 173, etc., a police-officer. 
Aery, the brood of an eagle; brood 
(of child actors), Ham. II. ii. 354. 
Affect, vb., love, like; aim at; re¬ 
semble, imitate. 

Affect the letter, practise alliteration. 
Affected, disposed ; in love. 
Affectedly, lovingly, fancifully. 
Affection, inclination ; love ; affecta¬ 
tion. 


Affectioned, full of affectation. 
Affects, inclination. 

Affeer’d, sanctioned. 

Affiance, confidence. 

Affined, related ; bound. 

Affinity, connections. 

Affray, frighten. 

Affront, encounter. 

Affy, trust; betroth. 

After-eye, look after. 

Against, just before, in expectation 
of, to meet. 

Agaz’d, looking with amazement. 
Aglet-baby, small figure on the point 
of a lace. 

Agnize, acknowledge. 

Agood, heartily. 

A-bold, close to the wind. 

Aidance, assistance. 

Aidant, helpful. 

Aim, guess. Cry aim, encourage. 
Air-drawn, imaginary. 

Alder-liefest, dearest of all. 

Ale, ale-house, T. Gent. II. v 61. 
Allay, sb., alleviation. 

Allayinent, alleviation. 

All - building, on which everything 
is built. 

Allegiant, loyal. 

All-hallond, All Saints’. 

All-hallown, about All Saints’ Day, 
late in the year. 

All-hid, hide-and-seek. 

Alligant, elegant (?), eloquent (?), M. 

Wives, II. ii. 69. 

Allottery, portion. 

Allow, license ; approve ; acknow¬ 
ledge ; cause to be acknowledged. 
Allowance, permission, acknowledg¬ 
ment. 

All-thing, every way. 

Alms-drink, the left-over liquor given 
to the poor. 

Along, at one’s length. 

Alter, exchange. 

Amaze, confound. 

Amazement, utter bewilderment. 
Amerce, fine. 

Ames-ace, two aces, the lowest throw 
at dice. 

Amort, dejected. 

Amurath, name of Turkish sultans. 
An, if (usually printed “ and ” in old 
editions) 

Anatomy, skeleton ; body. 

Anchor, anchorite, hermit. 
Anchorage, the anchor with its 
tackle. 

Ancient, sb., standard ; ensign, stan¬ 
dard-bearer. 

Ancientry, old people ; dignity of age. 
Andrew, name of a ship. 

Angel, gold coin worth ten shil¬ 
lings, stamped with the figure of 
the Archangel Michael. 

Angle, fishing-tackle. 

Annexions, additions. 


Annothauize, anatomize, explain. 
Annoy, pain, hurt. 

Annoyance, injury. 

Anon, immediately; sometimes. 
Answer, sb., account; retaliation. 
Answer, vb., to profit by. 
Anthropophaginian, man-eater. 
Antic, adj., fantastic ; sb., buffoon ; 
grotesque representation ; vb., to 
make a buffoon of. 

Autre, cavern. 

Appaid, paid. 

Appalled, weakened ; made pale. 
Appeacli, impeach. 

Appeal, vb., impeach ; sb., impeach¬ 
ment. 

Appellant, impeacher. 

Apperil, peril. 

Apple-john, a kind of winter apple, 
long kept. 

Appliance, remedy. 

Apply, put in practice ; devote. 
Appoint, equip. 

Apprehension, sarcasm. 
Apprehensive, imaginative, capable 
of perception. 

Approbation, proof ; probation. 
Approof, proof ; approval. 
Appropriation, peculiar excellence. 
Approve, try ; commend ; justify. 
Apricock, apricot. 

Apron-man, mechanic. 

Arabian bird, the phoenix. 

Araise, to raise up. 

Arch, sb. and adj., chief. 

Argal, Argo, corruptions of Lat. ergo, 
therefore. 

Argentine, silvery. 

Argosy, a large merchantman. 
Argument, theme. 

Arm-gaunt, war-worn (?), gaunt with 
bearing armor (?), A. and C. I. v. 
43. 

Armigero, for Lat. armiger, one en¬ 
titled to bear arms. 

Armipotent, powerful in arms. 

Aroint thee, begone. 

Arrivance, people arriving. 

Arrive, reach, obtain. 

Arthur’s show, an exhibition by a 
society of London archers who took 
the names of the Knights of the 
Round Table, 2 Hen. IV, III. ii. 
300. 

Article (Of great), comprising many 
items, separate qualities, Ham. V. 
ii. 122. 

Articulate, specify ; draw up articles. 
Artificial, artistically produced. 
Artist, scholar. 

Arts-man. scholar. 

Asinego, Span, asnico, a little ass. 
Aspersion, sprinkling. 

Aspic, asp. 

Aspire, ascend. 

Ansemblance, general appearance. 
Assigns, appendages. 








I2l6 


GLOSSARY 


Associate, vb., accompany; sb., com¬ 
panion. 

Assubjugate, degrade. 

Assured, affianced. 

At, for. At friend, friendly. At help, 
helping. 

Atomy, atom; anatomy, 2 Hen. IY, 

V. iv. 43. 

Atone, reconcile; agree. 

Attach, seize; arrest. 

Attainder, stain. 

Attaint, stain, disgrace ; conviction. 
Attainture, disgrace. 

Attasked, blamed. 

Attent, attentive. 

Attribute, reputation. 

Audible, quick of hearing. 

Augures, augur or augury, Macb. 

III. iv. 124. 

Auld, old. 

Aunt, an old woman ; a loose woman, 

W. T. IV. iii. 11. 

Avised, informed. 

Avoid, leave ; get rid of. 

Aweless, fearless ; inspiring no fear. 
Awful, filled with awe. 

Baby, doll (?), Macb. III. iv. 106. 
Baccare, go back. 

Backsword man, a single-stick player. 
Back-trick, a caper backwards in 
dancing. 

Baffle, disgrace. 

Baked-meats, pastry. 

Balk logic, dispute, T. of S. I. i. 34. 
Balked, piled up. 

Ballow, cudgel. 

Ban, curse. 

Ban-dogs, fierce dogs kept chained. 
Bandy, strike to and fro; contend. 
Bane, poison; destruction. 

Bank, to land on or sail along the 
banks of, K. John, V. ii. 104. 
Banquet, dessert. 

Barbed, armed (of a horse). 

Bare, vb ., shave. 

Barful, full of hindrances. 

Barn, child. 

Barnacle, a shell-fish supposed to 
grow on trees and turn into a goose. 
Bartholomew boar-pig. Roast pig 
was an attraction at Bartholomew 
Fair, held annually in London on 
Aug. 24th. 

Base, a rustic game. 

Base court, lower court. 

Bases, a kind of skirt worn by knights 
on horseback. 

Basilisco-like, given to repetition, 
like Basilisco, a foolish knight in 
Soliman and Perseda. 

Basilisk, a fabulous serpent that 
killed by its look; a large cannon. 
Basin (Ital.), enough. 

Bastard, a sweet Spanish wine. 

Bat, a heavy stick. 

Bate, sb., quarrel. 

Bate, vb., flutter ; weaken, remit. 
Bate-breeding, causing quarrels. 
Bateless, not to be blunted. 
Bat-fowling, catching birds with 
sticks. 

Batlet, a flat stick for beating linen 
in washing. 

Batten, to feed. 

Battle, division of an army (in order 
of battle). 


Bauble, a trifle ; a fool’s staff. 

Bavin, brushwood. 

Bawcock, dear fellow. 

Beadsman, one hired to pray for 
another. 

Bear. Bear a brain, have sense. Bear 
hard, dislike, bear a grudge. Bear 
in hand, deceive. 

Bear-’ard, bear-herd, a keeper of 
bears. 

Bearing-cloth, the mantle in which 
a child was carried to be chris¬ 
tened. 

Beaver, the visor of a helmet; a hel¬ 
met. 

Becomed, fitting. 

Bedlam, sb., a madhouse ; a madman ; 
adj., mad. 

Bed-swerver, adulteress. 

Beg us, apply for the guardianship 
of us as idiots, L. L. L. V. ii. 490. 

Being, sb. habit of life; residence; 
adv., when, bince. 

Be-lee’d, forced to lee of the wind. 

Belied, slandered ; full of lies. 

Bemad, madden. 

Bemoiled, bedraggled. 

Bend, sb., look, glance; vb., direct, 
incline. 

Bent, tension ; inclination ; look. 

Ben venulo, welcome. 

Berattle, cry down. 

Bergomask, a rustic dance after the 
manner of Bergamo, in N. Italy. 

Bermoothes, Bermudas. 

Beseeming, appearance, Cym. Y. v. 
409. 

Beshrew, curse (used playfully). 

Besonian, base fellow. 

Besort, vb., suit; sb., convenience. 

Bespeak, address. 

Bested, situated. 

Bestraught, distracted. 

Beteem, grant, allow. 

Bewray, reveal. 

Bias, awry ; puffed out, swelled (as 
a bowl is on the bias side) (?), 
T. and C. I. iii. 15. 

Biddy, a chicken-call. 

Bide, endure. 

Biding, abode. 

Bigamy, marrying a widow, Rich. 
Ill, III. vii. 189. 

Biggen, nightcap. 

Bilbo, a Spanish blade (from Bilbao). 

Bilboes, a kind of fetters used at sea. 

Bill, a halberd. 

Bill, note ; notice, proclamation. 

Bird-bolt, a blunt-headed arrow. 

Birding, fowling. 

Birth-child, a child adopted because 
of its being born within a certain 
domain. 

Bisson, dim-sigbted. 

Bite the thumb, a gesture of con¬ 
tempt. 

Bitumed, smeared with bitumen. 

Black, dark-complexioned, as op¬ 
posed to fair. 

Black-cornered, hiding things in 
dark corners (?), T. of A. V. i. 47. 

Black Monday, Easter Monday, 
named from a storm from which 
the English forces in France suf¬ 
fered on that day, 1360. 

Blacks, suit of mourning. 

Blank, sb., the white mark in the 


centre of a target; vb., to make 
pale. 

Blanks, charters sealed but not filled 
in. 

Blaze, publish. 

Blench, vb., to start, flinch, be in¬ 
constant ; sb., inconstancy. 

Blistered, puffed, Hen. VIII, I. iii. 31. 

Blood-boltered, clotted with blood. 

Blow, to deposit eggs (of the flesh-fly). 

Blowse, a coarse beauty. 

Blue, used of the dark color about 
the eyes, A. Y. L. III. ii. 393. 

Blue-cap, a Scot. 

Blurted, sneered. 

Board, accost, woo. 

Bob, vb., to beat; cheat; sb., a cut¬ 
ting jest. 

Bodkin, a dagger. 

Bodykins, a disguised oath (origi¬ 
nally, by the sacramental wafer). 

Boggle, swerve, hesitate. 

Boggier, an inconstant person. 

Bolins, bowlines. 

Bollen, swollen. 

Bolt, sift, refine. 

Bolting-hutcli, box for sifting. 

Bombard, a leathern vessel for liquor. 

Bombast, sb., padding of cotton wool; 
adj., fustian. 

Bona-roba, a light woman. 

Bonnet, to take off the bonnet in; 
courtesy. 

Bonny, pretty, handsome; big. 

Boot, booty; profit. 

Boots, a method of torture. 

Bore, over-reach. 

Bosky, shrubby. 

Botch, patch. 

Bots, worms in horses. 

Bottled, swollen, Rich. Ill, I. iii. 
242. 

Bottom, sb., a ball of thread ; vb., to 
wind. 

Bottom, a valley. 

Bound, to make to leap, Hen. Y, 
V. ii. 146. 

Bound, hindered, stopped, J. Caes. 
IV. iii. 221. 

Bourn, boundary ; stream. 

Bow-, sb., yoke. 

Bow'-hand, left hand. 

Boy, rb., act the part, being a boy 
(referring to the acting of female 
parts by boys), A. and C. V. ii. 220. 

Brabble, broil. 

Brace, armor for the arm; state of 
defence. 

Brach, a female hound. 

Braid, adj., deceitful ; vb., upbraid. 

Brain, vb., understand, Cym. V. iv. 
147. 

Brainish, headstrong. 

Brain-pan, skull. 

Brain-sick, mad. 

Brave, adj., fine, splendid; vb., to 
make fine, to sw r agger, to defy. 

Bravery, finery ; bravado. 

Brawl, a French dance, L. L. L. III. 
i. 9. 

Brawn, muscle (esp. of the arm); a 
boar. 

Breach of the sea, surf. 

Breast, singing voice. 

Breath, gentle exercise. 

Breathe, to take exercise. 

Breathed, exercised, in (good) wind. 








GLOSSARY 


1217 


Breed-bate, one who stirs up strife. 

Breese, gadtiy. 

Brib’d buck, stolen buck (?), buck 
given away in bribery (?), M. 
Wives, V. v. 27. 

Bride, bridegroom, R. and J. III. v. 
146. 

Brief, a letter ; a short summary. 

Briefly, lately. 

Bring out, disconcert, L. L. L. V. ii. 
172. 

Broach, transfix ; to tap, shed. 

Brock, badger. 

Brogue, a rude shoe (usually of un¬ 
tanned hide). 

Broke, act as a go-between. 

Broken (music), arranged for differ¬ 
ent instruments, concerted. 

Brooch, sb. and vb., ornament. 

Brooded, having a brood to watch (?), 
(perhaps a corruption for “ broad¬ 
eyed,”) K. John, III. iii. 52. 

Browmist, Independent (of the sect 
founded by Robert Brown about 
1581). 

Bubukles, pimples. 

Buck, sb., linen to be washed; vb., 
to wash. 

Buck-basket, a laundry-basket. 

Bucket, a pole or yoke (?), 2 Hen. 
IV, III. ii. 282. 

Buckle, to bow , to join in close com¬ 
bat. 

Buckler, protect. 

Bucklersbury, a street in London, 
chiefly inhabited by druggists. 

Bug, bugbear. 

Bugle, a black glass bead. 

Bulk, body; projecting part of a 
building. 

Bully, a fine fellow ; a swaggerer. 

Bully-rook, a swaggering cheat. 

Bum-baily, a warrant officer. 

Bung, pickpocket. 

Burgonet, a close-fitting helmet. 

Burn (sack), to boil to mitigate its 
strength. 

Bush, a vintner’s sign. 

Busky, shrubby. 

Buss, kiss. 

Buttery, provision room. 

Button, bud. In his buttons, in his 
power to succeed (?), M. Wives, 
III. ii. 71. 

Butt-shaft, a blunt arrow, used for 
shooting at a target. 

By-drinkings, drinkings between 
meals. 

By-room, adjoining room. 

Cacodemon, devil. 

Caddis, worsted tape. 

Cade, cask. 

Cadent, falling. 

Caduceus, Mercury’s rod. 

Cage, prison. 

Cain-coloured, red, the color of 
Cain’s hair. 

Cake. Our cake is dough, our plans 
are spoiled, T. of S. I. i. 110. 

Caliver, a kind of light musket. 

Callet, a drab. 

Calm, Quickly’s corruption of 
“qualm,” 2 Hen. IV, II. iv. 40.. 

Cambyses’ vein, ranting (in allusion 
to Preston’s Cambyses). 

Camlet, a garment of camlet cloth. 


Can, to be able, to be skilful in. 

Can = gau, began or did, Per. III. 
Pro. 36. 

Canakin, little can. 

Canary, a lively dance. 

Candle-mine, store of tallow. 

Candle-waster, one who sits up late 
(to study or, less probably, to 
revel). 

Canker, the wild-rose ; a worm that 
eats blossoms. 

Canstick, candlestick. 

Cantle, piece, slice. 

Canton, song. 

Canvass, to shake and toss (as in a 
sheet). 

Canzonet, a little song. 

Capable,capacious; susceptible; able, 
qualified. 

Capitulate, to make an agreement, 
combine. 

Capocchia , fern, of Ital. capocchio, 
simple, foolish. 

Capriccio, caprice. 

Captious, capacious, All’s Well, I. iii. 

208. 

Captivate, take captive. 

Carack, a large merchant vessel. 

Caraways, confections made with 
caraway seeds. 

Carbonado, sb., meat slashed across 
for broiling; vb., to cut across. 

Carcanet, necklace. 

Card, sb., chart. Cooling card, a 
term from some game, applied to 
anything that checks one’s enthu¬ 
siasm. 

Card, vb., to mix. 

Cardinally, a mistake for “ carnally,” 
M. for M. II. i. 81. 

Carduus Benedictus, blessed thistle, 
a medicinal herb. 

Career (To pass a), to run a short 
gallop at full speed. 

Carl, rustic. 

Carlot, rustic. 

Carnal, eating flesh, Rich. Ill, IV. iv. 
56. 

Carpet consideration, reasons of 
courtiership rather than services 
in war. 

Carpets, table or floor coverings. 

Carpet-mongers, carpet knights. 

Carriage, tenor, Ham. I. i. 94. 

Carry coals, endure insult. 

Carry out my side, play my game 
successfully. 

Carve, to make courteous or inviting 
gesture, M. Wives, I. iii. 49. 

Case, sb., skin ; set. 

Case, vb., mask ; surround ; flay. 

Cast, vb., dismiss; inspect (water). 

Cast, adj., discarded. 

Cataian, Chinese. 

Cater-cousins, good friends. 

Catlings, cat-gut for fiddle-strings. 

Cautel, deceit. 

Cautelous, deceitful. 

Cease, decease. 

Censure, sb., opinion, judgement; 
vb., to judge. 

Cerecloth, cerements, waxed linen 
used for a shroud. 

’Cerns, concerns. 

Cess (Out of all), excessively. 

Chaces, a term in tennis. 

Chafe, sb., anger. 


Chamber, a small cannon. In Rich. 
Ill, III. i. 1, chamber is a trans¬ 
lation of camera regis, i. e., Lon¬ 
don. 

Chamberer, a man accomplished in 
the arts of peace, as opposed to a 
soldier. 

Changeable, varying in color. 

Channel, sb., gutter; vb., to furrow. 

Chanson, song. 

Chape, metal point of a scabbard. 

Chapeless, without a chape. 

Chapless, without a jaw. 

Chaps, jaws , clefts in the skin. 

Character, sb., handwriting ; vb., 
write. 

Charactery, writing. 

Chare, a bit of work, job. 

Charge, load, weight; expense. 

Chargeful, expensive. 

Charge-house, schoolhouse. 

Charneco, a kind of wine. 

Chaudron, entrails. 

Che, I (dialect). 

Cheapen, to offer to buy. 

Cheater, escheator, an officer of the 
Exchequer. 

Chequin, an Italian gold coin. 

Cherry-pit, the game of pitching 
cherry-stones into a small hole. 

Cheveril, a soft, easily stretched 
leather. 

Chewet, a chough, daw; a kind of 
mince-meat. 

Childing, fruitful. 

Chill, I will (dialect). 

Chirurgeonly, surgeon-like. 

Chopine, a high-soled shoe or clog. 

Chough,jackdaw. 

Christom, for chrisom, christening 
robe A chrisom child was a child 
in its first month, still wearing the 
white cloth put on at baptism; so, 
an innocent child. 

Cliud, I would (dialect). 

Chuff, a wealthy churl. 

Cinque-pace, a stately dance. 

Cipher, decipher. 

Circummur’d, walled round. 

Circumstance, detail; formal phrases. 

Cital, recital. 

Cite, incite. 

Citizen, adj., town-bred. 

Cittern, guitar. 

Civil, grave. Civil doctor, a doctor 
of civil law. 

Clack-dish, a beggar’s dish with a 
movable cover with which a noise 
was made. 

Clamour, to silence, W. T. IV. iv. 

250. 

Clap, pledge by clasping hands. 

Clap i’ the clout, hit the bull’s eye. 

Clapper-claw, thrash. 

Clearness, freedom from suspicion. 

Clepe, to call. 

Cliff, clef, the key in music. 

Climate, sb., region (of the earth or 
sky). 

Climate, vb., reside. 

Climatures, regions or dwellers in a 
region (?), Ham. I. i. 125. 

Cling, shrivel. 

Clinquant, glittering. 

Clip, embrace, enclose. 

Cloistress, a nun. 

Close, adj., secret. 









I2l8 


GLOSSARY 


Close, vb., enclose; join; come to 
an agreement. 

Closure, enclosure; conclusion. 

Clothier’s yard, cloth-yard shaft, the 
old English arrow. 

Clout, the bull’s eye. 

Cloy, to stroke with the claw. 

Coast, advance gropingly; attack, 
3 Hen. VI, I. i. 268. 

Cobloaf, a misshapen loaf. 

Cock, cockboat, Lear, TV. vi. 19. 

Cock, corruption of “God.” 

Cockney, a city-bred person. 

Cockshut time, twilight. 

Codding, lustful. 

Codling, an unripe apple. 

Coffin, the crust of a pie. 

Cog, cheat. 

Cognizance, badge. 

Coign, corner-stone. 

Coil, turmoil, entanglement. 

Collect, infer. 

Collection, inference. 

Collied, blackened. 

Coloquintida, colocynth. 

Colour, excuse, pretence. 

Colourable, specious. 

Colt, befool. 

Combinate, contracted. 

Come off, pay. Come tardy off, done 
without alacrity. 

Comfortable, consoling. 

Coming-in, income. 

Coming-on, adj., complaisant; sb., 
future ; attack. 

Commend, recommendation; greet¬ 
ing. 

Comment, power of observation. 

Commodity, convenience, profit; 
parcel. 

Commoner, prostitute. 

Comonty, a blunder for “ comedy,” 
T. of S. Ind. ii. 140. 

Compact, made up of. 

Companion, fellow (in bad sense). 

Comparative, adj., quick at compari¬ 
sons ; sb., & dealer in compari¬ 
sons (?), or, perhaps, one who re¬ 
gards himself as an equal, 1 Hen. 
IV, III. ii. 67. 

Compassed, round, arched. 

Compassionate, moving pity. 

Compeer, equal. 

Competitor, partner. 

Complement, outward form ; accom¬ 
plishment. 

Complexion, temperament; external 
appearance. 

Complices, accomplices. 

Comply, use ceremony. 

Compose, come to an agreement. 

Compost, manure. 

Composture, manure. 

Composure, composition; combina¬ 
tion. 

Compt, reckoning; the judgement- 
day, Oth. V. ii. 273. 

Comptible, sensitive. 

Con, learn by heart. Con thanks, be 
thankful. 

Conceit, sb., imagination, thought; 
fanciful idea; vb., judge. 

Conceited, possessed with an idea; 
fanciful. 

Conceitless, stupid. 

Coneeptious, apt to conceive. 

Concern, to import. 


Concernancy, import. 

Concerning, affair. 

Conclusion, experiment. Conclusions 
passed the careers, things took 
their course. 

Condition, rank ; character; quality. 
Condole, lament for. 

Confidence, blunder for “ confer¬ 
ence,” M. Wives, I. iv. 172. 
Confiners, borderers. 

Confirmity, blunder for “ infirmity,” 
2 Hen. IV, II. iv. 64. 

Confound, waste, destroy. 

Congest, heap together. 

Congied, taken leave. 

Congreeing, agreeing. 

Congreet, greet. 

Conscience, consciousness, thought. 
Conscionable, conscientious. 
Conserve, preserve. 

Consider, pay. 

Considered, fit for deliberation. 
Consist, insist. 

Consort, company. 

Conspectuity, sight. 

Constancy, consistency. 

Constant, logical. 

Constringed, compressed. 

Contagious, pernicious. 

Contemptible, contemptuous. 
Contemptuous, contemptible. 
Content, adj., restrained. 

Continent, sb., that which contains ; 
an abstract. 

Contraction, marriage-contract. 
Contrive, plot; spend. 

Contriver, schemer. 

Convent, vb., summon ; be conven¬ 
ient. 

Conversation, intercourse , behavior. 
Convertite, convert. 

Convey, carry or carry on secretly; 

steal; pass off, Hen. V, I. ii. 74. 
Conveyance, trickery. 

Convicted, defeated. 

Convince, overcome, convict, 
Convive, feast together. 

Cony-catcli, cheat. 

Copatain, high-crowned. 

Cope, sb., the heavens. 

Cope, vb., to encounter, requite. 
Copesmate, companion. 

Copped, peaked. 

Copulative, one desiring to be mar¬ 
ried. 

Copy, theme ; lease, tenure. 

Coram, corruption of “ quorum,” 
from the Latin commission naming 
Justices. 

Coranto, a quick dance. 

Corinthian, a fast fellow. 

Cornuto, cuckold. 

Corporal, corporeal. 

Correspondent, obedient. 

Corrosive or corsive, a painful biting 
remedy. 

Corslet, cuirass. 

Costard, an apple ; the head. 

Cote, to overtake and pass. 
Cot-quean, a man who meddles with 
women’s affairs. 

Countenance, authority, favor. 
Counter, in the wrong direction. 
Counter-gate, gate of a prison called 
the Counter. 

Counterpoint, counterpane, coverlet. 
Countervail, outweigh. 


Course, the attack of the dogs in 
bear-baiting; a point on the com¬ 
pass, Temp. I. i. 53. 
Court-cupboard, an open sideboard. 
Court holy-water, flattery. 
Court-hand, legal penmanship. 
Courtship, elegant manners 
Cousin, any relative not of one’s im¬ 
mediate family. 

Covent, convent. 

Cover, lay the table. 

Cowish, cowardly. 

Cowl-staff, a pole on which a burden 
is borne between two persons. 

Cox my passion! Corruption for 
“ God’s passion ! ” 

Coy, vb., to disdain ; to caress. 
Coystrill, a base groom. 

Cozen, cheat. 

Cozier, cobbler. 

Crack, sb., a small boy. 

Crack, vb., to boast. 

Crack-hemp, a fellow deserving to be 
hanged. 

Crank, sb., winding ; vb., to wind. 
Crants, garlands (Q. reading for Ff. 

“ rites” in Ham. V. i. 255). 
Crescive, growing. 

Cresset, a fire-basket, suspended as 
a beacon. 

Crisp, curled, wavy. 

Crispin’s Day, October 25. 

Cross, a coin stamped with a cross. 
Cross-row, the alphabet. 

Crudy, raw. 

Cruel, in Lear, II, iv. 7, a pun on 

crenel, worsted. 

Crusado, a Portuguese coin. 

Crush (a cup), drink. 

Cry, a pack ; a troop ; a rumor. 

Cry aim. See Aim. 

Cry on, shout, Ham. V. ii. 375. 
Cubiculo, chamber. 

Cullion, a lout. 

Culverin, a kind of cannon. 
Curiosity, fastidiousness. 

Curious, elegant; scrupulous , elab¬ 
orate. 

Currance, current. 

Cursorary, cursory, hasty. 

Curtal, with a docked tail. 
Curtle-axe, cutlass. 

Custalorum = Custos Eolulorum, 
Keeper of the Rolls. 

Custard-coffin, the crust of a custard. 
Customer, prostitute. 

Cut, a common name for a horse ; 

used contemptuously of a man. 
Cuttle, swaggerer. 

Cypress, crape. 

Daff, put off. 

Dainty (To make), to be affectedly 
fastidious. 

Dan, lord, master. 

Danger, power. 

Dansker, Dane. 

Dareful, defiant. 

Darkling, adv., in the dark. 
Darraign, set in order. 

Dash, mark of disgrace, Lucr. 206. 
Daubery, imposture. 

Day-bed, sofa. 

Day-woman, dairy-woman. 

Deal on lieutenantry, act by deputy. 
Dear, coming home to one intimately, 
intense, grievous 









GLOSSARY 


1219 


Death-practised, whose death is 
planned. 

Death-tokens, spots indicating the 
approaching death of a plague- 
smitten person. 

Decern, blunder for “concern,” M. 

Ado, III. v. 4. 

Deck, pack of cards. 

Deem, sb., opinion. 

Deep-fet, deep-fetched. 

Deer, animals. 

Defeat, vb., destroy, disfigure, dis¬ 
guise ; sb., destruction. 

Defeature, disfigurement. 

Defence, swordplay. 

Defend, forbid. 

Deformed, apt to deform. 
Defunction, death. 

Defunctive, funereal. 

Defuse, render uncouth. 

Delated, offered, conveyed. 

Delation, information, accusation. 
Delicate, ingenious. 

Deliculo surgere,'L'cit. diluculosurgere, 
to rise at dawn (is most healthy). 
Delighted, capable of delight. 
Demerits, deserts. 

Demise, hand over. 

Demure, to look soberly. 

Denay, rft.,deny; sb., denial. 
Denier, a very small coin. 

Denounce, declare. 

Denunciation, formal declaration. 
Depart, to part. 

Depend, to lean ; to impend. 

Depose, to take or make a deposition. 
Depravation, detraction. 

Deprave, detract. 

Deprive, take away. 

Deputation, office of deputy. 
Deracinate, uproot. 

Dern, secret. 

Derogate, vb., debase oneself; part., 
corrupt. 

Descant, variations upon an air. 
Deserved, deserving, Cor. III. i. 292. 
Design, designate, point out. 
Designment, enterprise. 

Despised, despicable. 

Detect, reveal. 

Determinate, bring to an end. 
Determination, limit. 

Determine, to end. 

Detest, blunder for “ protest,” M. 

Wives, I. iv. 1G0. 

Devesting, undressing. 

Devote, consecrate. 

Dexterity, celerity. 

Diablo (Span.), devil. 

Dich, do it (?), T. of A. I. ii. 73. 
Difference, a mark of distinction in 
heraldry. 

Diffidence, suspicion. 

Diffused, irregular, wild, uncouth. 
Digress, transgress. 

Dig-you-den, give you good-even. 
Dildo, refrain of a song. 

Diminutives, very small coins. 
Direction, skill in command. 
Directitude, a word coined or cor¬ 
rupted by a servant, Cor. IV. v. 
222 . 

Directive, able to be directed. 
Directly, clearly, Oth. II. i. 221. 
Disable, disparage. 

Disanimate, discourage. 
Disappointed, unprepared. 


Disaster, adverse influence of hea¬ 
venly bodies. 

Disaster, disfigure. 

Disbench, drive from a seat. 
Discandy, melt. 

Disease, undress, unmask. 

Discharge, perform. 

Disclaim in, disown. 

Disclose, hatch. 

Discontenting, displeased. 

Discourse, reasoning. Discourse of 
reason, reasoning power. 

Discover, recognize; reveal. 
Discoverer, scout. 

Disdained, disdainful. 

Disease, trouble. 

Disedge, satiate. 

Disfurnish, deprive of means.. 
Disgracious, not finding favor. 
Dishabit, dislodge. 

Dishonest, unchaste. 

Dishonoured, dishonorable. 

Dislike, disapprove , displease. 
Dislimn, blot out. 

Dismay, be dismayed. 

Disme, tenth. 

Disnatured, unnatural. 

Disorbed, thrown from its sphere. 
Dispark, destroy the enclosures of. 
Dispatched, bereaved. 

Dispiteous, pitiless. 

Disponge, discharge. 

Dispose, sb., disposal; disposition; 
vb., make terms. 

Disposer (My — ), one who disposes 
of (me). 

Disproperty, take away. 

Disperse, disburse. 

Disputable, argumentative. 

Dispute, discuss. 

Disquantity, reduce. 

Disseat, unseat. 

Dissembly, blunder for “ assembly,” 
M. Ado, IV. ii. 1. 

Distain, defile. 

Distance, hostility. 

Distaste, to be, make, or find dis¬ 
tasteful. 

Distemper, disturb (in mind or body). 
Distilled, melted. 

Distinctly, separately. 

Distract, divide, vary. 

Distractions, divisions. 

Distrain, seize. 

Distressful, got by distressing labor. 
Disvouch, contradict. 

Dive-dapper, a small water-fowl. 
Dividable, separated. 

Dividant, different 
Division, variation, modulation. 
Divulged (Well—), of (good) repute. 
Do him dead, kill him. Do me right, 
a challenge to fight or drink. Do 
withal, help it. 

Document, instruction. 

Dogged, malicious. 

Doit, half a farthing. 

Dole, sorrow. 

Doom, decide, judge. 

Dotant, dotard. 

Double-fatal, fatal in two ways (of 
the yew, the leaves of which are 
poisonous, and the wood used for 
bows). 

Doubt, fear. 

Dout, put out. 

Dowlas, coarse linen. 


Dowle, a particle of down. 

Down-gyved, hanging round the an¬ 
kles like gyves or fetters 

Down-roping, Hanging in strings. 

Down-sleeves, hanging sleeves. 

Doxy, a mistress. 

Drabbing, following loose women. 

Draff, refuse. 

Draught, privy. 

Draw, withdraw, track ; empty. 

Drawer, waiter in a tavern. 

Dress, prepare. 

Dribbling, poorly shot. 

Drollery, a puppet-show; a comic 
painting. 

Drovier, drover. 

Drum. John Drum’s entertainment, 
a beating. 

Drumble, to be sluggish. 

Dry, thirsty, stupid, insipid. 

Dry-beat, thrash. 

Dry-foot (To draw —), to hunt game 
by the mere scent of the foot. 

Dudgeon, handle of a dagger. 

Due, endue. 

Duello, the duelling code. 

Dumb, to silence. 

Dump, a melancholy tune. 

Dun. In R. and J. I. iv. 41, there 
are references to two proverbial 
phrases: Dun’s the mouse, which 
is unexplained ; and Dun (a horse) 
is in the mire, the name of an old 
game, and a phrase meaning that 
things are at a standstill. 

Dup, do up, open. 

Durance, imprisonment. 

Eager, sour ; biting. 

Eale, evil (?). 

Ean, yean, bring forth young. 

Eanling, a new-born lamb. 

Ear, to plough. 

Earth, vb., bury. 

Easy, slight. 

Eche, eke (to rime with speech), Per. 
III. Pro. 13. 

Ecstasy, being beside oneself. 

Effect, manifestation, accomplish 
ment of a purpose. 

Effectually, in effect, Bonn. 113. 4. 

Effigies, likeness. 

Effuse, sb., effusion ; vb., to shed. 

Eftest, quickest. 

Eftsoons, at once. 

Egal, equal. 

Egally, equally. 

Eggs for money? (Will you take) 
Will you be imposed on ? 

Egrna, blunder for “enigma,” L. L. 
L. III. i. 73. 

Eisel, vinegar. 

Elbow, vb., stand close to, haunt. 

Element, the sky. 

Elf, vb., to entangle. 

Elf-locks, hair matted together, sup¬ 
posedly by fairies. 

Elvish-marked, marked by elves or 
fairies. 

Emballing, being invested with the 
ball (and sceptre) at coronation. 

Embargement, placing under em¬ 
bargo, hindrance. 

Embayed, land-locked. 

Emboss, to drive to extremity. 

Embossed, foaming at the mouth; 
swollen. 







1220 


GLOSSARY 


Embounded, enclosed. 

Embowelled, emptied. 

Embrasure, embrace. 

Embrued, steeped in blood. 

Emmew, to coop up, keep from fly¬ 
ing abroad. 

Empale, encircle. 

Ernpery, empire. 

Empiricutic, empirical. 

Emulate, adj., envious, given to ri¬ 
valry. 

Enact, action. 

Enacture, action. 

Encave, to hide. 

Enchantingly, as if by charms. 
Encompassment, circumvention. 
Encounter, encouuterer, L. L. L. 
V. ii. 82. 

Encumbered, folded 

End, to harvest, Cor. V. vi. 37. 

End. Still an end, continually. 
Endeared, bound. 

Enfeoff, to hand over as a fief, sur¬ 
render. 

Enforce, urge, press hard. 
Enfranched, freed. 

Engage, pledge ; give as a hostage. 
Engine, contrivance (of war, torture, 
etc.). 

Englut, swallow up. 

Engrafted, firmly fixed. 

Engross, to fatten ; take wholesale. 
Engrossment, accumulation. 

En lard, fatten. 

Enlarge, set at liberty. 

Enlargement, liberty. 

Enormous, monstrous, Lear, II. ii. 76. 
Enpatron, be the patron saint of. 
Enseamed, filthy. 

Ensear, dry up. 

Entertain, take into one’s service. 
Entertainment, service. 

Entitled, having a title or claim. 
Entreat, vb ., treat; negotiate; sb., 
entreaty. 

Entreatment, invitation. 

Envious, malicious. 

Envy, malice, spite. 

En wheel, surround. 

Ephesian, jolly companion. 

Epileptic, distorted with grinning, like 
the face of one in a fit, Lear, II. ii. 
87. 

Epithet, phrase. 

Epitheton, epithet 

Equal, adj., just; vb., match. 

Ercles, Hercules. 

Erection, blunder for “ direction,” 
M. Wives, III. v. 41. 

Eringo, sea-holly, the root of which 
was supposed to be a provocative. 
Erring, roaming. 

Error, mistaken identity. 

Escape, freak, error, transgression. 
Escapen, escape. 

Escot, pay for. 

Esperance, hope. 

Espial, spy. 

Estate, sb., rank ; vb., bestow. 
Estimate, estimation, estimate. 
Estimable, valuable ; admiring. 
Estimation, supposition. 

Estridge, ostridge. 

Eternal, sometimes regarded as = in¬ 
fernal, Oth. IV. ii. 120. 

Eterne, eternal. 

Eternize, immortalize. 


Even, vb., smooth over in his mem¬ 
ory, Lear, IV. vii. 80; keep pace 
with. 

Even Christian, fellow Christian. 

Even-pleached, smoothly inter¬ 
woven. 

Ever among, perhaps a corruption of 
ever anon, continually. 

Evil, disease; especially the King’s 
evil, i. e. scrofula. In M. for M. 
II. ii. 172, apparently a privy. 

Evitate, avoid. 

Examine, question, doubt. 

Exceed, to be preeminent, surpassing 

Except, t'6.,to object, make a reser¬ 
vation. Except before excepted, 
a legal phrase used in contracts. 

Excitement, encouragement, im¬ 
pulse. 

Exclaim, sb., outcry. 

Excrement, hair. 

Executor, executioner. 

Exempt, vb., remove ; adj., remote. 

Exequies, funeral rites. 

Exhalation, meteor. 

Exhale, draw out (used of a sword 
by Pistol). 

Exhaust, draw forth. 

Exhibition, allowance. In M. Ado, 
IV. ii. 5, used blunderingly. 

Exigent, sb., exigence, decisive mo¬ 
ment ; end. 

Exion, blunder for “ action,” 2 Hen. 
IV, II. i. 32. 

Exorciser, exorcist, necromancer. 

Exorcism, conjuration for raising 
spirits. 

Expect, await. 

Expectance, wondering. 

Expectancy, hope. 

Expedience, haste ; expedition. 

Expedient, quick. 

Expense, spending; loss. 

Expiate, terminate; terminated. 

Exploit, fighting. 

Expostulate, discuss. 

Expostulation, discussion. 

Exposture, exposure. 

Express, adj., expressive; exactly 
fitting its purpose ; vb., reveal. 

Expressive, open, demonstrative. 

Expressly, distinctly. 

Expressure, expression , impression. 

Expulse, expel. 

Ex-sufflicate, puffed out, empty. 

Extant, present. 

Extend, increase, magnify; seize 
upon ; show, use. 

Extent, seizure; attack; friendly 
conduct; display. 

Extenuate, lessen, mitigate, depre¬ 
ciate. 

Extermine, destroy. 

Extern, outward. 

Extinct, extincted, extinguished. 

Extincture, extinction. 

Extirp, root out. 

Extracting, absorbing, distracting. 

Extraught, derived. 

Extravagancy, aimless wandering. 

Extravagant, wandering. 

Eyas, a nestling. 

Eyas-musket, a young male sparrow- 
hawk. 

Eye, sb., tinge of color ; presence ; 
vb., to appear. 

Eyne, eyes. 


Face, vb., bully, brazen; trim. To 
face it with a card of ten, a term 
from primero, = to bluff on a ten. 
Facinerious, facinorous, wicked. 

Fact, crime. 

Factionary, taking sides. 

Factious, taking sides. 

Factor, agent, deputy. 

Faculty, power, essential quality. 
Fadge, agree, fit, work well. 

Fading, burden of a song. 

Fail, failure. 

Fain, glad; obliged. 

Faining, longing; affectionate, M. 
N. D. I. i. 31. 

Fair, sb., beauty ; a beautiful person; 

vb., to make beautiful. 

Fairing, present bought at a fair. 
Faithed, believed. 

Faithless, unbelieving. 

Faitor, evil-doer. 

Fall, sb., cadence ; ebb ; vb., to fall 
away; let fall; bring forth, be 
brought forth ; to begin. 

Fall away (or from or off), desert, 
revolt. 

Fallow, yellowish brown. 

False, vb., to be untrue ; sb., false* 
hood. 

False fire, a flash in the pan. 

Falsing, deceptive. 

Fame, make famous. 

Familiar, sb., attendant spirit. 
Famoused, made famous. 

Fancy, love. Fancies and Good¬ 
nights in 2 Hen. IV, III. ii. 342, 
means little songs. 

Fang, seize. 

Fangled, given to fanciful fashions. 
Fantastic, imaginary ; prodigious. 
Fantastical, imaginary , imaginative ; 
fantastic. 

Fantastico, a fantastic fop. 

Fantasy, love. 

Fap, drunk. 

Far, farther, W. T. IV. iv. 442. 

Speak far, praise highly. 

Farced, stuffed, bombastic. 

Fardel, burden. 

Far-fet, far-fetched, ingenious. 
Farrow, pigs of a litter. 

Farthingale, lioop-petticoat. 
Fartuous, blunder for “virtuous,” 
M. Wives, II. ii. 100. 

Fashions (Fr. farcins), a skin dis¬ 
ease in horses. 

Fastened, confirmed, stubborn. 

Fat, vat. 

Fatigate, fatigued. 

Faucet-seller, one who sells faucets 
or taps. 

Fault, loss of scent; ill-fortune. 
Favour, aspect; feature. 

Fay, faith. 

Fear, sb., object of fear; vb., 
frighten ; fear for. 

Fearful, afraid ; terrible. 

Feat, adj., neat, handy ; vb., help to 
make admirable (?), Cym. I. i. 40. 
Feature, shape, general appearance. 
Feaz’d, frayed, 1 Hen. IV, IV. ii. 33. 
Fedary, confederate. 

Fee, value. 

Feeder, servant; parasite. 

Feeding, pasture. 

Fee-farm, tenure unlimited in dura¬ 
tion. 







GLOSSARY 


1221 


Fee-grief, a peculiar sorrow. 

Fee-simple, absolute ownership. 

Felicitate, made happy. 

Fellies, sections of the rim of a 
wheel. 

Fellow, sb. and vb., equal. 

Fellowly, sympathetic. 

Fere, spouse. 

Festinate, hasty. 

Fet, fetched. 

Fetch, device, stratagem. 

Fettle, prepare. 

Few. In few, in short. 

Fico (Span.), a fig. 

Fielded, in the battlefield. 

Fifteenth, tax of one fifteenth of a 
man’s property. 

Fig, to make an insulting gesture. 
See Figo. 

Fights, cloths hung round a ship to 
hide the fighting men. 

Figo, an insulting gesture made by 
thrusting the thumb through be¬ 
tween the first two fingers. 

Figure, idea, imagination. 

File, sb., list; vb., to polish ; defile; 
keep pace with. 

Fill, shaft. 

Fill-horse, shaft horse. 

Filth, used of persons as a term of 
contempt, esp. of prostitutes. 

Find, detect; provide. 

Fine, sb. and vb., end ; to fix as the 
sum to be paid ; to refine. 

Fineless, infinite. 

Firago, apparently for “virago.” 

Fire-drake, fiery dragon. 

Fire-new, fresh from the mint, brand 
new. 

Firk, beat. 

Fisnomy, physiognomy. 

Fit, division of a poem. 

Fitchew, a pole-cat; used contempt¬ 
uously of a wanton woman. 

Fitment, equipment, duty. 

Fitted, distorted as by a fit. 

Five for one, a reference to a method 
of gambling on travelers’ risks, by 
which the traveler on his safe re¬ 
turn received five pounds for every 
one he put up before leaving. 

Fives, inflammation of the parotid 
glands of horses. 

Fixure, stability. 

Flap-dragon, a small body, such as 
a raisin, set on fire and floating on 
liquor, to be swallowed flaming. 

Flap-jack, pancake. 

Flask, powder-horn. 

Flatlong, on the flat side, not the 
edge. 

Flaunts, finery. 

Flaw, sb., gust of wind ; sudden dis¬ 
turbance of mind; misfortune; 
blade of ice, 2 Hen. IV, IV. iv. 
35 ; vb., to rend, crack. 

Fleer, sneer. 

Fleet, a debtors’ prison in London. 

Fleet, vb., to float; to pass rapidly. 

Fleeting, inconstant, unstable. 

Fleshment, encouragement from a 
first encounter. 

Flewed, with large, hanging chaps. 

Flexure, bending. 

Flight, a long, light-feathered arrow. 

Flighty, swift. 

Flirt-gill, a light woman. 


Float, wave, Temp. I. ii. 234. 

Flourish, vb., color ; sb., ornament. 

Flower-de-luce, fleur-de-lis. 

Flush, in full vigor. 

Flushing, redness (?) or filling 
full (?), Ham. 1. ii. 155. 

Fluxive, flowing. 

Fly, to let a hawk fly after prey. 

Fob. cheat, delude. Fob off, put off. 

Foil, sb., something placed under a 
jewel to increase its lustre ; defeat; 
vb., to mar. 

Foin, thrust in fencing. 

Foison, abundance. 

Folly, wantonness. 

Folly-fallen, grown foolish. 

Fond, adj., foolish, trivial; vb., dote. 

Fool, a term of endearment. 

Fool-begged, stupid, “ so foolish that 
the guardianship of it might well be 
begged ” (Nares), C. of E. II. i. 41. 

Foot, vb., strike with the foot. 

Foot-cloth, housings of a horse. 

Footed, landed. 

Foot land-rakers, vagrants, tramps. 

Fop, to dupe - 

Foppery, folly; trickery. 

Foppish, foolish. 

For why, because. 

Forage, sb. and vb., prey. 

Forbid, accursed, Macb. I. iii. 21.* 

Forbiddenly, illicitly. 

Force, vb., reinforce ; violate ; urge ; 
regard ; stuff. Of force = of neces¬ 
sity ; of weight. Force perforce = 
in spite of opposition. 

Fordo, destroy; exhaust. 

Forehand, sb., advantage; leader; 
adj., anticipated. Forehand shaft 
= “an arrow for shooting point- 
blank.” 

Forehorse, the first horse in a team ; 
in All’s Well, II. i. 30, = one act¬ 
ing as a squire of ladies. 

Forestall, deprive of value by antici¬ 
pating. 

Foreward, vanguard. 

Forfend, forbid. 

Forgetive, inventive. 

Fork, the forked tongue of a snake ; 
barbed arrow-head ; horned head¬ 
dress (?), Lear, IV. vi. 121. 

Forked, barbed; horned, like a 
cuckold. 

Forlorn, lost, Cym. V. v. 405. 

Formal, rational; ordinary. 

Former, foremost, J. Cues. V. i. 80. 

Forslow, delay. 

Forspeak, speak against. 

Forspent, exhausted. 

Forted, fortified. 

Forthcoming, in custody. 

Forthright, a straight path. 

Fortune, vb., happen; regulate one’s 
fortune. 

Foul, plain-looking, ugly. 

Found (Well-), of acknowledged ex¬ 
cellence (?) or well-furnished (?), 
All’s Well, II. i. 105. 

Foutra, an expression of contempt. 

Fox, a broadsword. 

Foxship, cunning. 

Fracted, broken. 

Fraction, discord. 

Frame, sb., form; devising; order; 
vb., manage; resort. 

Frampold, quarrelsome. 


Franchise, sb., liberty; vb., free. 
Frank, sty. 

Franklin, freeholder. 

Fraught, sb., load, cargo; vb., to 
load ; laden, charged. 

Fraughtage, cargo. 

Fray, frighten. 

Free, innocent, sound ; voluntary ; 
generous, noble ; free from care, 
happy. 

Freeness, generosity. 

French crown, baldness produced by 
venereal disease. 

Frequent, intimate, addicted. 

Fresh, a spring of fresh water. 

Fret, vb., eat away ; decorate. 

Frets, pieces of wire on guitars, etc., 
on which the finger presses the 
strings. 

Frippery, old clothes shop. 

From, opposed to, departing from. 
Frontlet, a band worn on the fore¬ 
head ; used figuratively = scowl, 
Lear, I. iv. 208. 

Fruitful, bounteous, copious. 

Frush, bruise, smash. 

Frutify, blunder for “certify” or 
“notify,” M. of V. II. ii. 142. 
Fubbed off, put off. 

Fullam, a kind of false dice. 

Fulsome, lustful. 

Fumiter, the plant fumitory. 

Fust, to grow mouldy. 

Fustilarian, a term of abuse. 

Gaberdine, a loose outer garment. 
Gad, a steel point. Upon the gad, 
upon the spur of the moment. 

Gage, sb. and vb., pledge. 

Gain-giving, misgiving. 

Gait, way; proceeding. 

Galled, full of gall. 

Gallian, Gaulish, French. 

Galliard, a lively dance. 

Gallias, a large galley. 

Gallimaufry, a jumble, hotch-potch. 
Gallow, frighten. 

Gallowglasses, heavy-armed foot- 
soldiers from Ireland and the Heb¬ 
rides. 

Gallows, rascal. 

Gamester, a merry fellow ; one who 
plays a game ; a prostitute. 

Gan, pret. of gin, to begin. 

Garboil, tumult. 

Gaskins, loose breeches. 

Gasted, frightened. 

Gastness, terror. 

Gawd, bauble, trifling ornament. 
Gaze, object of attention. 

Gear, affair, business. 

Geek, dupe. 

Geminy, a pair. 

Gender, sb. , race, kind ; vb., breed. 
General, the common people. 
Generation, offspring. 

Generosity, nobility. 

Generous, of noble birth. 

Genius, the spirit (good or evil) sup¬ 
posed to govern men’s conduct. 
Gennet, a Spanish horse. 

Gentility, good birth. 

Gentle, adj., well-born; vb., to en¬ 
noble ; sb., a well-born person. 
Gentry, inherited rank ; courtesy. 
George, the figure of St. George worn 
by Knights of the Garter. 










1222 


GLOSSARY 


German, akin ; a near relation. 

Germens, germs, seeds. 

Gest, halting place, or time spent at 
a halting place, in a royal journey. 

Gest, exploit. 

Ghosted, haunted. 

Gi’, give. 

Gib, an old tom-cat. 

Gibbet, to hang. 

Gig, a top. 

Giglot, wanton. 

Gild, to make red ; to make drunk. 

Gill, in T. of S. IV. i. 40, a pun on 
gill, a measure, and Gill, Gillian. 

Gillyvors, gillyflowers. 

Gimmal, double, or made of double 
rings. 

Gimmors, device. 

Ging, gang. 

Gird, taunt, jest. 

Girdle. To turn the girdle, to change 
one’s humor (?); to challenge to a 
wrestling bout (?), M. Ado, V. i. 143. 

Gis, a corruption of Jesus. 

Give, to show as armorial bearings ; 
to call, ascribe, represent. 

Give out, resign ; report, represent. 

Glance, hint. 

Glaz’d, stared. 

Gleek, scoff. 

Glib, to geld. 

Gloze, comment; flatter ; talk idly. 

Glut, swallow. 

Gnarling, snarling. 

Gobbet, a piece. 

God, vb., deify, idolize. 

God-den, Good-den, good even 

Gogs-wouns, corruption of “God’s 
wounds,” T. of S. III. ii. 162. 

Good, of substantial means, M. of 
V. I. iii. 12. 

Good cheap, cheap. 

Good deed, indeed. 

Good life, with good life, dutifully (?), 
Temp. III. iii. 86. A song of good 
life, a moral song. 

Good lord or master, a patron. 
Good lady, patroness. 

Good-nights, serenades. 

Good time. In good time, happily, 
luckily. 

Good-years, supposed to be a venereal 
disease, from Fr. goujere. What 
the good-year, a petty curse. 

Gorbellied, with a large paunch. 

Gorge, throat, stomach. 

Gorget, throat armor. 

Go'spelled, obedient to the teaching 
of the Gospels. 

Gossip, 3b., a sponsor in baptism ; an 
old woman who frequents christen¬ 
ings and lyings-in ; a female ac¬ 
quaintance (esp. in vocative) ; vb., 
to stand sponsor for. 

Gourd, a kind of false dice. 

Gout, a drop. 

Government, self-control. 

Graceful, favorable, virtuous. 

Gracious, finding favor ; holy, virtu¬ 
ous ; attractive. 

Graff, graft. 

Grafter, the tree from which a graft 
is cut. 

Grain. In grain, fast in color ; orig., 
dyed with dye from a seed-like 
insect. 

Grained, ingrained; close-grained. 


Gramercy, great thanks. 

Grange, a farm-house. 

Grate on, annoy. 

Gratify, reward. 

Gratillity, corruption of “gratuity,” 
Tw. N. II. iii. 27. 

Gratulate, vb., to congratulate ; adj., 
gratifying. 

Grave, to bury; to engrave. 

Greek, a merry fellow. 

Greenly, foolishly, like an inexperi¬ 
enced person. 

Grief-shot, sorrow-stricken. 

Gripe, griffin. 

Grize, step. 

Groat, a coin wortli fourpence. 

Gross, palpable, obvious. 

Ground, tune used as a basis for va¬ 
riations. 

Groundlings, spectators standing on 
the ground immediately round the 
stage, the cheapest part of the 
Elizabethan theatre. 

Grow, accrue. 

Grow to, in M. of V. II. ii. 18, usually 
explained as = to have a strong 
taste, like burnt milk that has 
stuck to the pan in boiling ; but 
perhaps merely = have a tendency. 

Gqard, vb., to trim ; sb., ornament. 

Guardage, guard, protection. 

Guardant, guard. 

Guiled, treacherous. 

Guinea hen, prostitute. 

Gules, heraldic term for red. 

Gulf, whirlpool; gullet. 

Gull, an unfledged nestling; a dupe ; 
a trick. 

Gun-stones, cannon-balls of stone. 

Gust, vb., taste, perceive ; sb., taste, 
relish. 

Gyve, sb. and vb., fetter. 

Habit, behavior. 

Habitude, bodily form and bearing. 

Hack, to become common (?), or dis¬ 
reputable (?), M. Wives, II. i. 52. 

Haggard, sb., a wild untrained hawk; 
adj. , wanton. 

Haggled, hacked. 

Hag-seed, child of a hag. 

Hai (Ital.), you have it ! a hit ! a 
term in fencing. 

Hair, grain, texture, character. 

Halcyon, kingfisher. In Lear, II. ii. 
84, the reference is to the practice 
of hanging up the dead body of a 
kingfisher to show the direction of 
the wind. 

Half-caps, slight salutations. 

Half-cheek, profile. 

Half-faced, showing the face in pro¬ 
file ; (sun) with face half hidden. 

Half-kirtle, either the jacket or the 
skirt of a kirtle. 

Halfpence, small fragments, M. Ado, 
II. iii. 147. 

Half-sword. At half-sword, in close 
conflict. 

Halidom, holiness. 

Hall. A hall! clear a space ! 

Hallowmas, All Saints’ Day. 

Hand. At or in any hand, at any 
rate. Out of hand, at once. 

Hands, applause. Of all hands, at all 
events. A tall fellow of his hands, 
a stout fellow. 


Handfast, betrothal; custody. 

Handsaw, in Ham. II. ii. 397, often 
interpreted as a corruption of “ her- 
onshaw,” a heron. 

Handy-dandy, a child’s game in 
which one has to guess in whicli 
hand an object is hidden. 

Hangers, the straps attaching a sword 
to the girdle. 

Hangman, executioner. In T. Gent. 
IV. iv. 60, perhaps = rascally. 

Happily, haply, perhaps. 

Happy, accomplished. 

Hardiment, hardiness, brave deeds. 

Hardness, hardship. 

Harlot, a base or lewd person, of 
either sex. 

Harlotry, harlot, silly wench. 

Harp, to touch, strike (as a musical 
note), Macb. IV. i. 74. 

Harry, use roughly. 

Harry ten shillings, ten-shilling 
pieces, really coined by Henry VII, 
not Henry IV. 

Hatch, a half door. 

Hatched, engraved, adorned. 

Hatchment, escutcheon. 

Hateful, malignant. 

Hauglit, haughty. 

Haunch, rear, latter part. 

Have, understand, Ham. II. i. 68. 
Have ( imperative ) at, to, with, 
after, used idiomatically in the 
sense of Let us begin, go, follow, 
etc. 

Having, possessions. 

Haviour, behavior. 

Havoc, vb., to destroy. Cry havoc, 
give the signal for no quarter. 

Hawking, hawk-like. 

Hay, a round dance. 

Hazard, a recess in the wall of a ten¬ 
nis-court. 

Head-stall, part of a bridle. 

Health, safety, well-being. 

Heap, body, Per. I. i. 33. 

Hearted, seated in the heart. 

Heat, to run a certain course. 

Heave, deep sigh. 

Heaviness, sorrow; drowsiness. 

Heaving, deep sigh. 

Hebenon, an unknown poison, per¬ 
haps the juice of the yew, or of 
henbane, or of ebony. 

Hectic, fever. 

Hedge, skulk, swerve. 

Hedge-pig, hedge-hog. 

Hefts, heavings, retellings. 

Hell, the lowest dungeon, C. of E. 
IV. ii. 40. 

Helm, to steer. 

Helpless, affording no help. 

Hence, henceforth. 

Hent, , vIk, take, pass; sb., hold, oc¬ 
casion of being seized. 

Herb-grace, herb of grace, rue. 

Hereby. That’s hereby, that’s as it 
falls out. 

Hermit, one bound to pray for an¬ 
other. 

Hest, command. 

Hey-day, sportive passion. 

Hide fox and all after, a children’s 
game like hide-and-seek. 

Hiems, Winter. 

PTigh-, used in compounds as an in¬ 
tensive. 







GLOSSARY 


1223 


High and low, two kinds of false 
dice. 

High-battled, commanding proud bat¬ 
talions. 

High-blown, inflated. 

High-lone, erect without assistance. 

High-repented, repented to the 
height, deeply. 

High-sighted, supercilious. 

High-stomached, haughty. 

Hight, is called. 

Hild, held, Lucr. 1257. 

Hilding, menial. 

Hind, a farm servant, a menial. 

Hint, opportunity, cause, occasion 
(not necessarily given consciously). 

Hip. On the hip, at disadvantage. 

Hipped, with a dislocated lup. 

History, to record. 

Hit, to agree. 

Hitherto, to this point. 

Hoar, to make white (as with lep¬ 
rosy) ; to become mouldy. 

Hobby-horse, a figure in the morris- 
dance ; a silly or loose person. 

Hob, nob, have or have not. 

Hodge-pudding, a pudding of un¬ 
known ingredients. 

Hoise, hoist, heave up. 

Hold, endure ; refrain ; prove tine. 

Hold in, to keep counsel. 

Holding, burden of a song. 

Holidame, halidom, holiness. 

Holland, Dutch linen. 

Holp, helped. 

Home, adv., to the utmost, to the 
quick. 

Honest, chaste. 

Honesty, chastity; decency; gener¬ 
osity. 

Honey-seed, blunder for “ homicide,” 
2 Hen. IV, II. i. 57. 

Honey-suckle, blunder for “ homi¬ 
cidal,” 2 Hen. IV, II. i. 56. 

Hood, to cover the eyes, as was done 
with a falcon before it was let fly 
at game. 

Hoodman, the one blinded in blind- 
man’s-buff. 

Hoodman-blind, blindman’s-buff. 

Hoodwink, blindfold ; conceal. 

Hope, expect. 

Horn, sb., the symbol of a cuckold ; 
vb ., to cuckold. 

Horn-road, stark mad, used fre¬ 
quently of the jealous anger of a 
cuckold. 

Horologe, a clock. 

Hose, breeches, or breeches and 
stockings in one. 

Host, to lodge. 

Hot-house, a bagnio, a brothel. 

Hox, to hamstring. 

Hoy, a small vessel. 

Hugger-mugger, secrecy. 

Hull, to float, drift wjth the waves. 

Humorous, damp ; capricious, whim¬ 
sical, affected. 

Humour, characteristic mood ; whim; 
affectation. 

Humphrey hour. Unexplained. 

Hungerly, hungrily, sparsely. 

Hunt, the game hunted. 

Hunt’s-up, morning music 

Hurricano, a water-spout. 

Hurtle, to clash violently. 

Husband, housekeeper. 


Husbandry, economy. 

Hush, sileut. 

Hyen, hyena. 

Hyperion, the sun-god. 

I, the common spelling of “Ay ” in 
the old editions, often used in 
quibbles, R. and J. III. ii. 45. 

Ice-brook’s temper, the temper of 
steel produced by plunging it red- 
hot into ice-cold water. 

Iceland dog, a white, long-haired, 
sharp-eared lap-dog. 

Idle, useless, barren ; trifling, friv¬ 
olous ; crazy. 

’Ield, yield, grant. 

I’ fecks, in faith. 

Ignomy, ignominy. 

Ignorant, producing ignorance or 
unconsciousness, Temp. V. i. 67. 

’Ud, yield, grant. 

Ill-erected, built to an evil end. 

Ill-inhabited, inappropriately lodged. 

Illness, wickedness, Macb. I. v. 21. 

Ill-nurtured, ill-bred, rude. 

Ul-ta’en, misconceived. 

Illume, illumine. 

Illustrate, illustrious. 

Illustrous, lustreless. 

Ill-wresting, twisting to a bad sense. 

Imaginary, imaginative. 

Imagined, belonging to the imagina¬ 
tion. 

Imbar. It is doubtful whether this 
means to bar out, exclude, or to 
bar in, secure, Hen. V, I. ii. 94. 

Immanity, ferocity. 

Immask, disguise. 

Immediacy, close position, direct re¬ 
lation. 

Immoment, of no moment. 

Immures, walls, fortifications. 

Imp, sb ., off-spring, youngling; vb., 
to graft, to mend the feathers of a 
hawk. 

Impair, inferior, T. and C. IV. v. 103. 

Impale, to encircle. 

Impart, offer, afford. 

Impartment, communication. 

Impasted, made into a paste. 

Impeach, sb., impeachment; vb., ex¬ 
pose to reproach. 

Impeachment, hindrance, Hen. V, 

III. vi. 151. 

Imperceiverant, dull, undiscerning. 

Imperious, imperial 

Impeticos, a coined word, perhaps = 
to pocket, Tw. N. II. iii. 27. 

Impleached, interwoven. 

Implorators, solicitors. 

Impone, to bet. 

Importance, import; importunity ; 
matter, question. 

Importancy, importance. 

Important, importunate. 

Importless, insignificant. 

Importune, importunate, Lear, IV. 
iv. 26. 

Impose, sb. and vb., command. 

Imposition, command; penalty. 

Impostliume, abscess. 

Impre8e, a device with a motto. 

Impress, force into military service. 

Impugn, oppose. 

Imputation, reputation; inference. 

In, on ; into ; vb., to get in, harvest, 
All’s Well, I. iii. 48. 


Incapable, unable to receive or per¬ 
ceive. 

Incardinate, blunder for “ incar¬ 
nate,” Tw. N. V. i. 185. 
Incarnadine, to stain red. 

Incarnal, blunder for “ incarnate,” 
M. of V. II. ii. 29. 

Incense, inform, Hen. VIII, V. i. 43. 
Inch-meal, an inch at a time, gradu¬ 
ally. 

Incidency, liability. 

Incision, blood-letting. 

Inclining, adj., favorably disposed ; 

sb., party. 

Inclip, embrace. 

Include, conclude, T. Gent V. iv. 
160. 

Inclusive, latent, potential. 

Income, cost of acquiring, Lucr. 334. 
Incontinent, immediate. 

Ineony, apparently = fine, dainty, 

L. L. L. III. i. 136. 

Incorporal, immaterial. 

Incorpsed, made one body. 

Incorrect, unsubdued, contumacious. 
Incredulous, incredible, Tw. N. III. 

iv. 88. 

Ind, or Inde, India. 

Indent, to bargain, make a contract. 
Index, table of contents, and so in¬ 
troduction, beginning. 
Indifferency, moderate size; impar¬ 
tiality. 

Indifferent, adj., impartial ; ordi¬ 
nary ; adv., tolerably. 

Indigest, sb., formless mass ; adj., 
formless. 

Indign, unworthy. 

Indirect, unfair, unjust. 

Indirection, wrongful means ; round¬ 
about method. 

Indistinguishable, of no recognizable 
kind, mongrel. 

Indite, blunder for “ invite,” 2 Hen. 

IV, II. i. 30. 

Individable, not violating unity of 
place. 

Indubitate, undoubted. 

Induction, beginning ; in T. of S., an 
introductory play forming a setting 
for the main play; in 2 Hen. IV, a 
prologue. 

Indue, endow, fit; affect sympatheti¬ 
cally with, Oth 1 1ll. iv. 146. 
Indurance, imprisonment (?), delay 
(?), suffering (?), Hen. VIII, V. i. 
121 . 

Inequality, improbability, M. for M. 

V. i. 65. 

Inexecrable, not to be sufficiently 
execrated. 

Infamonize, disgrace. 

Infection, blunder for “affection,” 

M. of V. II. ii. 133. 

Infer, allege; prove. 

Infest, vex. 

Inform, take shape. Inform with 
nobleness, make noble. 

Informal, insane. 

Information, informer. 

Infusion, essential quality. 

Ingenious, highly sensitive ; intel¬ 
lectual. 

Ingeniously, ingenuously. 

Inhabit, clothe oneself in, Macb. III. 
iv. 105. 

Inhabitable, uninhabitable. 








1224 


GLOSSARY 


Inherit, possess ; put in possession. 
Inheritor, owner. 

Inhooped, enclosed in the hoop with¬ 
in which birds were made to fight. 
Initiate, belonging to a novice. 
Injoint, join. 

Injurious, insulting. 

Injury, insult. 

Inkhorn mate, a bookish man. 

Inkle, a kind of tape. 

Inland, opposed to outlandish, civil¬ 
ized, refined. 

Inly, adj. , inward ; adv., inwardly, 
intimately. 

Innocent, sb., fool, idiot, simpleton. 
Inquisitive, seeking. 

Insane, causing insanity. 

Insanie, madness. 

Insculp, carve. 

Insculpture, carved inscription. 
Inseparate, indivisible. 

Insinewed, joined as by sinews. 
Insinuate, ingratiate oneself. 
Insinuation, ingratiation; meddling. 
Insisture, constancy. 

Instance, motive ; proof, token; 

maxim; example. 

Insult, exult. 

Insuppressive, insuppressible. 
Intellect, signature (?), L. L. L. IV. 
ii. 137. 

Intelligent, bearing intelligence. 
Intend, tend ; direct; mean; pre¬ 
tend. 

Intendment, aim-; intention. 
Intenible, incapable of retaining. 
Intention, aim ; intensity, concentra¬ 
tion, W. T. I. ii. 138. 

Intentively, attentively. 

Interess’d, interested. 

Intermission, delay, interruption. 
Intermissive, interrupted. 
Interrogatory, question asked on 
oath. 

Intertissued, interwoven. 
Intervallum, interval. 

Intil, into 
Into, unto, to. 

Intrenchant, not to be cut. 

Intrinse, intricately knotted. 
Intrinsicate. intricate. 

Inumed, entombed (Q 2 reads “in¬ 
terred ”). 

Invasive, invading, i 
Invectively, abusively. 

Invincible, invisible, 2 Hen. IV, III. 
ii. 337. 

Invised, invisible (?), Compl. 212. 
Inward, adj. , secret; confidential; 

.sb., inside; intimate. 

Inwardness, intimacy. 

Irregulous, lawless. 

Issued, descended, Temp. I. ii. 59. 

It, its. 

Iterance, repetition. 

Iwis or I wis, certainly. 

Jack, the small bowl aimed at in the 
game of bowls ; the key of a virgi¬ 
nal ; a knave, rogue; the auto¬ 
matic figure which struck the bell 
in old clocks ; a drinking vessel 
(used punningly), T. of S. IV. i. 
51. 

Jaek-a-lent, a puppet, thrown at in 
Lent. 

•Unk-an-apes, a monkey. 


Jacksauce, a saucy fellow. 

Jade, to play a jade’s tricks with, 
run away with, Tw. N. II. v. 179; 
to treat contemptuously ; to drive 
hard. 

Jar, sb. andvft., tick (of the clock). 
Jaunce, sb., gadding about; vb., to 
prance. 

Jay, a loose woman. 

Jennet, a Spanish horse. 

Jerkin, jacket. 

Jesses, straps on a falcon’s legs. 

Jest, take part in a play, Rich. II, I. 
iii. 95. 

Jet, to strut; to encroach. 

Jig, sb., a merry ballad, or the dance 
accompanying it; vb., to sing or 
write a jig ; to walk affectedly. 
Joinder, joining. 

Joined-stool, joint-stool, folding 
stool. 

Jointress, dowager, or, perhaps, fe¬ 
male partner, consort, Ham. I. ii. 9. 
Joint-ring, a split ring used as a love- 
token. 

Jordan, chamber-pot. 

Journal, adj., daily. 

Journey-bated, tired with traveling. 
Jowl, vb., to dash. 

Joy, vb., to make happy ; be happy, 
enjoy. 

Judicious, judicial. 

Jump, sb., chance ; vb., risk ; agree ; 
adv., exactly. 

Junkets, sweetmeats, dainties. 
Justicer, justice, judge. 

Jutty, sb., projection; vb., project. 
Juvenal, a youth. 

Kara, crooked. 

Kecksies, dry hollow stems of hem¬ 
lock, etc. 

Keecli, a round lump of tallow. 

Keel, skim (?), or cool (?). 

Keep, sb., custody ; vb., dwell ; re¬ 
strain ; guard; remain with. Rich. 
Ill, V. iii. 29. 

Keeping, maintenance. 

Keisar, emperor. 

Ken, vb., know; descry; sb., view, 
sight. 

Kennel, sink, gutter. 

Kern, a light-armed foot-soldier from 
Ireland or the Scottish Highlands. 
Kersey, coarse woollen cloth. 

Kettle, kettle-drum. 

Key, tuning-key, Temp. I. ii. 83. 
Kibe, chilblain. 

Kickshaws, trifles. 

Kicky-wicky, darling, mistress. 
Kid-fox, young fox. 

Kill! an ancient English battle-cry. 
Killen, kill. 

Kind, sb., nature ; adj., natural. 
Kindle, to incite; to bring forth. 
Kindless, unnatural. 

Kindly, natural, seasonable. 
Kingdomed, like a kingdom (?). 
Kirtle, a jacket with skirt attached. 
Kissing-comfits, sweatmeats for per¬ 
fuming the breath. 

Kitchen, to entertain in the kitchen. 
Knap, nibble; rap, strike sharply. 
Knave, a lad ; a servant. 

Knoll, to ring, toll. 

Knot, garden-plot. 

Knotty-pated, blockheaded. 


Know, sb., knowledge. 

Knowing, experience; knowledge. 

Label, the slip attached to a deed, 
bearing the seal. 

Labras, lips. 

Lace, to adorn. 

Laced mutton, often used for prosti¬ 
tute, but in T. Gent. I. i. 102, ap¬ 
parently for a fine lady. 

Lade, drain. 

Lag, sb., the crowd, the lower classes; 
adv ., late. Lag of, later than. 

Lag-end, latter end. 

Lakin, Ladykin, little Lady, the Vir¬ 
gin. 

Lame, to make to appear inferior, to 
surpass, Cym. V. v. 163. 

Lampass, a swelling of the palate in 
horses. 

Land, lawn (?), Temp. IV. i. 130. 

Land-damn, said to be a term used 
for the public denunciation of slan¬ 
derers or adulterers, W. T. II. 
i. 143. 

Land-rakers, vagabonds. 

Languish, lingering disease. 

Lank, to grow thin. 

Lantern. In R. and J. V. iii. 84, some¬ 
times interpreted as a turret full 
of windows by which a church may 
be lighted. 

Lap, to wrap. 

Lapse, sb., error; vb., to slip, fall 
away. 

Lapsed, pp., caught, Tw. N. III. iii. 
36; having been dilatory, Ham. 
III. iv. 107. 

Lard, to enrich, fatten ; to garnish. 

Large, broad, unrestrained; licen¬ 
tious. 

Laron, robber. 

Latch, to catch ; to strike, Lear, II. i. 
54 ; in M. N. D. III. ii. 36, per¬ 
haps = to smear. 

Late, recent; lately appointed, lately 
sent, &c. 

Lated, belated. 

Latten, a mixed metal, made of cop¬ 
per and calamine. 

Laund, lawn; clear space in a forest. 

Lavish, unrestrained, licentious. 

Lavolt, Lavolta, a whirling, bounding 
dance by two persons. 

Law of writ and the liberty, probably, 
following the words as written, 
and improvising, Ham. II. ii. 421. 

Lay, stake, wager. 

Lay, to waylay, beset. 

Lay by, stand. 

Lay for, strive to win. 

Lay up, fold and put away. 

Lazar, leper. 

Lead apes in hell, the proverbial oc¬ 
cupation of old maids in the next 
world. 

Leading, command ; generalship. 

Leaguer, camp. 

Leash, a group of three (hounds be¬ 
ing usually leashed in threes). 

Leasing, lying. 

Leather-coats, golden russets, a kind 
of apple. 

Leave, vb., to cease ; to give away ; 
sb., licence. 

Leech, physician. 

Leer, complexion. 






GLOSSARY 


1225 


Leese, to lose. 

Leet, a manor court , the date of 
such a court. 

Leg, an obeisance. 

’Leges, alleges. 

Legerity, nimbleness. 

Leiger, ambassador. 

Leisure, use of my time, M. for M. 
III. ii. 261. 

Leman, lover, paramour. 

Lendings, external appurtenances, 
Lear, III. iv. 113. 

Length, delay. 

Lenten, spare, scanty, like fare in 
Lent. 

Let, sb., hindrance; vb., hinder; 

detain; forbear. 

Let-alone, hindering. 

Lethe, oblivion ; in J. Caes. III. i. 
206, usually interpreted as death, 
but by Capell explained as the 
blood of a stricken deer. 

Level, sb., range, aim, adj. , straight; 
equal; vb., to aim; to guess; to 
be equal. 

Lewd, base. 

Lewdster, lascivious fellow. 

Liable, subject; fit. 

Libbard,leopard. 

Liberal, licentious, free-spoken. Of 
liberal conceit, rich in fanciful or¬ 
nament. 

Liberty, licence. Liberties of sin, 
wicked libertines, C. of E. I. ii. 
102 . 

Lie, lodge. 

Lief, dear. As lief, as soon. 

Lieger, ambassador. 

Lieutenantry (On —), (by) proxy 
Life. O’ life, on my life. 

Lifter, a thief. 

Light, pp., lighted, fallen. 

Lightly, readily ; usually. 

Light o’ love, the name of a well- 
known tune. 

Like, to compare, resemble; to 
please. Like well, to be in good 
condition of body, thrive. 
Likelihood, indication. 

Liking, bodily condition. 

Limbeck, alembic, still. 

Limb-meal, limb by limb. 

Limbo, the borders of hell. Limbo 
Patrum, the place where the souls 
of the Old Testament saints re¬ 
mained till Christ descended into 
hell. 

Lime, sb., birdlime ; vb., to put lime 
into sack ; to smear with birdlime ; 
to catch with birdlime ; to cement 
as with lime. 

Limit, sb., fixed time. Strength of 
limit, the limited amount of 
strength acquired by a woman be¬ 
fore she goes out after child-bear¬ 
ing ; vb., to appoint. 

Line, sb., caprice, fit of temper, M. 
Wives, IV. ii. 22; T. and C. II. iii. 
139. 

Line, vb., to draw or paint; to 
strengthen. 

Lineal, due by right of birth. 
Line-grove, grove of lime-trees. 

Link, a torch. 

Linsey-woolsey, mixed stuff, jargon. 
Linstock, stick to hold the gunner’s 
match. 


Lip, vb., to kiss. 

Lipsbury pinfold. Unexplained. 
Lear, II. ii. 9. 

Liquor, to smear with tallow to keep 
out water. 

List, sb., desire ; limit, boundary; 

vb., desire ; please. 

Lither, flexible, yielding. 

Little (In —), in miniature. In a 
little, briefly. 

Livelihood, animation. 

Lively, living; life-like. 

Liver, considered the seat of the 
passions. 

Liver-vein, the style of men in love. 
Livery, sb., delivering of an inherit¬ 
ance to the heir; vb., to dress. 
Living, property, income. 

Loach, a small fish. 

Lob, sb., lout; vb., to droop. 
Lockram, a kind of cheap linen. 
Lode-star, pole-star. 

Lodge, beat down. 

Loggats, small logs used in a game 
in which they are thrown at a mark. 
Long, to belong. 

Long of, on account of. 

Longly, longingly. 

Loof, luff, bring close to the wind. 
Look, look for, search out. 

Loon, rascal; clowu. 

Loop, loop-hole. 

Looped, full of openings. 

Loose, discharge (of an arrow). 
Loosely, wantonly. 

Lop, faggots cut from a tree. 

Lord’s sake (For the —), the sup¬ 
plication of imprisoned debtors to 
the passers-by. 

Lord’s tokens, plague-spots on the 
body. 

Lose, to forget; to cause to be lost. 
Loss, desertion, W. T. II. iii. 192. 
Lots, the tickets in a lottery. 

Lots to blanks, more than likely. 
Lottery, prize in a lottery. 

Lout, vb., mock. 

Love-day, a day for settling quarrels. 
Love-in-idleness, the pansy, hearts¬ 
ease. 

Lover, mistress; friend. 

Loves (Of all —), for love’s sake, by 
all means. 

Love-springs, shoots or buds of love. 
Lower chair, easy-cliair. 

Lown, a base fellow. 

Lozel, a worthless fellow. 

Lubber, blunder for “libbard,” i. e. 

leopard, 2 Hen. IV, II. i. 30. 

Luce, pike. 

Lud’s town, London. 

Lumpish, dull. 

Lunes, fits of madness, W. T. II. 
ii. 30. 

Lurch, to lurk ; to win easily a com¬ 
plete victory. 

Lure, something used to attract a 
falcon, a call, or decoy. 

Lush, juicy. 

Lust-breathed, animated by lust. 
Lustihood, bodily vigor. 

Luxurious, lustful. 

Luxury, lust. 

Lym, a bloodhound. 

Maculate, stained, impure. 
Maculation, stain. 


Made-up, complete. 

Maggot-pie, magpie. 

Magnifico, a grandee of Venice. 

Maid Marian, Robin Hood’s sweet¬ 
heart ; later, a character in the 
morris-dance. 

Mail, sb., wallet, L. L. L. III. i. 74; 
vb., to wrap (as with a cloth round 
a hawk’s wings), 2 Hen. VI, II. iv. 
31 • 

Main, mainland ; chief power; stake 
in gambling. 

Main-course, main-sail. 

Maintenance, power of defence. 

Major, first proposition of a syllo¬ 
gism (punning on “ Mayor,” prob¬ 
ably). 

Make, vb., to fasten, bar ; make the 
fortune of ; do ; move, go ; to be¬ 
have (see Nice, Dainty, etc.). 

Make, sb., mate, husband or wife. 

Makeless, mateless, widowed. 

Malapert, saucy. 

Male, father, 3 Hen. VI, V. vi. 15. 

Malkin, a coarse wench. 

Mallard, a wild drake. 

Mallecho (Span, malhecho), mischief. 

Malmsey, a sweet wine. 

Malt-horse, a brewer’s horse. 

Malt-worm, a beer tippler. 

Mammering, hesitating. 

Maramet, a doll. 

Mammock, tear in pieces. 

Man, vb., to tame (a hawk) ; to fur¬ 
nish with a man, or a servant. 

Manage, sb., training; government, 
direction ; course in the lists; 
vb., train ; wield. 

Mandragora, mandrake, a soporific. 

Mandrake, the plant Atropa man- 
dragora, the root of which was 
thought to resemble the figure of 
a man, and which was supposed, 
when pulled up, to utter shrieks 
which drove the hearer mad. 

Man-entered, entered into manhood. 

Mankind, adj., masculine. 

Manner (With the —), in the fact. 

Man-queller, manslayer. 

Mantle, sb., scum on the surface of 
stagnant water; vb., to form such 
a scum. 

Manure, to till. 

Mappery, study of maps (used con¬ 
temptuously as being bookish, the¬ 
oretical). 

Marches, border-country. 

Marchpane, a kind of sweet cake, 
with almonds, etc. 

Mare, nightmare. To ride the wild 
mare, to play at see-saw. 

Margent, margin, border, edge. The 
margin of books was often used for 
comment, cf. Ham. V. ii. 162. 

Marisli, marsh. (Old edd. read 
“ nourish.”) 1 Hen. VI, I. i. 50. 

Mark, thirteen shillings and four- 
pence. 

Mark, race. God bless the mark, a 
common phrase used to avert evil 
omen or as a slight apology. 

Market. He ended the market, 
L. L. L. III. i. Ill, an allusion to 
the saying, “Three women aud a 
goose make a market.” 

Marmoset, a kind of monkey. 

Marry, by (the Virgin) Mary. 











1226 


GLOSSARY 


Mart, market; bargain. 

Martial, like Mars, Cyin. IV. ii. 310. 

Martin’s summer (St. —), tine weather 
about St. Martin’s Day (Nov. 11), 
after winter has begun. 

Martlemas, Martinmas. See above. 
In 2 Hen. IV, II. ii. 110, usually in¬ 
terpreted as referring to Falstatf’s 
being youthful in the autumn of 
life ; but perhaps the allusion is to 
the fat ox killed at Martinmas for 
the winter’s provision. 

Martyr, maltreat, disfigure. 

Mary-buds, marigold buds. 

Master of fence, one who has taken 
the master’s degree in fencing. 

Masterly, adj ., of great proficiency. 

Mastic, stopped with mastic gum, 
used for filling decayed teeth. 

Match, appointment; compact. 

Mate, sb ., fellow; vb., marry ; match; 
confound. 

Material, full of matter, A. Y L. 
III. iii. 32. 

Matin, morning. 

Maugre, in spite of. 

Maund, basket. 

Maw, stomach. 

Mazzard, head. 

Meacock, spiritless, effeminate. 

Mealed, mingled. 

Mean, sb ., means; in music, the in¬ 
termediate part between treble and 
tenor ; vb., to enjoy moderately. 

Measles, lepers, scurvy fellows. 

Measurable, appropriate. 

Measure, a stately dance, or the 
music for it. 

Medicinable, medicinal. 

Medicine, sb., a physician, All’s 
Well, II. i. 75 ; vb., to heal, re¬ 
store. 

Meed, merit. 

Meet, adj., even, quits; vb., meet 
with, check. 

Meetly, proper, fitting. 

Meiny, retinue. 

Mell, meddle, have to do. 

Memorize, make memorable. 

Memory, memorial. 

Mends, remedy (?), T. and C. I. i. G8. 

Mercatante (Ital.), merchant. 

Merchant, fellow; merchantman. 

Mercy. By mercy, by your leave (?), 
T. of A. III. v. 55. 

Mere, absolute, entire. 

Mered, sole, entire. 

Merely, absolutely, entirely. 

Merit, reward. 

Mermidons, in Tw. N. II. iii. 29, the 
Fool’s form of “Myrmidons,” the 
followers of Achilles. 

Mervailous, a nonsense-word of Pis¬ 
tol’s. 

Meshed, mashed. 

Mess, a party of four. Lower messes, 
inferior classes. 

Metaphysical, supernatural. 

Mete, measure. Mete at, judge in 
aiming. 

Mete-yard, measuring yard. 

Metheglin, a drink made from honey 
and other ingredients. 

Mew, shut up. 

Micher, truant. 

Miching, sneaking, skulking. 

Mickle, great. 


Middle-earth, the terrestrial world. 

Milch, giving milk; figuratively, 
shedding tears. 

Mill-sixpences, coins, first minted in 
the coining-mill in 1561. 

Mince, to affect; to walk, talk, or 
act affectedly. 

Mind, to intend, be disposed ; to re¬ 
member ; to remind. 

Mineral, a mine. 

Mingle, sb., mixture, union. 

Minikin, little. 

Minim, originally, the shortest note 
in music; a very short period. 

Minimus, a very small thing. 

Minion, darling; a spoiled favorite, 
a saucy person. 

Minstrelsy, function of a minstrel, 
who narrated entertaining tales. 

Minute-jacks, time-servexs. 

Mirable, admirable. 

Misereate, illegitimate. 

Miser, wretch. 

Misprize, undervalue ; mistake. 

Misprision, mistake, undervaluing. 

Misproud, viciously pi-oud. 

Miss, sb., misconduct, error; feeling 
the want of ; vb., dispense with. 

Missingly, regretfully. 

Missive, messenger. 

Mistaken, misjudged, Hen. VIII, I. 
i. 195. 

Mistempered, ill-tempered, wrathful. 
In R. and J. I. i. 94, sometimes in¬ 
terpreted = tempered to an evil 
purpose. 

Mistreadings, sins. 

Mistress, the jack or small ball at 
which aim is taken in bowling. 

Mistrustful, begetting suspicion. 

Misuse, sb., offence; vb., deceive; 
revile. 

Mobled, with the head muffled. 

Model, mould ; copy. In Rich. II, 
V. i. 11, perhaps = plot. 

Modern, trite, ordinary. 

Modest, moderate. 

Modesty, moderation ; decency. 

Module, image, form. 

Moe, more. 

Moiety, portion. 

Moldwarp, mole. 

Molestation, turmoil. 

Morne, blockhead. 

Momentany, momentary. 

Monarcho, a mad Italian of the time 
of Elizabeth, who thought himself 
sovereign of the world. 

Monster, vb., to make monstrous. 

Monstruosity, extraordinary nature. 

Montant, an upright thrust in fencing. 

Month’s mind, strong desire. 

Monumental, memorial. 

Mood, anger ; grief ; expression. 

Moon-calf, abortion. 

Moonish, inconstant. 

Moon’s men, highwaymen. 

Mop, grimace. 

Mope, to drowse, be dazed. 

Moral, sb., hidden meaning, adj., 
moralizing vb., to moralize. 

More and less great and small. 

Morisco, morris-dancer. 

Morris-pike, Moorish pike. 

Mort, the notes on the horn blown at 
the death of the deer. 

Mortal, deadly ; excessive. 


Mortified, insensible ; ascetic. 

Mortise, sb., the hole cut in one piece 
of wood to receive the correspond¬ 
ing projection on another; vb., to 
join with a mortise. 

Mose in the chine, a disease in horses. 

Mot, motto, sentence. 

Mother, the disease hysterica passio. 

Motion, sb., pi'oposal; motive, at¬ 
tempt to move ; impulse, emotion; 
sense, perception; a puppet-show ; 
a puppet; vb., to propose. 

Motive, agent, instrument; member. 

Motley, a fool’s parti-colored dress; 
a fool. 

Mought, might. 

Mould, earth. Men of mould, mortal 
men. 

Moulten, having cast its feathers. 

Mountant, lifted. 

Mouse, sb., a term of endearment; 
vb., to tear, as a cat does a mouse. 

Mouse-hunt, a petticoat-hunter (?). 

Mouthed, gaping. 

Mow, grimace. 

Moy, a coin (?); a measure of corn (?). 

Muleter, muleteer. 

Mulled, dulled, insipid. 

Multipotent, very powerful. 

Mum. To play at mumbudget, to keep 
silent. 

Mummer, masquerader. 

Mummy, a medicine, supposed to 
have magical qualities, made from 
dead bodies. 

Muniments, war-supplies. 

Murdering-piece, a kind of cannon, 
sometimes loaded with case- or 
grape-shot. 

Mure, wall. 

Murk, darkness. 

Murrain, infected with the murrain, 
a disease among cattle. 

Muscadel, a sweet wine. 

Muse, to wonder ; to wonder at. 

Muset, the hole in a hedge through 
which a hare is accustomed to go. 

Muss, scramble. 

Mutine, sb., mutineer; vb., mutiny, 
rebel. 

Mutiner, mutineer, rebel. 

Mutton, slang for courtesan. 

Mynheers, gentlemen, M. Wives, II. 
i. 228. 

Mystery, trade, profession ; profes¬ 
sional skill. 

Napkin, handkerchief. 

Native, at home, domestic; natural. 

Natural, sb., idiot. 

Naught, lost. Be naught a while, 
Devil take you. 

Naughty, wicked. 

Nave, navel. 

Nay ward, tendency to contradict. 

Nayword, watchword; by-word. 

Ne, nor. 

Neaf, fist. 

Near, nearer. 

Near-legged, knock-kneed. 

Neb, bill (of a bird). 

Needful, important; being in need. 

Needless, having no need. 

Needly, necessarily. 

Neeld, needle. 

Neeze, sneeze. 

Neglection, neglect. 






GLOSSARY 


1227 


Neighbourhood, friendly tetms. 

Nephew, cousin ; grandchild. 

Nerve, sinew. 

Nether-stocks, stockings. 

Next, nearest. 

Nice, fine ; scrupulous ; trifling ; pre¬ 
carious ; precise; prudish. To 
make nice, to be scrupulous. 

Nicholas. St. Nicholas’ clerks, high¬ 
waymen. 

Nick, sb., a notch made on a tally- 
stick, hence, out of all nick == out 
of all reckoning; vb., to cut the 
hair in notches like a fool’s ; to 
mark with folly. In the nick, at 
the right moment. 

Niece, grand-daughter. 

Nighted, dark. 

Night-rule, revelry. 

Nill, will not. 

Nine-fold. Unexplained. “ Nine 
foals” and ‘‘nine familiars” have 
been suggested ; Lear, III. iv. 126. 

Nine men’s morris, a game somewhat 
resembling draughts, often played 
on the turf by rustics. 

Nit, the egg of a louse. 

Noble, a gold coin worth six shillings 
and eightpence. 

Noblesse, nobility. 

Nod. “ To give the nod was a term 
in the game at cards called Noddy. 
The word also signifies a silly 
fellow. Cressid means to call Pan- 
darus a noddy, and says he shall 
by more nods be made more sig¬ 
nificantly a fool.” (Singer.) T. 
and C. I. ii. 211. 

Noddy, a fool. 

Noise, a band of musicians. 

Nole, noddle, head. 

Nonage, minority. 

Noncome, blunder for “non-plus,” 
M. Ado, III. v. 67. 

Nook-shotten, full of nooks, running 
out into capes, etc., or shot into a 
corner, remote, Hen. V, III. v. 14. 

Nose-herbs, sweet-smelling flowers. 

Not, not only. 

Note, observation ; stigma ; list, writ¬ 
ing ; distinction ; remark. 

Notedly, precisely. 

Nothing-gift, gift of no value. 

Not-pated,with the hair close cropped. 

Nousle, nurse. 

Novum, a game at dice, properly ‘ 4 no- 
vem quinque.” 

Noyance, injury. 

Nuncio, messenger. 

Nuncle, uncle, the usual address of a 
fool to his master. 

Nurture, cultivation. 

Nut-hook, »atchpole. 

O’ of; on. 

Oathable, capable of taking an oath. 

Ob., abbreviation for obolus , half¬ 
penny. 

Obliged, bound by contract. 

Oblivious, causing forgetfulness. 

Obsequious, concerned with funeral 
ceremonies. 

Observance, observation ; ceremony ; 
homage. 

Observant, obsequious follower. 

Observation, ceremony, M. N. D. 
IV. i. 109. 


Observe, to show respectful attention 
to. 

Obstacle, blunder for “obstinate,” 
1 Hen. VI, V. iv. 17. 

Obstruct, obstacle, A. and C. III. vi. 
61. (Ff. read “ abstract.”) 

Occulted, hidden. 

Occupation, trade. 

Occupy, engage (in Shakespeare’s 
time with the additional sense of) 
in licentious activities. 

Occurrents, happenings. 

Odd, at odds, T. and C. IV. v. 265. 

Odd-even, time between midnight 
and one in the morning (?), Oth. I. 
i. 124. 

Odds, discord; advantage allowed. 

Odorous, blunder for “odious,” M. 
Ado, III. v. 18. 

’Ods, corruption of “God’s” in vari¬ 
ous oaths. 

CEillades, amorous glances. 

O’erblow, blow away, disperse. 

O’ercount, outnumber; overreach(?), 
A. and C. II. vi. 27. 

O’ercrow, triumph over, overcome. 

O’ergreen, cover with green. 

O’ergrown, covered with hair; su¬ 
perannuated. 

O’erlook, bewitch. 

O’erparted, having too difficult a 
part assigned. 

O’erpost, get quickly over. 

O’erraught, overtook; cheated. 

O’ersized, smeared with something 
glutinous. 

O'erteemed, exhausted by child¬ 
bearing. 

0’erwatched,worn out with watching. 

O’erwrested, over-strained. 

Of, on ; by ; from ; during; in. 

Off, beside the mark. 

Offer, to attack ; to try. 

Office, vb ., to perform domestic or 
other service; to hinder officiously. 

Offices, apartments used for domes¬ 
tic service. 

Officious, ready to help. 

Old, plentiful, great, or merely as a 
vague intensive, Temp. I. ii. 369 ; 
Macb. II. iii. 2. 

’Old, wold. 

Omen, event preceded by portents. 

On, of. 

Once, sometime ; once for all. 

Oneyer, perhaps one with suffix -per, 
as in lawyer, 1 Hen. IV, II. i. 84. 

Open, to give tongue (as a hound on 
finding the trail). 

Opener, revealer. 

Operant, active. 

Opinion, reputation; arrogance, con¬ 
ceit. 

Opinioned, blunder for “pinioned,” 
M. Ado, IV. ii. 69. 

Opposite, sb ., adversary; adj., ad¬ 
verse. 

Oppress, suppress. 

Oppugnancy, opposition. 

Or, before. 

Orb, orbit; circle ; the earth. 

Order. Take order, adopt measures. 

Ordinance, rank; ordnance. 

Ordinant, controlling. 

Ordinary, a dinner where each man 
pays the same, a table d'hote. 

Orgillous, haughty. 


Original, origin, source. 

Orphan, without parents, of super¬ 
natural origin, M. Wives, V. v. 43. 

Ort, leaving, scrap. 

Ostent, external show. 

Ostentation, show, spectacle. 

Othergates, in another way. 

Ottomite, Ottoman, Turk. 

Ouches, ornaments, jewels. 

Ought, owed, 1 Hen. IV, III. iii. 152. 

Ouplies, elves. 

Ousel, blackbird. 

Out, at a loss ; at odds ; in rags ; in 
the field ; at an end ; quite, fully ; 
on the wrong scent; out of. 

Outbrave, to excel in beauty or in/ 
bravery. 

Outlook, to face down. 

Outpeer, surpass. 

Outrage, outburst of rage. 

Outspeak, indicate as excessive. 

Outvied, beaten by a higher card. 

Outward, uninitiated, All’s Well, 
III. i. 11 

Overgone, overpowered. 

Overhold, over-estimate. 

Over-red, redden. 

Overscutched, over-whipped (?), 
worn with too much service (?), 2 
Hen. IV, III. ii. 340. 

Over-swear, swear again. 

Overture, disclosure. 

Owe, own. 

Oxlip, a kind of cowslip. 

Oyes! Hear ye ! the usual beginning 
of an announcement by the public 
crier. 

Pace, to train (a horse). 

Pack, vb., to conspire ; sb., a group 
of conspirators. 

Paddock,toad. 

Page, follow like a page. 

Pain, penalty. 

Painted cloth, cloth painted with 
scenes, figures, moral sentences, 
etc., and used as hangings for 
rooms. 

Pajock, peacock. 

Palabras (Span.), words. 

Palate, vb., to taste, to taste of. 

Pale, paleness; enclosure. 

Pali sad oes, palisades, stakes used for 
defence. 

Pall, to wrap up. 

Palliament, robe. 

Panderly, like panders or procurers. 

Pantaloon, an old fool, a stock char¬ 
acter from Italian comedy. 

Pantler, servant in charge of the 
pantry. 

Paper, to set down in the paper or 
list (?), Hen. VIII, I. i. 80. 

Paragon, vb., to serve as pattern for; 
to compare. 

Parcel, sb., a part; a party; vb., to 
particularize; in A. and C. V. ii. 
163, apparently, to increase, make 
up into larger bulk; adv., partly, 
as in “ parcel-gilt.” 

Pard,leopard. 

Pardon, excuse. 

Parfect, blunder for “ present ” or 
“perform,” L. L. L. V. ii. 503. 

Parish-top, a large top used for exer¬ 
cise by the peasants in cold w’ea- 
ther. 





1228 


GLOSSARY 


’Paritor, apparitor or summoner of 
the Bishop’s Court. 

Parle, sb., parley, conference ; vb., to 
speak. 

Parlous, corruption of “perilous,” 
often used merely as intensive. 

Parmaceti, corruption of “ sperma¬ 
ceti.” 

Part, vb., to leave, depart; sb., party. 

Partake, take sides; impart. 

Partaker, partner. 

Parted, gifted, T. and C. III. iii. 96. 

Partial slander, reproach of partial¬ 
ity. 

Partialize, to make partial. 

Participate, participating. 

Particular, sb., private concern. 

Particularly, with a single person, 
T. of A. I. i. 46. 

Partisan, a kind of halberd. 

Partlet, the name of the hen in Rey¬ 
nard the Fox. 

Party, part. 

Party-verdict, a share in the verdict. 

Pash, sb., head ; vb., smash. 

Pass, vb., pass belief ; die ; pass sen¬ 
tence ; regard; disregard; per¬ 
form ; give ; sb., reputation ; trick; 
passage. Pass upon, impose upon. 
Pass of fate, sally of wit. Pass of 
practice, secret thrust. 

Passable, sufficient to procure admis¬ 
sion; that may be passed through. 

Passado, a forward motion in fencing. 

Passage, coming and going; travel; 
occurrence ; passing away, death ; 
course ; action ; carrying off a dead 
body. Passages of grossness, gross 
impositions. 

Passant, walking. 

Passing, exceeding ; exceedingly. 

Passion, sb., any strong emotional 
disturbance; suffering, grief; dis¬ 
ease; vb., to feel; to grieve; to 
express feeling, especially grief. 

Passionate, (idj., sorrowful; express¬ 
ing strong emotion ; vb., to express 
strong emotion. 

Passy measures pavin, corruption of 
“passamezzo pavin,” a slow and 
stately dance. If it means any¬ 
thing in Tw. N. V. i. 207, it prob¬ 
ably implies that the surgeon is a 
solemn fool. 

Past-proportion, excess. 

Pastry, room in which the pastry is 
made. 

Patch, fool. 

Patched, parti-colored, like a fool’s 
dress. 

Patchery, trickery. 

Path, go (?), J. C;es. II. i. 83. 

Pathetical, used in a purposely af¬ 
fected way, with only a vague in¬ 
tensive force, L. L. L. IV. i. 150. 

Patient, vb., to compose oneself. 

Patine, plate of metal. 

Patronage, vb., to patronize, protect. 

Pattern, masterpiece; example; imi¬ 
tation. 

Pauca, for (Lat.) pnuca verba, few 
words. 

Paucas pallabris, (Span ,)pocas pala- 
bras, few words. 

Paunch, vb., to rip up the belly. 

Paved, laid with stones. 

Pawn, pledge. 


Pax, a small tablet with a sacred de¬ 
sign on it offered to the laity to be 
kissed during mass. In Hen. V, 
III. vi. 42, it is probably a mistake 
for “pyx,” the casket in which 
the consecrated wafer was kept, as 
we read in Holinshed, “a souldier 
tooke a pix out of a church.” 

Pay, beat, punish, requite. 

Peace-parted, having died in peace, 
not by violent means. 

Peach, impeach, accuse. 

Peak, grow emaciated ; sneak, mope. 

Peat, darling. 

Peck, pitch. 

Pedant, schoolmaster. 

Pedascule, pedant. 

Peeled, shaven, tonsured. 

Peer, to appear, to let appear. 

Peevish, childish, trifling, silly; fret¬ 
ful. 

Peg-a-Ramsey, name of an old song. 

Peise, to balance; to weigh down; to 
retard. 

Pelt, to clamor, shout abuse. 

Pelting, paltry. 

Penitent, doing penance. 

Pensioner, a member of the sover¬ 
eign’s body-guard of Gentlemen 
Pensioners. 

Pent-house, a lean-to. 

Penurious, necessitous. 

Perch, a measure of length. 

Perdu, a soldier sent on a forlorn 
hope. 

Perdurable, lasting. 

Perdy (Fr. par dieu), by God, truly. 

Peregrinate, foreign. 

Peremptory, bold; determined. 

Perfect, adj., well-informed; fully 
prepared ; vb., to instruct fully. 

Perforce, by violence; of necessity. 
Force perforce, of necessity. 

Periapt, amulet. 

Period, end. 

Perishen, to perish. 

Perjure, sb., perjurer; vb., to cause 
to commit perjury, corrupt. 

Perpend, consider. 

Perplex, bewilder, confound. 

Persever, persevere. 

Persistive, persistent. 

Personage, external appearance. 

Personate, represent. 

Perspective, a glass which produced 
optical illusions. 

Perspectively, as through a perspec¬ 
tive. 

Persuade, to try to persuade. Per¬ 
suade of, to have a good opinion 
of. 

Pert, lively, saucy. 

Pervert, avert, turn aside. 

Pester, infest. 

Petar, a kind of bomb. 

Pew-fellow, companion, partner. 

Phantasime, a fantastic. 

Phantasma, a vision. 

Pheezar, a word coined by the host 
in M. Wives, I. iii. 10. 

Pheeze, to trouble, annoy, torment. 

Philip, a name for a sparrow. 

Philip and Jacob, May 1st. 

Philippan, used at the battle of Phi¬ 
lippi. 

Phraseless, indescribable. 

Physical, wholesome. 


Pia mater, membrane covering the 
brain, and so the brain itself. 

Pick, pitch. 

Picked, refined, affected. 

Pickers, thieves, t. e., fingers. 

Picking, insignificant. 

Pick-thank, a toady. 

Pickt-hatch, a disreputable quarter 
of London. 

Piece, cask of wine. 

Pight, pitched. 

Pig-nuts, earth-nuts. 

Pilcher, scabbard. 

Piled, a quibble on piled = peeled, 
bald (from the French disease) and 
piled = a quality of velvet, M. for 
M. I. ii. 35. 

Pill, to plunder. 

Pillicock, a term of endearment. 

Pin, the centre of the target. 

Pin and web, cataract (of the eye). 

Pin-buttock, a thin buttock. 

Pinched, destroyed (?), discolored 
(?), T. Gent. IV. ir. 160. 

Pinfold, a pound. 

Pink eyne, small, half-shut eyes. 

Pinked, decorated with small holes. 

Pioned, channelled (?), or, more 
probably, overgrown with the 
peonv or marsh-marigold, Temp. 
IV. i. 64. 

Pioner, pioneer. 

Pip, a spot on cards. 

Pipe-wine, wine from the pipe or 
cask, with pun on pipe, the musical 
instrument, M. Wives, III. ii. 90. 

Pitch, the height to which a falcon 
soars. 

Pittikins, diminutive of “ pity,” 
used in the oath, ’Ods pittikins = 
God’s pity. 

Place, dwelling-place; pitch of a 
falcon; precedence. 

Placket, some part of or opening in 
a woman’s dress, not definitely de¬ 
termined ; a woman. 

Plain, explain; complain. 

Plain-dealer, simpleton. 

Plain-dealing, honesty. 

Plain-song, simple melody. 

Planched, made of planks. 

Plant, sole of the foot. 

Plantage, vegetation. 

Plantain, a herb used for healing. 

Plantation, colonization. 

Plash, pool. 

Plate, sb., coin; vb., to clothe in 
plate-armor. 

Platform, scheme. 

Plausibly, by acclamation. 

Plausive, plausible, pleasing. 

Play, play for. 

Pleached,interwoven. 

Pleaseman, flatterer. 

Pliant, yielding occasion. 

Plighted, folded, involved. 

Plume up, prank up, gratify. 

Plurisy, plethora, excess (of blood). 

Point, a tagged lace. To point, ex¬ 
actly. At point, At a point, com¬ 
pletely, fully prepared. At ample 
point, in perfection. Point-device 
or Point-devise, precise, exact. 

Point, Point of war, set of notes on 
a trumpet. In Cor. IV. vi. 125, 
points = commands (as if given by 
trumpet). 








GLOSSARY 


1229 


Pointing-stock, laughing-stock. 
Poise, weight. 

Poke, pouch. 

Poking-stick, instrument for ironing 
the plaits of ruffs. 

Polack, a Pole. 

Pole, standard; sometimes inter¬ 
preted as pole-star, A. and C. IV. 
xv. 65. 

Pole-clipt, in which the poles are 
dipt or twined about by the vines. 
Policy, cunning, stratagem. 

Politic, dealing with statecraft, Tw. 

N. II. v. 174. 

Polled, cleared, bared. 

Pollusion, blunder for “ allusion,” 

L. L L. IV. ii. 46. 

Pomander, a perfume-ball. 
Pomewater, a kind of apple. 
Pomgarnet, (probably) pomegranate. 
Poop, overwhelm, like a heavy sea 

breaking over the poop of a vessel. 
Poor-John, hake salted and dried. 
Poperin, a kind of pear. 

Popinjay, parrot. 

Popular, vulgar. 

Popularity, vulgarity. 

Populous, numerous. 

Porpentine, porcupine. 

Porringer, a bowl; a bowl-shaped 
cap. 

Port, bearing; gate. 

Portable, tolerable. 

Portage, port-holes; harbor-dues. 
Portance, conduct. 

Portly, of good deportment, hand¬ 
some. 

Possess, inform ; give possession of. 
Possession, madn *ss. 

Posset, curdle, thicken. 

Possitable, blunder for “ positively,” 

M. Wives, I. i. 244. 

Post off, put off carelessly. 

Poster, swift traveler. 

Posy, motto. 

Pot. To the pot, to destruction. 
Potable, drinkable. 

Potch, thrust. 

Pother, ado, turmoil. 

Potting, drinking. 

Pottle, a drinking vessel holding two 
quarts. 

Poulter, poulterer. 

Pouncet-box, a perfume-box with a 
perforated lid. 

Powder, to salt. 

Powdering-tub, salting-tub; used es¬ 
pecially of the hot bath for the 
cure of venereal disease. 

Practice, artifice, device ; conspiracy, 
treachery. 

Practisant, fellow-conspirator. 
Practise, to use stratagems; to con¬ 
spire, plot. 

Praise, appraise, Tw. N. I. v. 268. 
Pray in aid, to call in to help. 
Precedent, adj., former; sb., origi¬ 
nal draft; presage, indication. 
Precept, warrant, summons. 
Preceptial, consisting of precepts. 
Precurrer, forerunner. 

Predict, prediction. 

Prefer, present; advance ; recom¬ 
mend. 

Pregnancy, ready wit. 

Pregnant, clever ; ready, quick; 
clear, obvious. 


Premised, sent before their time. 

Prenominate, forename. 

Prenzie, precise (?), demure (?), M. 
for M. III. i. 94, 97. 

Preposterous, blunder for “ prosper¬ 
ous,” W. T. V. ii. 159. 

Prescript, sb., order; adj., prescrip¬ 
tive. 

Presence, person ; room of state. 

Present, sb., present time, occasion, 
discussion, possession ; vb., repre¬ 
sent. 

Presentation, semblance, pretence. 

Presently, immediately. 

Presentment, representation; pre¬ 
sentation. 

Press, sb., commission to enrol sol¬ 
diers by compulsion; vb., to force 
into military service. 

Press-money, money given to im¬ 
pressed soldiers. 

Pressure, impression. 

Prest, ready. 

Prester John, a fabulous eastern 
king. 

Presuppose, impose. 

Pretence, intention. 

Pretend, intend, mean ; allege. 

Prevail, avail. 

Prevailment, power. 

Prevent, anticipate. 

Prick, sb. , point on a dial; centre of 
a target; a skewer, prickle ; vb ., 
to mark (by means of a puncture); 
to stick. 

Pricket, a buck of the second year. 

Prick-song, music sung from notes, 
written harmony. 

Pride, sexual desire, Lucr. 438. 

Prig, thief. 

Prime, sb., spring ; adj., chief; lust¬ 
ful. 

Primers, a game at cards. 

Primy, early, in the spring. 

Prince, vb., to play the prince. 

Principality, an angel of a high order. 

Principals, the main timbers of a 
building. 

Princox, a pert youth. 

Print. In print, accurately, exactly. 

Priser, prizefighter. 

Private, sb., privacy; personal com¬ 
munication. 

Prize, sb., contest for a prize ; privi¬ 
lege ; estimate ; vb., repute, esti¬ 
mate. 

Prizer, appraiser, T. and C. II. ii. 56. 

Probal. probable. 

Probation, proof, test. 

Process, summons; manner of hap¬ 
pening, story. 

Procreant, for producing offspring. 

Procurator, substitute, proxy. 

Procure, act as procuress; cause to 
come. 

Prodigiously, by monstrous births. 

Proditor, traitor. 

Proface, much good may it do you. 

Professed, full of professions, Lear, 
I. i. 275. 

Progeny, descent, ancestry. 

Progress, royal journey. 

Project, set forth. 

Projection, plan. 

Prolixious, wearisome. 

Prolong, defer. 

Prompture, instigation. 


Proof, sb., armor proved impenetra¬ 
ble ; impenetrability ; experience, 
a matter proved by experience; 
adj., impenetrable. 

Propagate, to increase. 

Propagation, increase. 

Propend, incline. 

Propension, inclination. 

Proper, one’s own, peculiar; fine, 
handsome. 

Proper-false, handsome and false. 

Property, sb., a thing, chattel ; indi¬ 
viduality ; vb., to use, make a tool 
of; to endow with qualities. 

Proportion, estimated number; por¬ 
tion. 

Propose, vb., converse, imagine, con¬ 
template ; sb., conversation. 

Proposer, one who proposes or ad¬ 
ministers an oath. 

Propriety, individuality, identity. 

Propuguation, defence. 

Prorogue, defer; prolong; weaken 
by postponing action. 

Protest, proclaim. 

Protractive, long drawn out. 

Provand, provender. 

Provincial, belonging to an ecclesi¬ 
astical province. P. roses, rosettes. 

Provision, foresight. 

Provoke, call forth; impel; insti¬ 
gate. 

Prune, to arrange the plumage. 

Puck, an elf, goblin. 

Pudder, turmoil. 

Pudency, modesty. 

Pugging, thieving. 

Puisny, unskilful, like a novice. 

Puke, to vomit. 

Puke-stocking, a dark-colored stock¬ 
ing (?), 1 Hen. IV, II. iv. 78. 

Pulpiter, preacher (Ff. reads “ Jupi¬ 
ter ”), A. Y. L. III. ii. 163. 

Pulsidge, blunder for “pulse,” 2 
Hen. IV, II. iv. 25. 

Pun, to pound, smash. 

Punk, a strumpet. 

Punto, a thrust (in fencing). Punto 
reverso (Ital. punla riversa), a 
back-handed stroke. 

Purchase, sb., gain, acquisition ; 
booty; vb., to acquire; to get by 
unfair means. 

Purl, curl. 

Purple, the purple orchis ( orchis 
nmscula). 

Push, pshaw ! pish ! Used as sb. in 
M. Ado, V. i. 38. 

Push-pin, a children’s game. 

Put, with infinitive, to make, as in 
“ put to know,” etc. Put on, to 
instigate. Put on or upon, impart; 
impose on. Put over, refer. Put 
in, intercede ; make a claim. 

Putter-out, investor, speculator. 

Puttock, a kite. 

Puzzel, a drab, 

Pyramis, pyramid. 

Quail, vb., to overpower; to faint, 
slacken ; sb., a loose woman. 

Quaint, ingenious, clever; fine, 
dainty. 

Qualification, appeasing. 

Qualify, moderate, weaken. 

Quality, profession, especially that of 
acting. 










1230 


GLOSSARY 


Quarrel, occasion of dispute. In 
Hen. VIII, II. iii. 14, perhaps = 
arrow, perhaps — quarreller. 

Quarrellous, quarrelsome. 

Quarry, hunted game ; heap of dead. 

Quart d'ecu, a quarter of a French 
crown. 

Quarter, allotted post; good terms. 

Quartered, belonging to the different 
quarters of an army. 

Quat, pimple. 

Quatch-buttock, a flat buttock. 

Quean, wench. 

Queasiness, nausea. 

Queasy, squeamish ; nauseated; deli¬ 
cate. 

Quell, murder. 

Quench, grow cool. 

Quern, a hand-mill. 

Quest, inquest. 

Questant, aspirant. 

Question, sb., conversation, discus¬ 
sion ; subject of dispute, point; 
vb., to discuss, converse. 

Questionable, inviting discussion. 

Questrists, seekers. 

Quick, alive ; lively ; fresh , pregnant. 

Quicken, make alive ; revive. 

Quiddity, legal subtlety. 

Quietus, settlement. 

Quill. In the quill, written out in 
order (?), all together (?), 2 Hen. 
VI, I. iii. 4. 

Quillet, legal quibble. 

Quintain, a wooden block used to tilt 
at. 

Quire, vb., to sing in concert; sb., 
company; chorus, choir. 

Quit, to set free ; to requite, avenge; 
to remit; to acquit. 

Quittal, requital. 

Quittance, sb., discharge ; requital ; 
vb., to requite. 

Quiver, nimble. 

Quoif, a cap, hood. 

Quote, observe. 

Rabato, a kind of ruff. 

Rabbit-sucker, a sucking rabbit. 

Race, root ; breed ; herd ; tempera¬ 
ment. 

Rack, sb., cloud; vb., to float like 
clouds; strain. 

Raged, enraged. 

Ragged,rough ; beggarly. 

Raging wood, raging mad. 

Rake, cover, Lear, IV. vi. 281. 

Ramp, strumpet (?), Cym. I. vi. 134. 

Rampallian, a term of abuse for a 
woman. 

Rampired, barricaded. 

Range, vb., to arrange in order; to 
be arranged in order, to be ranked ; 
sb., rank. 

Rank, sb., row ; in A. Y. L. III. ii. 
103, perhaps the jog-trot of a row 
of market-women ; adj., strong, 
excessive, luxuriant; gross, foul; 
lustful; strong-smelling. 

Rankle, to poison. 

Rankness, exuberance, insolence. 

Rap, to enrapture. 

Rapt, carried away by feeling ; lost 
in thought. 

Rapture, a fit, Cor. II. i. 223 ; vio¬ 
lence, Per. II. i. 161. 

Rascal, a deer not in condition. 


Rash, sudden, quick. 

Rashly, hastily. 

Rate, sb., estimate, value ; rate of 
living ; vb., to estimate ; to reckon 
on ; to assign ; to scold. 

Rato-lorum, blunder for “ rotulo- 
rum,” in M. Wives, I. i. 8. 

Raught, reached. 

Ravel, to entangle; to become en¬ 
tangled. 

Ravel out, to disentangle. 

Ravin, vb., to devour greedily ; adj., 
ravenous. 

Ravin’d, ravenous. 

Rawly, without preparation or pro¬ 
tection. 

Rawness, want of preparation and 
protection. 

Rayed, defiled; afflicted (?). T. of S. 
III. ii. 54. 

Raze, sb., a root; vb., to strike, 
slash; erase. 

Razure, erasure. 

Ready, dressed. 

Reason, sb., conversation ; vb., to 
converse ; to argue for. To do 
reason, to do right; give satisfac¬ 
tion. 

Reave, to bereave. 

Rebate, to dull. 

Rebused, blunder for “ abused,” T. 
of S. I. ii. 7. 

Receipt, something received ; capa¬ 
city ; reception; receptacle. 

Receive, to believe, understand; to 
perceive. 

Receiving, apprehension. 

Recheat, certain notes on the hunt¬ 
ing-horn to call the dogs off. 

Reclusive, retired. 

Recognizance, token; acknowledg¬ 
ment of a debt. 

Recomforture, new comfort. 

Record, to sing. 

Recordation, memorial; recollection. 

Recorder, a kind of flute or flageolet. 

Recountment, narrative. 

Recourse, frequent flowing. 

Recover, to get, win ; save. 

Rectorship, government. 

Rede, advice. 

Redemption, ransom. 

Red-lattice, adj., ale-house. 

Reduce, to bring back. 

Reechy, smoky ; filthy. 

Reek, smoke, vapor. 

Reeky, filthy. 

Refelled, refuted. 

Refer, to betake, have recourse. 

Reference, assignment ; appeal. 

Reflex, vb., to reflect; sb., reflec¬ 
tion. 

Reform, blunder for “ inform,” M. 
Ado, Y. i. 262. 

Refrain, restrain. 

Refuge, to minimize, palliate. 

Refuse, to disown. 

Regard, look ; view ; respect. 

Regiment, government, authority. 

Region, sky, air. 

Regreet, vb., to greet; to greet 
again ; sb., greeting. 

Reguerdon, reward. 

Rehearse, to recite ; to pronounce. 

Rejoindure, meeting again. 

Rejourn, adjourn. 

Relapse, rebound. 


Relation, account. 

Relative, conclusive, to the point. 
Relish, smack, flavor. 

Relume, to rekindle. 

Remain, vb., dwell ; sb. , remainder ; 
stay. 

Remediate, restorative. 

Remember, to remind ; to mention, 
recall; reflex., to recall one’s sins. 
To be remembered, to remember. 
Remonstrance, demonstration. 
Remorse, pity. 

Remorseful, compassionate. 
Remotion, removal, keeping aloof. 
Remove, the raising of a siege ; stage 
of a journey. 

Removed, remote, secluded. 
Removedness, retirement. 

Render, vb., to describe, report; sb., 
account; surrender. 

Renegado, apostate. 

Renege, renounce, disown ; deny. 
Rent, to rend. 

Renying, forswearing. 

Repair, sb., restoration ; resorting ; 

vb., to come. 

Repasture, food. 

Repeal, recall. 

Replenished, complete, accom¬ 
plished. 

Replication, echo ; reply. 

Report themselves, interpret them¬ 
selves clearly, Cym. II. iv. 83. 
Reportingly, on hearsay. 

Reports, reporters. 

Reprehend, blunder for “ represent,” 

L. L. L. I. i. 184. 

Reprisal, prize. 

Reprobance, reprobation. 

Reproof, reputation. 

Reprove, to disprove. 

Repugn, to oppose. 

Repugnancy, resistance. 

Repugnant, refractory. 

Repured, refined. 

Reputing, boasting, 2 Hen. VI, III. i. 
48. 

Requicken, to revive. 

Require, to ask. 

Rere-mice, bats. 

Resemblance, probability. 

Reserve, to guard. 

Resolutes, desperadoes. 

Resolution, certainty. 

Resolve, to satisfy, inform ; to dis¬ 
solve ; to solve. 

Resolvedly, certainly. 

Respect, sb., regard, consideration, 
esteem, respectability; vb., to re¬ 
gard, consider. 

Respected, blunder for “suspected,” 

M. for M. II. i. 169-172, etc. 
Respective, considerate ; worthy of 

respect. 

Respectively, respectfully. 

Respite, period for which punish¬ 
ment is delayed, Rich. Ill, V. i. 19. 
Responsive, suitable, matching. 

Rest, vb., to remain ; to arrest; sb., 
the highest stake one cares to ven¬ 
ture. To set up one’s rest, to 
take a firm or final resolution. 
Re-stem, to retrace (of a vessel). 
Restrain, to withhold ; to draw tight. 
Resty, idle, torpid. 

Resume, to take. 

Retail, to relate. 






GLOSSARY 


1231 


Retention, reserve ; capacity ; means 
of preserving impressions, Soun. 
122. 9. 

Retentive, restraining. 

Retire, retreat, repair. 

Return, to inform. 

Reverb, reverberate. 

Reverberate, reverberating, echoing. 

Reverse, a back-handed stroke in 
fencing. 

Revolt, sb., rebel; vb., to be faith¬ 
less ; to retire (?), 2 Hen. VI, IV. 

ii. 133. 

Re-word, to repeat in the same 
words ; to echo. 

Rheum, catarrh, cold; humid dis¬ 
charge from the eyes, mouth, or 
nose. 

Rheumatic, rasping (?), 2 Hen. IV, 
II. iv. 62 ; lunatic (?), Hen. V, II. 

iii. 40. 

Rheumy, causing rheum. 

Rialto, the Venetian Exchange. 

Rib, to enclose. 

Ribaldred, lewd. 

Rid, to destroy. 

Riggish, wanton. 

Rigol, circle. 

Rim, midriff, entrails. 

Ripe, vb., to ripen; adj., ready, 
prepared ; urgent; due ; intoxi¬ 
cated. 

Ripely, urgently. 

Ripeness, preparedness. 

Rivage, shore. 

Rival, sb., partner ; vb., to compete. 

Rival ity, equal partnership. 

Rive, to split, burst. 

Rivelled, wrinkled. 

Rivo, a Bacchanalian exclamation. 

Road, harbor; incursion; journey; a 
prostitute. 

Robustious, rough, sturdy. 

Rock, to tremble, Lucr. 262. 

Roguing, vagrant, roaming. 

Roguish, vagrant. 

Roisting, blustering. 

Romage, turmoil. 

Romish, Roman. 

Rondure, circle. 

Ronyon, a mangy creature. 

Rood, the cross, crucifix. 

Roofed, under one roof. 

Rook, or perch. 

Rooky, misty, gloomy (?), or fre¬ 
quented by rooks (?), Macb. III. 
ii. 51. 

Ropery, roguery. 

Ropes, All’s Well, IV. ii. 38, unex¬ 
plained. 

Rope-tricks, knavery. 

Roping, dripping, hanging down like 
ropes. 

Roted, learned, committed to mem¬ 
ory. 

Rother, a horned beast. 

Round, adj., plain-spoken, direct ; 
sb., circle ; dance in a circle; vb., 
to grow round ; to surround; to 
whisper. 

Roundel, a dance in a circle. 

Roundly, directly, without ceremony. 

Roundure, circle. 

Rouse, a large draught, carouse. 

Rout, rabble, mob ; brawl. 

Row, line, verse. 

Royal, a gald coin worth ten shillings. 


Roynish, scurvy, mangy. 

Rub, sb., impediment (in bowling); 
vb., to hinder. Rub on, to proceed 
in spite of obstacles. 

Rubied, red as a ruby. 

Rubious, red as a ruby. 

Ruddock, the robin redbreast. 

Rudesby, a rude fellow. 

Ruffle, vb., to stir, to be boisterous; 
sb., bustle. 

Rug-headed, shaggy-haired. 

Ruinate, to bring to ruiu. 

Rule, behavior, line of conduct. 

Rumour, confused noise. 

Rump-fed, fed on offal (?), fat- 
rumped(?), pampered (?), Macb. I. 
iii. 6. 

Runagate, vagabond, runaway, de¬ 
serter. 

Running banquet, hasty refreshment. 

Rush aside, brush aside. 

Saba, the Queen of Sheba. 

Sables, fur used for trimming robes. 

Sack, a general name for wines of 
the type of sherry. 

Sackbut, a kind of trombone. 

Sacred, consecrated (of royal per¬ 
sons). 

Sacrificial, devout. 

Sacring-bell, the little bell rung dur¬ 
ing mass. 

Sad, serious. 

Safe, vb. , to conduct safely ; to render 
safe. 

Safety, custody. 

Sagittary, a centaur; a building in 
Venice. 

Said. Well said, well done. 

Sain, said. 

Sale-work, work not done to order. 

Sallet, a close-fitting helmet; a 
salad; something to give a relish, 
something indecent, Hatn. II. ii. 
462. 

Salt, sb., tears, Lear, IV. vi. 199; 
adj., bitter ; lecherous. 

Saltiers, satyrs. 

Samingo, San Domingo, a saint in¬ 
voked by topers. 

Sanctimonious, holy. 

Sanctimony, holiness ; a holy thing. 

Sanctuarize, to give sanctuary to, 
protect. 

Sand-blind, dim-sighted. 

Sanded, sandy in color. 

Sans, without. 

Sarum, Salisbury. 

Satire, satirist. 

Saucy, wanton. 

Savage, uncultivated, Hen. V, III. v. 
7. 

Savagery, wild growth. 

Saw, a maxim, saying. 

Sawn, sown. 

Say, sb., a kind of silk; assay, flavor; 
vb., to assay. 

’Sblood, God’s blood. 

Scaffoldage, the beams, etc., of the 
stage. 

Scald, scurvy. 

Scale, to weigh. 

Scall, corruption of “scald,” M. 
Wives, III. i. 123. 

Scamble, to scramble, fight. 

Scamels, a doubtful word in Temp. 
II. ii. 176; sea-mews (?), limpets (?). 


Scan, to examine, consider. 

Scandal, to slander. 

Scandaled, scandalous. 

Scant, adj., sparing; adv., scarcely; 
vb., to limit, give sparingly. 

Scantling, a small portion. 

Scantly, grudgingly, ungenerously. 

Scape, sb., irregularity, escapade; 
vb., to escape. 

Scarf, wrap as with a scarf; adorn 
with flags. 

Scathful, damaging. 

Sconce, a round fortification; pro¬ 
tection for the head ; the head. 

Scorn. To take or think scorn, to 
disdain. 

Scornful, inviting scorn. 

Scot and lot, taxes. 

Scotch, cut, gash. 

Scour, to run, hurry. 

Scrimer, fencer. 

Scrip, a writing list; a small bag. 

Scrippage, a word formed from scrip 
as bag from baggage, A. Y. L. 
III. ii. 171. 

Scrowl, write in the air (?), T. And. 

II. iv. 5. 

Scroyles, scurvy fellows. 

Scrubbed, scrubby, stunted. 

’Scuse, excuse. 

Scut, tail. 

’Sdeath, God’s death. 

Seals, confirmation by action, Ham. 

III. ii. 417. 

Sealed, stamped with the official seal. 

Seam, grease, lard. 

Search, sb., a body of searchers; vb., 
to probe. 

Season, vb., to temper, qualify; to 
ripen ; to keep fresh (as by salt¬ 
ing) ; to please with seasoning or 
flavor; sb., seasoning, salt. 

Seconds, an inferior kind of flour. 

Sect, faction ; class ; scion ; sex. 

Secure, adj., careless, confident; vb., 
to make careless. 

Securely, carelessly. 

Security, carelessness. 

Seedness, sowing. 

Seel, to close up (the eyes of a fal¬ 
con). 

Seeming, sb., fair appearance ; hypo¬ 
critical appearance ; adv., becom¬ 
ingly. 

Seen, skilled. 

Segregation, dispersion. 

Seized of, possessed of. 

Seld, seldom. 

Seldom when, rarely. 

Self, belonging to oneself; same. 

Self-abuse, self-deception. 

Self-admission, self-approval. 

Self-affected, self-loving. 

Self-assumption, conceit. 

Self-bounty, innate kindness. 

Self-breath, one’s own words. 

Self-covered, having assumed an 
(evil) appearance of one’s own ac¬ 
cord. 

Self-figured, devised by oneself. 

Semblable, adj., similar; sb., resem¬ 
blance. 

Semblative, like. 

Seniory, seniority. 

Sennet, a set of notes on the trumpet. 

Se’nnight, a week. 

Senoys, Siennese, people of Sienna. 






1232 


GLOSSARY 


Sense, sensual passion; perception ; 
senses. To the sense, to the quick. 
Senses, common sense, prudence, 
Hen. V, II. iii. 51. 

Sensible, perceiving, feeling; acute 
in feeling; perceptible. 

Separable, of separation, separating. 

Septentrion, the north. 

Sequent, a follower. 

Sequester, sb., separation, seclusion. 

Sequestration, separation. 

Sere, adj., dry, withered ; sb., part of 
the mechanism of a gun-lock. See 
Tickle. 

Sergeant, a sheriff’s officer. 

Serpigo, a skin-eruption. 

Servant, lover. 

Servanted, subjected. 

Sessa, an exclamation exhorting to 
speed. 

Set, to estimate; to set out; plant; 
stake. 

Setebos, a Patagonian deity. 

Setter, one who makes arrangements. 

Several, adj. , privately owned ; par¬ 
ticular. 

Severals, individuals; particulars. 

Sewer, a kind of chief waiter. 

’Sfoot, God’s foot. 

Shadow, sb., a shady place ; vb., to 
shelter. 

Shag, shaggy. 

Shales, shells. 

Shard-borne, borne through the air 
on shards or wing-cases. 

Sharded, having shards. 

Shards, fragments of pottery; the 
horny wing-cases of beetles. 

Shark up, pick up indiscriminately. 

Shealed, shelled. 

Shearman, one who shears woollen 
cloth. 

Sheaved, made of straw. 

Sheen, adj., shining ; sb., brightness. 

Sheep-biter, a vicious dog ; an ill- 
natured fellow. 

Sheep-biting, malicious. 

Sheepcote, a shepherd’s cottage. 

Sheer, pure. 

Shent, scolded, reproached. 

Sheriff’s post, the post at the door 
of a sheriff’s house, on which pro¬ 
clamations were fixed. 

Sherris, wine of Xeres in Spain. 

Shield, to forbid. 

Ship-tire, a kind of head-dress. 

Shive, slice. 

Shock, to meet force with force. 

Sliog, to jog. 

Shoon, shoes. 

Shore, to set on land. 

Short, to shorten ; to come short of, 
Cym. I. vi. 200. 

Shot, reckoning, charge. 

Shot-free, without having to pay. 

Shotten, having cast its spawn. 

Shough, a kind of rough-haired dog. 

Shoulder, to push in roughly, to sup¬ 
plant. 

Shoulder-shotten, with dislocated 
shoulder. 

Shove-groat, a kind of shovel-board. 

Shovel-board, a shilling used at the 
game of shovel-board. 

Show, painted figure, Lucr. 1507. 

Shrew, to beshrew, curse. 

Shrewd, wicked, mischievous. 


Shrewdly, wickedly, keenly. Used as 
a general intensive. 

Shrieve, sheriff. 

Shrift, confession or absolution or 
both. 

Shrill-gorged, shrill-throated. 

Shrive, to confess and absolve. 

Shriver, confessor. 

Shroud, to hide, shelter. 

Shrow, shrew. 

Shut up, Macb. II. i. 16, concluded 
(?), enclosed (?), summed up (?). 

Side, wide, hanging. 

Siege, seat; rank ; stool. 

Sight, the opening for the eyes in a 
helmet. 

Sightless, invisible ; unsightly. 

Sign, vb., to mark, denote ; to be¬ 
token ; sb., ensign. 

Significant, sign; letter, L. L. L. III. 

i. 131. 

Signory, principality; lordship, do¬ 
main ; aristocracy. 

Silly, harmless, inoffensive; simple, 
plain ; weak. 

Simple, an ingredient in a medicine; 
a medicinal herb. 

Simpleness, folly. 

Simplicity, folly. 

Simular, adj., counterfeited; sb., 
simulator. 

Since, when. 

Sinew, vb., to unite as by sinews ; 
sb., nerve. 

Single, weak; sincere. 

Single-soled, poor, mean. 

Singly, by a single person, Cor. II. 

ii. 91. 

Singularity, peculiarity; rarity. 

Singule, to separate. 

Sink, to cause to fall. 

Sinking-ripe, ready to sink. 

Sir, gentleman ; lord ; title given to 
a priest or to any one who had taken 
a bachelor’s degree at the univer¬ 
sity. 

Sir-reverence, an apologetic phrase 
corrupted from “ Save (your) rev¬ 
erence.” 

Sitli, since. 

Sithence, since. 

Sizes, allowances, Lear, II. iv. 178. 

Skains-mates, knavish companions. 

Skill, reason. It skills not, it matters 
not. 

Skilless, ignorant. 

Skillet, a po(;. 

Skimble-skamble, nonsensical. 

Skipper, youngster. 

Skirr, to scour, run quickly. 

Slab, glutinous. 

Slack, to neglect; to flag. 

Slander, disgrace. 

Slanderous, disgraceful. 

Slave, vb., to treat as a slave. 

Sleave, floss silk. 

Sledded, using sledges. 

Sleeve-band, wrist-band. 

Sleeveless, useless. 

Sleided, untwisted. 

’Slid, God’s lid. 

’Slight, God’s light. 

Slight, to throw carelessly. Slighted 
off, dismissed contemptuously, J. 
Caes. IV. iii. 5. 

Slip, counterfeit coin ; a leash. 

I Slipper, slippery. 


Sliver, to cut or break off a branch. 

Slobbery, wet and dirty, sloppy. 

Slops, loose trousers. 

Slubber, to soil; to perform care¬ 
lessly. 

Sluggardize, to make lazy. 

Sluttery, sluttishness. 

Smatch, smack, tincture. 

Smatter, chatter. 

Smilet, little smile. 

Smoke, to detect, All’s Well, III. 
vi. 111. 

Smooth, to flatter. 

Smother, thick suffocating smoke. 

Smug, neat, spruce. 

Smutch, to smudge. 

Sneak-cup, a shirker who does not 
drink fair. 

Sneap, sb., reprimand ; vb., to nip, 
pinch, check. 

Sneck up ! Go and hang yourself ! 

Snipe, a silly fellow, simpleton. 

Snuff, offence-taking. To take in 
snuff, to take offence. 

Soil, solution, Sonn. 69. 14. 

Soiled, high-fed with green food, 
Lear, IV. vi. 124. 

Soilure, stain. 

Solace, to amuse; to be happy. 

Solicit, move, prompt. 

Soliciting, incitement; courtship. 

Solidare, a small coin. 

Sometime, sometimes. 

Sometimes, formerly. 

Sonance, sound. 

Sonties. By God’s sonties, a petty 
oath of uncertain origin; saints (?) 
sanctity (?), sante (?). 

Sooth, truth; flattery, complai¬ 
sance, Rich. II, III. iii. 136. 

Soothe, to humor ; to flatter. 

Soothers, flatterers. 

Sop o’ the moonshine, usually ex¬ 
plained as an allusion to an old dish 
called “eggs in moonshine.” 

Sophy, the Shah of Persia. 

Sore, a buck of the fourth year. 

Sorel, a buck of the third year. 

Sorrow-wreathen, folded in sorrow. 

Sorry, sad, dismal, sorrowful. 

Sort, sb., rank ; set, company ; lot; 
manner, way; vb., to rank, class; 
to choose, seek; to fit, suit; to 
fall out, happen ; to dispose; to 
associate. 

Sortance, suitableness. 

Sot, a fool. 

Soul-fearing, soul-terrifying. 

Souse, to swoop down on. 

Soused, pickled. 

Sowl, to lug, seize by the ear. 

Span-counter, a boys’ game, in which 
the aim is to throw one’s counter 
within a span of one’s opponent’s. 

Spaniel, to follow like a spaniel. 

Spar, to bar. 

Specialty, particular rights, T. and C. 
I. iii. 78; detailed article. 

Speciously, blunder for “ especially,” 
M. Wives, III. iv. 113. 

Speculation, faculty of vision; on- 
looking ; a scout, spy. 

Speculative, visual. 

Sped, done for, having one’s fate 
settled. 

| Speed, sb., success, fortune; helping 

i power ; vb., to succeed. 









GLOSSARY 


I2 33 


Speken, to speak. 

Spend their mouths, to bark. 

Sphery, star-like. 

Spicery, spices. 

Spill, to destroy. 

Spilth, spilling. 

Spital, a hospital. 

Splay, to castrate. 

Spleen, impetuosity ; hate ; humor, 
caprice; fit of passion, laughter, 
etc. ; fury; haste, rapid motion. 

Spleeny, hot-tempered, headstrong. 

Splenitive, impetuous. 

Splinter, to mend with splints. 

Spot, to stain, pollute. 

Sprag, quick, active. 

Sprightful, full of spirit. 

Spring, a beginning ; a young shoot. 

Springe, a snare. 

Springhalt, a lameness in horses. 

Sprited, haunted. 

Spritely, ghostly ; lively. 

Spurs, the lateral shoots of the roots 
of a tree. 

Spy, observation (?), Macb. III. i. 
130. 

Squander, to scatter. 

Squandering, random. 

Square, adj., just; sb., squadron; the 
embroidered bosom of a smock; vb., 
to quarrel. Square of sense, sen¬ 
sibility. 

Squarer, quarreller. 

Squash, an unripe peascod. 

Squiny, to look asquint. 

Squire, square, rule. 

Stablishment, government, king¬ 
dom. 

Stage, to exhibit as in a theatre. 

Stagger, to cause to stagger; to hesi¬ 
tate. 

Staggers, a disease of horses; dizzi¬ 
ness, perplexity. 

Stain, sb ., tincture; something that 
throws others into the shade ; vb., 
to eclipse. 

Stale, sb., bait, decoy; stalking- 
horse ; prostitute; a laughing¬ 
stock, dupe; urine of horses; vb., 
to make cheap or common. 

Stall, to enclose ; to install. 

Stamp, to mark as current and valid. 

Stanch, to satiate. 

Stanchless, insatiate. 

Stand upon, to concern; to pride 
oneself on ; to insist on. 

Standing, duration ; attitude, station. 

Standing-bed, a bed raised on posts 
so that a truckle-bed could be 
wheeled under it. 

Standing-bowl, a bowl with a foot. 

Standing-tuck, a rapier standing on 
end. 

Staniel, kestrel, a kind of falcon. 

Star, pole-star ; fortune ; sphere, 
rank. 

Star-blasting, evil influence of the 
stars. 

Stare, to stand on end. 

Starting-hole, place of refuge, subter¬ 
fuge. 

Start-up, upstart. 

Starve,to be numb, paralyze ; to kill 
with cold. 

State, rank, fortune ; person or group 
of persons of rank; bearing, pose; 
a canopied chair. 


Station, attitude, pose. 

Statist, a statesman, politician. 

Statues, blunder for “ statutes,” M. 
Ado, III. iii. 85. 

Statute, bond. 

Statute-caps, woollen caps worn by 
citizens according to an Act of 
Parliament of 1571. 

Stead, to benefit, help. Stead up, 
supply. 

Stealth, going secretly ; unseen move¬ 
ment ; clandestine practice. 

Steepy, steep. 

Stelled, fixed. 

Sternage. To sternage of, behind. 

Stickler-like, like a stickler, who sep¬ 
arated combatants when they had 
fought enough. 

Stiff, hard, unpleasant, A. and C. I. 
ii. 104. 

Stigmatic, sb., one marked with a 
natural deformity. 

Stigmatical, marked with a natural 
deformity. 

Still, constant, constantly. Still an 
end, ever and anon. 

Stillatory, a still, alembic. 

Still-peering, that seems to be mo¬ 
tionless (?). A doubtful word. 
All's Well, III. ii. 113. 

Still-stand, a halt. 

Still-vexed, constantly disturbed. 

Stilly, gently. 

Sting, sexual impulse. 

Stint, to stop. 

Stitchery, needlework. 

Stithy, sb., smithy ; vb., to forge. 

Stoecado, Stoccata, a thrust in fen¬ 
cing. 

Stock, sb., a thrust in fencing; a 
stocking; vb., to set in the stocks. 

Stock-fish, dried cod, which is beaten 
before boiling. 

Stockish, dull, insensible. 

Stock-punished, punished by being 
set in the stocks. 

Stomach, sb., appetite, inclination; 
courage ; anger ; pride ; vb., to be 
angry at; resent. 

Stone, to harden. 

Stone-bow, a cross-bow for shooting 
stones or bullets. 

Stoop, to swoop down on prey. 

Story, to give an account of. 

Stoup, a drinking-vessel. 

Stout, overbearing, proud, stubborn. 

Stoutness, stubbornness. 

Stover, fodder. 

Straight, immediately, Ham. V. i. 4. 

Straight-pight, straight-built. 

Strain, sb., stock, lineage ; tendency, 
disposition ; vb., to force, con¬ 
strain ; to exert (oneself). Make 
no strain, make no difficulty or 
doubt, T. and C. I. iii. 326. To 
strain courtesy, to decline to go 
first. 

Strait, strict, stringent; niggardly. 

Straited, at a loss. 

Strange, alien, foreign ; reserved, 
coy; unacquainted; unaccustomed, 
new, original. To make it strange, 
to treat as unusual or shocking. 

Strangely, wonderfully ; like a 
stranger. 

Strangeness, reserve. 

Strangered, estranged. 


Strappado, a method of torture by 
which a man was drawn up by his 
arms strapped behind him, and 
then let fall with a jerk. 

Stratagem, a dreadful deed ; a calam¬ 
ity. 

Strawy, like straw. 

Stray, sb., aberration; stragglers, 
2 Hen. IV, IV. ii. 120; vb., to lead 
astray. 

Strewments, things strewed. 

Stricture, strictness. 

Stride, to overstep. 

Strike, to lower sail; to blast, exert 
malign influence upon ; to tap. 

Striker, thief, highwayman. 

Strong, determined. 

Strossers, a kind of tight trousers. 

Stroy, to destroy. 

Stuck, a thrust in fencing. 

Stuff, to make full, complete. 

Sty, to pen up as in a sty. 

Subject, people, subjects. 

Subscribe, to vouch for ; to yield ; to 
admit. 

Subscription, obedience. 

Substractor, detractor. 

Subtle, smooth and deceptive. 

Subtlety, illusion. 

Succeeding, consequence, result. 

Success, succession ; issue, event. 

Successantly, one after the other (?), 
T. And. IV. iv. 113. 

Successive, hereditary. 

Sudden, impetuous, violent, hasty. 

Suddenly, at once. 

Suffer, to be killed; to permit to 
continue. 

Sufferance, pain ; loss; forbearance ; 
death by execution. 

Suffigance, blunder for “ sufficient,” 
M. Ado, III. v. 56. 

Suggest, to tempt, incite. 

Suggestion, temptation; underhand 
practice, Hen. VIII, IV. ii. 35. 

Suit, sb., attendance on a feudal su¬ 
perior ; vb., to dress ; to accord ; 
to arrange. Out of suits with, out 
of the service of. 

Sullen, dismal. 

Sullens, sulkiness. 

Sumless, inestimable. 

Summer-seeming, of a transitory 
heat. 

Sumpter, a pack-horse. 

Superfluous, having more than 
enough. 

Superflux, superfluity. 

Superpraise, to overpraise. 

Superscript, superscription or direc¬ 
tion of a letter. 

Superserviceable, officious. 

Supervise, sight, inspection. 

Supervisor, spectator. 

Suppliance, what fills up, pastime. 

Supplyant, adj., auxiliary. 

Supplement, continuance of supply. 

Supposal, notion, opinion. 

Suppose, supposition. 

Supposed, blunder for “deposed,” 
M. for M. II. i. 162. 

Sur-addition, surname. 

Surance, assurance. 

Surcease, sb., cessation; rb., to stop. 

Surety, confidence of safety. 

Surprise, to seize. 

Sur-reined, over-ridden. 







1234 


GLOSSARY 


Survey, to perceive, Macb. I. ii. 31. 

Suspect, suspicion. In M. Ado, IV. 
ii. 76, a blunder for “ respect.” 

Swabber, one who cleans the decks 
of a ship. 

Swag-bellied, having a large hanging 
belly. 

Swart, or Swarth, black, dark-com¬ 
plexioned. 

Swarth, swath. 

Swasher, swaggerer. 

Sw'ashing, swaggering ; smashing. 

Swath, a bandage for a new-born 
child; that which is cut by one 
sweep of a scythe. 

Sway, sb., regular motion ; that which 
controls; vb., to incline; to move; 
to strain, T. of S. III. ii. 56. 

Swear, to swear by. 

Sweet and twenty, a term of endear¬ 
ment. 

Sweet mouth, sweet tooth. 

Sweeting, a kind of apple ; a term of 
endearment. 

Swinge-buckler, a swaggerer. 

Switzers, body-guard of Swiss. 

Swoopstake, wholesale, indiscrimi¬ 
nately. 

Sword-and-buckler, adj., using the 
weapons of the vulgar. 

Sworder, gladiator. 

Sworn brother, brother-in-arms, one 
sworn to share another’s fortune. 

Sworn out, renounced. 

Swound, to swoon. 

’Swounds, God’s wounds. 

Sympathize, to be of the same dispo¬ 
sition ; to express fitly; to corre¬ 
spond with. 

Sympathy, equality. 

Table, sb., the tablet on which some¬ 
thing is written or painted ; a note¬ 
book ; the palm of the hand, vb., 
to set down in writing. Tables, 
backgammon. 

Table-book, memorandum-book. 

Tabor, a small drum. 

Taborer, a player on the tabor. 

Tabourine, a drum. 

Tackled stair, a rope-ladder. 

Taffeta, silk. 

Tag, the rabble. 

Taint, discredit. 

Tainture, defilement. 

Take, to charm, captivate; to blast, 
bewitch, infect; to leap , to take 
refuge in; to understand. Take 
air, to become known. Take head, 
to take liberty. Take in, to sub¬ 
due. Take me with you, let me 
understand you. Take off, to re¬ 
move, kill. Take on, to grieve, 
rage; pretend. Take order, to 
adopt measures. Take out, to ask 
to dance ; to copy. Take peace or 
truce, to make peace. Take scorn, 
to disdain. Take up, to trip; to 
settle ; to obtain on credit; to levy; 
to rebuke ; to encounter. 

Talents, “ lockets consisting of hair 
platted and set in gold.” 

Tall, stout, bold, fine. 

Tallow-catch, vessel filled with tal¬ 
low. 

Tamed piece, a vessel of wine that 
has gone stale, T. and C. IY T . i. 62. 


Tang, sb., a shrill sound ; vb., to ring 
out. 

Tanling, one tanned by the sun. 

Tardy, to delay. 

Targe, a small shield. 

Tarre, to set on to fight. 

Tarriance, waiting. 

Tartar, Tartarus. 

Task, to occupy; to challenge; to 
tax. At task, blamed, Lear, I. iv. 
366. 

Tasking, challenging. 

Tassel-gentle, tiercel-gentle, the male 
goshawk. 

Taste, sb., test, specimen ; vb., to test. 
In some taste, in some degree. 

Tawdry-lace, a cheap kind of decora¬ 
tion worn by rustics. 

Tawny coats, the livery of ecclesi¬ 
astical retainers. 

Tax, sb., reproach ; vb., to reproach, 
satirize, accuse. 

Taxation, demand ; satire. 

Teen, grief. 

Teeth. From his teeth, insincerely, 
not from the heart. 

Tell, to count. 

Temper, sb., temperament; vb., to 
mix ; to mould, bring to a desired 
state by warmth, moisture, fric¬ 
tion, etc. 

Temperality, blunder for “ temper,” 
2 Hen. IV, II. iv. 25. 

Temperance, temperature, modera¬ 
tion ; chastity. 

Temperate, chaste. 

Temporary, taking to do with worldly 
things. 

Tenable, held, retained secretly. 

Tend, to attend ; to tend to. 

Tendance, attendance; persons in 
attendance. 

Tender, sb. and vb., regard; adj., 
dear. 

Tender-hefted, gentle, tenderly dis¬ 
posed. 

Tent, sb., a probe ; vb., to probe; to 
cure ; to lodge. 

Tercel, the male hawk. 

Termagant, an imaginary god of the 
Mohammedans, who was repre¬ 
sented in the miracle-plays as a 
ranting character. 

Terminations, terms, words. 

Termless, beyond words to describe. 

Terrene, terrestrial. 

Tertian, a fever returning every third 
day. 

Tester, a sixpence. 

Testern, to give a sixpence. 

Testimonied, attested. 

Testril, a sixpence. 

Tetchy, touchy, peevish. 

Tetter, a skin disease, scurf. 

Than,then. 

Thane, an ancient Scottish title, 
nearly equivalent to earl. 

Tharborough, thirdborough, con¬ 
stable. 

That, often used instead of repeating 
another conjunction, such as “if,” 
Macb. I. vii. 4. 

Theoric, theory. 

Thereafter, according. 

Thews, muscles; bodily vigor. 

Thick, quick, 2 Hen. IV, II. iii. 24. 

Thick-pleached, closely interwoven. 


Thick-skin, a stupid fellow. 

Thievery, stolen goods. 

Think, to brood, indulge in sad 
thoughts. Think scorn, to disdain. 

Thinks’t thee ? Seems it to thee ? 

Thirdborough, constable. 

This, thus, V. and A. 205. 

Thought, sorrow, anxiety, brooding, 
care. 

Thoughten, having a thought, of the 
belief. 

Thought-executing, acting as quick 
as thought. 

Thought-sick, sick with sorrow or 
anxiety. 

Thrasonical, boastful. 

Three-farthings, K. John, I. i. 143. 
“ An allusion to the three-farthing 
silver pieces of Queen Elizabeth, 
which were very thin, and had the 
profile of the sovereign with a rose 
at the back of her head.” (Dyce.) 

Three-man beetle, an implement for 
driving piles, worked by three men. 

Three-pile, the richest kind of velvet. 

Three-piled, superfine. 

Tlirene, a dirge. 

Thrifty, saved by economy. 

Throe, to put in agony; to bring 
forth in agony. 

Through, thoroughly. To go through 
or to be through wifh, to do one’s 
utmost, to complete a negotiation. 

Throughly, thoroughly. 

Throw', cast of dice, or of a bowl. 
At this throw, at this time, per¬ 
haps with quibble. 

Thrum, the tufted end of the warp. 

Thrummed, made of or adorned with 
thrums or tufts. 

Thunder-stone, thunderbolt. 

Thwart, perverse. 

’Tice, to entice. 

Tickle, unstable, precarious; easily 
set off (of a trigger). Tickle of the 
sere, easily provoked to laughter. 

Tickle-brain, a kind of strong liquor. 

Ticklish, wanton, easily excited. 

Tick-tack, a sort of backgammon; 
used in a wanton sense in M. for M. 
I. ii. 196. 

Tide, sb., time ; vb., to betide. Tide 
of times, course of time. 

Tight, sound ; able, adroit. 

Tightly, smartly. 

Tike, a dog, cur. 

Tilly-vally, or Tilly-fally, an exclama¬ 
tion of contempt 

Tilth, husbandry, tillage ; cultivated 
land. 

Timber, to build of wood. 

Time, the times. 

Timeless, untimely, unseasonable. 

Timely, early; welcome 

Timely-parted ghost, a body newdy 
dead (?), or dead from natural 
causes (?), 2 Hen. VI, III. ii. 161. 

Tinct, color; tincture. 

Tincture, color, stain. 

Tire, sb., ahead-dress ; attire ; vb., to 
attire ; to feed ravenously; to glut. 

Tire-valiant, a fanciful head-dress. 

Tiring-house, a dressing-room. 

Tirrits, (apparently) panics. 

Tisick, phthisic, a cough. 

Tithe-pig, a pig given to the priest as 
a church-rate. 








GLOSSARY 


I2 35 


Tithing, a division of a county. 

Tittle, a trifle. 

To, compared with ; in addition to. 
To-, as prefix, has an intensive 
force, as in To-bless, Per. IV. vi. 
23. 

Toasts-and-butter, effeminate fel¬ 
lows. 

Tod, sb., twenty-eight pounds of 
wool; vb., to yield a tod. 

Tofore, before. 

Toge, toga. 

Toged, wearing a toga. 

Tokened, plague-spotted. 

Toll, to pay or collect toll; to pay a 
tax for the liberty of selling, All’s 
Well, V. iii. 149. 

Tomboy, a strumpet. 

Tongue, vb., to speak; to speak of, 
expose; sb., vote. 

Top, to surpass ; to prune. 

Topless, without a superior. 

Torcher, torch-bearer. 

Tortive, twisted. 

Touch, sb., touchstone, proof; feat; 
feeling, affection ; trait, smack ; 
fulfilment of a promise ; skill, vb., 
to test. 

Touse, to pull, tear, draw. 

Toward, willing, tractable ; at hand, 
in preparation. 

Towardly, willing, docile. 

Tower, to soar (as a hawk). 

Toy, sb., trifle, fancy; vb., to dally. 

Trace, to follow ; to pace. 

Tract, course ; track, trace. 

Trade, traffic, resort, general course ; 
business. 

Traded, expert, practised. 

Trade-fallen, out of employment. 

Traducement, calumny 

Train, sb., artifice, bait,?’/;., to entice. 

Traject, ferry (?), M. of V. III. iv. 53. 

Trammel, to tie up as in a net, and 
so prevent from following. 

Transfix, to remove. 

Translate, to transform. 

Transport, to remove from this world. 

Trash, to check the pace of a dog, to 
lop, crop. 

Traverse, vb., to march ; to parry ; to 
cross; ad?;., across. 

Tray-trip, a game with dice. 

Treacher, traitor. 

Treatise, discourse; tale. 

Treble-dated, living as long as three 
generations of men. 

Trench, to cut, furrow; to change the 
course by digging a channel. 

Trencher-friend, parasite. 

Trencher-knight, a serving-man (?), a 
parasite (?), L. L. L. V. ii. 4G4. 

Trey, a three at cards or dice. 

Tribunal, platform. Tribunal plebs, 
blunder for “ tribunus plebis," T. 
And. IV. iii. 92. 

Trick, sb., peculiarity, trait; habit, 
knack; toy; vb., to deck out, 
dress up ; (heraldic) to draw. 

Tricking, decoration. 

Tricksy, lively, sportive ; quaint. 

Trifle, to make of no importance. 

Trigon, a triangle. When Mars, Ju¬ 
piter, and Saturn met in one of the 
fiery signs, Aries, Leo, or Sagit¬ 
tarius, they were said to form a 
fiery trigon. 


' Trill, to trickle. 

Triple, third. 

Triple-turned, thrice faithless. 

Triplex, triple time in music. 

Tristful, sad. 

Triumph, trump card (?), A. and C. 
IV. iv. 20. 

Triuinviry, triumvirate, group of 
three. 

Troll-my-dames, Fr. trou madame, 
a kind of bagatelle 

Troop, to march, walk, fly, in com¬ 
pany. 

Tropically, figuratively. 

Trot, an old woman ; a bawd. 

Troth, truth ; faith. 

Trow, to think, believe; to know; to 
wonder (in the phrase “ I trow ”). 

Troyan or Troian, used loosely some¬ 
times as a term of contempt, some¬ 
times = a good fellow. 

Truckle-bed, a low bed that can be 
pushed under a standing-bed. 

True, honest. 

True-penny, honest fellow. 

Truncheon, to cudgel. 

Truncheoner, one armed with a club. 

Trundle-tail, a dog with a long (or 
curling ?) tail. 

Trunk sleeve, a large wide sleeve. 

Try, a test To bring to try, to bring 
a siiip close to the wind. 

Tub-fast, the fasting prescribed along 
with the sweating-tub as a cure 
for venereal disease. 

Tuck, a rapier. 

Tucket, a set of notes on a trumpet. 

Tuition, protection. 

Tun-dish, a funnel. 

Turk, the Sultan. Turk Gregory, 
Pope Gregory VII. Turn Turk, to 
change completely for the worse. 

Turlygod, a mad beggar. 

Turn, to change ; to return; to mod¬ 
ulate, A. Y. L. II. v. 3. 

Turnbull Street, Tummill Street in 
London, a resort of prostitutes. 

Twelve-score, two hundred and forty 
yards. 

Twiggen, cased in twigs or wicker¬ 
work. 

Twilled, reedy (?), Temp. IV. i. G4. 

Twink, twinkling. 

Twire, to twinkle, shine. 

Type, sign, badge, mark. 

Tyrannically, violently. 

Tyrannous, cruel, pitiless. 

Umber, a brown pigment. 

Umbered, browned. 

Umbrage, shadow. 

Unaccommodated, naked, unsupplied 
with conveniences. 

Unadvised, unintentional; rash. 

Unaneled, without extreme unction. 

Unapproved, unconfirmed. 

Unattainted, unprejudiced. 

Unavoided, inevitable. 

Unbarbed, bare (unshorn, — Dyce). 

Unbated, unblunted. 

Unbolted, unsifted, coarse. 

Unbonneted, without a cap, Lear, 
III. i. 14 ; without taking off the 
cap (?), Oth. I. ii. 23. 

Unbookish, unskilled. 

Unbraced, with the dress loose, un¬ 
girt. 


Unbraided, untarnished. 
Unbreathed, unpractised. 

Uncape, to let loose the dogs. 
Uncase, to undress. 

Uncharge, to acquit of blame. 
Uncharged, unassailed. 

Unchary, incautiously. 

Unchecked, not contradicted. 
Unchilded, deprived of children. 
Unclew, to undo. 

Uncoined, like a piece of metal un¬ 
stamped, and so not liable to pass 
current from hand to hand. 
Uncoinprehensive, incomprehensible. 
Unconfirmed, inexperienced. 
Uncouth, unknown, strange; wild. 
Uncrossed, with the account not 
marked out as paid. 

Undeeded, without having achieved 
any deed of arms. 

Under generation, men beneath the 
sun. 

Underbear, to endure ; to trim. 
Undercrest, wear as a crest. 
Undergo, to endure, sustain ; to un¬ 
dertake. 

Under-skinker, under-waiter. 
Undertake, to assume ; to have to 
do with, engage with; to attempt, 
venture. 

Undertaker, one who undertakes the 
business of others, or assumes re¬ 
sponsibility for them ; a meddler. 
Undervalue, to hold inferior to. 
Underwrite, to submit to. 
Underwrought, undermined. 
Undistinguished, incalculable. 
Uneared, unploughed. 

Uneath, hardly. 

Unexperient, inexperienced. 
Unexpressive, inexpressible. 

Unfair, vb., to deprive of fairness. 
Unfolding star, the morning star 
which shows the time for unfolding 
the sheep. 

Unfurnish, to deprive. 

Unfurnished, unprovided with a com¬ 
panion, M. of V. III. ii. 126. 
Ungenitured, sexually impotent. 
Ungird, to relax. 

Ungored, uninjured. 

Ungracious, wanting grace, wicked. 
Unhaired, beardless. 

Unhandsome, unbecoming; ungener¬ 
ous. 

Unhappily, evilly. 

Unhappiness, mischief. 

Unhappy, wicked ; unlucky. 
Unhatched, undisclosed; unhacked. 
Unheart, to discourage. 

Unhouseled, without having received 
the sacrament. 

Unimproved, undisciplined. 

Union, a fine pearl. 

Unjust, dishonest, false. 

Unkind, unnatural ; childless. 
Unlived, deprived of life. 

Unmanned, not tamed by man (of a 
hawk). 

Unnerved, weak. 

Unowed, having no owner. 
Unparagoned, matchless. 

Unpaved, having no stones, cas¬ 
trated. 

Unpay, to undo by payment. 
Unpinked, not pierced with eyelet 
holes. 







1236 


GLOSSARY 


Unpitied, unmerciful. 

Unplausive, disapproving. 

Unpolicied, without policy or acute¬ 
ness, stupid. 

Unpossessing, without possibility of 
inheritance. 

Unpregnant, unready to deal with. 
Unprevailing, unavailing. 

Unprizable, inestimable ; valueless. 
Unprized, unvalued or priceless (per¬ 
haps intentionally ambiguous), 
Lear, I. i. 262. 

Unprofited, profitless. 

Unproper, not exclusively one’s own. 
Unproportioned, inappropriate. 
Unprovide, to make unprepared. 
Unqualified, deprived of his facul¬ 
ties. 

Unquestionable, averse to discussion. 
Unraked, not made up for the night. 
* Unready, undressed. 

Unrecalling, beyond recall. 
Unreclaimed, untamed. 
Unreconcilable, incompatible. 
Unrecuring, incurable. 

Unrespected, unnoticed. 
Uurespective, unthinking ; contain¬ 
ing things for which no one cares. 
Unreverend or Unreverent, irrev¬ 
erent. 

Unrolled, struck off the roll (of 
rogues). 

Unrough, beardless. 

Unscanned, unconsidered, headlong. 
Unseam, to rip open. 

Unseminared, deprived of virility. 
Unshape, to derange, confound. 
Unsifted, untried. 

Unsinewed, without force. 

Unsisting, unresisting (?), M. for M. 

IV. ii. 92. Perhaps corrupt. 
Unsorted, unsuitable. 

Unsquared, unsuitable. 

Unstanched, insatiate; that cannot 
contain water. 

Unstate, to degrade ; to undo. 
Untempering, unpersuasive. 

Untent, to bring out of a tent. 
Untented, too deep to be probed, 
incurable. 

Untraded, unhackneyed. 

Untried, unexamined. 

Untrimmed, disarrayed. 

Untrussing, unfastening the points 
of one's dress. 

Untucked, dishevelled. 

Unvalued, unimportant; invaluable. 
Unwares, unintentionally. 

Unwarily, unexpectedly. 

Unwit, to deprive of understanding 
Unworthy, unjustified, Rich. Ill, I. 
ii. 88. 

Unyoke, to cease work. 

Unyoked, unrestrained. 

Up, up in arms; shut up. Up and 
down, exactly. 

Up-cast, a final shot at bowls. 
Upshoot, the decisive shot. 

Upspring, a wild German dance. 
Upstaring, standing on end. 
Upswarm, to raise in swarms. 
Up-till, up to. 

Urchin, a hedge-hog ; an elf. 
Urchin-shows, visions of elves. 
Urchin-snouted, with a snout like 
a hedgehog. 

Urn, grave. 


Usance, interest. 

Use, sb., interest ; present posses¬ 
sion ; profit; usage ; vb., to make a 
practice of. Use oneself, to behave. 

Usuring, usurious. 

Utis, fun. 

Utter, to tell. 

Utterance, extremity. At utterance, 
at any cost. 

Vagrom, blunder for “ vagrant,” 
M. Ado, III. iii. 26. 

Vail, vb., to lower; to bow; sb., set¬ 
ting. 

Vails, perquisites. 

Vain, deceitful, C. of E. III. ii. 27. 
For vain, in vain, idly. 

Valanced, fringed (with a beard). 

Validity, strength ; value. 

Valued, giving the values. 

Vantage, opportunity; profit; su¬ 
periority. Of vantage, from a favor¬ 
able position. To the vantage, to 
boot. 

Vantbrace, armor for the fore-arm. 

Vara, rustic pronunciation of 
“ very.” 

Varlet, servant; knave. 

Varletry, mob. 

Vary, variation. 

Vassalage, subjects. 

Vast, sb., a great and desolate ex¬ 
panse. 

Vastidity, immensity. 

Vastly, desolately. 

Vaultages, vaults. 

Vaunt, van, beginning. 

Vaunt-couriers, precursors. 

Vaward, van-guard ; fore-part. 

Veal, in L. L. L. V. ii. 247, presum¬ 
ably meant for a Dutchman’s pro¬ 
nunciation of “ well.” 

Vegetives, vegetables. 

Velure, velvet. 

Velvet-guards, trimmings of velvet, 
and so the women wearing them. 

Veney, or Venue, a bout, a hit (in 
fencing). 

Vengeance, mischief ; a curse ; used 
as an intensive adverb in Cor. II. 
ii. 6. 

Vent, sb., a discharge. Full of vent, 
Cor. IV. v. 238, variously ex¬ 
plained as = full of rumor, effer¬ 
vescent, or full of courage. 

Ventages, holes. 

Ventricle, a division of the brain. 

Verbal, verbose (?), Cym. II. iii. 111. 

Versal, universal. 

Via ! away ! forward ! 

Vice, sb., the buffoon in the Morali¬ 
ties ; vb., to screw. 

Vicious, wrong, or (perhaps) erring 
on the side of suspicion, Oth. III. 
iii 145. 

Vie, to stake (at cards); to compete 
in. 

Viewless, invisible. 

Vigitant, blunder for “vigilant,” M. 
Ado, III. iii. 100. 

Villain, bondman; rogue. 

Villiago (Ital. viglicicco), a base ras¬ 
cal. 

Vindicative, vindictive. 

Viol-de-gamboys, a kind of base-viol. 

Violent, vb., to rage. 

Virgin, vb., to play the virgin. 


- Virginalling, playing witli the fingers 
as upon the virginals (a kind of 
piano). 

Virtue, valor ; essence. 

Virtuous, efficacious, beneficial. 

Visit, to afflict (with the plague); to 
attack. 

Visitings, fits, attacks. 

Vizaments, blunder for “ advise¬ 
ments,” considerations, M. Wives, 
I. i. 39. 

Vizard, mask. 

Voice, vote. 

Void, to quit; to emit. 

Voiding-lobby, ante-room. 

Volable, quick-witted. 

Volquessen, the Vexin, in France. 

Vulgar, adj., common, ordinary ; 
popular, public ; sb., the vernac¬ 
ular ; the common people. 

Vulgarly, publicly. 

Waft, to beckon ; to turn; to con¬ 
vey over the sea. 

Waftage, passage by water. 

Wafture, waving. 

Wag, to move ; to go. 

Wage, to bet; to undertake, risk ; to 
pay ; to be equal to. 

Waggon, chariot. 

Wake, to revel at night. 

Wall-eyed, white-eyed, glaring. 

Wanion. Unexplained. With a wan- 
ion, with a vengeance. 

Wanton, adj., undisciplined; luxu¬ 
riant ; loose, light, lustful; sb., an 
effeminate person ; vb., to dally. 

Wantonness, sportiveness; lust; af¬ 
fectation. 

Wappen’d, over-worn, stale. 

Ward, custody ; guard (in fencing); 
a bolt; prison-cell; guardianship. 

Warden, a kind of pear for cooking. 

Warder, a truncheon. 

Warn, to summon. 

Warp, to change; to distort. 

Warranted, requiring a warrant. 

Warrantise, guarantee. 

Warrener, gamekeeper. 

Waste, seduction, M. Wives, IV ii. 
226. 

Wat, familiar name for a hare. 

Watch, sb., wakefulness ; a candle 
marked to measure time ; a stated 
interval; vb., to remain awake ; to 
keep awake in order to tame (as a 
falcon). 

Watch-case, sentry-box. 

Water-gall, a secondary rainbow. 

Waterish, abounding in water. 

Water-rug, a rough-coated water-dog. 

Waters. For all waters, up to any¬ 
thing. 

Water-work, water-color painting. 

Wax. A man of wax, a perfectly 
modelled man. 

Waxen, vb., grow; adj., affixed by 
wax (?), easily effaced (?), Hen. V, 
I. ii. 233. 

Way, way of thinking. 

Wealsmen, statesmen. 

Wealth, welfare, benefit. 

Wear, sb., fashion; vb., to be in 
fashion ; to weary ; to come grad¬ 
ually to fit; to wear out or away. 

Weather, the windward side, the ad¬ 
vantage. 





GLOSSARY 


Weather-fend, to shelter from the 
weather. 

Web and pin, cataract (of the eye). 
Week. In by the week, ensnared. 
Weet, to know. 

Weigh out, to outweigh. 

Weird, belonging to fate, fatal. 
Welkin, adj., heavenly, sky-blue. 
Well-a-near, alas ! 

Well-breathed,well-exercised, in good 
training. 

Well-desired, much sought after. 
Well-found, accomplished. 
Well-graced, popular, favorite. 
Well-liking, in good condition. 

Well said ! well done ! 

Well seen, skilled, expert. 

Welsh hook, a bill with a curved 
blade. 

Westward ho ! a cry of the Thames 
boatmen. 

Wezand, windpipe. 

What is he for a fool ? What kind 
of a fool is he ? 

Wheel, to go round ; to wander. 
Wheeson, Whitsun. 

Whelk, a pimple. 

Whelked. twisted (?), covered with 
knobs (?), Lear, IV. vi. 71. 

When ! an exclamation of impatience. 
Whenas, when ; since. 

When ? can you tell ? a proverbial 
phrase expressing contempt. 
Whe’er, whether. 

Where, adr., whereas; sb., place. 
Whereas, where. 

Wherein, in what costume. 

Whiffler, one who goes in front of a 
procession. 

While, till. 

While-ere, not long ago, erewhile. 
Whiles, while; till. 

Whipping-cheer, a whipping for 
dinner. 

Whipster, a small boy (?), Otli. V. ii. 
244. 

Whirring, hurrying, snatching. 
Whist, hushed. 

White, the bull’s eye. 

White-livered, cowardly. 

Whitely, pale. 

Whiting-time, bleaching-time. 
Whitster, a bleacher. 

Whoo-bub, hubbub, outcry. 
Whoreson, bastard ; used as a gen¬ 
eral term of contempt, sometimes 
affectionately. 

Wide, far from the mark ; astray. 
Widow, vb., to endow with a widow’s 
right ; to become a widow to. 
Widowhood, rights as a widow. 


Wight, person. 

Wild, adj., rash ; sb., weald. 

Wilderness, wild growth. 

Wild-mare, see-saw. 

Wilful-blame, deliberately culpable. 

Will, pleasure ; sexual desire. 

Wimpled, muffled. 

Winchester goose, a certain venereal 
sore. The stews in Southwark 
were in the jurisdiction of the 
Bishop of Winchester. 

Wind, to scent; to turn, twist; to 
insinuate. 

Wind-galls, swellings near the fet¬ 
locks of a horse. 

Windlasses, indirect methods. 

Window-bars, open embroidery worn 
over the bosom. 

Windowed, placed in a window ; full 
of holes. 

Windy, windward. 

Wing-led, led in divisions, Cym. II. 
iv. 24. 

Winter-ground, to protect from frost. 

Wipe, a brand. 

Wish, to desire ; to recommend. 

Wisp. A wisp of straw was the badge 
of a scold, 3 Hen. VI, II. ii. 144. 

Wist, knew. 

Wistly, wistfully, longingly. 

Wit, mind, intellectual powers ; 
sense ; wisdom, cleverness. 

Witch, wizard. 

With, by. Not with himself, beside 
himself. 

Without-door, external. 

Wittol, a complaisant cuckold. 

Witty, wise, cunning, ingenious. 

Woe, adj., sorry. 

Woman, vb., to make one show 
emotion like a woman. Womaned, 
accompanied by a woman. 

Woman-queller, one who kills wo¬ 
men. 

Woman-tired, henpecked. 

Womb, vb., to enclose. 

Womby, hollow. 

Wondered, able to perform wonders. 

Wonder-wounded, struck with won¬ 
der. 

Wood, mad. 

Woodbine, convolvulus. 

Woodman, forester ; hunter. 

Woollen. In the woollen, between 
blankets. 

Wool ward, wearing wool next the 
skin. 

Woo’t, wilt thou. 

Word, sb., watchword ; motto; com¬ 
mand ; vb. , to represent; to say ; 
to ply with words. At a word, as 



!237 


good as my word, M. Wives, I. iii. 
15. 

Work, a fortification. 

Working, mental or emotional ac¬ 
tivity ; action. 

World. A woman of the w., a 
married woman. To go to the w., 
to be married. A w. to see, a 
wonder to see. 

Worm, a serpent; a creature. 

Worship, honor. 

Wort, a kind of vegetable; unfer¬ 
mented beer. 

Worth, wealth; full scope (?), Cor. 
III. iii. 26. 

Worthy, vb., to dignify. 

Wot, know. 

Woundless, invulnerable. 

Wrack, the spelling of “ wreck” in 
the old editions. 

Wrangler, opponent. 

Wrath, angry. 

Wreak, revenge'. 

Wreakful, revengeful. 

Wrest, a tuning-key. 

Wretch, used sometimes as a term of 
endearment. 

Wretched, hateful. 

Wring, to writhe. 

Writ, scripture ; document. Law of 
writ, sticking to the text. 

Write, to subscribe, use the title of; 
describe oneself, to claim. 

Writhled, wrinkled. 

Wroth, wrath. 

Wry, to go astray. 

Yare, ready, brisk, active. 

Yarely, actively. 

Yaw, to move unsteadily. 

Yclad, clad. 

Ycleped, or Ycliped, called. 

Yead, abbreviation of “ Edward.” 

Yearn, to grieve. 

Yedward, Edward. 

Yellowness, jealousy. 

Yellows, jaundice. 

Yeoman, bailiff’s assistant. 

Yerk, to jerk, to strike or kiok 
smartly. 

Yest, foam. 

Yesty, frothy. 

Yield, to reward. 

Young, early ; recent. 

Youngly, early in life. 

Younker, a stripling ; a novice. 

Y-ravish, to ravish. 

Y-slake, to quiet, put to rest. 

Zany, a buffoon who imitated the 
clown. 



The End 




































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